of his jacket. At least three days’ worth of stubble darkened his square jaw, and his thick black hair was longer than she remembered, brushing his collar. His eyes were deep-set and piercing, a shade of brown so intense that at times they appeared to be black. They were accentuated by chiseled cheekbones, a firm, sensual mouth, and a swarthy complexion that attested to his Mexican heritage. He was five foot eleven inches of solid power and muscle. Not as tall as Tommie normally preferred, but tall enough that she’d been able to wear stiletto heels at her sister’s wedding without having to worry about towering over him. After the ceremony, in fact, several guests had remarked on what a striking couple she and Paulo made, how perfect they’d looked together—comments Tommie had laughingly dismissed, though deep down inside she’d agreed.
That afternoon, wearing a black leather jacket, black jeans, and scuffed black boots, Paulo looked every bit the tough guy he was. A potent combination of strength, danger, and raw animal magnetism. Tommie told herself to back away from him, but for the first time in her life, her legs wouldn’t obey her command.
As she stood there, air trapped in her lungs, Paulo’s gaze slid from her face down to the scooped neckline of her leotard, lingering on the swell of her breasts. Her breath quickened, and to her everlasting shame, her nipples hardened under his hot, bold appraisal. His gaze darkened and his nostrils flared slightly, letting her know he’d discerned her body’s reaction to him. Tommie had never felt more exposed in her life, and that was saying a lot, considering she’d once moonlighted as a stripper.
Slowly, deliberately, Paulo lifted his eyes to her flushed face. She stared at him, acutely conscious of her sensitized nipples rubbing against the fabric of her sports bra, the melting warmth spreading from her stomach to her loins. She couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, she’d been so thoroughly aroused by a man merely looking at her. If Paulo chose that moment to kiss her, she honestly didn’t know whether she would have the strength to resist him.
And judging by the mischievous gleam in his eyes, he knew it, too.
With one hand he reached up and cradled her face, the pad of his thumb brushing her full lower lip. A shiver rippled down her body. Her heart thundered.
His gaze roamed appreciatively across her face. “You are an incredibly beautiful woman, Señorita Purnell,” he murmured huskily.
Tommie said nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.
Paulo held her gaze a moment longer, then dropped his hand with obvious reluctance and stepped back. Air rushed into Tommie’s lungs as he turned and sauntered away, glancing casually around the loft.
“Nice,” he remarked.
Tommie knew that was an understatement if she’d ever heard one. She’d purchased the converted warehouse shortly after moving to Houston and had blown all her savings on decorating the spacious second-story loft, with stunning results. The space boasted original hardwood flooring, twenty-foot ceilings, exposed redbrick walls, and a spiral staircase that led to a private rooftop terrace. A collection of stylish, risqué modern art she’d brought from New York complemented furnishings done in bold, dramatic shades of red and black. The open, airy layout featured giant support columns that carved out four large spaces—kitchen, living room, study, and bedroom. A huge expanse of windows stretched the entire length of one wall, keeping the loft perpetually bathed in warm, bright sunlight. Since fall had arrived nearly two months ago, Tommie hadn’t needed to turn on the heat once.
She loved her beautiful, trendy loft situated in the shadow of downtown Houston. When she left behind the bright lights of New York City seven months ago, all she’d wanted was a decent one-bedroom apartment and space to hold dance classes a few days a week. She’d found both in a small, converted warehouse owned by a wealthy real estate investor eager to get the property off his hands before he relocated to another area. By the time Tommie had completed her tour of the dusty old building, she knew it was perfect for her. But the sales price had been way out of her price range. As luck would have it, the seller was a huge fan of ballet, and he’d recognized Tommie from a performance he’d attended in New York the previous year. When she told him about her plan to open a dance studio, he’d generously reduced his asking price, enabling Tommie to qualify for a small business loan. She’d used a large portion of the funds to renovate the building, refurbishing the original hardwood floors and installing a barre, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and a sound system in the studio. Fortunately, the upstairs loft had only needed minor cosmetic work.
Within a month of purchasing the old warehouse, Tommie was comfortably ensconced in her new home and open for business. A glowing feature article in the Houston Chronicle had drummed up more clients for her than any amount of advertising she could have done on her own.
She now taught a diverse array of dance techniques including West African, samba, ballet, jazz, tap, modern, and hip-hop. Her clientele included aspiring ballerinas, high school cheerleaders and dance troupes, popular musicians in need of choreography for a new video, as well as local corporations seeking a recreational offsite activity for employees. Tommie knew she’d eventually have to hire additional instructors just to keep up with the increasing demand for her classes. But that was a good problem to have.
Her attraction to Paulo Sanchez, on the other hand, was not.
From the kitchen, Tommie watched as he slowly wandered around the loft before ending up at the wall of windows that offered a scenic view of downtown Houston. Her gaze was drawn to the way his black jeans clung to his powerful thighs and hugged his firm, muscled butt. When her mouth began watering, she knew it had nothing to do with the fragrant aroma of lasagna wafting from the microwave.
Paulo whistled softly through his teeth. “Great view.”
You can say that again!
Aloud Tommie said, “I’m certainly enjoying it.” As Paulo turned, she quickly schooled her features into a blank mask. “Would you like something to drink?”
“Sure. What’re you offering?”
Tommie pulled open the stainless-steel Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside. “I have bottled water, mineral water, skim milk, orange juice, pineapple juice, and an unopened bottle of merlot. Sorry—no beer.”
Paulo chuckled, starting across the room toward her. “The pineapple stuff sounds good.”
Tommie vaguely remembered him having only one or two drinks at the wedding reception, while most of the other single guys had downed beers as if alcohol were going out of style. Throughout the evening several of those men had hit on her, obviously operating under the misguided assumption that her status as a bridesmaid meant she was desperate enough to go home with any half-drunk loser who propositioned her. It was sadly ironic that the only man she’d wanted to sleep with that night had left with someone else.
Shoving aside the memory, Tommie arched a brow at Paulo as she filled two glasses with pineapple juice. “Not much of a drinker, are you?”
“Not anymore.”
Something about his cryptic response piqued Tommie’s curiosity, but she didn’t want to pry by asking him to elaborate. Besides, the less she knew about Paulo Sanchez, the easier it would be to keep him at arm’s length.
Or so she told herself.
The microwave beeped, signaling that the lasagna had finished heating. As Tommie fixed their plates, Paulo made his way over to the long breakfast counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. He removed his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a bar stool. He wore a black T-shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders and showcased his muscular
