CHAPTER FIVE #2
“How did you know that, or find me, or arrive at the precise time I was entering?”
“Let’s not get hung up on frivolous details.” He wraps his arm around my waist and drags me toward him, his other hand lifting my chin. “I’m here. Use me. I make one hell of a date, and if you’re working, I’ll be a damn good partner.”
My stomach flips and flops, a flurry of trampled dreams trying their best to take flight. “A partner?”
He hasn’t even questioned what I’m here for. Maybe to him, it’s all the same. Or maybe he knows E. Although after his reaction in San Francisco, I ruled that out.
“Yes.” His lips quirk up at the corner, streaming into a dimple that declares this a victory. “Like Bonnie and Clyde, Sterling and Heath, Catwoman and Batman.”
“Bonnie and Clyde died in a police ambush; Heath was brutally murdered eight years into a ten-year sentence, leaving Sterling a widow; and I think we can all agree that Catwoman and Batman were a disaster. He belongs with Vicki Vale.”
“Well, now you’ve done it.” He shakes his head, his perfectly mussed dark blond hair catching the brilliant lights. “If you truly believe that—that Vicki Vale is more suited for Bruce Wayne than Catwoman—I don’t know that we have anything else to discuss.”
Aggravation floods my veins and drowns the brief mesmerizing stupor he had me in. “How, doing what you do, is this a game to you? I’m working.”
His chest deflates, but he doesn’t release me. “Nothing about this is a game to me, but I was trying to lighten the mood. I understand you’re working. Let’s go with a better example of partnership—Sylvie and Cash, Sly and Noire, you and me.”
The ballroom is getting crowded, so I step away, and he lets me. There’s a section set off from the main area that has glass French doors.
I walk that way, talking out of the side of my mouth as we go. “Being solo tonight was part of my plan.”
“Now you have backup.”
“Now I have a complication.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, staring out at the backyard, which is akin to a waterpark with pools and grottos and impeccable gardens. “Or someone who is willing to put themselves on the line for you.”
Keeping my attention on the private paradise, I find myself wondering what’s in this for him because it does seem to be more intense than a game. “Why? We’ve had three conversations.”
“That doesn’t mean there isn’t something to grab on to.”
“To grab on to?” I can’t contain my peeved huff. “Let me guess—like a headboard?”
He leans in, his fingers curling around my hip, his scruffy cheek grazing my jaw, his lips wetting my ear. “I was not referring to anything dirty. Is your mind always this filthy, Palmer, or just for me?”
A shiver skitters down my spine and arms. “I don’t even know you, Noire.”
“That’s an easy fix.”
“For what?” I step back, facing him and unleashing all my frustration.
“You don’t stick around after sunup, so knowing anything other than what my dress would look like on the floor isn’t of interest to you.
And I’m never going to agree to check off whatever fleeting fantasy you’ve imagined this to be. What else is there to know?”
Aware I need to regain my levelheaded focus, I head back toward the heart of the ballroom to search for the host.
Cash grabs my wrist, preventing my escape. “Everything.”
Everything? What the hell is he doing? I can’t do this.
“Cash—”
“No. You’ve obviously been hurt in the past, and I …
I don’t know what this is, but it’s something.
So, I’m going to keep coming back until I collect on my dinner date.
And over dessert, we can discuss what comes next.
” He closes the distance between us, his thumb stroking back and forth on my inner wrist. “We’ll be explosive, so I’ll definitely want to refuel with breakfast, and I have a feeling you might turn me into an addict.
Don’t dismiss me because you have some idea—”
“Maybe some other time.” I center my breathing, taking in the growing crowd, the exuberant dancing, the outlandish decor and opulence, which are a mere backdrop for the most important job of my life, before my eyes frolic over the handsome man who is nothing but bad news.
“Your whole vibe of being a misunderstood sex god who can’t handle rejection is admittedly charming.
But my life is messy. And seduction and romance are not solutions. ”
When an instrumental version of Selena Gomez’s “Hands to Myself” blares from the sound system, he laces our fingers together and tows me to the dance floor. “Can you tango-salsa?”
This man is going to give me whiplash, but this might be a decent way to blend in, like my mother mentioned, so I find the loop on the center seam of my modest train and hook it on the button located around the back of my thighs to create a bustle as Cash watches, captivated.
“Of course,” I finally answer, wrapping one hand around his shoulder and letting him stretch the other out.
Once we’re immersed in the quick-quick-slow rhythm, his customary cockiness returns. “Sex god? Definitely. But rejection? Not even close. You’re in my arms, aren’t you?”
That’s probably why he chose the tango-salsa.
It’s a fusion of both well-known dances, but while the footwork is the faster pace of the salsa, there is a close-hold tension that has us pressed together.
Every point of contact on my back, hips, chest, and arms, touching his mammoth limbs and chiseled physique, tingles with an energy I’m going to ignore.
“You have a line for everything.”
“Not a line.” He chuckles as we pick up our pace to the quickening tempo and spin several times. “A compass. When you know where you’re headed, you never get lost.”
“And where exactly are you headed?” I ask before he dips me, my hair cascading toward the floor.
His lips are inches from mine as he husks out, “You.”
Because my libido is easily wooed, that simple answer rockets to my core.
But as we flow back into our upright steps, I challenge his sweet-talking bullshit. “Until?”