Don’t keep him waiting?
A surge of righteous anger rattles my insides, but I can’t afford to explode and risk losing the belly dance contract.
With a calming breath, I jut my chin. “I’ll meet with you, Mr. Savoy—”
“It’s Trace.”
“—at a scheduled time and place.” I feel so damn short beneath his freakishly tall frame I’m tempted to lift on my toes to better compete with his stark glare.
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.” His head tilts, expression stony. Like a marble statue. “You work for me now, and I require your presence in my office.”
I anchor my fists on my hips. Trace might’ve bought the restaurant I dance at, but I work for myself. He can take his inflated sense of superiority and shove it up his ass.
“Hi, I’m Mark Taylor.” My date holds out a hand to my unwanted visitor.
Trace glances at Mark, a millisecond assessment and dismissal, before returning to me. “Say goodnight to your friend, Danni.”
I release a shocked laugh. “Don’t tell me what to do.” You insanely handsome, overbearing Neanderthal. Sweet mercy, why does his bossiness turn me on so much?
The intensity of his eye contact sucks me into a spinning vortex. This isn’t like the fleeting looks I exchange with men I pass on the street. It goes beyond any of those few-seconds-too-long gazes shared between strangers. This is dialog without words. Absorption without expression. Foreplay without so much as a twitch of a finger. I feel him in places that haven’t been touched by a man in years.
“I own a vinyl siding company.” Mark pulls a business card from his wallet and offers it to Trace. “We do commercial jobs, so if you’re looking to renovate any of your properties, I’d love to work with you.”
I gape at him. Did he seriously just turn this into a business opportunity? If Cole were here, he would’ve muscled Trace off my property with steam billowing from his ears. Not that I expect a hot-tempered reaction from Mark, but a Hey, man, she’s spending the evening with me would’ve gone a long way in earning a second date.
Trace pockets the business card, and Mark grins like he just won the lottery. They can both go to hell.
“Mark, I hate to cut the evening short.” The lie tastes like sweet relief. “But I need to deal with this.”
“No worries. I have an early morning anyway. I’ll call you, okay?”
He leans in to kiss me, and I turn my head, letting his lips graze my temple. As I watch him amble toward his truck, the potency of Trace’s gaze hijacks my traitorous libido. He stares at me as if he just staked his claim, and God help me, that notion awakens such a deep-seeded need inside me it takes all my strength to not surrender to it.
Heat tingles across my cheeks, pulses in my breasts, and swells between my legs. My lungs work harder, and a phantom caress sweeps over my skin. I imagine his lips coasting down my neck and nipping at the curve of my shoulder. His breaths would be steady, patient, hovering over the pulse point in my throat and electrifying me with desire. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from fisting his perfect blond hair and bringing his mouth to my chest, where my nipples are now tightening and throbbing beneath the thin fabric.
My heart pounds against my ribcage, kicking up the dust of abandoned emotion. I want to pursue this…this crazy possibility. But if my job is going to be entangled with him, I can’t. I don’t even know him, for Christ’s sake.
When Mark pulls away from the curb, I head toward the back door and pick up my pace at the sound of footsteps trailing behind me.
“You’re not going to see that schmuck again.” His silken voice kisses down my spine.
That’s exactly what Cole would’ve said, and the familiar possessiveness wobbles my knees. I hurry inside the house and spin on the threshold, forcing my gaze to the intruder’s flinty stare.
“My dance company is listed online, along with my phone number. Goodnight, Mr. Savoy.” I shut the back door on his beautiful brooding expression and lock it. “Fucking fuck, that was…just…fuck.”
I lean my back against the wall, thankful there aren’t windows in the dance room. Because his eyes… Holy hell, he has that look. The one that makes my blood run so hot everything inside me melts and trembles. It’s the same look Cole gave me the day we met. The You’re mine, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it stare that owned me instantly and completely.
Soft shivers of yearning flow through me as I head toward the bedroom. I consider calling Bree, but I’ll wait until morning. Conversations about Trace will be better with a clear head. As it stands, I’m drowning in a jumble of nonsense and conflicting emotions.
It’s been so long since I’ve been this affected by a man I question how much of it is my desperate imagination. After the lackluster make-out session with Mark, anyone could’ve strolled down my driveway and captured my attention.
But Trace isn’t just anyone. He’s the epitome of eloquent power and affluence, intimidation and mystery. A modern lord at ease with commanding and conquering, and for a knee-weakening moment, his sights were trained on me.
Jesus, what am I doing? He probably looks at every woman with the same burning focus, and right now, he’s driving away with Marlo Vogt, his gorgeous colleague. He could be taking her back to her place this very second with his hand between her legs and his name gasping on her painted lips.
Shutting down those images, I change into a purple camisole and cotton pajama pants with black-and-white polka dots. Then I pad into the kitchen, twisting my messy blond hair into a knot on my head. I need something to mellow my brain and put me to sleep. A full bottle of Riesling should do it.
Filling my largest wine glass to the rim, I gulp down half and carry it back to the bedroom. As I pass through the hall, something moves in my periphery beyond the dining room.
I spin toward it, and my line of sight narrows on the sitting room and the arrogant suit reclined on the couch. A yelp freezes in my throat.
“What are you doing in my house?” I charge toward Trace, sloshing the wine in my mad dash.
He glances down at the picture frame in his hand. “If you’re engaged to this one, what are you doing with the foreveraloner with a boner?”
Foreveraloner? “Mark wouldn’t be alone right now if you hadn’t shown up. And what gives you the impression I’m engaged…?” Following his gaze to the engagement ring on my left hand, I curl my fingers.
“Are you cheating on him?” He narrows his eyes at me.
“No.” My stomach knots with irrational guilt. “How did you get in here?”
“The heavy-duty deadbolt on the front door is useless when it’s unlocked. A tiny woman living alone should never—”
“I’m not helpless.”
“Never leave your door unlocked.” He sits forward, eyes flickering with blue flames. “How can you be so careless?”
My nostrils flare. “An unlocked door isn’t an invitation to walk in.”
This conversation is unnervingly familiar. I need to stop comparing guys to Cole, but seriously, Cole reamed my ass every time I forgot to lock up.
Trace holds up the photo. “What would your fiancé think about the dipshit you were with tonight?”
He would’ve smashed Mark’s face for a thousand reasons but first and foremost for leaving me unprotected with an invasive suit-wearing Viking.
I snatch the picture frame from his hand and return it to the side table. “Is trespassing a habit for you?”
“Never. I’m also not in the habit of waiting.” Icy blue eyes flick over my pajamas and sharpen when they reach my bare feet. “I told you to put shoes on.”
“Mm.” I rest a hand on my cocked hip and sip the wine, watching him over the rim of the glass. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He taps the screen on his phone and lifts it to his ear. “Take Marlo back to the casino and return for me.”
Outside, an engine roars to life, and images of Trace going home with Marlo vaporize. I hide my stupid smile behind the wine glass.
He pockets the phone with controlled grace in his movements, at odds with the muscle straining the shoulders of his suit jacket. He’s all strength and hard lines buttoned up in a pretentious package. What I wouldn’t give to unwrap him and find out exactly what he’s hiding beneath those tailored clothes.
His legs are spread, taking up space like he owns it, with his knees brushing against the coffee table.
At this point, a normal woman would’ve reached for her phone and dialed 911. I consider doing that, for maybe half a second, and decide to deal with him my own way.
I’ve been called reckless, shameless, audacious, and even naive, but I think those name-callers live in fear and paranoia. I prefer to view things with open-minded optimism.
Trace Savoy, with his fancy suit and personal driver, isn’t here to turn my life into a horror movie. He’s not going to stab me, rob me, or tie me up in an abandoned cabin. Anything else, I can deal with. Especially with the liquid courage coursing through my blood.
Which is why I don’t hesitate to step over one of those muscular thighs and sit on the edge of the table, putting my legs between his. I don’t expect him to lean away, and he doesn’t disappoint.
Bent forward at the waist with his hands folded together between us, he immerses me in the endless oceans of his eyes before lowering his gaze to my lips. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”
“Nope.” I lean closer, a kiss away. “Why are you here?”
His scowl darkens. “I already told you.”
“Your mouth says one thing, but your eyes say another.”
Raw, unguarded turbulence stirs the air around us, and I glory in it, breathing it in with deep inhales. I never thought I’d experience this feeling again—the feverish thrill in my belly, the throbbing lust between my legs, the reckless hope blooming in my chest.
His lips part. The angles of his face soften, and something passes through his gaze. Something he doesn’t want to give me, because it falls away with one slow blink, replaced with an uncompromising expression and resting frown.
“I’m closing Bissara and reopening it at the casino.” He removes a folded document from the interior pocket of his suit jacket.
“What?” I straighten and set the glass on table beside my hip. “What about the employees?”
“Most will be offered jobs at the new location. Including you.” He hands me the paperwork. “These are the terms of your employment.”
For the next few minutes, I read through the multi-page contract. I only dance at Bissara twice a week, but according to this, he’s tripling my hourly wage? I’m goddamn giddy until I reach the section about my required schedule. “Five nights a week? No way. I teach dance classes on—”
“You’re barely scraping by on the revenue from those classes.” He sweeps his haughty gaze over my yard-sale furniture and scuffed-up wood floors. “I’m offering you an opportunity to earn a more comfortable living.”
“I’ve been scraping by for years. That’s what people do.” Irritation heats my cheeks, and I suddenly wish I wasn’t sitting so damn close to him. “I think your level of comfort looks a whole lot different than mine, Mr. Savoy.”
“Trace.”
“Do all your employees refer to you by first name?”
“None.” Only his lips move, his eyes steady as ever, drilling into mine.
“Do you treat your employees with personal visits to their homes?”
“No.” He bites the word.
I fold the contract, set it aside, and lean in, drifting so close the mint on his breath tingles my lips. “I’ll ask you again. Why are you here?”
A muscle flexes in his jaw. The only response he gives.
“Okay, I’ll take a stab at the answer.” I slide my fingers beneath his silver necktie, caressing the fine silk. “You watched me dance at Bissara. You liked what you saw. Maybe you assume a woman who gyrates her hips like that is an easy lay. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the powerful Trace Savoy always gets what he wants.” I give the tie a yank that doesn’t move him. “You came here for me, and it has nothing to do with that contract.”
He grips the silk above my fingers and tugs it. Tug, tug, tug, until the end slips from my hand. “I find your forwardness off-putting.”
My neck goes taut. “I could say the same thing about your fuck-me eyes.”
“Fuck-me eyes.” His deep unflappable voice swirls around me in a smoky mist. “Curious conversation for someone wearing an engagement ring.”
I press my thumb against the silver band and picture the woman I used to be. Free-spirited, happy, and forward as hell. She’s been curled up in the fetal position for too damn long.
“I’m not engaged anymore.” I avert my gaze.
“Then he’s as idiotic as the one you were with tonight.”
The need to defend Cole sizzles in my stomach like a hot ember. “Maybe I’m a total raging bitch and drove him away.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” He brushes an errant strand of hair behind my ear, making my breath catch. “You, my tiny dancer, are an erotic dream dipped in the sweetest honey. A man only needs to look at you to become fiercely protective of your smile.” His finger traces the ridge of my bottom lip. “Of every limber curve.” He feathers a path over the heaving swell of my chest. “Every delicious tremble.”
He lifts from the couch to bow over me, forcing me backwards with his massive frame. My spine presses against the coffee table, and I squeeze my legs together between the straddling V of his. No part of him touches me, but he doesn’t have to. His bedroom eyes are enough to crank my pulse and plunge my senses into delirious disorientation.
“I’ve watched you dance.” He bends closer, arms braced on either side of my head with the silk tie dangling like a teasing caress across my exposed midriff. “I’ve memorized every shimmy and thrust of your hips, the sensual movements of your arms, the flirtatious tosses of your head, and the limitless flexibility of your spine. You’re a flesh and muscle articulation of sex. Each vibrating hip drop, quiver in your thighs, and bounce of your tiny tits plants filthy thoughts in a man’s head. His mouth waters, so he orders more to drink. His slacks become too tight, so he remains at the table, hiding the swollen evidence of his intentions. And he’s hungry, so very hungry he stays and he watches and he eats.”
My insides thrum with the velvety cadence of his timbre, every word stirring, seducing, working me into mindless anticipation. The scent of his skin floods my lungs, smothering me in a wicked haze of spicy aftershave and masculinity.
I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. I’m so fucking wet my pajama pants stick to my thighs. The ache between my legs is unbearable, and my voice is a goner beneath the rapid gasps of my breaths. I want this man. Tonight. Right now.
Have I lost my damn mind? Try as I may, I can’t rationalize my reaction to him. Only a few hours ago, I wasn’t prepared to take this daunting leap with anyone. Now I’m arching my back and panting like a hussy? “What are we doing, Trace?”
I hold my breath as he teases his nose down my neck, along my collarbone, and across the top of the camisole where cotton meets quivering skin.
He studies me with so much concentration it feels like he can see through my clothes, my flesh, to examine my deepest wildest desires. “We’re finalizing the interview.”
Interview? My stomach hardens, and I push at his chest. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t budge against my hand, his voice void of emotion. “You’re an acquisition. One that will earn me a lot of money.” His head cants at a slight angle. “Don’t look so surprised. Were you not listening to anything I said?”
He orders more to drink…he remains at the table…he watches and eats.
Realization dumps cold water on my arousal. Trace wasn’t referring to himself. He was talking about the patrons in the restaurant.
He sits back on the couch, nonchalantly adjusting the suit jacket around his narrow hips as if his cock isn’t straining the shiny fabric of his slacks.
“If you’re here strictly on business…” I lurch off the coffee table and stand on the opposite side. “Explain that.” I point at his erection.
“Making money gets my dick hard.”
Where did this heartless douche in a tin can come from? I feel like a damn fool. How did I melt beneath his manipulations so easily? Am I really that naive? And why does he think I’ll make him money? I’m a nobody. My belly dance routine earns good tips, but it’s just ambiance, much like a mariachi band in a Mexican restaurant.
“I’m confused.” I pace through the sitting room. “Patrons might enjoy my dance routine, but they come for the food.”
He eyes me impassively. “Have you ever gone to Bissara on the nights you’re not dancing?”
No. I glare at him.
“It’s a ghost town.” He stretches an arm along the back of the couch. “The overcrowded dining room you’re used to seeing? That only happens on the nights you dance. You know why?”
Given the incisive look in his eyes and the cruelty in his scowl, I can guess.
“Sex sells.” His gaze migrates from my face to my thighs and back again. “And you’re dripping with it.”
Humiliation sets my cheeks on fire, and I’m acutely aware of the cold wet crotch of my pajama pants. All his talk about my smiles and curves was just his sick way of making a point. My body serves a purpose, his purpose, and it has nothing to do with romantic interest. I really am a fool.
“Why not just open your own restaurant and offer me a job?” I chew on the corner of my thumb nail. “You didn’t have to buy Bissara.”
He stares without a crease or tic in his rock-hard expression, and the answer becomes clear.
“You want to own the only Moroccan restaurant in town.” Bitterness clips my voice. “To eliminate competition? Or to force me work for you?”
“Both. But I’m not forcing you. I’m just making the decision easy for you.”
“Oh, it’s easy all right. Easy to tell you to go fuck yourself.” I stand taller and stab a finger toward the door. “I want you to leave.”
“You’re overreacting.” He releases a patronizing breath. “This is just business. I’m offering a salary that’s more than fair, so lose the attitude and take the job.”
Heaviness seeps into my limbs and tightens my stomach. I’m attracted to him, and he sees me as nothing but a financial deal. I’m mortified for trembling and gasping beneath his touch, but I need to get over it and either kick him out or consider his job offer.
I snatch the contract off the table and read it again without looking at him. “Why is the owner of the casino making this offer and not some middle manager?”
“I’m hands-on,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice.
A voracious shiver grips my body, and I’m certain it’s the response he intended to elicit. His assertive stares, inappropriate touches, and suggestive words are all meant to persuade. I’d have to be comatose to not be affected by it. But it’s not just his actions. It’s him. He’s compelling, gorgeous, powerful. The kind of man a woman wants at her side, united and tangled, fighting for her, not against her. I cringe at the thought of making an enemy of this man, but if I keep my emotions out of this, he can’t hurt me.
As I reach the end of the contract, my head is all over the place. It’s a lot money to turn down, and I suspect Trace Savoy won’t accept my rejection without a fight. Doesn’t mean I’ll back down, but I need to consider every angle.
Shoving a hand through my hair, I lift my gaze. Our eyes connect, and we freeze. Everything stills. We don’t blink, don’t move, don’t breathe. There’s something there, something fragile and gritty and complicated creeping between the lines of personal and business. I know he senses it, too. Part of me wants to demand he acknowledge it, but the other part, the smarter part, knows that nothing good can come from involving myself with this man.
His phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the trance. He glances at the screen and returns his attention to me. “Why do you dance?”
“It’s my passion.”
“Elaborate.”
Despite his curt tone, I don’t mind answering. Dancing is the piece of myself I will never suppress or hide.
“I love creating art through movement. Not only does it allow me to express my feelings, it makes others feel.” I lower onto the coffee table, bending a leg across the surface to face him. “It’s not about the job or the money or the accolades. I dance because I have to. Because it’s who I am—the artist, the athlete. It’s my outlet to let go, to just be.”
“And you achieve this through teaching?”
“Yeah, but honestly, I’d rather focus on honing my own talent. In an ideal world, I’d perform on stage with dancers I can learn from. But Beyoncé has yet to knock on my door and offer me a position on her dance team.” I snort to myself. As if. “We don’t always get the job we want. So I teach dance lessons and entertain restaurant patrons. It makes me smile and keeps a roof over my head.”
“There’s a small stage at the center of the restaurant’s new location, and that stage will be visible from the most active gaming areas in the casino.” He leans in, eyes hard, a business man poised to seal a deal. “The casino averages over six million in admissions every year. That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.”
“Art or male desire?” I squint at him. “Your spiel about selling sex sounds exactly like you intend to objectify me to promote your goods and services. I’m a person, not a commodity.”
“You’re whatever I want you to be.” The controlling controller controls his gait to the front door. “We’ll finalize the contract tomorrow night. Seven o’clock sharp.”
It takes great effort to not recoil from the cutting snap of his voice. “What the fuck is your problem?”
“My office is on the 30th floor of the casino hotel.” He sweeps open the door, bringing with it the sound of the idling car on the curb. “Don’t make me wait.”
“I’m scheduled to dance at Biss—”
“Bissara is closed until the remodeling is finished at the casino.”
“Wait. Back up.” I approach him with suspicion edging my voice. “Didn’t you just purchase it this morning? You’ll lose money if you don’t keep it open.”
“I’ll lose money if I don’t get the employees relocated and up to speed immediately.” He palms the doorframe, towering over me. “The new Bissara will be a fine dining restaurant. Full-service, high-quality, catering to wealthy clients with refined palates. The staff must undergo thorough training to meet the specifications.”
Well la-di-da. I don’t care about his rich and important agendas. I’ll go to his office tomorrow, only because I want to hand him a counteroffer that’ll make his eyes bulge and his ego explode with indignation.
“Lock the door.” He steps outside and shuts it behind him with a victorious glimmer behind his scowl.
I glare at the deadbolt until my vision blurs. Why does he care if I lock it? What the hell is his angle? There’s something going on beyond him wanting my employment. He chased away my date. Trespassed in my house. Offered me a job that pays triple the normal rate. It feels like he’s gone out of his way to put me directly under his thumb.
Am I reading too much into this?
The door cracks open, and his crystal blue eyes fill the gap. “Lock. It.”
Oh my God. I shove it closed, turn the deadbolt, and flip him off through the door.
A moment later, the muffled sound of his car fades into the distance. That’s when it dawns on me I didn’t ache for Cole once while Trace was here. It’s both disturbing and remarkable. There isn’t a chance in hell I’ll ever forget what I lost, but for the last hour, Trace’s assjackery extinguished the grief I carry for the man who owns my heart.
But as the silence creeps in, so does the emotional pain I’ve been wallowing in for years. Self-pitying, soul-gutting, wishing-for-death pain. Sometimes it feels like all I have left is an endless well of tears and bitter loneliness. Sometimes it’s easier to give into the anguish than to hold it at bay. I’m tired. So fucking tired of missing Cole with every agonizing breath.
Am I fading? Becoming less of who I was? Cole’s absence cast me in darkness, but this solitude and discordance is of my own making.
I trudge through the dining room and rather than giving into the urge to straddle and hug his bike with all my might, I keep walking. Passing through the hall, I strip off the pajama bottoms. In the spare bedroom that serves as my closet, I slip on a pair of low-rise booty shorts. Then I enter the dance studio through the door between the rooms.
My emotions unravel with each step across the wood flooring. Burning chest, tightening throat, pressure behind the eyes—it’s all there, threatening to turn me into a useless blob.
I rush through my stretches before powering on the sound system and selecting an empowering song.
The instrumental intro of Dangerous Woman by Ariana Grande trickles through the speakers. I stand in the center of the room, rolling my shoulders and measuring my breaths. The instant the smoldering vocals begin, I move. Arms, legs, abs, neck, every muscle is engaged, sweeping in wide fluid motions and channeling my emotions.
I don’t need to focus or think about the steps. I simply let go, give myself over to the moment. The music floats through me, possesses my body, and carries me to better days.