“Look at all those smiles.” Father Rick Ortez leans against the wall beside me, his own grin twitching his gray mustache. “I’m always amazed at how many of them you can get on the dance floor.”
It’s not easy. No one at a homeless shelter has a reason to dance or smile. But I’m persistent, because when they finally give in and participate, they focus on learning the steps and laugh at their fumbling feet. In those small moments of levity, they forget about the tragedies that thrust them onto the streets.
Rick runs the shelter, and he doesn’t wear his white collar here, so it’s easy to forget he’s a priest. Which is the point. He wants all people to feel welcome, no matter their religion, race, or background.
On any given night, there are about fifteen-hundred homeless people in St. Louis. Since Gateway’s occupancy permit only allows seventy-five beds, the shelter is always maxed out.
I recognize some of the faces tonight. Those I’ve never seen before are the hardest to coax into dancing. They don’t know me, don’t trust my intentions, and I don’t blame them. But I have a strategy that works.
Line dancing. Anyone with two working legs can do it. I always start off alone, traveling through the steps and explaining each movement. After I draw a crowd, I cajole the most enthusiastic ones into joining me. Eventually a few more jump in. Then more and more.
I’ve been at it for hours, but they’re finally warming up and letting go.
“Don’t you have to dance at the restaurant tonight?” Rick runs a hand over his bald head, watching twenty people of various ages and dress teeter through the Cupid Shuffle.
I don’t know what time it is, but my seven o’clock meeting with Trace Savoy is probably nearing. Or passed. I rather enjoy the thought of him waiting.
“My schedule changed.” I guzzle the remainder of my water bottle. “Don’t worry, Rick. I’ll still be here a couple of times a week.” I wish I could donate more time, more money.
“You have a good heart, Danni.”
Good and broken. But no one here knows my background. I came to Gateway after I lost Cole, and I always move the engagement ring to my right hand before walking in. No questions. No past.
Two years ago, I started in the kitchen, hoping the volunteer work would direct my focus to other people’s misery instead of my own. The line dancing lessons evolved from there. I figured if my goal is to put smiles on troubled faces, I’ll find my own happiness in the process. It mostly works out that way. Sometimes I leave here feeling sadder than ever, but those times are rare.
I slide back into the dance line, rolling my hips and grinning at the elderly woman beside me. She’s stiff and hunched over, her weathered complexion knitted with a lifetime of hardship. But her toothless smile makes my heart soar.
“Look at you.” I touch the paper-thin skin on her elbow, guiding her through a turn. “You caught on quick.”
“Oh, I…” She sidesteps, staggering and laughing at herself. “I don’t know about that.”
With my music player set on repeat, the Cupid Shuffle loops two more times before my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I stay in the line, twirling through the steps as I glance at the screen.
Unknown: You’re late
According to my phone, it’s only 7:01 PM. A grin lifts my cheeks. If Trace had to pull my number from my website, I bet it really puckered his scowl to do so.
I step out of the dancing line and add his number to my contacts list. Not that I intend to talk to him after tonight. But I might be in the mood to make prank calls.
Flexing my hand, I type a response.
Me: Well-timed lateness is an art.
Trace: Punctuality is a professional courtesy.
Me: You’re scowling, aren’t you?
Trace: Where are you?
Me: Between here and there.
Trace: Your here better be in the casino.
He types fast, his texts pinging within seconds of mine.
Me: What do I get if it is?
Trace: A job.
Me: Oh right. The one that objectifies me. Tempting.
Trace: Tell me what you want.
Me: A smile would be a good start.
A heartbeat later, the ringtone on my phone plays Try by Pink, and his name flashes on the screen.
Oh man, he’s persistent, and damn if that doesn’t make me feel all bubbly inside.
I accept the call. “911. What’s your emergency?”
After a moment of silence, his deep voice growls through the line. “What’s that noise?”
I hold the phone toward the portable speakers for a few seconds and put it back at my ear. “Recognize it?”
“No.”
“How do you not know the Cupid Shuffle?”
“The Cupid—? Never mind.” His voice sharpens. “You’re late.”
“You already said that. Don’t be tedious.”
“This is fucking—” Something thumps through the connection, and he blows out a breath. “You’re testing my patience.”
“You’re being presumptuous.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You assume I agreed to this meeting.”
“Get. Your ass. In my office.” His low even tone might lend power to his command, but it only makes me want to push all his buttons.
“Hmm.” I sashay back into the dance line, synchronizing my steps with the song. “How about you try that again with professional courtesy?”
He sniffs and clears his throat on a heavy exhale. “Can I expect you this evening?”
“Much better. You can expect me later.” I disconnect the call and dance through three more iterations of the shuffle before saying goodbye to my new friends.
Thirty minutes later, I leave my phone and keys in a hidden pocket beneath the driver’s seat of the Midget. Then I make my way through the parking garage of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel and step into the lobby.
Bright bursts of electronic sound and color assault my senses, and the stale scent of smoke tickles my lungs. An industrial theme dominates the decor, accented by numerous steel archways that curve and stretch overhead. Painted black and pinpricked with light, the domed ceilings twinkle like starry skies over thousands of glowing slot machines.
Tinkling, clinking, beeping noises clash in a battle of conflicting melodies. It’s the discordant song of desperate people stuffing Trace Savoy’s pockets with money.
As I stroll around the flashing machines, no one socializes or glances my way. Row after row, the gamblers lean back, bend forward, and puff on cigarettes. Brows grooved in concentration. Hands poised to punch a button or pull a lever. It’s mesmerizing. And kind of sad.
A path of swirly-patterned carpet leads to a bank of silver elevators on the far side of the gaming area. Instead of heading to the 30th floor, I wander toward the restaurant on the opposite end.
Slipping inside the vacant dining room, I sidle around piles of construction materials and plastic sheeting. The overhead lights are off, the workers gone for the day. If this is Bissara’s new location, Trace didn’t waste time starting the renovations. When a small round stage at the center comes into view, I know I’m in the right place.
I stride toward the platform, circling the eight-foot diameter. It rises to chest level without steps to climb on. So I kick off my flip-flops and hoist myself up to stand on the dark acrylic surface.
Glass walls separate the restaurant and gaming area, dampening the blaring beeps and tinkles of slot machines. But I can see them—the kaleidoscope of neon lights illuminating the serious faces of addicts doing what they need to do.
That’s six million patrons strolling through my doors and resting their eyes on the art you create through movement.
The stage is certainly visible from the most active gaming areas, but gamblers aren’t looking around at the scenery. They sit in a trance, focused on their drug, determined to win. None of them would notice a belly dancer in the restaurant.
“Are you lost?” An unfamiliar masculine voice drifts from the shadowed corner near the entrance.
I turn and spot a dark figure reclined at one of the tables. “Nope. Are you?”
“I work here.” The man stands and walks toward me, dressed in a white collared shirt, black pants, and black vest. “I’m a blackjack dealer.”
He nods at the casino tables beyond the glass, where men and women wear uniforms like his, their hands busy with cards and chips.
As he approaches, I lower to the edge of the stage and dangle my legs over the side.
Dark hair, slim build, and trimmed beard, he’s neither ugly nor handsome. But I don’t trust that smile. It’s too assertive and greasy.
“I’m James.” He holds out a hand.
“Danni.” I clasp his clammy fingers and pull back, keeping the exit behind him in my periphery. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I’m on break.” He licks his lips as his eager gaze sweeps over my skinny jeans and pauses on my shoulder, which is bared by the wide neck of my slouchy shirt.
Dancers aren’t shy about showing skin, and I’m no exception. James can leer all he wants if he keeps his hands to himself.
He bends closer, resting a hand on the stage beside my hip. “This might come across as a little aggressive…”
“It’s only aggressive if you have something aggressive in mind.”
“Go out with me tonight.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Well, you’re a beautiful woman.” He leans a hip against the platform. “It just so happens I have a thing for beautiful women.” His smile twists suggestively. “I get off work in an hour. What do you say we get to know each other?”
A smart girl would tell him to get lost, but I’m a glutton for mischievous conversation. “What would getting to know each other involve?”
His eyebrows jump up, and he quickly smooths his expression. “Dinner?”
“I already ate.”
“Drinks?”
“Then what?”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh…”
“Tell me exactly how you imagine getting to know me, James.” I trap my bottom lip between my teeth and release it. “Or are you afraid to say?”
A shadow moves at the edge of my vision. It’s out of focus, but I make out a tall silhouette in the doorway behind James. I don’t shift my gaze. I don’t have to. The sensation of being lividly and intensely glared at tells me exactly who lingers at the entrance of the dining room.
“I have lots of ideas.” James scratches his beard and scrutinizes my body with slimy intent, oblivious of the casino owner standing behind him. “I don’t know if I should say—”
“You better spit it out before my employer gets here. He hasn’t had sex in years, and it’s turned him into an intolerable, angry ogre.”
“You work here?”
“Nope. What happens after drinks, James?”
“Okay, so I’m thinking…” He fiddles with his necktie. “I’ll take you home. And kiss you. And touch you. And make sweet love to you.”
I don’t even try to hide my cringe. “Boring.”
“What? Which part?”
“Make sweet love? Dude, you can do better than that.”
“I don’t know wha—”
“Do you like anal play?” Knowing Trace is listening makes it damn hard to keep a straight face, but somehow, I manage it.
James sucks in a breath and flattens a hand over his heart. “Yes! I mean, what man doesn’t?”
“Your rectum, James. Not mine. Have you ever been pegged by a thirteen-inch dildo?”
“No.” A flush rises up his neck, and he retreats backward a step. “Fuck, no.”
“That’s too bad. We could’ve had something beautiful together.”
“Enough.” Trace appears beside James, his murderous glare trained on the other man.
Recognition widens James’ eyes as Oh-Jesus-I’m-fucked contorts his expression.
“You’re fired.” Trace bares his teeth, towering over James. “Gather your things and—”
“Stop it.” I poke a toe against Trace’s rock-hard thigh then lean toward James, whispering loudly around the cup of my hand. “He can’t get it up. Makes him unbearably bad-tempered.”
“Danni.” Trace growls.
“Don’t worry about him,” I say to James, leaning back. “You’re not fired.”
“Mr. Savoy? Sir?” He drops his chin, practically bowing. “I need this job. I didn’t mean any harm.”
Trace clasps his hands behind him, his glower firmly directed at James. “You harassed a casino employee—”
“A casino guest.” I cross my legs at the knee and bounce my foot. “I harassed him. The poor guy didn’t stand a chance.”
“That’s not what I overheard.”
“Sounds like a you problem. Get your hearing checked.”
“I have zero tolerance for this kind of behavior in my casino.” His voice is steady and controlled as it snaps through the room.
“So authoritative and manly.” I feign a shiver and blink doe eyes at him. “Being the weak vulnerable female that I am, I would’ve never been able to handle this conversation on my own.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw. Maybe he’ll grab at his hair and mess it all up. As is, every blond strand flawlessly molds into a textured slick-back style. But he doesn’t scrape a hand through it, doesn’t clench his fists, or do anything to suggest an unraveling composure. I can’t decide if his indomitable self-control is sexy or aggravating.
“James.” I prop an elbow on my thigh and rest my hand beneath my chin. “Will you hit on casino guests in the future?”
“No.” James looks from me to Trace. “I promise, sir.”
Trace points his scowl at me, and I give him a playful wink.
“Consider this your only warning.” He stabs a finger toward the door. “Get back to your station.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” James races out of the restaurant like hell’s breathing up his ass.
Reclining back with my arms braced on the stage behind me, I meet Trace’s stony stare. “Waiting for someone?”
His nostrils widen and relax as he glances at his watch. “She’s fifty-three minutes late.”
“She sounds important. Especially if she dragged his lordliness out of his royal tower to consort with the commoners.”
“She’s a royal pain in my ass. I’m rethinking the job I offered her.”
“Rock on. She wasn’t going to accept it anyway.”
His eyes narrow. “Then why are you here?”
I squint right back. “How did you know I was here?”
He huffs a sharp sound and flicks a finger at the ceiling.
Elaborate glass fixtures of every color create a mosaic design overhead. A closer look reveals tiny black globes amid the art work. Cameras. Of course.
“You were spying on me? I could have you arrested for stalking.” I arch a brow. “And trespassing in my house. Any other crimes I should be aware of?”
“Cut the shit, Danni.”
“Oh, Trace. I wouldn’t shit you. We’re just getting to know each other.”
“Yeah?” He strokes his bottom lip, tempting me to kiss it. “I heard how you get to know men.”
“Anal play?”
His frown jerks, as if an invisible finger yanks it up at the corner.
“You smiled!” I feign a gasp, pointing at his mouth. “Did it hurt?”
He grunts.
Maybe I can coax another one. “Do you fancy a thirteen-inch dildo, Mr. Savoy?”
He glances at the empty doorway and composes his expression into that of an imperious casino boss. “I see you found the stage. Is it adequate for your routine?”
Ugh. So stiff. I’d love to see him loosen up. I bet it’s glorious.
“Depends.” I swing my legs around and stand at the center of the platform. “Still rethinking that job offer?”
His gaze latches onto my mouth before it makes a slow descent along my neck, tracing the shape of my breasts, my hips, and the apex of my thighs. My entire body reacts, igniting deep within my core and spreading outward to inflame my skin. My nipples tighten. My pulse kicks up, and a throbbing ache flares between my legs.
Jesus, this man is potent. All he has to do is stand there in his tailored suit and transmit displeasure like it’s foreplay. His sculpted lips part naturally, forming an enticing fracture in that scowl, which is framed by a jawline carved in right angles. So commanding. Masculine. Way too hot for a stuffed shirt.
He hasn’t moved his focus from the vicinity of my crotch, so I snap my fingers in his line of sight.
Those stark blue eyes jump to my face, and there’s something glowing in the depths. Something needy and compulsive and…resentful.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” I anchor my fists on my hips.
“That’s negligible.” He paces around the stage, hands folded behind him. “Let’s go to my office so you can sign the contract and—”
“I don’t think so, Scoot McGoot.” I stretch my arms out, encompassing the 360-degree panorama of crowded casino tables and one-armed bandits. “I hate to break it to you, because this really is a great stage, but no one out there cares about a dancer in a restaurant. Doesn’t matter how much you pay me.”
His pacing veers toward the bar, where he bends behind the steel counter, vanishing from view.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, a column of soft light envelopes me from head to toe. The source shines from beneath my feet, and as I step forward, the light follows me, effectively encasing me in a glowing tube.
“So cool.” I bounce from side to side, captivated by the accuracy of the motion sensor.
He messes with something on the back wall, and a sultry, fast-tempo pop song streams from hidden speakers. I recognize it immediately. The deep vocals of the Haitian rapper. The stately resonance of brass instruments. The vibrating clap-clap-clap of percussion. The high-energy composition of Hips Don't Lie by Shakira. It’s a song I practice to often, and my body twitches to ride the rhythm.
“Dance.” Trace stalks toward the stage and stares up at me. “Please.”
Saturated in the beam of light beneath my toes, I tremble with excitement. His please isn’t the only reason I pull off my shirt, but it’s a powerful incentive. I doubt he uses that word often, and standing before him in a sports bra and low-waist jeans, I’m happy to oblige.
The music thumps through me, setting the pace of my breaths. My arms move first, lifting sensuously, flowing like a lazy wave from one hand to the other and taking my shoulders with them. I hold my hips still, concentrating all movement above my chest. Making him wait for it.
The way he stares up at me… Sweet hell, it says everything he doesn’t. Grave and serious, his blue eyes devour my body with naked interest, as if I’m beautiful, as if he desperately wants to touch me, grab me, fuck me.
Buttoned up and crisply starched, his suit molds to the muscled form of his body, as if challenging me to stare. To want. To conjure images of my hands stripping every immaculate layer.
The volume grows louder, and I engage my abdominal wall, undulating the muscles in a rippling shiver. His thick shoulders lift with an intake of air, a breath he holds for several counts before releasing, relaxing, and inhaling again.
I affect him—my body, my art, my command of both. It gives me a sense of power over him. Not that I intend to see him again, but for one night, in an empty restaurant, it’s invigorating.
When the song reaches a staccato rhythm, I punctuate the beats with vertical hip drops, outward hip hits, shoulder accents, and ribcage lifts. The fluid motion of my body aligns with the instruments, pulling me into a state of hypnosis that carries me across the platform, floating on a column of light and curving my lips from corner to corner.
I smile because I appreciate the sensual gestures, the mellifluous lines and bends of my frame. I smile because as Trace watches me, his eyes glow at max voltage, electrocuting the short distance between us.
Leaning toward him, I shimmy what little I have on my chest and meet his gaze. Bending deeper, I hang my head and roll my shoulders in a dance of their own, caught in the music, held by the moment.
Upside down, my hair sweeps the floor, arms hanging beside my face as my deltoids, lats, and traps contract and bounce in a textured choreography of muscle.
Slowly, I rise, raising my arms above my head and rolling my hips in infinity loops. As I lower my hands alongside my face, I writhe my fingers in sinuous, seductive waves, tilting my head, gyrating my pelvis, and making his jaw dip lower, lower…
He snaps his mouth shut, his chest rising and the rims of his eyes tightening with tension.
I know what he sees. I’ve memorized my reflection in the mirror as I sway and rock through the serpentine maneuvers. The shimmies, shivers, and flexibility of my hips. The female form moving in a way that simulates flexibility, promiscuity, and sexual energy. I’m an actress on a stage, eliciting emotion and feeding off the reactions. Or in this case, one reaction.
I put an extra kick in my hip tilts and laugh as his jaw twitches toward a smile. “You like that?”
His face instantly cements back into stone, his eyes thunderous.
The song winds to a close, and I slow my movements, lowering my arms and gazing to the side and at the floor until silence blankets the room. Then I bend in a customary bow and blow him a kiss as I straighten.
He reaches for the knot of his tie and drops his hand. “Turn around.”
“Why?”
His lips clamp together, darkening his expression, as if I committed blasphemy by questioning him.
Our silent standoff doesn’t last long. I’m too curious to not turn around, and when I do, my breath hitches. “Whoa.”
Twenty, thirty…maybe fifty people gather on the other side of the glass wall. Most are men, but women congregate, too. And employees. Others linger near the tables farther back, eyes pointed in my direction, watching.
I wave at the crowd and smile. “Why are they—?”
“You’re good, Danni.” His timbre comes from somewhere near the bar behind me.
The light beneath my feet blinks off, veiling me in shadows and signaling the audience to disperse.
“You really think I’m good, huh?” I hop off the stage and slip my feet into the flip-flops.
“Not just good. You’re captivating.” Trace strides toward me and grabs my shirt from the floor.
I reach for his hand, but he yanks it back and proceeds to guide the shirt over my head. The gesture stutters my breath, and when my face emerges through the neck hole, I stare at him with wide eyes.
Focused on his task, he lifts my arm, then the other, sliding each of my hands slowly, gently, through the sleeves. Letting him do this feels so strangely intimate I’m at a loss for how to respond. It’s such a small thing, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been tended to like this. Too long, apparently, given the swarm of bees diving and whirring in my stomach.
He straightens the shirt around my hips and drifts closer, his finger trailing oh-so-softly along my jaw. “Watching you dance is an exquisite experience. The freedom in your movements, the pleasure on your face… it evokes feelings that are deeper, hotter”—he bends so close his lips brush my ear—“better than sex.”
Shuddering warmth curls through me. “You must not be having very good sex.”
He touches his brow against my temple, his hand sweeping back to trace my spine as his minty breath bathes me in heat. “I imagine sex with you would annihilate every experience a man has ever had.”
Holy hell, I feel every raspy word like hungry kisses along my neck. “What are you doing, Trace?”
He steps back and smooths a hand over his tie, his scowl harder, angrier than before. “I want to finish this meeting in my office. The contract—”
“And just like that, you completely ruin a good moment.” From the back pocket of my jeans, I hand him a folded scrap of paper. “I have a counteroffer.”
He takes it and strides toward the exit, leaving me standing there with my mouth open.
What the shit just happened?
“Wait.” I trail after him. “Aren’t you going to read it?”
“Yes.”
I chase him all the way to the elevators. And by chase, I mean sprint, because damn his long legs.
His unapproachable demeanor allows him move through the casino without being stopped or interrupted with idle conversation. The crowd actually parts to move out of his way.
He attracts attention from everyone he passes, especially from the women. His towering height and expensive suit are noteworthy, but it’s his arresting looks—the sexy blond hair, sculpted features, broad shoulders—that weaken knees and drop jaws. Alluring and mysterious, he’s an orgasm for the eyes.
Bypassing the public lifts, he strides down an empty corridor, where another elevator waits. He punches in a passcode, and the doors slide open.
“Your own personal lift?” I step inside the mirrored box.
“Yes.” He follows me in with my counteroffer folded in his hand.
How much longer is this going to drag out? I’m ready for him to read my demands, lose his shit, and send me on my way.
The panel of buttons only provides access to the 30th floor, 31st floor, and a few underground levels. He presses 30.
“What’s on the top floor?” I lean against the wall opposite him.
“My residence.”
He lives in the hotel? In the penthouse, evidently. How disappointingly prosaic.
As the elevator shoots upward, he unfolds the paper. His eyes flick over my handwriting, his features stoic and indecipherable. When I’m certain he’s read through all of it, my nerves kick in. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t react at all.
My preposterous counteroffer demands a salary that rivals that of a tenured surgeon. It also includes other requirements, such as a wardrobe budget, private dressing room, retirement contribution, health care, paid vacation, and free alcohol at the casino bars. The health insurance would be nice since I haven’t had medical coverage since college, but I don’t give a fuck about the rest of it.
With slow exacting movements, he folds the paper and tucks it into the interior pocket of his suit. Then he rests his hands on the guard rail behind him, crosses one shiny shoe over the other, and meets my eyes.
His expression is firm, leaning toward unkind, but there’s a hint of deviousness deep in the brackets around his scowl. I can’t decide if he’s going to kiss me or say something hateful.
It’s curious how he always tilts that strong chin downward, a mannerism that forces him to look up. Since he’s so tall, maybe bowing his head is a matter of practicality. Or maybe it’s deliberate because he knows that upward glare appears darker and more intimidating beneath the brooding mantle of his brow.
I wish he wasn’t so damn attractive or that I wasn’t so enthralled with his severe personality. Because as I wait for him to push the button that will send me back to the lobby and out of his life, part of me regrets sabotaging this opportunity. I need the job, but more than that, I need someone with his impenetrable resolve in my life. A partner who will challenge me. A man who will stand up to me. A lover who will inspire me out of my celibate funk.
It’s not that I’m good at reading people. I’m not. But there’s a subtle air about Trace Savoy, one he tries to stifle. On the surface, he’s too cavalier. Too arrogant and apathetic. It’s a facade. Beneath that callous shell lurks an interested, impassioned, sexual man. I’ve glimpsed it in the creases of his expression, in his heated words, and in the caress of his touch on my face. I want more of it. I need to know if there’s something between us, something that could grow and stretch and take flight.
I search his beautiful face, looking for clues to what he’s thinking and find nothing. “You’re toying with me.”
“Your counteroffer suggests…” He pushes off the wall and in two strides, he puts his face in mine with his hands on the guard rail behind me. “You are toying with me.”
He’s deliberately crowding me. My head doesn’t even reach the knot on his tie, so I have to angle my neck way back to meet his gaze. It’s a position meant to make me feel smaller, more vulnerable. Little does he know, he can’t hurt me. I’ve been hurt—a hurt so mortally, inconsolably excruciating there’s nothing left in me to break.
The elevator dings, and the doors open. He doesn’t move.
And that glare. That hostile, infuriating, sexy goddamn glare makes my thighs clench and my skin heat.
“Maybe I am toying with you.” I want to feel the curve of his scowl, so I give into the indulgence and stroke a finger across his full bottom lip. “What are you going to do about it, Mr. Savoy?”
He flashes me a scathing smile that isn’t a smile at all as it sends chills from my tailbone to my neck. “I’m going to accept your demands.”