Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

The back door of the mysterious car opens, and a woman steps out. Her heels turn toward us and clickety-clack along the driveway, sounding her advance.

  Is she lost? It’s too dark to make out her features, but she’ll pass under the motion-sensor mounted on the roof in the three, two…

  The floodlight illuminates her tall slender frame. Dark brown hair sweeps into a low bun. Sleeveless black dress, flawless golden skin, heavy makeup. A blank expression on a face I’ve never seen before.

  “Miss Angelo?” She pauses within arm’s reach.

  “Yes?”

  In her late-twenties or early-thirties, she lifts her nose with an air of snootiness. As pretty as she is, she’s probably used to people staring at her.

  “I’m Marlo Vogt, a representative of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel.” She shakes my hand with limp fingers. “Mr. Savoy would like to meet with you.”

  “I don’t know who—”

  “He owns the casino.”

  The owner? Of the largest casino in the Midwest? My jaw drops. “Why does he want to meet with me?”

  “He wants to discuss”—her sharp gaze flicks over my body—“your services.”

  My hackles bristle. “If he wants dance lessons, he can set up an appoint—”

  “He’s waiting.”

  “He’s what?” My eyes widen. “He wants to meet now?”

  “I’m here to escort you to the casino.”

  Everything inside me rebels against her high-handedness. “He can make an appointment like everyone else.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I have plans tonight.”

  Marlo casts a disinterested glance at Mark, who watches the interaction with an arched brow.

  “Mr. Savoy is a busy man,” she says in a bored tone. “The offer is now.”

  I can’t afford to turn down a job. I’m barely keeping my dance company afloat, and private dance instruction is an easy way to bring in money. But I’m not going to instruct someone who expects me to drop everything at the snap of his fingers.

  “Send my regrets to Mr. Savoy.” I grasp Mark’s hand. “If he’s interested in my services, I’m listed under Danni’s Dance Company on the Internet.” I turn away and leave her glaring after me.

  Mark follows me back to the loveseat behind the house. “That was weird, right?”

  “Very weird.” I sit beside him, wondering how much money I just turned down. “The bulk of my business is private ballroom lessons. Rich old men. Couples looking to spice up their marriage. I could really use the income, but that was… I’ve never had someone show up at my house like that.” My stomach knots. “My address isn’t publicly listed.”

  “He owns The Regal Arch properties. If a man that wealthy wants to hire you, he can easily find out where you live.” He rests a hand on my knee. “You’ve never met him?”

  “Not that I know of. Have you?”

  “I’ve heard of—”

  Footsteps echo along the driveway, the scuff of soft-soled shoes growing nearer. I didn’t hear Marlo drive away and stupidly wonder if she changed out of her heels.

  I stand just as the trespasser rounds the back corner of my house, and my breath stalls.

  A tall imposing man in a suit steps onto the brick path, backlit by the nearby floodlight. Shoulders back and hands clasped behind him, he’s a scowling pillar of intimidation.

  Is this Mr. Savoy? Was he in the car the entire time? Why is my heart beating so frantically?

  I’m instantly drawn to him, to the way he pauses at the edge of the light without speaking. The way he lowers his chin and lifts only his gaze to look me straight in the eyes. The way his severe expression doesn’t twitch, doesn’t expose a hint of emotion or intent.

  My feet move cautiously, as if commanded by his steady focus. As if he’s gathering every molecule in the air, summoning all energy from every living thing around him, demanding the world’s attention merely through the presence of his dominance.

  His blond hair is styled to perfection, longish on top, trim around the sides. His fair complexion, chiseled jawline, full lips, and stern brow work together to form a compelling scowl.

  How I can be so captivated by a scowl is beyond me, but it stirs something inside me. Something raw and achy and so very lonely.

  I step within inches of him and tilt my head up, up, up. Holy shit, he’s at least a foot taller than my five-foot-four frame. Over six feet of gorgeous Norse god in tailored twill.

  It’s as if the crisp suit was fitted to emphasize the hard lines of his legs, the cut of toned thighs, the sizable bulge of his groin, and the width of his chest. All of it wakes me from a foggy, ghostlike sleep.

  Blinking once, twice, I crane my neck to peer up at his face.

  Crystal blue eyes.

  My stomach erupts in a flurry of tremors. My God, I know those eyes. I curl my toes against the brick pavers as excitement and trepidation spikes through my nerve endings. There’s something in that gaze, something in the forever pools of blue that knows me, too. But how? Where have I met him?

  A voice clears behind me, and my spine goes rigid. Shit. Mark.

  I toss an apologetic smile over my shoulder and return to the sculpted physique under the white shirt. With the silver tie hanging loose and the top few buttons open, there’s a gorgeous expanse of strong neck and hairless pecs exposed. Not that I’m staring.

  “How do I know you?” I lift my eyes to the icy blue of his.

  “Everyone knows me.” He offers a large hand. “Trace Savoy.”

  The casino owner. “I’ve never been to your casino.” I place my palm in his and gulp at the electricity zipping up my arm. “I don’t know how…”

  My voice fragments as a memory surfaces. Crowded dining room at Bissara. Dark suit. Blue eyes. He’s watched me belly dance at the restaurant.

  “You like Moroccan food?” I slide my hand away and flex my fingers at my side.

  “I do.” His scowl deepens, and it makes him look even sexier, if that’s possible. “I purchased Bissara.”

  “When? Why wasn’t I notified?”

  “I own it as of this morning. I want to discuss your employment at the casino.”

  I shake my head, confused. “I don’t work at the casino.”

  “You will. We’ll finish this conversation in my office.” He glances at my bare feet. “Put some shoes on.” Flicking his wrist, his gaze falls to his watch. Then he folds his hands behind him. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

  Chapter Two

  PRESENT

  Don’t keep him waiting?

  A surge of righteous anger rattles my insides, but I can’t afford to explode and risk losing the belly dance contract.

  With a calming breath, I jut my chin. “I’ll meet with you, Mr. Savoy—”

  “It’s Trace.”

  “—at a scheduled time and place.” I feel so damn short beneath his freakishly tall frame I’m tempted to lift on my toes to better compete with his stark glare.

  “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear.” His head tilts, expression stony. Like a marble statue. “You work for me now, and I require your presence in my office.”

  I anchor my fists on my hips. Trace might’ve bought the restaurant I dance at, but I work for myself. He can take his inflated sense of superiority and shove it up his ass.

  “Hi, I’m Mark Taylor.” My date holds out a hand to my unwanted visitor.

  Trace glances at Mark, a millisecond assessment and dismissal, before returning to me. “Say goodnight to your friend, Danni.”

  I release a shocked laugh. “Don’t tell me what to do.” You insanely handsome, overbearing Neanderthal. Sweet mercy, why does his bossiness turn me on so much?

  The intensity of his eye contact sucks me into a spinning vortex. This isn’t like the fleeting looks I exchange with men I pass on the street. It goes beyond any of those few-seconds-too-long gazes shared between strangers. This is dialog without words. Absorption without expression. Foreplay without so much as a twitch of a finger. I feel him in pl
aces that haven’t been touched by a man in years.

  “I own a vinyl siding company.” Mark pulls a business card from his wallet and offers it to Trace. “We do commercial jobs, so if you’re looking to renovate any of your properties, I’d love to work with you.”

  I gape at him. Did he seriously just turn this into a business opportunity? If Cole were here, he would’ve muscled Trace off my property with steam billowing from his ears. Not that I expect a hot-tempered reaction from Mark, but a Hey, man, she’s spending the evening with me would’ve gone a long way in earning a second date.

  Trace pockets the business card, and Mark grins like he just won the lottery. They can both go to hell.

  “Mark, I hate to cut the evening short.” The lie tastes like sweet relief. “But I need to deal with this.”

  “No worries. I have an early morning anyway. I’ll call you, okay?”

  He leans in to kiss me, and I turn my head, letting his lips graze my temple. As I watch him amble toward his truck, the potency of Trace’s gaze hijacks my traitorous libido. He stares at me as if he just staked his claim, and God help me, that notion awakens such a deep-seeded need inside me it takes all my strength to not surrender to it.

  Heat tingles across my cheeks, pulses in my breasts, and swells between my legs. My lungs work harder, and a phantom caress sweeps over my skin. I imagine his lips coasting down my neck and nipping at the curve of my shoulder. His breaths would be steady, patient, hovering over the pulse point in my throat and electrifying me with desire. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from fisting his perfect blond hair and bringing his mouth to my chest, where my nipples are now tightening and throbbing beneath the thin fabric.

  My heart pounds against my ribcage, kicking up the dust of abandoned emotion. I want to pursue this…this crazy possibility. But if my job is going to be entangled with him, I can’t. I don’t even know him, for Christ’s sake.

  When Mark pulls away from the curb, I head toward the back door and pick up my pace at the sound of footsteps trailing behind me.

  “You’re not going to see that schmuck again.” His silken voice kisses down my spine.

  That’s exactly what Cole would’ve said, and the familiar possessiveness wobbles my knees. I hurry inside the house and spin on the threshold, forcing my gaze to the intruder’s flinty stare.

  “My dance company is listed online, along with my phone number. Goodnight, Mr. Savoy.” I shut the back door on his beautiful brooding expression and lock it. “Fucking fuck, that was…just…fuck.”

  I lean my back against the wall, thankful there aren’t windows in the dance room. Because his eyes… Holy hell, he has that look. The one that makes my blood run so hot everything inside me melts and trembles. It’s the same look Cole gave me the day we met. The You’re mine, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it stare that owned me instantly and completely.

  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 sco
wl 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 the 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?”