“Accept my demands?” I chase Trace out of the elevator and through the unlit lobby on the 30th floor. “Are you serious?”
His gait is driven and focused as he passes a small sitting area, swerves around a steel reception desk, and vanishes into a dark corridor.
I slam to a halt in the empty lobby, reeling from shock and confusion. Should I leave? Instinct urges me to return to the elevator, because no one in their right mind offers a belly dancer that kind of money, let alone all the benefits I outlined. Did he even read the counteroffer?
Turning toward the window beside a leather couch, I lower onto the cushion and face the glass. In the distance, the St. Louis Arch rises over the banks of the Mississippi River, its curved silver shape like a handle on the twinkling metropolis. Buildings of various heights spread out around it, and among those structures is Gateway Shelter. With its seventy-five beds already occupied, they’ll be turning away homeless people for the rest of the night.
I can’t stop thinking about that as I stare out the window and analyze my feelings. I donate every extra penny to the shelter, which isn’t much. But if I accept this job, if Trace is serious about meeting my ridiculous salary requirements, my God, I could help the shelter expand, add more beds, healthier food, softer blankets. Oh, the possibilities!
I’m getting ahead of myself. Trace is up to something, and it can’t be good.
Would a belly dancer increase the revenue in his casino? Maybe. I saw the crowd gathering downstairs, and that was without my costumes or the fine-dining services he intends to provide.
Am I the best belly dancer in St. Louis? For sure. But he could find a better dancer outside of the city and pay her just enough to relocate.
That leaves me with one conclusion.
He wants me, and his interest is personal.
“Danni!” he bellows from somewhere down the hall. “I’m waiting!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. If I take this job, I’ll have to train him. The Marlo Vogt’s of the world might jump at his grunting, barking, glowering bullshit, but I work for myself and cower to no one.
The question is, do I have a personal interest in him?
I turn my attention to the view outside the window, admire the glimmering reflection of the cityscape on the river, and come to terms with the situation. I’m drawn to him in a way I haven’t been drawn to anyone since Cole.
Trace could be both a job and a solution for my loneliness. Maybe we’ll fuck. Maybe we won’t. What’s the worst that could happen? If it gets complicated, I’ll quit the belly dancing gig and focus on teaching and other side jobs.
But before I seriously consider this, I need a better feel for his intentions.
A short walk takes me down the hall and into the only open doorway at the end. Inside a huge lavish office, he sits behind a glass desk with steel supports shaped like mini arches. His attention doesn’t leave the laptop in front of him, his fingers tapping over the keys.
“I’m on to you.” I stroll toward him and circle the desk to stand beside him.
He doesn’t acknowledge me as he sends what appears to be a revised contract to the printer across the room. Seated in a stiff leather chair, he’s almost eye-level with me, his sexy blond hair close enough for the woodsy aroma of his shampoo to reach my nose.
After a few more clicks on the keyboard, he shuts down the laptop and swivels the chair to position his knees on the outsides of mine. “You’re on to me?”
“Sure am.” I cock a hip and hook my thumbs in the back pockets of my jeans. “This thing you’re cooking up between us? With the house visit and the stage in your new restaurant and the obscene salary? It’s more than a business deal.”
He props an elbow on the armrest, rubs his jaw, and stares at me with disinterest. “How does that make you feel emotionally?”
“Emotionally?” I jerk my head back, grappling for what to say. “Do you say random shit just to keep things interesting?”
“Depends. Are you interested?”
He has contempt and sarcasm down to an art, but I think, maybe, this might be his attempt at humor?
“You’re a lot of fun, Trace,” I deadpan. “You’re also strange.” Strange in an elusive, intriguing, I-bet-he’s-kinky-as-hell way. “Did you actually read my counteroffer?”
“I did.” He rolls the chair back, rises to cross the room, and returns with the document from the printer. “I met all your demands except the schedule. I’m not paying you three-hundred grand a year to work two nights a week.”
I choke at the mention of the salary, even though I’m the one who wrote it into the offer. It was just a number I pulled out of my ass. What if I’d asked for more? What’s his breaking point on this deal?
He places the contract on the desk beside me, and there, stated in bold print is his requirement of five nights per week. Wednesday through Sunday. Three to midnight, with a one-hour break.
“I have a busy schedule.” I cross my arms. “I’ll give you two nights.”
“Five nights, and you’ll agree to a one-year contract with the option to renew.” He stands over me by sheer height and taps the signature line on the contract. “Sign here.”
No way in hell will I agree to a year. “Three nights, and you’ll get a two-weeks notice whenever I grow bored of your sparkling personality.”
He clasps his hands behind his back and stares at the document. “Five nights a week, and you can have your two-weeks notice.”
Fuck, how can I turn that down? I pace away from him, walking a circuit through the office as I think.
Who is this man, this modern-day overlord, who sits behind a desk, beckoning people to his presence and casting down hirings and firings? His simple yet luxurious corner office with its gray tones and architecturally-themed lamps and furniture validates his rich and powerful status. But there are no pictures or awards. No memorabilia or framed degrees. Not a trace of the man behind the suit.
“How old are you?” I glance over my shoulder and find him facing the wall of glass that frames the Gateway Arch in the distance.
“Thirty.” He doesn’t look at me, though he can probably see my reflection in the window. “You?”
“Twenty-eight.” I pivot, making my way back to him. “How did you become the owner of…” I wave a hand at the office. “All this?”
“All this?”
“The largest hotel and casino in the Midwest.”
“Wealthy parents.”
I’m not sure what surprises me more—his candidness or the icy chill in his tone.
“Trust fund?” I rest a shoulder against the glass beside him.
“Inheritance. They died a couple of years ago.”
Oh. My chest clenches. “I’m sorry.” I soften my voice. “How did they—?”
“You’ve wasted enough of my time tonight.” He tosses a pen on the desk behind him. “Sign the contract, Danni.”
I suck in a breath. “Don’t do that. If I cross the line with you, just tell me. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”
He bends down, putting his face in mine and forcing my back against the cold window. “You’re having a hard time understanding the roles here, so I’ll make it clear for you.” He brushes his nose through my hair. “You don’t know me, and you’re not going to know me. From this point forward, you’ll do what I say with a great deal more respect than you’ve shown me so far.”
“I don’t know about that last part, but I do know you.” I slide my fingers beneath the lapel of his suit jacket.
“Is that right?” He doesn’t push my hand away and instead rests his weight on an arm braced against the window above my head, his mouth inches from mine.
“Yep.” I tilt my chin up to meet his arctic eyes. “You don’t date or do relationships. You fuck. Then you send them home with a pat on the ass.”
He scowls in a way only he can make look indecent.
“You exude intimidation and upper-class superiority,” I say, “because you want everyone to think you’re aloof and untouchable. And maybe you are.” I push against the rigid wall of his chest. “But being aloof and untouchable is kind of like being an asshole, and that’s not a special trait. The world is overrun with assholes. You don’t have to be smart or wealthy or good-looking to join that club.”
His gaze narrows, cutting like blue lasers. “I know you, too, Danni Angelo.”
“Oh yeah?” I feather my fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Do tell.”
His eyes follow the movement, one blond brow arrogantly arched. “The only thing you hate more than an asshole is a guy who isn’t an asshole.”
I flatten my spine against the window. “That’s not—”
“Sensitive guys bore you, and their flattery gets them nowhere. Assholes make your pulse race and your panties wet, especially when they tell you when, where, and how hard.”
Heat coalesces between my legs, and my molars crash together. Damn him.
“You’re the kind of dish that looks enticing, smells delicious, and tastes even better.” He gives me a chilly once-over bristling with judgment. “But after a few bites, it festers in the gut like a bad decision.”
An abrasive breath lodges in my throat, and my face tightens. “What’s the matter, Mr. Savoy? Too scared to sample something deep and stimulating for a change?”
He smirks, and I don’t like the satisfied glimmer in his eyes. I slip out of the confined space between him and window, seeking distance.
“You’re messy.” He glares at my hand where I twist the silver band on my right finger.
I drop my arms to my sides as outrage spikes through my blood. “I’m not—”
“I could fuck you right now, right here, and give you more pleasure than the son of a bitch who gave you that ring.” His arm snaps up, and his hand wraps around my throat.
How dare he insult Cole and manhandle me like this? I should rage at him, but as my heartbeat jumps against the fist shackling my neck, my entire body throbs erratically, excitedly, wantonly.
“Tease,” I choke out.
He uses his grip to force me backwards until the edge of his desk hits my legs. “Doesn’t matter how hard I make you come, you’ll go home and cry yourself to sleep over the man you’re still in love with.” He releases me and straightens. “You’re an emotional mess, and I don’t want any part of it.”
Anger flares, burning up my cheeks.
“I’m human.” I lurch toward him and shove at his chest. “A feeling, passionate, warm-blooded human, you callous prick.”
He allows me to push at him, his expression volcanic and breaths coming hot and fast, steeping the air between us.
If he doesn’t want any part of it, why did he demand I come here and take this job? His mixed signals are maddening.
“I don’t understand what you want.” I spin away and move to the desk where the contract waits. “I’ll do the job under the negotiated terms, but I’m not signing anything.”
I don’t hear him approach as the scorching proximity of his body envelops my back. He brushes my hair to the side, and his fingers glide with diabolical pressure over my nape, around my throat, stretching toward my breastbone and slipping beneath the neck of the shirt as his thumb strokes the base of my skull. Then his breath is there, a furnace of seduction tickling my ear and racing shivers across my skin.
“I want to watch your body move.” His mouth grazes my bare shoulder. “Five nights a week. In my casino.”
Watching you dance… It evokes feelings that are deeper, hotter, better than sex.
Is this a kink of his? Watching a woman undulate her hips without touching her? Except he is touching, his hand slipping from my neck, down my shoulder blade, and snaking around my ribs to clutch my waist. It feels so good to be in strong, masculine arms I arch back against him and sway my hips.
Instead of pulling away, he rocks with me—a slow, instinctual grind that vacillates to the rhythm of our breaths. It’s unexpected, drugging, and insane. But I sink into the groove, glorying in the feel of his powerful frame cradling my backside.
He runs the heel of his free hand across my collarbones, banding my chest with his forearm and hugging me against him. “I fucking love your body.”
“But not my messy personality?” My head falls back on his shoulder.
“Exactly.”
My stomach hardens. “What a cruel thing to say.”
“You don’t look offended.” He touches his lips to my neck and rolls his hips against me.
The steely length of his erection prods and rubs, leaving little to the imagination. Hard and thick, the man is hung.
But I’m stuck on his words. He’s interested in my body, in watching me move, but nothing else? He’s embracing me, roaming his hands over my curves while avoiding my breasts and everywhere below my waist. If another man touched me like this with his arousal pressing against me, I’d know his intent. But Trace has made it clear he doesn’t want me, at least not in a tumble-between-the-sheets way.
So why is he holding me? His desire is evident in the heave of his breaths and the swell of his cock. I want to demand an explanation. But I’m afraid he’ll push me away, and dammit, I’m not ready for cold isolation to slip back in. It’s been too long since I’ve been held by a powerful, sexy man.
Not only that, he knows how to move. We’re not actually dancing, but there’s freedom and natural rhythm in the sway of his hips, both of which are deadly temptations for my music-loving soul.
“Do you dance?” I ask.
“When the need arises.”
“Ballroom dancing at fancy parties?”
“Correct.” He nips at my neck.
“Dance with me. I want to see your moves.”
“No.” His teeth press against my skin.
I rest my hands on his hips behind me, following the narrow lines of his suit and relishing the contours and indentations of taut muscle beneath the fabric. “You only want to watch?”
“That’s right.” He drags his nose along my throat.
“After you watch me dance, then what?”
“Then nothing.” The hand beneath my breast shifts upward, dangerously close to cupping me.
“I feel your erection, Trace. What would you do if I grabbed it?”
“Try it and find out.”
His voice is raspy and thick, but I hear the threat sharpening the syllables. If I grope him, this little dance ends. I might be bold enough to wrap my hand around his cock, but the rejection would sting.
He seems content to just stand here, rocking and molding his hands to the bends and dips of my body. It’s both confusing and comforting. If he were simply fondling me like Mark had done last night, I would know how to respond. But this is different. His lips caress my neck adoringly, erotically, luring me into a trance that messes with my head.
If I had any self-control, I’d end this meeting and go home. But I crave his small doses of affection, hunger to kiss him, and ache to strip out of my itchy clothes and melt beneath his touch, his mouth, his thrusts. Sex with him would be turbulent, pyretic, and wholly satisfying.
My pulse hammers at the thought of fighting with him, wrestling and fucking in a tangle of sweat-slick limbs. Maybe he’s right. I do enjoy a challenging asshole, and I’m compelled to explore the enigma of this infuriating man.
But he thinks I’m messy. The more I roll that around in my mind, the more I want to prove him wrong. In fact, I’m starting to think he’s intentionally trying to get under my skin.
Twisting in his arms, I lift on tiptoes and search his glacial gaze. “You’re up to something.”
“I’m not.” His tone is stringent, unmoved.
“You are. You’re gambling with my emotions. Taking bets on my libido.”
“Are you making casino jokes now?” He huffs a laugh—a single humorless pulse of sound.
His impassive expression further enrages me, and I shove at his chest. He steps back, but I stay with him, pushing until he bumps into the window behind him.
“You can’t love my body,” I say, holding my palm against the lapel of his jacket, “and not want to fuck me.”
Dear God, what’s gotten into me? I really do need to get laid. It’s like he’s triggered a chemical in my brain that’s robbed me of all shame.
His breathing speeds up again, and he raises his arms against the window on either side of his head, as if opening himself up to me. Or holding himself back.
“I want full disclosure.” I press my palms against his, crowding him in the cage of my arms. “Just tell me what this is so we can move on.”
If someone walked in, they would think I’m pinning him to the glass, but that’s not the case. Though his back and hands are pressed to the window, he’s stronger, bigger, and more aggressive. He’s allowing this, and the flicker in his eyes tells me he likes it.
“You want to know if I intend to fuck you?” His fingers curl around mine.
Then he dips his head. Before I can blink, he kisses me. A brutal whiplash of a kiss that sucks the air from my lungs and skyrockets my pulse. I anticipate the lash of his tongue, but it never comes. His teeth catch my bottom lip, a sharp twinge of pain, and he leans back.
“No,” he says coldly. “I will not have sex with you.”
But that kiss. It lingers on my mouth like a trail of fire.
“What?” I dig my fingernails into his palms. “Why the fuck did you kiss me?”
“Because I can.” He swings us around, reversing our positions. Rather than closing in, he breaks away and lowers in the chair at his desk. “Good night, Danni.”
My gaze falls to the thick column of his neck, the starched white collar, and the squared shoulders beneath the stiff fabric of his suit jacket. Focused on his laptop, he wakes the screen and launches a spreadsheet, his demeanor all business, his dismissal unquestionable.
Maybe I’m delusional, but it feels like I made a tiny bit of progress, if I count that angry kiss. My curiosity is more piqued than ever, my fascination not even close to being satisfied.
It’s not like I want a relationship with him, but I can’t stop myself from recalling the torrid sensation of that huge hand wrapped around my throat or imagining it spanning over my bare ass, slapping and reddening my skin as he plows into me with hard-hitting thrusts. No doubt he’s massive, rock-hard, and strong everywhere, an image that produces ripples of pulsations through the long-neglected muscles between my legs.
Christ, I need to get out of here.
“Call me when the restaurant is open.” I stride toward the door.
“You’ll be here tomorrow morning.” He doesn’t glance up from the laptop.
“Why would I—?”
“You’ll meet with HR and fill out your paperwork. Eight o’clock.” He reaches under the glass ledge of the desk, and a sharp buzz sounds overhead. “Don’t be late.”
The door releases from the wall and swings toward me. I shuffle backward into the hall to avoid colliding with the swinging wall of steel. It clicks shut, and the sound of electronic tumblers announces that he locked me out of his office.
A shocked laugh escapes my lips. I bet that dick move makes him feel all powerful and authoritative. I want to be annoyed by it, but instead, I find his social ineptitude oddly addictive.
As I exit the 30th floor and amble through the parking garage, my blood sings and my heart thumps wildly, enthusiastically, for the first time since Cole.