I didn’t see Trace at the casino when I met with HR the morning after our confrontation. In fact, I haven’t seen him or heard from him for the past three weeks. I’ve spent that time shuffling my schedule, moving evening dance lessons to days, and merging classes together.
So I can belly dance five nights a week.
At The Regal Arch Casino.
For three-hundred-thousand dollars a year.
Holy.
Fuckamoly.
“Waz up with you, hoss?” Nikolai O’Shay releases my hand midway through a left-and-right Samba whisk, his Caribbean accent thickening with exertion. “You need to grease dat waistline.”
In other words, I’m not moving my hips like they’re oiled. I hoped he wouldn’t notice. But of course, he did. We’ve been dance partners since college and entertain at ballroom functions a couple of times a year, like the mayor’s Christmas party. We landed a gig at Anheuser-Busch’s upcoming Fourth of July celebration, and we only have six weeks to nail this routine.
One More Night by Maroon 5 thumps through the speakers in my dance studio. The choreography is tricky, but the beats per measure work for the Samba. If I find my groove, we’ll be golden.
“I have a lot on my mind.” I bend at the waist and rest my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.
“Tell your boy all about it.” Nikolai shuts off the music, takes a running leap, and slides across the dance floor, ending flat on his back with his legs between my feet and his silver eyes staring up at me.
Perspiration glistens in his tight curly hair, which he keeps cropped close to his skull and bleached blond. Half-Irish, half-Afro-Caribbean, he was born and raised in Trinidad. His accent sounds like he likes to sing when he talks, and his pale eyes and dark skin give him a head-turning exotic look.
“I’d rather focus on the routine.” I place a foot on his chest and lift his chin with the toe of my high-heeled dance shoe. “Let’s take it from the top with the traveling lock.”
He curls a hand around my calf, and his gaze journeys up my bare legs to my spandex shorts and sports bra. “You need to release some of that tension, girl.” He winks. “I can help with that.”
Nikolai is one of the best dancers in the Midwest. He also models, and recently finished an ad campaign for United Colors of Benetton. But his natural-born skill is flirtation. Coming on to women is as involuntary for him as breathing.
We had sex on and off through college, and over the past few months, I’ve considered taking him up on his advances again. But I know I’d regret it. One, he’s the closest thing I have to a best friend. Two, monogamy is a language he doesn’t speak. And three, he’s really not that great in bed.
“How about I dump all my problems on you,” I say, stepping toward the sound system, “after we run through the routine again.”
“All right.” He jumps to his feet, brushes off his loose pants, and rolls his neck. “Let’s do it.”
As the song begins, we take our positions and slide through the small light footwork. Swaying right and left, always turning, bending, and straightening, we create a unified twirling motion, two bodies swinging forward and back like a pendulum.
I concentrate on adding little lifts at the end of each beat, the subtle kicks that bounce in my pelvis and sex-up the movements. My feet ache in the heels, my soles covered in callouses. But I muscle through it, pushing against the floor to roll up on my toes and absorb that lift in my core. Soon, I’m oiling my hips and slipping into the zone.
“There’s my girl.” Nikolai beams, rolling me in a full turn out and back.
A knock sounds on the exterior door of the dance studio.
He pulls me into a closed position, bending me backward as I shout with my head hanging upside-down, “Come in! It’s open!”
It’s a Friday afternoon. The visitor could be any one of my students. Or my sister stopping by after school. Though she never knocks.
I sidestep through a circular volta, spinning to wrap my legs around Nikolai’s waist with my back to the door. He gyrates against me, hands spanned across my backside and bare chest flexing beneath my fingers. Then he stops abruptly and drops my feet to the floor, staring at whoever walked in.
Chest heaving, I turn and come face to face with Trace Savoy.
Hands on his hips and expression stormy, he aims his crankiness at the other man.
Oh, now this is interesting. Cole hated Nikolai, but that was a jealousy problem. Who knows what crawled up Trace’s ass?
“What are you doing here?” I adjust the spandex shorts where they gather uncomfortably around my upper thighs.
“Checking in.” Trace shifts his testy gaze to me.
Nikolai turns off the music and joins my side. “Who’s the stiff upper-lip?”
“The reason my evenings are no longer available. Nik, meet Trace. Trace, this is Nikolai.”
They don’t shake hands or exchange customary greetings. Nikolai crosses his arms over his nude chest. Trace maintains his wide stance, hands behind his back, spine straight.
He’s wearing a black suit today, the shirt stiff and blue like his eyes. No tie. The top few buttons are open, offering a tempting view of his strong neck.
“I’m gonna go.” Nikolai slips around me, pulls on his shirt, and changes into his street shoes.
“No, wait. We need to—”
“I’ve been here before.” He moves toward the door, gesturing between Trace and me. “Once was enough.”
Trace raises a brow in question. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about the night Nikolai met the bloody end of Cole’s fist, but it’s none of his business.
“There’s nothing going on here.” I give Nikolai my angry look, which works on exactly no one.
“Right.” He laughs and shakes his head. “Call me, padna. We’ll have that talk you promised.”
I fist my hands at my sides as he gives Trace a chin lift and steps outside, vanishing beyond the door.
“What happened to the mirror?” Trace nods at the splintering hole that’s been there for two years.
“Self-pity happened.” I leave the broken mirror as a reminder of what I used to look like, so that I never let myself reach that level of numb, grieving drunkenness again.
“I can have it repaired.”
“No, thanks.” I grab a towel and wipe the sweat from my face and neck. “For the record, that’s the second time you’ve chased a man from my house.”
“I did no such thing.” He steps through the room, scanning every detail of Cole’s hard work with his infuriating eagle eyes. “It seems you have trouble hanging onto men.”
My blood simmers, and my pulse shoots through the roof. “Nikolai is one of my many lovers. He always comes back.”
He pauses, turns his head toward me, and narrows his gaze. “You’re not fucking him.”
Though he’s right, the conviction in his tone makes me want to cold cock his clenched ass. I spin away and stride through the door that leads to the kitchen.
“You know how I know that?” He trails after me, zinging electricity up my spine.
“I don’t care.” I grab a bottled water from the fridge and chug it on my way to the shower.
“If you were spreading your legs for him,” he says, leaning against the door jamb of the bathroom, “he wouldn’t have left so quickly.”
“You don’t know—”
“You’ve turned him down so many times he’s conditioned to accept your rejection.”
How does he know that? And why is he still here? Even more troubling, why haven’t I kicked him out?
The black suit hugs his tall muscled frame. As hot as it is outside, I bet his skin is damp and warm beneath the expensive fabric. And hard. Like sun-soaked marble. His chiseled jaw, defined cheekbones, and straight nose form a regal backdrop for the blizzard churning in those cerulean eyes.
With the collar of his button-up open and a few blond strands falling haphazardly from his raked-back hairstyle, this is the most casual I’ve seen him. He’s arresting in a deliberately edgy yet effortless way that makes it so easy stare at him.
“You need to stop doing that.” He rests a hand in the front pocket of his slacks.
“Doing what?”
“Giving me the look. I’m not going to fuck you.”
Then he opens his mouth, and I’m reminded why I don’t like him.
“You’re confusing the look with annoyance.” I reach into the shower and turn on the water. “Why are you still here?”
He regards me in a way that makes me feel defensive and brittle. But he can’t hurt me. He can stand there all he wants in silent judgment. I’m taking a shower.
I hook my thumbs beneath the waistband of the shorts and ask with my eyes, Are you going to watch me undress?
He turns and ambles into the hall.
I listen for the sound of the back door as I strip and step into the tub, but I can’t hear shit over the spurting water. It would be better if he left.
Except I’m dying to know the real reason he showed up. Checking in, he said. What in the ass does that mean?
Is he wandering through my house right now? Other than Cole’s bike and the spare room crammed with dance costumes, I don’t have anything of value. Not that I’m worried about a man of his wealth stealing anything.
But he can steal information, can glean my weaknesses from the shrine in my bedroom.
Which is exactly where I find him after I shower and wrap myself in a towel.
Perched on the unmade bed with the sheets tangled beneath him, he holds a photo of Cole and me in his hands.
I yank it from his grip and return it to the dresser where countless others clutter the surface.
“What are you doing in here?” I storm toward the closet, collecting bras and panties from the dirty clothes scattered across the floor.
“Waiting on you. It’s become a dirty habit.”
I glance over my shoulder and find him lifting a black thong from the floor. I dash toward him and snatch it from his hand right before he presses it to his nose.
“Add panty-sniffing to your list of dirty habits.” I tighten the towel around my chest and return to the closet. “Really, Trace. Why are you here?”
The closet is deep enough to stand out of his line of sight as I slip into a white lacy tank top and a pair of denim cut-offs.
“The new Bissara is almost finished. It opens next week, and I want you to see it.”
“You could’ve called.” I slide my feet into gold flip-flips and exit the closet, running fingers through my wet blonde hair.
He watches my approach, his eyes shockingly unguarded and wild, like a snow storm in hell. Then slowly, they dip, tracing my hips, my legs, and lifting to linger on my breasts.
My nipples tighten against the thin fabric, and my chest feels heavy and itchy. “Trace.”
He blinks, shifts his focus to the shrine of Cole pictures on my dresser, and clears his throat. “Are you waiting for your fiancé to return?”
Air whooshes from my lungs, and I clutch the engagement ring that hasn’t moved from my right hand since the night I met Trace.
“I waited for him for a long time.” My chest squeezes with ugly emotion. “He’s not coming back.”
Ask me why, Trace. Make me tell you why I’ve been so lonely.
He stands and breezes out of the room. “Let’s go.”
I flinch, wobbling at his sudden change in mood.
“Go where?” I follow him through the kitchen. “I have plans today.”
“Change them.” He grabs my phone from the counter and hands it to me. “Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t carry a purse, and I’m not changing my plans.” I pull a ponytail holder out of the junk drawer and twist my hair into a knot on my head. “Maybe I’ll swing by the casino later. Maybe I won’t.”
I squeeze by him in the narrow walkway between the counters, pass through the dance studio, and step outside.
“Where are you going?” Blond eyebrows form a V above impatient blue eyes.
“Errands.” I circle the yellow MG Midget and remove the key from the pocket beneath the seat.
His eyes widen, and he flattens a hand to his forehead. “You keep your car key in your car?”
I shrug and unlatch the convertible top, folding it back as the sun beats down on my shoulders.
“Did you even lock up the house?” he asks, exasperated.
“No, Dad. I won’t be gone long.” I climb into the driver’s seat.
“Where’s your house key?”
Under the flower pot beside the door. “I have it.”
As I roll down the windows, he strides inside the house. He’s gone a few seconds, presumably locking the front door, before returning to lock the back door.
My smile comes with a heavy rush of nostalgia. His paranoia is so much like Cole’s. It should be unnerving, but instead I find comfort in it.
“You live minutes from downtown.” He grips the driver’s side door, bending over it to glare down at me. “You’re going to get robbed.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I don’t have anything to steal.” I slide the key into the ignition. “I don’t even own a TV.”
Unless I count the one Cole left behind, which is locked in the basement.
“You have an expensive motorcycle in your dining room,” he says. “And what’s stopping a thief from waiting inside to take you when you return?”
He sounds just like Cole.
I slip on a pair of cat eye sunglasses and drop my head back on the seat. “I need to get to the bank before it closes.”
He straightens, studying me for moment with frustration written across his elegant features. Then he removes an envelope from his suit jacket and offers it to me.
“What’s this?” I clasp it, but he doesn’t let go.
“An advance on your pay.” He still hasn’t released it.
“Afraid I’m going to back out?”
“You didn’t sign the contract.” He relinquishes his grip.
“I told you I’d be there, and I will.” I open the envelope and peek at the check.
Oh sweet baby Jesus, that’s a lot of zeroes. An entire month’s pay. My heart slams against my ribs, and my hands tremble.
“I’ll drive you.” He opens the door.
In the rear-view mirror, I spot a sleek black sedan sitting on the curb. “You mean your driver will take me?”
“Yes.”
“No, thanks.” I pull on the door handle, attempting to shut it.
He pulls back, stopping me. “What’s the problem?”
“It’s a beautiful day. I want the wind on my face.”
Most guys would give in. You want to be a pain in ass? Fine. It’s not worth arguing over. But not Trace. He’s stubborn, confrontational. A man who gets his way.
“Get out.” He opens the door wider. “I’m driving.”
My head jerks up. “You’re driving…this?”
He stares at the tiny spartan interior like he can’t believe he suggested the idea.
I burst into laughter. “What about your perfect hair?”
He blows out a breath and swipes a hand over those sexy textured locks.
“Will you even fit in here?” I’m still laughing, recalling the first time Cole crammed his massive body behind the wheel.
Trace is leaner than Cole, but leg room will be tight. Really tight.
“We’re about to find out.” He plucks me from the seat like I weigh nothing and drops me on the other side of the gear shift.
As I tumble against the passenger door, he reaches beneath the driver’s seat and slides it back with a rusty screech. Then he shrugs out of his suit jacket and looks at the non-existent space behind the seats, as if trying to figure out where to store his designer threads.
“Try the trunk.” I peer at him over the top of my sunglasses, grinning.
One long-legged stride takes him to the rear of the Midget. The trunk groans open.
“You got to be kidding me.” He slams it shut and returns empty-handed.
I slide the envelope into the center console and meet his eyes. “Sometimes I fill the trunk with ice and use it as a cooler for beer.”
“That explains the rust.” He lowers his six-foot-five frame behind the wheel. After a little wriggling and a lot of huffing, he works his knees around the wheel and shuts the door. “This thing is a death trap.”
“If you’re going to complain—”
“Where are we going?” He reaches for the key in the ignition.
I give him the directions to the bank. “You know how to drive a stick?”
He casts me an aggravated look, but beneath the heavy scowl lurks a glimmer of mirth. His disguised smile.
“Be careful, Trace. I might get the impression that you’re having fun.”
“Right.” He latches his seatbelt, waits for me to do mine, then we’re off.
As he backs onto the street and pulls away, the sedan follows behind us.
“Is he going to tail us the whole time?” I kick off the flip-flops and prop my feet on the dash.
“Yes. My driver knows CPR, so he’ll be able to resuscitate us when we get run-over by a Mini Cooper.”
I snort and glance at his face. The almost-smile at the corner of his mouth turns my snort into laughter, and holy shit, he chuckles. It’s a gravelly sound, with a full grin and everything.
What a breathtaking sight. His hair ruffles in the wind, his complexion glowing beneath the sunlight. I might not like him, but my God, I wouldn’t mind scratching all my itches with him. This thing we’re doing, this pushing, pulling, flirty dance is the best foreplay I can remember having in a long time.
When we arrive at the bank, he stays in the car to make a phone call. I originally wanted to come here to withdraw some money to live on for the next week, but as I deposit the massive check, I add another purpose to my visit.
After the bank teller cuts me a certified check made out to Gateway Shelter, I head back to the car with the taste of happy tears in the back of my throat.
“A few more stops.” I spot the black sedan a few parking spaces away. “Schnucks Pharmacy on Gravois is next.”
He merges the Midget into traffic, shifting through the gears like a pro. “What do you need there?”
The nosy bastard doesn’t need to know I buy prescriptions for my neighbors.
“I’m out of condoms.” I flash him a smile.
It’s hard to tell what emotion those aristocratic features are conveying, but I’m certain it’s not enthusiasm.
“We’re stopping by the casino on the way back,” he growls.
At the pharmacy, he goes inside with me, glowering like an ill-mannered barbarian when I add a package of Trojan Magnum XL condoms to Virginia’s arthritis prescription.
“Quit scowling.” I pull some cash from my pocket. “They’re not for you.”
The young man behind the register watches us through his hipster glasses.
Trace grabs the bag from the man’s hand and storms out of the store in all his temperamental glory.
I pay the cashier and take my time wandering through the aisles. When I step outside, he’s not in the car or anywhere in sight. My throat tightens. Did he leave?
As I scan the parking lot for his driver, an arm hooks around my waist from behind. I glimpse the blue sleeve of Trace’s shirt before he crashes my back against the building, wraps a hand around my throat, and covers my mouth in a searing kiss.