One is a Promise

by Pam Godwin

  “Danni.” Trace growls.

  “Don’t worry about him,” I say to James, leaning back. “You’re not fired.”

  “Mr. Savoy? Sir?” He drops his chin, practically bowing. “I need this job. I didn’t mean any harm.”

  Trace clasps his hands behind him, his glower firmly directed at James. “You harassed a casino employee—”

  “A casino guest.” I cross my legs at the knee and bounce my foot. “I harassed him. The poor guy didn’t stand a chance.”

  “That’s not what I overheard.”

  “Sounds like a you problem. Get your hearing checked.”

  “I have zero tolerance for this kind of behavior in my casino.” His voice is steady and controlled as it snaps through the room.

  “So authoritative and manly.” I feign a shiver and blink doe eyes at him. “Being the weak vulnerable female that I am, I would’ve never been able to handle this conversation on my own.”

  A muscle ticks in his jaw. Maybe he’ll grab at his hair and mess it all up. As is, every blond strand flawlessly molds into a textured slick-back style. But he doesn’t scrape a hand through it, doesn’t clench his fists, or do anything to suggest an unraveling composure. I can’t decide if his indomitable self-control is sexy or aggravating.

  “James.” I prop an elbow on my thigh and rest my hand beneath my chin. “Will you hit on casino guests in the future?”

  “No.” James looks from me to Trace. “I promise, sir.”

  Trace points his scowl at me, and I give him a playful wink.

  “Consider this your only warning.” He stabs a finger toward the door. “Get back to your station.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” James races out of the restaurant like hell’s breathing up his ass.

  Reclining back with my arms braced on the stage behind me, I meet Trace’s stony stare. “Waiting for someone?”

  His nostrils widen and relax as he glances at his watch. “She’s fifty-three minutes late.”

  “She sounds important. Especially if she dragged his lordliness out of his royal tower to consort with the commoners.”

  “She’s a royal pain in my ass. I’m rethinking the job I offered her.”

  “Rock on. She wasn’t going to accept it anyway.”

  His eyes narrow. “Then why are you here?”

  I squint right back. “How did you know I was here?”

  He huffs a sharp sound and flicks a finger at the ceiling.

  Elaborate glass fixtures of every color create a mosaic design overhead. A closer look reveals tiny black globes amid the art work. Cameras. Of course.

  “You were spying on me? I could have you arrested for stalking.” I arch a brow. “And trespassing in my house. Any other crimes I should be aware of?”

  “Cut the shit, Danni.”

  “Oh, Trace. I wouldn’t shit you. We’re just getting to know each other.”

  “Yeah?” He strokes his bottom lip, tempting me to kiss it. “I heard how you get to know men.”

  “Anal play?”

  His frown jerks, as if an invisible finger yanks it up at the corner.

  “You smiled!” I feign a gasp, pointing at his mouth. “Did it hurt?”

  He grunts.

  Maybe I can coax another one. “Do you fancy a thirteen-inch dildo, Mr. Savoy?”

  He glances at the empty doorway and composes his expression into that of an imperious casino boss. “I see you found the stage. Is it adequate for your routine?”

  Ugh. So stiff. I’d love to see him loosen up. I bet it’s glorious.

  “Depends.” I swing my legs around and stand at the center of the platform. “Still rethinking that job offer?”

  His gaze latches onto my mouth before it makes a slow descent along my neck, tracing the shape of my breasts, my hips, and the apex of my thighs. My entire body reacts, igniting deep within my core and spreading outward to inflame my skin. My nipples tighten. My pulse kicks up, and a throbbing ache flares between my legs.

  Jesus, this man is potent. All he has to do is stand there in his tailored suit and transmit displeasure like it’s foreplay. His sculpted lips part naturally, forming an enticing fracture in that scowl, which is framed by a jawline carved in right angles. So commanding. Masculine. Way too hot for a stuffed shirt.

  He hasn’t moved his focus from the vicinity of my crotch, so I snap my fingers in his line of sight.

  Those stark blue eyes jump to my face, and there’s something glowing in the depths. Something needy and compulsive and…resentful.

  “You don’t like me very much, do you?” I anchor my fists on my hips.

  “That’s negligible.” He paces around the stage, hands folded behind him. “Let’s go to my office so you can sign the contract and—”

  “I don’t think so, Scoot McGoot.” I stretch my arms out, encompassing the 360-degree panorama of crowded casino tables and one-armed bandits. “I hate to break it to you, because this really is a great stage, but no one out there cares about a dancer in a restaurant. Doesn’t matter how much you pay me.”

  His pacing veers toward the bar, where he bends behind the steel counter, vanishing from view.

  Before I can ask what he’s doing, a column of soft light envelopes me from head to toe. The source shines from beneath my feet, and as I step forward, the light follows me, effectively encasing me in a glowing tube.

  “So cool.” I bounce from side to side, captivated by the accuracy of the motion sensor.

  He messes with something on the back wall, and a sultry, fast-tempo pop song streams from hidden speakers. I recognize it immediately. The deep vocals of the Haitian rapper. The stately resonance of brass instruments. The vibrating clap-clap-clap of percussion. The high-energy composition of Hips Don't Lie by Shakira. It’s a song I practice to often, and my body twitches to ride the rhythm.

  “Dance.” Trace stalks toward the stage and stares up at me. “Please.”

  Saturated in the beam of light beneath my toes, I tremble with excitement. His please isn’t the only reason I pull off my shirt, but it’s a powerful incentive. I doubt he uses that word often, and standing before him in a sports bra and low-waist jeans, I’m happy to oblige.

  The music thumps through me, setting the pace of my breaths. My arms move first, lifting sensuously, flowing like a lazy wave from one hand to the other and taking my shoulders with them. I hold my hips still, concentrating all movement above my chest. Making him wait for it.

  The way he stares up at me… Sweet hell, it says everything he doesn’t. Grave and serious, his blue eyes devour my body with naked interest, as if I’m beautiful, as if he desperately wants to touch me, grab me, fuck me.

  Buttoned up and crisply starched, his suit molds to the muscled form of his body, as if challenging me to stare. To want. To conjure images of my hands stripping every immaculate layer.

  The volume grows louder, and I engage my abdominal wall, undulating the muscles in a rippling shiver. His thick shoulders lift with an intake of air, a breath he holds for several counts before releasing, relaxing, and inhaling again.

  I affect him—my body, my art, my command of both. It gives me a sense of power over him. Not that I intend to see him again, but for one night, in an empty restaurant, it’s invigorating.

  When the song reaches a staccato rhythm, I punctuate the beats with vertical hip drops, outward hip hits, shoulder accents, and ribcage lifts. The fluid motion of my body aligns with the instruments, pulling me into a state of hypnosis that carries me across the platform, floating on a column of light and curving my lips from corner to corner.

  I smile because I appreciate the sensual gestures, the mellifluous lines and bends of my frame. I smile because as Trace watches me, his eyes glow at max voltage, electrocuting the short distance between us.

  Leaning toward him, I shimmy what little I have on my chest and meet his gaze. Bending deeper, I hang my head and roll my shoulders in a dance of their own, caught in the music, held by the moment.

  Ups
ide down, my hair sweeps the floor, arms hanging beside my face as my deltoids, lats, and traps contract and bounce in a textured choreography of muscle.

  Slowly, I rise, raising my arms above my head and rolling my hips in infinity loops. As I lower my hands alongside my face, I writhe my fingers in sinuous, seductive waves, tilting my head, gyrating my pelvis, and making his jaw dip lower, lower…

  He snaps his mouth shut, his chest rising and the rims of his eyes tightening with tension.

  I know what he sees. I’ve memorized my reflection in the mirror as I sway and rock through the serpentine maneuvers. The shimmies, shivers, and flexibility of my hips. The female form moving in a way that simulates flexibility, promiscuity, and sexual energy. I’m an actress on a stage, eliciting emotion and feeding off the reactions. Or in this case, one reaction.

  I put an extra kick in my hip tilts and laugh as his jaw twitches toward a smile. “You like that?”

  His face instantly cements back into stone, his eyes thunderous.

  The song winds to a close, and I slow my movements, lowering my arms and gazing to the side and at the floor until silence blankets the room. Then I bend in a customary bow and blow him a kiss as I straighten.

  He reaches for the knot of his tie and drops his hand. “Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  His lips clamp together, darkening his expression, as if I committed blasphemy by questioning him.

  Our silent standoff doesn’t last long. I’m too curious to not turn around, and when I do, my breath hitches. “Whoa.”

  Twenty, thirty…maybe fifty people gather on the other side of the glass wall. Most are men, but women congregate, too. And employees. Others linger near the tables farther back, eyes pointed in my direction, watching.

  I wave at the crowd and smile. “Why are they—?”

  “You’re good, Danni.” His timbre comes from somewhere near the bar behind me.

  The light beneath my feet blinks off, veiling me in shadows and signaling the audience to disperse.

  “You really think I’m good, huh?” I hop off the stage and slip my feet into the flip-flops.

  “Not just good. You’re captivating.” Trace strides toward me and grabs my shirt from the floor.

  I reach for his hand, but he yanks it back and proceeds to guide the shirt over my head. The gesture stutters my breath, and when my face emerges through the neck hole, I stare at him with wide eyes.

  Focused on his task, he lifts my arm, then the other, sliding each of my hands slowly, gently, through the sleeves. Letting him do this feels so strangely intimate I’m at a loss for how to respond. It’s such a small thing, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been tended to like this. Too long, apparently, given the swarm of bees diving and whirring in my stomach.

  He straightens the shirt around my hips and drifts closer, his finger trailing oh-so-softly along my jaw. “Watching you dance is an exquisite experience. The freedom in your movements, the pleasure on your face… it evokes feelings that are deeper, hotter”—he bends so close his lips brush my ear—“better than sex.”

  Shuddering warmth curls through me. “You must not be having very good sex.”

  He touches his brow against my temple, his hand sweeping back to trace my spine as his minty breath bathes me in heat. “I imagine sex with you would annihilate every experience a man has ever had.”

  Holy hell, I feel every raspy word like hungry kisses along my neck. “What are you doing, Trace?”

  He steps back and smooths a hand over his tie, his scowl harder, angrier than before. “I want to finish this meeting in my office. The contract—”

  “And just like that, you completely ruin a good moment.” From the back pocket of my jeans, I hand him a folded scrap of paper. “I have a counteroffer.”

  He takes it and strides toward the exit, leaving me standing there with my mouth open.

  What the shit just happened?

  “Wait.” I trail after him. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

  “Yes.”

  I chase him all the way to the elevators. And by chase, I mean sprint, because damn his long legs.

  His unapproachable demeanor allows him move through the casino without being stopped or interrupted with idle conversation. The crowd actually parts to move out of his way.

  He attracts attention from everyone he passes, especially from the women. His towering height and expensive suit are noteworthy, but it’s his arresting looks—the sexy blond hair, sculpted features, broad shoulders—that weaken knees and drop jaws. Alluring and mysterious, he’s an orgasm for the eyes.

  Bypassing the public lifts, he strides down an empty corridor, where another elevator waits. He punches in a passcode, and the doors slide open.

  “Your own personal lift?” I step inside the mirrored box.

  “Yes.” He follows me in with my counteroffer folded in his hand.

  How much longer is this going to drag out? I’m ready for him to read my demands, lose his shit, and send me on my way.

  The panel of buttons only provides access to the 30th floor, 31st floor, and a few underground levels. He presses 30.

  “What’s on the top floor?” I lean against the wall opposite him.

  “My residence.”

  He lives in the hotel? In the penthouse, evidently. How disappointingly prosaic.

  As the elevator shoots upward, he unfolds the paper. His eyes flick over my handwriting, his features stoic and indecipherable. When I’m certain he’s read through all of it, my nerves kick in. He doesn’t look up, doesn’t react at all.

  My preposterous counteroffer demands a salary that rivals that of a tenured surgeon. It also includes other requirements, such as a wardrobe budget, private dressing room, retirement contribution, health care, paid vacation, and free alcohol at the casino bars. The health insurance would be nice since I haven’t had medical coverage since college, but I don’t give a fuck about the rest of it.

  With slow exacting movements, he folds the paper and tucks it into the interior pocket of his suit. Then he rests his hands on the guard rail behind him, crosses one shiny shoe over the other, and meets my eyes.

  His expression is firm, leaning toward unkind, but there’s a hint of deviousness deep in the brackets around his scowl. I can’t decide if he’s going to kiss me or say something hateful.

  It’s curious how he always tilts that strong chin downward, a mannerism that forces him to look up. Since he’s so tall, maybe bowing his head is a matter of practicality. Or maybe it’s deliberate because he knows that upward glare appears darker and more intimidating beneath the brooding mantle of his brow.

  I wish he wasn’t so damn attractive or that I wasn’t so enthralled with his severe personality. Because as I wait for him to push the button that will send me back to the lobby and out of his life, part of me regrets sabotaging this opportunity. I need the job, but more than that, I need someone with his impenetrable resolve in my life. A partner who will challenge me. A man who will stand up to me. A lover who will inspire me out of my celibate funk.

  It’s not that I’m good at reading people. I’m not. But there’s a subtle air about Trace Savoy, one he tries to stifle. On the surface, he’s too cavalier. Too arrogant and apathetic. It’s a facade. Beneath that callous shell lurks an interested, impassioned, sexual man. I’ve glimpsed it in the creases of his expression, in his heated words, and in the caress of his touch on my face. I want more of it. I need to know if there’s something between us, something that could grow and stretch and take flight.

  I search his beautiful face, looking for clues to what he’s thinking and find nothing. “You’re toying with me.”

  “Your counteroffer suggests…” He pushes off the wall and in two strides, he puts his face in mine with his hands on the guard rail behind me. “You are toying with me.”

  He’s deliberately crowding me. My head doesn’t even reach the knot on his tie, so I have to angle my neck way back to meet his gaze. It’s a positio
n meant to make me feel smaller, more vulnerable. Little does he know, he can’t hurt me. I’ve been hurt—a hurt so mortally, inconsolably excruciating there’s nothing left in me to break.

  The elevator dings, and the doors open. He doesn’t move.

  And that glare. That hostile, infuriating, sexy goddamn glare makes my thighs clench and my skin heat.

  “Maybe I am toying with you.” I want to feel the curve of his scowl, so I give into the indulgence and stroke a finger across his full bottom lip. “What are you going to do about it, Mr. Savoy?”

  He flashes me a scathing smile that isn’t a smile at all as it sends chills from my tailbone to my neck. “I’m going to accept your demands.”

  “Accept my demands?” I chase Trace out of the elevator and through the unlit lobby on the 30th floor. “Are you serious?”

  His gait is driven and focused as he passes a small sitting area, swerves around a steel reception desk, and vanishes into a dark corridor.

  I slam to a halt in the empty lobby, reeling from shock and confusion. Should I leave? Instinct urges me to return to the elevator, because no one in their right mind offers a belly dancer that kind of money, let alone all the benefits I outlined. Did he even read the counteroffer?

  Turning toward the window beside a leather couch, I lower onto the cushion and face the glass. In the distance, the St. Louis Arch rises over the banks of the Mississippi River, its curved silver shape like a handle on the twinkling metropolis. Buildings of various heights spread out around it, and among those structures is Gateway Shelter. With its seventy-five beds already occupied, they’ll be turning away homeless people for the rest of the night.

  I can’t stop thinking about that as I stare out the window and analyze my feelings. I donate every extra penny to the shelter, which isn’t much. But if I accept this job, if Trace is serious about meeting my ridiculous salary requirements, my God, I could help the shelter expand, add more beds, healthier food, softer blankets. Oh, the possibilities!

  I’m getting ahead of myself. Trace is up to something, and it can’t be good.

  Would a belly dancer increase the revenue in his casino? Maybe. I saw the crowd gathering downstairs, and that was without my costumes or the fine-dining services he intends to provide.