Marlo casts a disinterested glance at Mark, who watches the interaction with an arched brow.
“Mr. Savoy is a busy man,” she says in a bored tone. “The offer is now.”
I can’t afford to turn down a job. I’m barely keeping my dance company afloat, and private dance instruction is an easy way to bring in money. But I’m not going to instruct someone who expects me to drop everything at the snap of his fingers.
“Send my regrets to Mr. Savoy.” I grasp Mark’s hand. “If he’s interested in my services, I’m listed under Danni’s Dance Company on the Internet.” I turn away and leave her glaring after me.
Mark follows me back to the loveseat behind the house. “That was weird, right?”
“Very weird.” I sit beside him, wondering how much money I just turned down. “The bulk of my business is private ballroom lessons. Rich old men. Couples looking to spice up their marriage. I could really use the income, but that was… I’ve never had someone show up at my house like that.” My stomach knots. “My address isn’t publicly listed.”
“He owns The Regal Arch properties. If a man that wealthy wants to hire you, he can easily find out where you live.” He rests a hand on my knee. “You’ve never met him?”
“Not that I know of. Have you?”
“I’ve heard of—”
Footsteps echo along the driveway, the scuff of soft-soled shoes growing nearer. I didn’t hear Marlo drive away and stupidly wonder if she changed out of her heels.
I stand just as the trespasser rounds the back corner of my house, and my breath stalls.
A tall imposing man in a suit steps onto the brick path, backlit by the nearby floodlight. Shoulders back and hands clasped behind him, he’s a scowling pillar of intimidation.
Is this Mr. Savoy? Was he in the car the entire time? Why is my heart beating so frantically?
I’m instantly drawn to him, to the way he pauses at the edge of the light without speaking. The way he lowers his chin and lifts only his gaze to look me straight in the eyes. The way his severe expression doesn’t twitch, doesn’t expose a hint of emotion or intent.
My feet move cautiously, as if commanded by his steady focus. As if he’s gathering every molecule in the air, summoning all energy from every living thing around him, demanding the world’s attention merely through the presence of his dominance.
His blond hair is styled to perfection, longish on top, trim around the sides. His fair complexion, chiseled jawline, full lips, and stern brow work together to form a compelling scowl.
How I can be so captivated by a scowl is beyond me, but it stirs something inside me. Something raw and achy and so very lonely.
I step within inches of him and tilt my head up, up, up. Holy shit, he’s at least a foot taller than my five-foot-four frame. Over six feet of gorgeous Norse god in tailored twill.
It’s as if the crisp suit was fitted to emphasize the hard lines of his legs, the cut of toned thighs, the sizable bulge of his groin, and the width of his chest. All of it wakes me from a foggy, ghostlike sleep.
Blinking once, twice, I crane my neck to peer up at his face.
Crystal blue eyes.
My stomach erupts in a flurry of tremors. My God, I know those eyes. I curl my toes against the brick pavers as excitement and trepidation spikes through my nerve endings. There’s something in that gaze, something in the forever pools of blue that knows me, too. But how? Where have I met him?
A voice clears behind me, and my spine goes rigid. Shit. Mark.
I toss an apologetic smile over my shoulder and return to the sculpted physique under the white shirt. With the silver tie hanging loose and the top few buttons open, there’s a gorgeous expanse of strong neck and hairless pecs exposed. Not that I’m staring.
“How do I know you?” I lift my eyes to the icy blue of his.
“Everyone knows me.” He offers a large hand. “Trace Savoy.”
The casino owner. “I’ve never been to your casino.” I place my palm in his and gulp at the electricity zipping up my arm. “I don’t know how…”
My voice fragments as a memory surfaces. Crowded dining room at Bissara. Dark suit. Blue eyes. He’s watched me belly dance at the restaurant.
“You like Moroccan food?” I slide my hand away and flex my fingers at my side.
“I do.” His scowl deepens, and it makes him look even sexier, if that’s possible. “I purchased Bissara.”
“When? Why wasn’t I notified?”
“I own it as of this morning. I want to discuss your employment at the casino.”
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t work at the casino.”