A budget. I need to be frugal with my finances. I still want to make a few renovations to my building, and pretty soon I’ll be hiring another instructor, who sure as hell ain’t gonna work for free.”
Zhane sniffed. “Too bad. I saw a pair of Jimmy Choo peep-toe pumps that had your name written all over them, honey.”
Tommie whimpered pathetically.
Zhane chuckled. “I know you’re enjoying doing your own thing, sugarplum, but in case the teaching gig doesn’t work out for you, you know Richard would love to have you on board.”
Tommie snorted. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she muttered, thinking of the dance company’s artistic director, who made a point of seeking her out every time she attended one of Zhane’s performances, smiling and gazing at her in a way that made her skin crawl. Tommie was no fool. She knew Richard Houghton was interested in a helluva lot more than her dancing skills.
“What do you have against Dick?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Zhane grinned at his own double entendre. Several other diners, overhearing the question, glanced over at them and snickered.
When Tommie glared at Zhane, he laughed and waved a dismissive hand. “Girl, don’t worry. Nobody’s gonna mistake your fine ass for a fishmonger. As I was saying, I can’t understand why you don’t like Richard. He’s smart, talented, reasonably attractive. His family is loaded, and unlike most of the male dancers I know, he actually likes women. What more could a straight girl ask for?”
Tommie shrugged, nibbling on the strawberry that had topped her waffle. “I’m sure Richard is a decent guy. But he just doesn’t do it for me. To be perfectly honest with you—and I’ll kill you if you repeat this to anyone—he gives me the creeps.”
Zhane’s perfectly manicured brows shot up in surprise. “What do you mean he gives you the creeps? In what way?”
“Well, the way he stares at me makes me uncomfortable.”
Zhane guffawed. “Honey, please! Have you looked in the mirror lately? Men stare at you all the time. You should be used to it by now.”
“I know,” Tommie muttered, wishing she’d just kept her big mouth shut. “But it’s different with Richard. I don’t know how to explain it. The way he looks at me…It’s like he knows a secret about me, or thinks he does. It’s creepy.”
Zhane grinned. “Maybe he does know a secret about you. I heard you were a naughty little girl up there in New York.”
Tommie smiled, but it was forced. Zhane’s teasing remark had hit a little too close to home, reminding her of the reason she’d fled New York in the first place. Although Zhane was the least judgmental person she knew, she couldn’t bring herself to tell him about the terrible scandal that had led to her release from the Blane Bailey Dance Company. The one time she’d almost confided in Zhane, she’d quickly talked herself out of it.
Shame was a powerful captor.
Noticing her strained expression, Zhane frowned. “Oh, honey, you’re serious about this, aren’t you? Richard really does make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s not a big deal. Really. Forget I said anything.”
Zhane looked unconvinced. “If he ever says or does anything inappropriate, sugarplum, just say the word and I’ll kick his ass for you.”
Tommie laughed, though she knew that Zhane could back up his threat. He’d grown up in the Third Ward, one of the poorest, most crime-infested communities in Houston. Throughout his childhood he’d been forced to defend himself against neighborhood bullies who’d routinely picked on him because he was different. It hadn’t taken Zhane long to realize that the only way he could survive the bullying was to fight back. So that’s what he’d done—and had been doing ever since. Once at a club, Tommie had watched him go off on a big, mean-looking biker who’d made the mistake of calling Zhane a queer behind his back—something the man had undoubtedly regretted by the time Zhane got through with him.
Chuckling at the memory, Tommie drawled, “Thanks for the offer, sweetie, but that won’t be necessary. Besides, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for getting you kicked out of the dance company for assaulting the director. I’d never forgive myself.”
But Zhane was no longer listening to her. He was staring across the crowded room, an appreciative gleam filling his dark eyes as he announced in a theatrical falsetto, “Hottie alert.”
Smiling, Tommie followed the direction of his gaze. And froze.
There, standing near the front of the restaurant, was Paulo Sanchez.
Her heart thumped.
Although he’d obviously shaved, and had traded in yesterday’s leather jacket and black jeans for a dark turtleneck and charcoal trousers, Paulo still managed to exude a raw, rugged masculinity that left no doubt that beneath the tamed facade beat the heart of a virile, primitive male.
Not surprisingly, he wasn’t alone. Standing beside him, her arm tucked companionably through his, was an exotic young beauty who looked like a haute couture model, with her ultrachic bob and glam Chanel pantsuit. Tommie told herself the dagger of envy she felt had more to do with the woman’s killer threads than the way she was latched on to Paulo’s arm.
“Mmm, he is scrumptious,” Zhane purred. “He has that whole rugged thing going on. A dangerous edge. Me likey.”
Tommie’s mouth curved. “I don’t think you’re his type, Zhany.”
Zhane feigned innocence. “What type? Handsome and fashionably dressed?”
Tommie laughed.
As if he’d picked up on the sound Paulo turned his head, his gaze locking on to hers. Tommie’s stomach bottomed out. The laughter died on her lips.
They stared at each other for a long, charged moment.
Without breaking eye contact, Paulo leaned down and murmured something to his companion, who nodded and glanced across the room. The next thing Tommie knew, the couple began heading toward her table.
“Hell,” she muttered under her breath. As if she needed Paulo flaunting yet another one of his playthings in her face.
“Oh my God,” Zhane breathed, staring at her. “Do you know him?”
“You could say that. Do I have powdered sugar on my mouth?”
“No. Just a little chicken grease.” At Tommie’s stricken look, Zhane grinned. “I’m teasing. You’re gorgeous. That piece of eye candy on his arm’s got nothing on you.”
Tommie flashed her friend a grateful smile, though she wished she had time to freshen her lipstick. At least she looked presentable in a pink cashmere sweater, jeans, and thigh-high stiletto boots. She’d never been one of those women who left the house dressed as if she were merely going out to check the mail—even when that was the case.
She summoned a cool, relaxed smile just as Paulo and the couture model reached the table. Deliberately ignoring the woman, Tommie drawled, “If I didn’t know better, Detective, I would think you were stalking me.”
Paulo’s mouth twitched.
