Page 21 of Stealing Blinds

“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?”

He scoffs and quickly switches directions, regarding both the discussion and the dance. “You won’t even finish a goddamn conversation. I’ve chased you all over the country, but you expect me to believe you’re worried I won’t stick around.”

“I’m not worried about anything.” That is an outright lie since the host just wandered into the ballroom, greeting his guests. “This is just not happening.”

“Because you’ll get attached,” he accuses, his baritone carrying intrigue despite it not being posed as a question.

If I conceded to the possibility of becoming attached, whether it was true or not, it would probably send him running, but my pride refuses to allow me to take the hit for this. I am not the problem here.

In a move that is a tad more advanced for my rusty ballroom training, I somehow pull off a smooth leg hook—or gancho—while volleying his allegation. “Because you’re addicted to the chase, and I get it. The thrill of that is intoxicating. But I have no interest in being someone’s conquest one day and their conquered the next. I’ve had enough of that.”

He doesn’t refute any of that as we sync to the music, keeping up with even the most impressive couples. But he grants me a glimpse of what he’d be like between the sheets. His grip is possessive and commanding. His eyes strip me of far more than my dress. And his timbre is deep and gravelly, making his observation feel intimate. “You’re an acrobatic master, a motorcycle stunt rider, and you dance better than the Stars. Is there anything you don’t do, Sly?”

“You,” I quip, mimicking his response from when he dipped me.

I could’ve offered him similar accolades because it’s apparent the man is adept at anything and everything. He’s far surpassing me on the dancing skills. But the bemusement in his baby blues is more entertaining.

His chest rattles with his levity, but eventually, his hand presses firmly between my shoulder blades in contrast to the softening lines around his eyes. “So, what do you need?”

“Right now? I need you to fix how you screwed up my plans. The host was interested in me, and I have to get into his office—”

“Interested? So, you were …” His teeth clench, but his steps don’t falter; in fact, they glide into an angry shuffle, his hips swaying with severity. “You were planning to what?”

“Check yourself before you say something that will get you a knee to those balls you bragged about. He always invites several people to join him in a lounge that is down the hall from his office. I need to be one of them. It’s the only way to get on that floor. I can take a trip to the ladies’ room and be in and out of the safe in less than ten minutes, but you being here …”

He spins us several times in a vortex twirl, leering at the formidable Mr. Fairfax with a trace of hostility. “I’ll get us the invite without him believing he’s getting anything else. That’s not an issue. You’ll need to trust me to cover you though.”

“You haven’t left me much choice.”

He forgoes the sharp fast-paced footwork and thrusts us into a slower dance that matches the accented beat, his gaze flicking between my lips and my eyes. “And beyond tonight, what do you need, Sylvie Palmer?”

“Nothing you can—”

“Try me.”