“Give me thirty seconds in this dark corner, and the basic step pattern’s yours,” he said, effortlessly easing her out of the crowd and into tango position. “Give me another minute, and I’ll be yours, as well, Lola mia.”
Lola swallowed. It’s all she had the strength to do, once his seductive words sank in.
Wasn’t this the man who’d kept his distance earlier, saying he wouldn’t cross the captain’s line? Yet here he was, teaching her to tango in front of God and Skandalis and everyone.
“Gliiide…gliiiiide…step, step, step. Gliiiide…gliiiiide…”
How had she come to be pressed this close to him, thighs rubbing and hips flexing in rhythm? Her arm was dramatically thrust forward with his, and he was whispering the dance pattern as though telling her how he wanted her to make love to him. All the moves and nuances that would take him over the top.
And she was so damn ready to take him there.
“Gliiiide—gliiiiide—step, step, step,” he murmured again.
The singer’s castanets did a sexy click-click-click to that same beat, and Lola realized then that she was dancing, right there on the dance floor, without having to think about what came next, or having to coax her partner along like she’d done in ballroom dance class. Somehow DeSilva had step-step-stepped her onto the parquet floor, and—like an illusionist making magical things happen—the man with the tiger eyes had her dancing the tango on intuition.
The debonair Spaniard held her gently against his hip, his lead so smooth as to be invisible: just the merest pressure and pull of the warm hand that held hers. She caught a glimpse of the captain, who’d paused on the sideline to watch them.
Lola straightened to flaunt herself, her head held high and proud—like she’d seen in the movies. Rio’s grin flashed his approval: his eyes narrowed seductively, which cast the rest of his bronzed face into a mask of sheer seduction.
Gliiiide—gliiiiide—step, step, turn.
Without a hitch they negotiated the edge of the floor and insinuated themselves between other couples caught up in the passion of the dance.
Lola caught a whiff of brandy and fine tobacco, manly scents that increased his mystique and had her inhaling deeply: feeding her need for nicotine, yet firing her desire for something much more addictive. Rio Benito DeSilva was now a very seductive puzzle she longed to solve, slowly. Naked.
The music slowed to a dramatic halt, and as though he’d done it a hundred times, the Spaniard tipped her backwards into a dip that had her holding her breath. His face was mere inches above hers and the kiss on his lips had her name on it.
“Lola,” he breathed.
As though on cue, the ballroom lights went down. How long would he hold her this way? How long could her leg bear her weight?
And yet, she felt no concern. Rio held her firmly against him as time stood still. There was only the silent shimmer of the mirror ball sending its sequins through the room, and those lips inching so, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.
A vein fluttered above his collar.
Lola stretched to kiss the smooth skin between its rounded black tabs; to feel the beat of his pulse against her lips.
The soft strains of a rhumba brought her upright—through no effort of her own—and Rio led her into the secretive sway of impassioned prey and predator, circling…seducing. Step-step, pause…step-step, pause.
Somehow her feet followed the beat. Somehow her body followed his lead, for Lola’s mind was too swept away to be of any assistance.
Were people really standing along the sideline, watching them? Did she look as perfect with Rio as this felt? It was a heady sensation, to merely let go and let this man take control of her with the power of those eyes. Eyes focused only on her.
And yet, Rio’s gaze wasn’t domineering or arrogant, like someone else’s she knew—some Greek guy whose name escaped her now.
Around each other they went, circling and swaying. Her fingertips remained lightly against his palms so he could have his way—so Rio could lead her into another step pattern without saying a word. Why and how their bodies brushed and then parted, Lola didn’t know. There was only the throb of the bass pulse and the whisper of the cymbals, and her hips found the rhythm as though she’d been born dancing this way.
The music ended, and Rio grabbed her hand. Quickly skirting the crowd, he led her through a door marked STAFF ONLY. As if that weren’t enough to set her her heart racing, he whisked her down the short corridor and into a service elevator.
As its door closed, he smiled tightly. Punched the highest button.
“I saw Aric coming toward us, probably on orders from the captain.” He stepped close enough that his knee parted her thighs, pressing her against the cool steel wall. “Why waste a woman like you on a kid like him?”
For a fleeting moment Lola thought he was calling Skorpio a kid, but she got so caught up in watching his lips—in catching that faint hint of liquor and smoke on his breath—that the words lost their meaning.
She did recall, however, that this was a change in course for the security agent. And not a safe one.
“But if Skandalis catches us—he was watching—”
“Yes, he was,” Rio said with a happy snap of those eyes, “and if ever there was a man who wished he were holding you so close and so—but that’s too damn bad! I say we give him a run for his money—if that’s what you want, Lola mia.”
Her sigh escaped with a little hiss as he moved in for the kiss she could already taste. Her eyes fluttered shut. She lifted her face to bask in the glow of him, parting her lips—
But Rio pulled away. Just enough that his question quivered between them in the dim, airless elevator. The shine of his eyes hypnotized her. She sucked air, struggling to think. What was it he’d asked her?
Whatever Lola wants….
And what did she want? In the whirlwind of being ditched by Dennis Fletcher and then tormented by Skorpio’s sensual power plays in the spa and the ballroom, she felt more alive than she had in months. Felt open to the adventure sparkling in Rio DeSilva’s attentive eyes.
The elevator door slid open, punctuating his unspoken call to choose her fate.
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