bare pecs, and for the first time she wondered about Mr Testosterone’s life beyond the hour they spent together Tuesday nights. Did he lift cars for a living? Chop down hardwoods? No, not a bump in that perfect nose, not a single scar on that dauntingly flawless face...
Then, far more gently than she expected, he eased her back upright until they stood hip to hip, thigh to thigh, in a loose ballroom hold.
“How was that?” he asked, shifting so that she fitted closer still. Close enough to see flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. Close enough that every breath in was filled with his scent.
“Needs work.”
“That’s what I’m paying you for.”
Well reminded, she pulled away and jabbed the remote until she found something less...Norah. A basic foxtrot, pure muzak, the least sexy sound on the planet.
“Your posture’s closer,” she said. “Now we’ll work on your feet. Because, my friend, they suck.”
* * *
Soon the hour was over. Sweat had added a sheen to Ryder’s skin, a muskiness to his scent.
“Okay,” she said, running her hands over her damp hair. “Work on your feet this week. Give me something else to pick on next time.”
As she went to walk to the chaise to gather her stuff his hand clasped her wrist, stopping her. She looked back, hoping he couldn’t feel the sudden flurry of her pulse.
“I thought it was something in the air, but it’s you, isn’t it?”
“I’m sorry?”
“That scent?” He leant into her, his nose brushing the edge of her hair as his eyes closed and he breathed her in. “I caught it last week too. Thought it was coming through the windows.”
She opened her mouth to say...who knew what. Her throat locked up as her entire body stood stock still, riveted by the sensation of his intense attention, and all that intoxicating male body heat intermingling with her own.
“What scent might that be?” she finally managed, her words thick, as if she were speaking through a mouthful of marshmallows.
“It’s spicy yet sweet. Like brandy.”
She breathed in and figured it out. “Ah, my hairspray. Industrial strength.”
His eyes moved to her hair, which was in its usual dishevelled array after a day’s worth of dancing.
“I don’t use it on my hair. Not unless I’m performing.”
His eyebrows all but disappeared into his hairline. “Then where?”
“It keeps the leotard from rising.”
“Rising?”
“Up,” she said with a swish of her hand towards the offending area. And then she walked away, completely unable to help from looking back to find his eyes had zeroed in on her backside with enough intensity he might as well have been using X-ray vision to see beneath her skirt. And if she added a little extra va va voom to her walk? She was only human.
She grabbed her lucky black wrap cardigan, criss-crossing the cord around her ribs.
She turned everything off while her student made himself decent. Pity. It had been fun while it lasted. Heady, hazardous, but worth every agonising second. While it was imperative she keep her hands to herself outside the one hour a week, at least her fantasies now had something to live off for months to come.
As he had the week before, Ryder waited for her as she locked up, walking behind her as she headed down the rickety old staircase. It was kind of endearing, actually, or it would have been if the feel of him a step behind her didn’t make her knees give out on the already precarious staircase.
When they got outside, he motioned to his slumbering car, all vintage curves and glossy gleam, its swanky dash glinting through the heavily tinted windows. “Can I drop you somewhere?”
She looped her big soft bag over one shoulder and gripped the strap in front of her. “Thanks, but no. I live just around the corner. And I’ll be fine walking. I have a mean right hook.” She lifted her hands in a boxing move, then backed away from the temptation of the cool luxury of the car, and the man who owned it.
His eyes remained steadfastly on hers. “Then would you like to get a coffee?”
Damn. Nadia nibbled her bottom lip and struggled to dampen the distinct tightening in her belly. “Thanks, but no. Hate the stuff. Stunts your growth, don’t you know. See you next week.”
Without another word, she turned and headed home, knowing he was watching as she walked away. She could feel it as surely as if his big hands were sliding down her back, over her backside, down her calves, deep into the arches of her sore feet.
Her pulse beat hard in her neck, her breaths coming tight and hard. And she was forced to ask herself, again, if she’d done the right thing saying no. A fling needn’t be completely out of the question—
No, it needn’t. Just not with Ryder.
The man had proven himself far too capable of wrong-footing her. And with the biggest audition of her life looming, she needed complete control of her feet. And the rest of her.
Yet, as she hit the corner, she looked back.
But Ryder was gone.
The heaviness that settled low in her belly had nothing to do with being alone in the dark. Living out half her teen years in New York, then Dallas, then Vegas meant it was nothing for her to walk through the shadows as easily as the pools of light.
No, it wasn’t human company she craved; it was one very particular human.
She scuffed her shoe against a crack in the footpath and swore beneath her breath. Trouble lurked down that path, and, as was the fate of a Kent, she’d be the one who’d pay.
THREE
Lights flashed through the darkness and music through speakers too old to handle the beat as bodies bumped and ground across the dance floor.
Nadia lifted her bare arms over her head, eyes closed, hips swaying, feet burning, as deep in her bliss she tripped the light fantastic. For her that was exactly how it felt; when the killer groove of the song met the rhythm in her bones, filling her muscles with liquid heat, and sparkling across her senses. It was approaching divine.
Add a fall of silk, a length of rope, better yet a sparkling silver hula hoop suspended thirty feet above the stage, adding danger, suspense, and an audience hushed with a mix of hope for a touch of magic and fear that something might go wrong... Now that was nothing short of orgasmic.
Feet well and truly on the ground—unless you counted three-inch spikes a prop—the vertical-drop strands of her fringed silver sparkly top swished over her belly, sensual, sexual, lifting the experience a nudge higher. Especially when she could so easily imagine the stroke of the strands belonged to the sure, sensual fingers of a man with dark hair and dark eyes and a dark voice that settled like a purr in her very core. Since she
