Calling His Bluff (11 page)

Talking about this thing between them, this shudder of pleasure she felt every time
he touched her, and the fact that she could feel his gaze like a long, slow stroke
across her skin—talking about that could not possibly be a good idea. The charm he
was using on her was as much a reflex to him as breathing. She was much better off
pretending her reaction to him was just as superficial.

With a philosophical shrug, she dug her spoon into the raspberry tart and changed
the words she’d been about to speak.

“I was just going to ask if you thought it was too late to cancel our dessert order.
But it is too late,” she said in between melting bites of crème-filled pastry and
tangy fruit, adding under her breath, “too late for any number of things.”

If he heard her, he ignored it. Then reached across the table to swipe a finger at
the corner of her lips.

“I don’t believe in skipping dessert,” he said. Without thinking, she darted her tongue
to the corner of her mouth and licked the spot where he’d touched her. His eyes narrowed.
“You should always save room,” he brought the dab of chocolate-frosted pastry to his
own mouth, “for something sweet.”

She forced a laugh. Tried to sound blasé. “What a line, Damico. Do you find that usually
works best on really dim women?”

He captured her hand in his own and gently curled her fingers into her palm, leaving
one finger extended to be dragged through the espresso-chocolate glaze drizzled artfully
on one plate.

“I think you’re sweet,” he said and lifted her hand. She watched, fascinated, as his
mouth, that sculpted heavy mouth, opened and he sucked the tip of her finger. She
felt the scrape of his tongue against her skin like a charge of electricity, and fought
down the need to squirm in her seat. He was slow to pull her fingertip from his mouth,
but then he grinned at her and delivered a wink. “Now
that’s
a line.”

She laughed again, sharp and hard this time. Jesus, did the man always have to tease
her about sex? A woman could only take so much of that kind of thing without needing
to throw
someone
on the floor and have her way with him.

“I gotta pee,” she announced and popped up from her seat. If she didn’t step back
from the erotic tension at this table, she was about thirty seconds from needing to
fan herself. While panting. Hard.

She didn’t just need to splash some cold water on her face. She ought to pour a pitcher
of it down her dress.

* * *

J.D. watched Sarah walk away from the table. The gleam in his eyes probably would
have scared her if she’d turned around and caught it. When he saw her stumble, catch
herself with a hand on the back of another diner’s striped armchair, and then continue
on more slowly, flapping that hand near her face, that gleam slid into a wicked grin.

Well, well. How unexpected.

Not only her reaction. His own was more of a surprise.

He wasn’t sure at what point in the evening his mood had changed from irritation and
exasperation at this mercurial roller coaster of a woman, into this building need
to lick and taste her all over.

She would walk like she was strutting across a river on a bridge made of the backs
of her old lovers. And then forget to breathe when he sucked the tip of her finger.
She’d risk thousands on a hand of poker while holding nothing but a pair of face cards.
And then be afraid to risk standing too close to him in the middle of the crowded
casino floor.

He’d wanted her the minute he saw her in that excuse for a dress she was wearing.
Of course he had. That wasn’t exactly his brain doing the thinking. But he’d never
expected to find her fascinating.

She was Sarah. Just Sarah. The girl he’d known since he was too young to know that
girls were the best thing going.

But this Sarah was some other creature entirely. And he didn’t believe for a minute
that this was some kind of temporary facade thrown up for a couple of fun-filled days
by an otherwise soberly stern woman. Unlike the abandoned Beatrice, Sarah didn’t have
a false bone in her body. Las Vegas might be the only place where she indulged in
this side of her personality, but Sarah was far too confident in the role for it not
to be anchored deep in her bones.

He hadn’t been able to tell if her attempts to turn their sexually tense moments into
lighter conversation were because she wasn’t interested or because she was
too
interested. Not until he saw the flush that spread from her face down to her chest
when he licked her fingertip and that stumble as she walked away from him.

And if this was what she was like after a couple hours of high-stakes poker, he knew
exactly what he wanted to do next. He was pretty sure he’d end up regretting his choice
to leave his camera back in his room.

This was a big town.

There had to be a salsa night going on at a club somewhere nearby.

* * *

She protested. She dragged her feet. She pretended she wasn’t interested all the way
to the concierge desk where he made his inquiry.

Of course they could find a Latin music night, sir. Right across the street, in fact,
at the nightclub in one of their sister hotels. And the concierge would be happy to
call ahead and put their names on the VIP list.

“You can’t dance,” she argued and waved a hand at his leg. “You’re not even out of
physical therapy. And you’ve been limping since before the restaurant.”

He leaned over and spoke into her ear so that the concierge wouldn’t hear.

“Then I’ll just watch you. I’ll enjoy that immensely.”

In the end, she gave in because she wanted to. Because she’d risked it all at the
card table and won. Because the music spilling out of the club was hot and fast. And
because the thought of J.D. watching her from across the room with those eyes that
stripped the clothes right off her body made heat blossom in her belly.

Besides, she was still stuffed from dinner. The sensible thing to do would be to work
some of that food off with a little dancing.

Right. This was the sensible thing.

Keep dreaming, girl.

Inside the club, women in high heels and short dresses with flippy skirts were steered
and spun around the dance floor by men, old and young, who pulled them close and pushed
them away. Even before she had a chance to sit at the tiny table they were directed
to at the edge of the dance floor, a darkly handsome man who introduced himself as
Diego asked her to dance.

J.D.’s half-smile was just enough of a challenge for her to say
yes.

She felt his eyes like heat on her back as she and Diego walked hand in hand to the
dance floor. It didn’t take long for Diego to notice where her eyes were inexorably
drawn, no matter how smoothly she twisted and shimmied.

He pulled her close until their bodies were pressed together from shoulders to knees.

“
Mira,
you are dancing for him, yes?”

She couldn’t help but nod.

“Then we should give him a show,” he said and bent her back over his arm, running
his free hand between her breasts and down the center of her torso before arcing her
back up against him again, “don’t you think?”

His smile was slow and easy. After a moment, she matched it with one of her own and
snaked a hand up the back of this stranger’s neck to tangle in the damp hair curling
at the nape of his neck.

“Yes
.
I don’t want him getting too comfortable, after all.” She winked.

Her dance partner threw his head back and laughed, teeth glinting in a wicked smile
as he spun her out. He pulled her to him until her bottom was cradled by his hips,
and she let her moves be guided by the shifting of his weight behind her. His hands
clutched her hips, pulling the fabric of her short dress even higher over her thighs.
Facing the edge of the dance floor, she lifted her eyes just high enough to watch
J.D. watching her.

He leaned back in his tiny chair, looking supremely relaxed except for the intensity
of his gaze, which never left her. He had crossed one arm over his chest and was resting
his chin in the V between the thumb and palm of his other hand, his index finger pressed
against the side of his face, his fingers curled in front of his mouth. He locked
gazes with her and then slid his eyes slowly down her body.

She felt it like he’d put his hands on her. The heat and pressure of it slid over
her breasts, made them ache a little, hardening her nipples until she knew that if
she looked down at her dress, she would see the peaks visible beneath the thin fabric.
She sucked in her stomach with a sharp breath as his gaze scraped past her abdomen
and lower, circling her thighs. Still dancing in tandem with Diego, she stepped forward
and back and felt her thighs brush against each other, featherlight, like J.D.’s hands
were between her legs.

Jesus. She was going to have an orgasm right here on the dance floor.

And then there was just the music and J.D.’s eyes and Diego’s hands and the slow build
of sex and sweat and so much pure energy that she was surprised she didn’t throw off
sparks when she spun.

Long strands of her hair clung damply to her arms, her cheeks. She lifted her arms
and ran her palms up the back of her neck until she’d corralled the waterfall spill
of her hair into a tangled pile on top of her head. For a moment, she felt cooler
until she looked at J.D. over her upraised arms and caught the tip of his tongue sliding
across his heavy lower lip. It felt it like a soft sucking kiss on the nape of her
neck.

Looking at him over Diego’s shoulder, she ran her hand down her partner’s muscled
back and curved her fingers under his belt to pull him closer. She kept her eyes on
J.D. the entire time, imagining that it was his hard body she was pressed up against,
his hands raking down the naked column of her spine.

When the music slammed to a halt, she was arced over her partner’s arm in a dip that
had the ends of her hair brushing the floor. She flowed up again until she was standing
next to Diego and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Holy shit. I think I am very sorry you were not dancing for me,” Diego said and smiled
as he lifted her hand and kissed it.

“Gracias.”
Returning his smile, she stepped off the dance floor, needing a break.

Only to stumble for the second time that evening when J.D. appeared in front of her,
a wall of muscle that vibrated with tension beneath her palms as she steadied herself
against him.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the nightclub, weaving in between men and
women without slowing, a slight hitch in his step the only sign that he couldn’t actually
flatten anyone in his way. The long hall that led to the club’s exit was illuminated
at intervals by towering half-circles of glass block columns that were spotlit from
below.

Just before the last of these columns, J.D. yanked her to the side of the hall and
turned her to face him. Backing her up against the join where the black wall met the
curving arc of cold glass, he caged her in with a hand braced on either side of her
head.

“I’m almost glad I don’t have my camera.” He leaned in toward her. “You would have
melted it.”

She was still breathing hard from the dancing, and she breathed him in with every
inhalation. Warm and faintly spicy. She arched her back away from the cold surface
behind her shoulders and saw the lift of her breasts reflected in his eyes when he
loomed over her.

“About these rules of yours…”

“Screw the rules,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth
down to hers.

Even with her eyes closed, the light was shining as she took that last step and fell
into the heat.

Las Vegas Boulevard was the widest street in the world.

Just waiting for the traffic light to turn and allow them to cross the street was
taking more time than Sarah wanted to wait before getting her hands on J.D.

A small crowd of people waiting to cross the Strip packed in around them. J.D. stood
at her back, stroking her hair behind her ear before leaning in close to whisper,
“I just want to be clear here. When you said, ‘Screw the rules,’ did you mean—”

“What floor are you staying on?”

She spoke just loudly enough for him to hear. She kept her eyes locked on the traffic
zipping past her, attempting to use any heretofore-unknown telekinetic powers she
had to will it to a halt.

“Forty-two.”

She took a step back and bumped up against him. Reached back and gripped the hard
muscles of his thigh, digging her nails in deep
.
She felt his arousal surge against her hip and an answering cramp of desire between
her own legs.
She
did this to him, made him hard with wanting.

“My room then. Thirty-three is closer.”

The short, sharp groan behind her had her biting her lip, wishing he were the one
doing it.

“Christ, you’re killing me.” His hands raced up her sides along the draped edge of
the dress’s halter top, his fingertips dipping under the edge of the fabric to skim
the sides of her breasts. She inhaled sharply and felt the movement of her ribcage
change the position of his fingers. She could calculate the difference down to the
millimeter.

With an oath, J.D. strode around her and off the curb, halting the cab that was about
to pass them by the simple expedient of stepping in front of it. He jerked the door
open, pushed her in the back seat and slid in beside her before she had a moment to
point out the obvious.

“The Bellagio,” he ordered, and shoved a twenty through the window in the partition.
Then he leaned back against the door of the cab and pulled her on top of him.

A cab driver in Vegas clearly saw stranger things than people getting into a cab in
order to cross the street. He said something cranky about going a block to turn around
and then pulled away from the curb.