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“Lucas tells me you’re a royal”
Nicolo looked over her shoulder. Lucas grinned and winked.
“Lucas is a comedian,” he said.
“I’m famous, too.” She giggled. “Well, not yet but someday. Maybe you’ve seen me? I’ve been in—”
A list of plays. Or TV shows. Or something. He didn’t know, didn’t care, and stole a surreptitious glance at his watch. When could he get out of here without insulting the lady or putting a damper on the party?
Not that she wasn’t beautiful. And friendly. She smiled a lot. Put her hand on his arm. Asked him the questions a man likes to be asked.
It was an old game, one he’d played often. The outcome was always understood. And pleasant.
Amazingly pleasant.
He felt his blood tingle. Damian was right. Lucas, too. This was what he needed. A willing, beautiful woman. A game with a predictable ending. A night’s pleasure.
Wasn’t it bad enough the woman with the violet eyes had made a fool of him once? Was he going to let her do it again by keeping him from what waited for him now?
Nicolo pushed back his chair. Took Vicki’s hand.
“Dance with me.”
He led her down the steps to the dance floor. Salsa music blasted the air, its insistent beat almost as sexual as the moves of Vicki’s ripe body lightly brushing his.
Yes. This was good. This was what he needed…
But it wasn’t. It was the wrong body, teasing his. The wrong face, lifted to his and smiling. The wrong eyes, filled with heat and desire.
Basta, he thought in disgust, and he put his arms around the woman and brought her tightly against him as the music segued into something slow and sexy.
She settled close against him as if she’d been waiting for the invitation. Her hair tickled his nose. It was stiff and smelled of hairspray.
Those honeyed curls this afternoon had been soft and fragrant with rain.
“It’s terribly noisy here,” Vicki said, her breath warm against his ear.
Why don’t we find a quieter place? That was the next line. His, or in these days of supposed equality, it could be—
“Why don’t we find a quieter place?” she whispered.
Nicolo cleared his throat.
“You know,” he said, “I think that’s—I think it’s—” An excellent idea. “I think I’ll have to take a rain check on that,” he heard himself say.
She looked as surprised as he felt but, damn it, he didn’t want this woman.
No substitutes, he thought as the music began to pound again, and the need, the desire he’d been suppressing all these hours ignited and threatened to consume him.
He knew what he wanted. What he needed. And there had to be a way, had to be something he could do to—
Nicolo caught his breath. He stopped dancing, let the other dancers and the music swirl around him.
There she was!
Honey-colored curls. Violet eyes. The woman who was driving him insane. No black suede coat. No hood. No boots. Instead she wore a clinging scrap of crimson silk that barely covered her body. Gold sandals, all straps and sky-high, needle-sharp heels. She was dancing, if you wanted to call it that. Moving in a man’s arms. Breasts swaying. Hips rotating. Head up, eyes locked to the man’s face, mouth turned up in a smile…
A smile she had denied him.
