One is a Promise(22)

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.