by Tanya Holmes
Unease ballooned to panic. “Um, it’s late. I’d better go.”
“Not so fast.” He angled around and extended a hand. “May I have this dance, Miz Bradford?”
“What? No.”
“Why not?” He crooked a brow. “You scared?”
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Then prove it.” He moved his body in time with the pounding rhythm. “Dance partnering is one of the truest expressions of trust, and you trust me, right? Or were you just blowing smoke up my ass?”
I tore my eyes from his gyrating pelvis. “No, but—”
“Good. So let’s dance.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Foreplay
SHANNON
____________________________
I’d scarcely opened my mouth to protest again, before he’d hauled me to the dance floor. He took me into his arms with a commanding, yet gentle tug.
Though he towered over me and several inches separated his naked chest from my chin, the heat radiating from his body hit me on full blast. He smelled of soap, male intensity, and a dangerous unknown.
A shiver sliced through me once he propped my left hand on his bare shoulder. His skin was like raw silk pulled taut over hot steel. Bracing his large palm along my back, he threaded the fingers of the other with my free hand.
“We’ll start with the basics and work our way up,” he said, leaning in to speak. “We’re doing cha-cha first, okay? Left foot side, right foot back. Got it?”
I gave a stilted nod as he began.
“No, not with your heel. Step with the ball of your foot,” he said. “Yeah, like that. And one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—three—loosen those hips. Stop slouching and hold the frame. Head up. Shoulders back. Outstanding.” Less than a minute into it, he did an underarm turn. “Good. Two—three—cha-cha—ouch.”
“S-sorry.”
He squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Remember, you’re the plane, but I’m the pilot. Stop steering and let me lead. When we’re out here, your body belongs to me.” His confident gaze captured mine. “This is about trust, okay?”
I nodded, trying to ignore my pounding heart. Trust wasn’t an issue when I was young and naïve, but now? To surrender control, even for something as trivial as a dance, was against my nature. Yet if I wanted to gain his trust, I had to give mine unreservedly. So I yielded, surrendering to him little by little, and once he’d taken full control, the change was extraordinary.
We began to move as one.
Where he led, I followed, easily reading his body language—be it a look, the angle of his shoulders, or the pressure of his touch. All these and many other nonverbal prompts conveyed where and how he wanted me. And every time I pleased him, he’d flash a grin that transformed his face. His smiles were so rare that when he gave them, the contrast was stunning.
“You up for a swivel?” he asked after a couple minutes.
A smile preceded my nod.
“Okay, and one—two—three—cha-cha—one—two—uh-huh, that’s it. Now, swivel, swivel, swivel. God, that’s sexy!” He whirled me around. “Let’s try the quarter-turn, chasse, and—oh, hot damn. You got it! See, it’s like riding a bike.”
I threw my head back and laughed. “I can’t believe I still remember this stuff.”
“I can.” Trace winked, then spun me out and tugged me back. “You always were a quick study.”
He maneuvered me into a crossover break and another spin once the end of the song neared. On the fourth pass, the music shifted to Marc Anthony’s “I Need To Know,” but Trace sustained the rotation, transitioning me to salsa so seamlessly, I didn’t miss a step. By now, I’d become an extension of his body, and oh, what a body it was. Absent a shirt, his hard muscles were on full display, rippling beneath his golden skin. I’d never seen anything more beautiful than the way he moved. He controlled himself, and me, with breathtaking ease.
We were both slick with sweat when “I Need To Know” melted into Jennifer Connelly’s evocative version of “Sway,” but I wasn’t the least bit tired. The song had a slower pace and a mesmerizing rhythm that seduced me like the Lorelei of old.
Trace did a cross body lead, spun me three more times, only to stop on a dime and dip me so low, my ponytail nearly touched the floor. He hung over me, our bodies fused together, our eyes never losing contact. His breath mingled with mine and sweat bonded our skin, giving rise to a slow burning ache within me that grew hotter by the second.
Just when I thought I’d catch fire, he drew me back up, then sank to his knees and dragged his fingers down my ribcage. I raised my arms and writhed above him while he gripped my hips, moving them from side to side.
His bewitching touch, the sexy way he danced, and the flame that ignited whenever our eyes met, all chipped away at my inhibitions.
The instant the music shifted to a melodic Josh Groban ballad, Trace rose like a coiled snake charmed from its nest. He whipped me around, gave me a sharp tug, and pressed the thickness beneath the metal teeth of his fly into my back. Even as my brain screamed at me to pull away, I’d laced the fingers of one hand with his and melted against his body. I was lost in the moment, lost in his touch, totally lost in him.
We weren’t doing salsa anymore. This was something quite different. This was…foreplay. “Yeah, just like that,” he whispered. “Now slow it down and follow my lead.”
His ‘lead’ was hard, long, and pressed firmly against my spine. Even so, I did as I was told, moving just as he moved, until the music wrapped around us so completely nothing but the dance existed. I closed my eyes and surrendered to the heat, to the drums, and to the hard body moving so sensuously against mine.
As we slowly swayed together, Trace unclipped my hair and separated the French braid, so the locks fell freely past my shoulders. He pocketed the barrette, brushed my hair aside, and snagged a leisurely whiff of my neck.
“You know,” he murmured in a husky rumble, “twelve years of bunking with animals makes a man appreciate a woman’s scent. And I love yours.” He filled his nose again. “That perfume. It’s Poison, right?”
How could he possibly know? “Yes,” I managed, trying to breathe past the elephant on my chest.
“Well,” he said, “you’d think the name alone would ward me off, but as you can see, I’m not going anywhere.” He drew me closer, shooting ripples through my body. His boldness both frightened and thrilled me. “By the way, ever heard this song?”
I wet my lips. “N-no, but I recognize the singer.”
“It’s called ‘My Confession.’” He paused. “I’ve got one. Wanna hear it?”
I shook my head hard, dreading where his ‘confession’ might lead.
“Aw, come on now. You’re braver than that.” There was a smile in his voice, but the underlying edge of masculine intent couldn’t be missed. “Remember when you accused me of stuffing folks into boxes? Well, you were right. Only problem is, the box thing doesn’t work all the time.” He turned me to face him, one hand gripping my hip, while the other forced me to meet his fiery stare. “You see, some stuff just won’t fit anymore.”
I wet my lips again. “I don’t understand.”
“You will.”
My breath shuttered when he slipped a possessive hand past my hip to palm the top of my derrière. In his silence, he dared me to object, to stop him, but I couldn’t. He’d burned all my defenses away.
“See, I shove lots of people in that box,” he said. “Just so I don’t have to think about them.” He ran a fingertip along my spine, giving me goose bumps. “Wanna guess where you are?”
My heart climbed my throat. “In the box?”
“Used to be.”
I frowned in confusion. “But—”
“Shhh.” He brushed a thumb over my lips. “You got too big for it.”
At his admission, I stopped moving altogether. My body froze, but my heart was beating double-time.
He stared, unblinking, the weight of his gaze pinning me in place
. “Here’s the thing. I see you sometimes and it’s-it’s like my brain objects, but my body has other ideas. Try as I might, I can’t stay away. And you….” He paused to half-smile. “Can’t seem to stay away from me either.”
My head shook, but the denial was as hollow as a straw. The frightening truth kicked my pulse into overdrive.
“Here’s another confession.” This he whispered in my ear. “Those weeks we spent together, when I taught you to dance? I wanted you. Hell, even before then.”
I gasped in surprise.
“Yeah, I know. Big shocker.” A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, then he sighed and his warm breath stroked my cheek. “I acted like I did ‘cause I had to. I knew how you felt about me, but we—I couldn’t.” His beguiling fingers continued to blaze a path up and down my spine. “Back then, the four years between us were like dog years, but now—”
“Trace.” I slammed my lids shut as a fierce longing coiled so tight within me, I ached, but the renegade feelings frightened me. So much so, my eyes began to well. “Please.”
“Naw, this needs sayin’.” He inched back, his eyes issuing a challenge. “Admit it. You feel it just like I do.”
Oh, God, he was right. Panic spilled into me like sand through an hourglass. I shot a fleeting look at the exit. Blessed Mother, just give me the strength to leave, I prayed. Yet he’d already brushed the chiffon at my neck aside to expose my shoulder, and my hands, seemingly of their own volition, had latched onto him, pulling him close as he sucked the skin there, nursing on it. He was marking me.
A battle raged between my mind and body. His wicked touch made my breasts ache and my panties were completely drenched. Yet fear of the inevitable had my heart beating like a snare drum. If I stayed a moment longer, God only knew where this would lead, but I was powerless to resist him.
The best I could do was to plead for mercy.
“Trace.” A tear rushed down my cheek. I drew a ragged breath. “Please…let me go.”
He lifted his head, casting a worried look at the tear dangling from my chin. Capturing it with his hand, he rubbed the wetness between his fingers and slowly took one step, then two steps back, his eyes fixed on mine.
It was all the space I needed—just a second to breathe, to escape the spell he’d cast. I wasted no time tearing away. Grabbing my purse and coat, I beat a path to the exit. I was halfway out the door when he called after me.
“We’re still on for tomorrow, Shannon.” His voice was thick with promise and determination. “Five o’clock sharp. Don’t keep me waiting.”
SHANNON
____________________________
“What time is it over there?” Darien asked.
I switched the cell to my other ear. “Midnight.”
“Why are you calling so late?”
Guilt knifed me in the chest as I climbed Briar’s porch steps on unsteady legs. “Ah….” I stumbled, gripped the rail. “I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Everything all right?”
Far from it. The sky was falling. I reached the top step and sifted through my keys with clumsy hands. “Everything’s fine,” I lied, my eyes welling again as chatter bled through the phone. Someone called his name. “Where are you?”
“In our war room at the hotel,” he said distractedly. “We’ll probably have to pull an all-nighter. Kidd showed up drunk in court and Henderson’s angling to toss a surprise witness at us, so we’re trying to get a jump on—give me a second, will you?” he shouted to someone, then to me he said, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I guess I just miss you.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Can you come home this weekend?”
He sighed. “You know I can’t. I’m up to my elbows here.”
“What if I fly out there?” I knuckled a tear away and stared up at the glistening stars. My hands were still trembling. “I’ll clear my schedule and—”
“You’d be sitting alone in a hotel room the entire time. Now what kind of visit would that be? I promise things will slow down in a few weeks.”
He’d spouted the same drivel after I’d dropped him off at the airport the day Trace stormed back into my life. It was the last time I’d seen Darien, and the visit had lasted forty-eight hours.
Having suffered his first major defeat in the courtroom a year-and-a-half ago, I suspected he had much to prove, namely to himself. Darien Montgomery wasn’t used to losing—at anything. Small wonder, this latest case had consumed him, which left little time for much else, including me. So when he ended our call a minute later, I was beyond frustrated.
Things only got worse the second I walked into the house.
I slammed the front door. “Why are you still here?”
“Take a wild guess.” Mead stood glowering by the foot of the winding staircase clutching a Scotch. “So did you fuck him?”
Rolling my eyes, I stalked across the foyer. I was in no mood to deal with a drunk and belligerent Mead. The man was barely tolerable sober.
“Should I take your silence as a yes?” He gave me a once-over as I yanked my coat off. “My, my, just look at you. Your hair. Your clothes. What’s the saying? ‘Rode hard and put up wet.’ The apple really doesn’t fall far.”
I threw my keys on a table and went for the stairs, but he blocked me. The temptation to slap him again was overwhelming. “Move.”
“Not until you explain yourself.” When I stepped around him, he snatched me back. “You’ll never guess who I heard from tonight.”
“Let. Go,” I said, glaring at his hand.
“Betty Todd. She’s the county purchasing director. But you already know that. She said you called her today asking about Fontana’s permit delays. She said you mentioned her brother’s deal with some developers from New Orleans. She said you implied your clients could go with another location—if prompted.”
I quirked a brow. “That sounds about right.”
“I’m warning you, cousin. Don’t cross me.”
Not up for more of his pathetic threats, I wrenched my arm free. “The same applies to you, cousin.”
His lips slid into a spiteful grin. “And here I thought that slap you gave me was a fluke. But maybe you do have a spine.” He feigned a shudder. “Ooooh. Should I be scared?”
“Will you please go sleep it off? Gerard can take you home.”
“I don’t need that insipid fag to drive me anywhere.”
I noted the bags under his eyes. Something more was going on, but I was too emotionally drained to figure it out. “Look,” I said with a heavy sigh, “if you think I’ll stand by while you and Uncle abuse power, you’re mistaken. Trace doesn’t have the money or the influence to fight you. Cholly does, but he refuses to stoop to your level. But as you can see, I have no problem with it. Now get out of my way before you piss me off.”
He didn’t budge, just knocked back another belt, his angry eyes drilling into mine. “Dawson’s dick must really be good.”
I made a fist to keep from clawing his face. Only Mead could drive me to such violence. “I’ll tell you what I told Uncle. Leave Trace and Cholly alone.”
“And if I don’t?”
I flashed an icy smile. “Erica Davies will get a tip. Namely, that the mayor and his cronies are a bunch of bigots.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Cholly’s mother is black and his father is Italian.”
Mead’s blue eyes hardened to ice chips. “I’m not a racist and you know it!”
“But will the voters?” His face boiled a bright shade of red as I added with restrained glee, “I’ll also tell them you’re a serial adulterer, a raging alcoholic, and that you’ve stirred up so much hate, your supporters are terrorizing innocent people—oh, and let’s not forget desecrating an old woman’s grave.”
“You lying, scheming, manipulative little—”
“Yes, growing up Bradford taught me much.” I narrowed my eyes on him. “Call off your dogs or kiss the governor’s mansion goodbye. Cross me on this and
I’ll bury you.” I started up the stairs, leaving him with his mouth hanging open. “Now go wait for Gerard. You’re in no condition to drive.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A Slip Of The Tongue
TRACE
____________________________
Damn, I’d missed this place.
I leaned back in my chair and scanned the dive from end to end. Twelve years had passed since I’d seen Rascal’s and nothing had changed. Temptation’s premiere hole-in-the-wall was still rowdy as hell and still reeked of cigarettes, grease, and sour beer. The decor looked the same too, from the slew of photos that chronicled the owner’s bush-league boxing career, to the scarred entryway floor that creaked in the winter.
Rascal’s would forever be a haven for outcasts, old rummies, and the socially challenged. The most important rule was to mind your own damn business. That meant you don’t ask questions and you don’t judge. Like Vegas, whatever happened here stayed here. It was the old honor among drunks sort of thing, the perfect hideaway for a man on parole.
I picked at the label on my beer as a toothless old coot with a pink face and matching eyes staggered to the jukebox. The bum mined a quarter from his jeans, dropped the coin into the slot.
Next came the loud, nasal twang of a cowboy whining about the girl that got away. But then, weren’t all these stupid songs about the same thing?
And this one was almost comical. Seemed the ‘girl’ had stabbed the cowboy, shot his dog, slashed his tires, and torched his doublewide. But the pussy-whipped fool still begged her to come back.
My house ain’t the only thang burnin’ for you, he crooned.
What a dumb ass.
“They didn’t have Herradura. Just Cuervo.”
The familiar voice tore into my thoughts. Dressed in a wrinkled tie and a cheap suit, Icky stood over me and set two shots of tequila and two long necks on the table.
“I’ll be right back,” Icky said. “My fries are up.”
I had, to use Shannon’s terminology, offered Icky an ‘olive branch.’ Given yesterday’s events at the graveyard, I figured it was time to clean house.