“Don’t worry about him.” I shift back to Rick. “We bicker like siblings.”
“That man doesn’t look at you like a sibling.” Rick narrows his eyes. “Are you okay, Danni?”
“I’m great.” I grip his forearm and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Trace bought the restaurant I dance at. We just have some disagreements to work through.”
“And this?” He holds up the check.
“It’s honest pay.” I back up, retreating toward the door. “You’re going to do amazing things with this place.”
His cheeks redden. “Thank you, Danni. There’s a special place waiting for you in heaven.”
“Don’t write me off yet, Father Rick.” With a laugh, I slip through the door and brace myself for Hell in the form of fiery blue eyes.
“Ten grand?” Trace whirls on me the instant I step outside.
So much for waiting at the car. I shake my head and walk past him.
“That’s over half your paycheck.” He grips my elbow.
“My paycheck.” I yank my arm away. “To spend however I want.”
“You need to—”
“Save it.” I quicken my gait and climb over the passenger door and into the car without bothering to open it.
“I will not let—”
“Shut the fuck up, Trace.” I rest my head back on the seat and close my eyes. “I don’t want to hear it.”
I keep my eyes shut during the short drive from the shelter to the casino. The silence is volatile, building and darkening like a thunderstorm.
I’ll drop his ass off and go to my sister’s. Because going home to a house of broken memories sounds even less appealing than hanging out with a cantankerous casino owner.
I know I’m impulsive with money and men and pretty much everything, but why does Trace care how I live my life? How could he possibly be offended by anyone donating money to a good cause?
Maybe I shouldn’t give him this time to gather his thoughts. His unspoken judgment charges the air around me, strengthening, galvanizing. When he pulls into the underground garage, the noise from the wind dies and he opens his mouth.
“You live in a shit hole, drive a shit car, and wear…”
Opening my eyes, I twist in the seat to face him. “Go ahead. Finish that sentence.”
His eyes are stark beneath the overhead lights. He swerves the car into a reserved spot beside a sleek gray sports car and shuts off the engine.
“You wear sandals,” he says to the windshield, “from the clearance aisle in a drugstore. You need money desperately, yet you give it away like it’s nothing.”
“If I embarrass you, get your pretentious ass out of my car and go back to your fancy penthouse where you never spend a night alone.” My toes curl in the discount flip-flops, and my heart pounds at the base of my throat. “Fire me or don’t fire me, but stop casting judgment on my life.”
His eyebrows pinch together. “You don’t embarrass me.”
He opens the driver’s door and unfolds his tall body from the car. There’s no one else in the vicinity, and very few cars fill the parking spaces. We must be in a private level of the garage.
He shuts the door and grips the ledge, facing me. “With the money you’ll be earning, you can live more comfortably. Unless you continue to hand it all out.”
“I am comfortable. I like my shit hole and shit car and my drugstore sandals. It’s just stuff.” I release the seatbelt and bend forward with my elbows on my thighs. “You know what makes me happy, Trace? People. Relationships. Connections.” I tip my head to look at him. “Have you ever been in love?”
“No.” He scrapes out a tired breath.
“I didn’t think so. That’s why I let your cruelty roll off me so easily. I don’t condone your insults. It’s just…” I sigh and pull the hair tie from the windblown mess on my head. “I pity you, Trace.”
“You pity me?” Straightening his spine, he puts his hands on his hips and watches me finger comb my hair.
“I really do. All the money in the world won’t buy the best kind of happiness.”
He grips the edge of the door and leans in, eyes like blue blades. “And where is your happiness now, Danni?”
My heart lurches with a hollow achy thud. I lower my head, lower my hands on my lap, and squeeze the engagement ring.
“He left me,” I whisper. “Then he died.”
Unbidden, a brew of misery pushes against my senses, forming wool in my ears and blackening the edges of my vision. Trace fades from my periphery, but his footsteps are there, circling the rear of the car. He removes his jacket from the trunk. Then the passenger door opens, and an outstretched hand appears beneath my face.
“Come on,” he says quietly, softly.
I stare at the hand, fully aware of the unpredictability that comes with it. Cruel words and passionate kisses. Outrageous paychecks and mercurial moods. Scowls and laughter. Silence and banter. Who knows what he’ll deliver next?
He’s well-versed in calloused expressions, but his indifference is skin deep. If Trace Savoy wasn’t affected by me, he wouldn’t be standing here now, offering me his hand.
I clasp his fingers and allow him to pull me out of the car, toward the exit, and inside the elevator. As we ascend, he tucks me against his body with my cheek on his chest. It feels good. So deeply, inviolably, wonderfully good.
“I’m sorry.” He cups the back of my head. “For your loss. And for the way I talk to you. I’m not a nice man.”
My throat tightens at the unexpected apology. Maybe there’s hope for him yet.
“The former isn’t your fault,” I say, “and we can work on the latter.”
“You’re remarkably optimistic.” He props his chin on my head.
“Ever heard the saying, an optimist laughs to forget, and a pessimist forgets to laugh?”
“No, but it sounds like it was written by a realist.”
The elevator dings, and when the doors open, I expect to hear the beeping din of hundreds of slot machines. But it’s silent. As I lift my head, he leads me out and into a huge unfamiliar room.
“Where are we?” I glimpse an open kitchen to the left and a dining area to the right. Beyond the humongous sitting room straight ahead, a wall of glass brings the St. Louis skyline indoors. “This is your penthouse?”
“Correct.” He leaves me teetering in the entrance, tosses his jacket over a chair, and veers into the kitchen.
“I thought you were going to show me the restaurant.”
I shouldn’t be here. I mean, I want to be here. My interest in seeing his private space ranks right up there with my desire to see him naked. But my current frame of mind is on the fragile side of messy. I’m already imagining the countless women he’s paraded in and out of this bachelor pad.
And what a pad. It’s like something out of a Marvel Hero movie, with an industrial warehouse feel, exposed pipes, brick columns, and raw wood beams. Very rugged and masculine but also trendy in a way only money can buy.
“It’s been a long day.” He walks out of the open kitchen with two Bud Lights. “I’ll show you the restaurant another time.”
“This is…really nice.” I linger near the elevator, unsure why he brought me here.
“Thank you.” He lowers onto a buttery brown couch near the two-story windows and sets the beers on a large vintage trunk that serves as an ottoman. Then he reclines, spreads his legs the way a man does when he’s relaxed, and crooks a finger at me. “Come here.”
I move my feet, taking in every detail of the penthouse. Most surfaces have a cement or stainless steel finish. Copper fixtures hang from the loft ceilings, and little silver rivets run like stitching along the walls.
With all the metallic pipes, concrete, and structural joints shining through, the space should feel cold and uninviting. But it’s not. The furniture is dark and chunky and plush. Richly colored rugs cover the wide-plank ebony flooring. Thick drapes frame the multistory wall of windows in sections. Jesus, those curtains
must be forty-feet long.
There’s a lot of brick—the walls, the fireplace, the base of the massive kitchen island. Overhead, skylights glow with sunlight between the splintery wood beams. And like his office, there are no photos or personal keepsakes. His parents are dead, yet there isn’t a sign of their life together displayed anywhere in this room. Maybe I’m the only one who needs a shrine of pictures to cope with grief?
“Do you have siblings?” I approach the couch, stopping a few feet in front of him, locked in eye contact.
“I’m an only child.”
Is that why he’s so rigid? He never learned how to share or play with others?
His black pants are starched to crispness, even after squeezing in and out of the Midget. Who irons his clothes? A butler? A maid? Whatever woman slept over the night before?
Stop it, Danni.
“Sit.” He pats the cushion beside him.
“If you talk to me like a dog, I might crawl onto your lap and lick your face.”
He holds his arms out, as if welcoming my threat.
Baffling, volatile man.
I’m reminded of our scorching kiss and how much I already miss the feel of his velvety lips. But the cold shoulder I received immediately after he stuck his tongue down my throat prompts me to choose the spot beside him.
“I didn’t take you for a Bud Light guy.” I reach for the beer.
“I’m not.” He sips from his bottle and makes a face. “But you like it.”
How did he—? Oh, right. I was drinking beer the first night he came to my house.
His attention to detail is uncanny. And creepy. And kind of endearing.
“You stocked your fridge,” I say, running a hand through my tangled hair, “knowing I’d come here?”
“Yes.” A devious flicker dances in his eyes.
Before I can question him further, the elevator dings.
Three servers bustle out, dressed in suits and carrying trays of domed platters. I stand, and Trace joins me.
“People can come and go,” I whisper, “right into your penthouse?”
“I can lock the elevator with the push of a button.” He moves toward the kitchen. “I hope you like Moroccan cuisine.”
“I do.” Suspicion narrows my gaze. “When did you order food?”
“At the homeless shelter, when you sent me outside.”
The servers leave as quietly and quickly as they arrived, and I recognize one of them from Bissara.
When the elevator shuts, I turn to Trace. “This is the fine dining cuisine you’ll be serving in the new restaurant?”
“Yes. A few samples of the dishes.” He extends an arm toward the platters. “Dig in. You haven’t eaten all day.”
The rich scent of spices permeates the room, an infusion of lemon, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. My mouth waters as we pile our plates with zaalouk, couscous, beef, lamb, anchovy, and unleavened pan-fried bread.
I follow him back to the couch, balancing the heavy dish in my hands. “I think I need a bigger plate.”
“Or a bigger stomach.”
“Oh, no. I’ll eat all of this. Watch and learn.”
I moan and hum throughout the meal without a single decipherable word. Fuck me, it’s good. Better than good. The old Bissara wouldn’t have been able to compete with this.
When the last crumb is scraped from my plate, I lean back and attempt to untangle the knots in my hair. Nothing’s taming this shit without a brush.
“Did you hire a new chef?” I ask.
“I brought in a New York chef to design the cuisine and teach the existing chef how to prepare it.”
“Wow. That’s…really nice of you. I’m sure the Bissara chef was relieved to keep his job.”
“He kept his job because he works for next to nothing. I’m running a business, Danni, and I make decisions based on profit. Not emotion. You’ll do well to remember that.”
“Of course.” I grit my teeth. “I almost thought of you as human for a second. My bad.”
I move to collect the dirty plates, but he beats me to it, stacking them and carrying them to the kitchen. I stay on the couch as he makes a phone call, his timbre too low to make out what he’s saying.
He tilts the mouthpiece away from his chin and catches my gaze from across the room. “You left the prescription in the car. Do you need it brought up?”
“No, it’s not for me.”
Virginia won’t run out of her arthritis pills for a few days. Besides, I need to leave soon. Playing house with Trace Savoy is wreaking havoc on my already confused brain.
“That’ll be all,” he says into the phone, ends the call, and returns to the couch.
“Thanks for dinner.” I stand, tugging on the short hem of my cut-offs. “I’m gonna head out.”
“Stay.” He leans back on the couch, staring up at me.
“Why?”
“Watch a movie with me.”
That’s the last thing I expected him to say. This day just gets weirder and weirder.
“What movie?” I chew the inside of my cheek.
I shouldn’t stay. Any second, something coarse and horrible will vomit from his sexy mouth, and I’ll regret sticking around.
He grabs the remote, and the screen on the wall powers on. “Dirty Dancing.”
My pulse spikes. “Why did you suggest that one?”
“You have the movie poster framed in your bedroom.”
Oh. Duh. “Isn’t it the best movie ever?”
His thumb moves over the remote, his attention on the TV. “I’ve never seen it.”
“No way.” I press a hand against my heart as excitement percolates through my blood. “How in the ever-loving world is that possible?”
“It’s a wonder I’ve made it this far without the experience,” he says dryly.
“No shit.” I trip over his legs in my hurry to climb onto the couch beside him. “Prepare to be blown away.”
And just like that, I’m committed to spending the next hour and forty minutes with Trace Dirty-Dancing-Virgin Savoy.
As he rents the movie, the elevator chimes again. What now?
He hands me the remote and crosses the room to greet whomever steps off the lift. I can’t see around his tall frame, so I crane my neck and lean.
The same three servers sweep through the kitchen, gathering the platters and dirty dishes. But they’re not alone. Someone stands on the other side of Trace. When he shifts, long slender legs come into view. A form-fitting skirt suit encases a curvy body. Dark brown hair falls around slender shoulders. Golden skin glows on a face I’m not thrilled to see.
Marlo Vogt hands him a black gift bag, and as they exchange words too quiet for my ears, her fingers slip around his waist, resting on his hip with familiarity.
My stomach cramps, but I can’t look away. Because I’m a fucking masochist.
In five-inch heels, she’s only an inch or so shorter than him. They look like they belong together. Dressed to the nines. Elegant postures. Perfectly coiffed. Beautiful. I want to gag.
She doesn’t spare me a glance as she returns to the lift with the servers and vanishes from sight.
Trace taps a digital panel on the brick wall. Locking the elevator? Then he joins me on the couch and sets the gift bag on the floor. “Do you want another beer? Mint tea? Coff—?
“Why am I here and not her?” My voice is louder than I intended, drilling, accusing, demanding.
His heated gaze touches my eyes, my throat, and lower, scanning the length of my stiffening body. “I enjoy looking at you.”
I stare at him blankly. He doesn’t want to have sex with me. He thinks I’m messy. But he enjoys looking at me?
“I don’t know what to say to that.” I laugh raggedly, uneasily.
“Don’t say anything.” He starts the movie, and the intro plays to the backdrop of Be My Baby.
He settles in, propping his shiny shoes on the trunk and stretching an arm along the back of the couch behind me. I’m not ready t
o let go of the conversation he just swept under the rug, but I’m drawn to the TV screen compulsively, addictively, absorbed in the movie that defines me.
Scene by scene, I inch toward the edge of the cushion, leaning, bouncing, reciting the words by rote. Yeah, I’m one of those.
Then comes one of my favorites parts, when Baby carries a watermelon and watches Johnny Castle get PG-13 dirty on the dance floor for the first time. I vibrate with the need to jump up and shake my ass through those exact steps.
“You know how to do that?” Trace’s voice shatters my trance.
I startle, twisting to look at him. “What?”
“Can you dance like that?” He nods at the bodies writhing and bumping on the screen.
“Yeah,” I whisper wistfully, turning back to the movie. Boy, can I ever.
Chapter Ten
THREE YEARS AGO
My lungs heave. The muscles in my legs burn, and perspiration clings to my nape. But I can’t stop smiling as Nikolai flings me away, spins me back in, and slams me against his damp chest.
His smile’s as huge as mine, because holy shit, we nailed the routine. In one month, we’re going to rock the St. Louis Microfest, taking the main stage with our modern compilation of Dirty Dancing dance scenes.
The acoustics in my studio thunder with the music and the pound of our feet. He wraps an arm around my hips, the other hanging loosely at his side as he jackhammers against me, the fluid thrusts of his pelvis rivaling that of Patrick Swayze. I arch back, hang my head upside down, and XXX grind with the undulation of his ripped body. Then he snaps me back to his chest.
Now for the hard part. With a determined breath, I propel myself upward, lifting my torso and hips while pushing against him. Midway through the jump, I turn myself into a balanced, steel-stiff form. He takes it from there, leveraging my momentum, lifting me above his head, and locking his elbows.
Whew! Excitement fizzes through me as I plant my knees on his shoulders, grip the folds of my pink skirt, and slap the gauzy material wildly around my waist in rhythm with the music.
The crotch of my leotard writhes inches from his face, but that’s not what this is about. He’s grinning up at me, suspending my weight and mouthing the words to Talk Dirty by Jason Derulo.
Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire Page 11