by Kendra Leigh
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I’d taken it for granted that you were available. Foolish.” He nodded toward Ethan and Natasha. “Which means I got that all wrong too.”
I narrowed my eyes in confusion.
“I assumed they were the couple. They always look so… familiar.” He shrugged. “My mistake.”
The caustic comment was like a stinging blow to the face, adding fuel to what was, until now, a slow burning but manageable jealousy. Although Ethan’s fingers were still tightly clinched around my knee, a quick glance told me his attention was still firmly on Natasha.
Forcing my mouth into a smile, I turned back to Sloane. “They’ve known each other for years,” I explained as convincingly as I could. “Their fathers are very close.” I leaned in closer to Dominic Sloane, lowering my chin to gaze up through my dense lashes. “So, Dom.” I put emphasis on the shortening of his name. “Are you single or has the woman of your dreams already swooped down and snapped you up?”
Sloane grinned wickedly, his eyes dropping to my lips. “I’m still waiting. Something tells me it won’t be long now, though.”
I smiled back through gritted teeth, attempting to mask the shudder that was slowly creeping up my back. Sloane’s intimation was strong enough to cause aversion, but nowhere near as intense as the anger I felt about the cozy chat going on to my left.
For the next ten minutes, I charmed the pants off Dominic Sloane—figuratively of course—being cautious enough to avoid being misconstrued entirely, but sufficiently flirty to annoy Ethan. I earned myself a few sharp tugs of my knee, predominantly when I forced a giggle, but I didn’t turn to catch the disapproving glances I knew were being cast my way.
At some point, Damon and Valiente joined our conversation, and it soon became evident, through his roaring laughter and pink, glazed eyes, that the copious amounts of alcohol Valiente had consumed were having a mirthful effect.
“Can you dance, Angel?” He leaned across the table toward me, the fumes from his alcohol-laden breath almost noxious. “You look as if you can dance. You have a wo-o-o-onderfull physique, a lithe and nimble, splendid creature.”
“Oh, she can dance, I can vouch for that,” Damon intervened before I could answer, grinning playfully at me across the table.
“A club, then,” Valiente boomed with gusto. “I want to see Angel dance.”
Oh Christ, I’d had more than my fair share to drink and my shoes were already crippling me. The last thing I felt like doing was dancing.
“What about you, Natasha? Are you a dancer?” Valiente’s sudden roaring voice had Natasha practically running out of her skin for cover.
“Dance?” Her skin flushed a mottled pink. “God, no. I’m afraid I have two left feet.”
Ethan laughed. “I think it’s getting rather late anyway, perhaps another time, Raymon.”
“Nonsense,” I chimed in quickly, my mind made up by Natasha’s foolish confession. “The night is young, is it not, Raymon? A club is a wonderful idea.” I beamed a pearly white smile at a thrilled Raymon Valiente, my brows curving upwards with inflated elation. “How about Salsa?” I made a meal of the S, prolonging the sibilant sound of the word.
“Salsa?” The stunned voices of Ethan, Valiente, and Sloane rang out in unison while Damon broke into a wicked grin, his eyes narrowing on me knowingly.
I was a very naughty girl.
Chapter Seven
“You have got to be fucking joking,” Ethan hissed into my ear with increased irritation as he gaped at the no-frills front entrance of what, in my opinion, was the best kept secret in New York City.
It was an underground Salsa club situated on West 39th Street, near Bryant Park. It had been one of mine and Jia’s favorite nights out in years gone by, but I hadn’t been in—I couldn’t remember how long.
The place was austere, at best, offering little in the way of extravagances or embellishments, but under the guise of lackluster simplicity lay a place filled with energy and music, and an impetus which compelled you to dance. A place that was able to revel in the luxury of nothing but its atmosphere. It brought me alive in a distinctive but intangible way, and I absolutely adored it.
I glanced around the group—the ones brave enough to tag along. Most of the guys from VS had made their excuses, leaving just Valiente, Sloane, and their lawyer—a guy named Ben. Natasha had of course joined us, her expression as she stood on the sidewalk, a blend of distaste and dread. She absolutely hated it.
“You might want to lose this,” I said, tugging the loose end of Ethan’s tie. Although the club had no dress code, it got extremely warm inside, and when you were down in that basement comfort was key.
Ethan threw me a dubious look and removed his tie and jacket, throwing them into the SUV before sending Jackson off into the night. The other men followed suit, striping off their ties and placing them in their jacket pockets.
“So, what the hell are we waiting for?” Valiente bellowed drunkenly.
Just then thunder rumbled through the sky and the first drops of rain began to fall.
Ethan grumbled, glancing at the steadily increasing queue outside the door. “Christ, could this night get any worse?”
I laughed out loud. “Come on.” Bypassing the crowd, I made my way to the front, praying that I knew the guys on the door before the heavens really opened. For once, I was in luck, Victor and Xav recognized me instantly, and after an enthusiastic welcome—much to Ethan’s dismay and amazement—allowed us all to enter.
We paid the entry fee and made our way through the corridor and down a flight of steps, the classic Salsa music growing louder with each step. As we entered the huge basement, we halted to take in our surroundings. At one end of the vast space was a bar, and opposite that, a stage quite often used for live bands. Tonight there was a DJ set up just to the front, facing the dance floor and playing some of my favorite tunes, mixing a little Mambo in with the Salsa.
The floor was brimming with writhing bodies, people from every cultural origin imaginable, all of them with one thing in common as they gyrated wildly to the distinctive, rhythmic patterns of the Latin music. The dancers’ abilities ranged from those just out to have fun to some of the best Salsa movers around. Many of the women were scantily clad in barely-there tops and skimpy shorts and skirts, rotating their pelvises and thrusting their hips. Everything about the mood of the place, from the music and the dancing, to the people and their clothes, was wholly suggestive of sex.
Ethan shifted beside me, and I knew instantly he was affected. I tilted my chin, glancing surreptitiously sideways at his marvelous frame. He’d begun to capture the beat of the music, his muscles flexing and eyes darkening as the power of Salsa settled inside his soul. I wanted to pounce on him, drag him to the dance floor and grind myself provocatively against him, but the sight of Natasha huddling closely to his side urged me to refrain.
Instead, I turned to Damon, his face alight with excitement, his feet already moving to the sexy, pulsating rhythm. Gripping his hand, I tugged him in the direction of the dance floor. He shrugged on a laugh and followed willingly, leaving Ethan behind looking furious, next to a completely bewildered Natasha.
As we pushed through the crowd to join the dancers, I noticed Ethan move around the edge to keep me in sight, the rest of the party following until they found a vacant booth with a view of the dance floor. Valiente grabbed the nearest amenable female and pulled her on to the floor to join us while Sloane sloped off in the direction of the bar.
Damon was a natural, taking my hands in a classic Salsa stance, our palms together, fingers hooked, his arms tense and powerful as they pushed me away and pulled me back toward him. Soon he was turning me, his front to my back, hands on my hips, pushing and pulling as he rotated them in time to the music. From my position, I could see Ethan clearly, his fuming eyes burning a hole in us both. I knew I would pay for this later, and the idea of punitive spankings had me squirming in delicious anticipation. The alcohol fuse
d with my intense jealousy and that, combined with the desirous effects of the music and dancing, was making me feel enormously sexy.
“Jesus, girl, you can dance,” Damon shouted above the beat of the music. Ignoring Ethan, I turned into him, draping an arm over his shoulder and swaying in time with his step. “You two are as bad as each other.” He shook his head admonishingly.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. You’ve been winding each other up all evening.”
I scowled. “I’m just responding to his behavior. I don’t know even know why he asked me to come tonight. It’s not as if he even noticed I was here.”
“Are you kidding? He knows every move you’ve made and every word you’ve said, count on it. Look at the poor guy. He’s beside himself. I’m his brother, but right now, he even wants to kill me.”
“Yeah? Well, I know how that feels, wanting to kill someone.” I glared hatefully toward Natasha who was yanking on Ethan’s arm, vying for his attention.
“Natasha?” Damon countered in surprise. “Nah, what on Earth gave you that idea?”
“Sloane,” I began, just as Ethan started making his way toward us. I didn’t want a showdown on the dance floor, so I dodged quickly out of Damon’s hold. “I need the bathroom, would you mind getting me some water?”
“Sure,” Damon answered as I darted off in the direction of the restrooms with Ethan hot on my tail.
Once safely inside a stall I took my time, regaining my breath and trying to cool down. There was every chance Ethan would be loitering outside for me when I emerged, but he could wait. I was pissed as hell that he’d practically ignored me tonight, and despite Damon seeming unconvinced that it was to do with Natasha, Sloane’s earlier comment was still bubbling with venom inside me. When I finally left the stall, I wandered over to the washbasins, the mirrors above reflecting my pink, flushed cheeks and the sweat glistening on my neck and chest from the exertion of dancing. I ran my hands under the cold water and pressed them to my neck, allowing the cooling effect to trickle down my skin beneath my blouse. I was too damn warm.
Although my skirt wasn’t in the least bit long, and my blouse was sheer, I still had more clothes on than anybody else in the restroom. I took a step back and assessed myself in the mirror, my fingers moving instinctively to free the hem of my blouse from the skirt. Then unfastening the bottom three buttons, I tied it in a knot just below the valley of my breasts to expose my midriff. I pulled my skirt further down onto my hips, revealing even more flesh. If I was out to annoy the hell out of Ethan, I might as well go the whole enchilada. A thought occurred to me, and smiling slyly at my reflection, I disappeared back into the cubicle, reemerging a few seconds later and heading for the exit.
As predicted, Ethan was leaning with one foot against the wall, his arms folded across his chest in a brooding silence as he waited for me to come out. His eyes clocked me and instantly turned a raging black.
“What the fuck are you playing at, Angel? You’re not going back out there like that.” He made a grab for my arm as I tried to rush past him in a petulant strop, catching me by the elbow.
“The hell I’m not. It’s hot and I want to dance. You go back to Natasha. I’m surprised you’ve managed to pry her away from your side long enough to notice what I’m doing anyway.”
“Fuck, is this you being jealous again?”
I nodded once toward his hand on my arm. “Is this you being jealous again?”
“Your damn fucking right it is, Angelica. You’re mine, remember? I won’t allow anyone to letch over my fucking woman.”
I snatched my arm away. “Like I said, I want to dance and it’s hot. Look after these for me, will you…” I thrust something into his hand “…I left my purse with Jackson.” I almost ran back inside, heading straight for the dance floor and leaving Ethan open-mouthed with my panties in his hand.
The second I hit the dance floor, I began to move, but became instantly aware of somebody behind me. Before I could turn, the person was pressing up against my back, their hands gripping my hips, moving them backwards and forwards in a rotating motion. It was an intimate closeness, not like the fun way I’d danced with Damon, but somehow more suggestive. Too suggestive.
Pulling away instantly, I swiveled to face Dominic Sloane. He reached out for my hip again, so I sashayed backwards, changing my rhythm to create some distance.
“Damon was right, you can dance.” Sloane’s gaze slithered up and down my body, as if greedily storing it to memory, and instantly I regretted removing my panties, feeling uncomfortably exposed.
The music slowed to a more relaxed, even sexier rhythm, and he took my hand and pulled me closer. I glanced over to the table where our party had settled in search of Ethan, but he wasn’t there. A sulky, abandoned-looking Natasha was sitting across from the VS lawyer, Ben, neither of them speaking. She was staring longingly ahead and following her gaze, I found Ethan standing at the edge of the dance floor, his murderous glare aimed right at me. His hands were on his hips, his jaw bunching furiously while Damon stood at his shoulder talking into his ear, his hand on Ethan’s straining bicep, as if attempting to calm him or contain him.
Oh shit! I wasn’t comfortable here on the dance floor with Dominic Sloane. I wanted to hightail it back to Ethan. But from the look on his face, I didn’t fancy my chances of surviving his certain wrath.
“So, I hope my email didn’t put you off,” Sloane said, attempting to recapture my waning attention. “I expect you think I’m a little eccentric? But if it makes you feel better, I am aware that my requirements deviate from what is considered… customary.”
“A little,” I admitted, trying to keep in step and watch Ethan at the same time.
“I’ve been an avid collector of various forms of art for as long as I can remember,” he paused, turning me so that I could no longer gain a clear view of Ethan. “But none have captivated me so completely in the way yours have.”
I was stunned that someone could feel so passionately about my work, and while it bordered on a little freaky—being beyond what was a conventional appreciation—I also, maybe foolishly, found it very flattering.
“Have you always unburdened yourself through your work?” he asked suddenly.
My face fell. This was the second time he’d implied that I used my work as some sort of tool to cleanse my mind. “What makes you think that’s what I’m doing?” I responded tersely.
“Because when I look at your work, I can see your pain.”
My body went rigid under his unwelcomed scrutiny and suddenly, something occurred to me. He spoke about my work like he was some kind of expert on it, but I couldn’t fathom out how that could be. “Tell me, Mr. Sloane, apart from the images I showed you in our meeting the other day, which pieces of my work are you familiar with?”
“Everything from your last exhibit.”
“You bought something from my last exhibit?” He was talking about the series I’d entitled Broken. An exhibit which I’d altered at the last minute, because I was… broken.
He shook his head. “I bought everything from your last exhibit.”
Jesus Christ, this guy went way past conventional appreciation; this was bordering on obsession. My mind flicked back to his email and to the emotions to disregard because he’d already taken care of them. He’d taken care of them with the acquisition of my entire exhibition. Oh, there was a whole load of doom and gloom in that crazy lot. I halted, suddenly eager to be out of his hold, and as if sensing my circumspection, he gripped my hands tighter.
“Would you explain something to me, Angel?” He spoke hurriedly, like he was afraid of a lost opportunity. “Something I’ve been wondering about since our meeting the other day.”
“What?” I snapped almost angrily.
“I think I interpret your images pretty well. I believe I see the same emotions you felt when you took them. But the shoes—I don’t get the red shoes. What do they mean?”
I was struck spe
echless, momentarily blindsided by this man, this interloper, I barely knew. What the hell led him to believe it was okay for him to rummage around in my private thoughts, to trespass into the recesses of my mind that even I’d not dared to plunder? I bit my lip, grappling with my memory to recall if the contract between VS and Wilde Industries had been signed yet. Did I need to be gracious or could I tell him to fuck off without fear of reprisal?
Before I had time to deliberate conclusively, I was grasped around my waist and tugged backwards into strong, familiar arms. Ethan—my savior. I went willingly, the relief of his touch an encompassing bubble as he enfolded my upper body, almost aggressively staking his claim. His face turned into my hair, his nose and cheek stroking their way up my neck, my ear, my face, as if he were marking me with his wonderful scent.
“I’ll take over from here, Sloane. You took back what was rightfully yours today. Now I’m taking what’s mine.” Although I couldn’t see his face, the tone of his voice was an unmistakable warning to back off.
Sloane narrowed his eyes, as if momentarily contemplating whether to retaliate, but then with a curt nod, he turned on his heel and walked away.
Ethan began to move in time to the beat of the music, his front still pressed up against my back. His hands moved, crossing across my lower abdomen and coming to rest at the tops of my thighs just in front of my hips. I could feel his breath on my neck and my ear, his lips trailing gently over my heated skin as his hands applied pressure, pushing my ass back against his very evident and very firm erection.
I gasped audibly as my body reacted instantly, the power of Salsa and the even more potent, efficacious demands of Ethan Wilde sending me into a hot, whirling mass of sexual desire.
We moved in sync, the assertive force of Ethan’s thighs persuading my feet to move forwards, the pressure of his palms on my thighs urging me backwards. Our hips rotated in heavenly circles, his hardness pressing provocatively into the crevice of my butt as I ground against him shamelessly.