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?”