Razor's Edge: Men in Blue, Book 2 (5 page)

She had to gulp to prevent the whimper threatening to escape her tight throat. “Nope.”

“Welcome to D-Qwon's dance grooves…”

Isabella had no idea what he kept muttering about. She didn’t have any spare brain cells to decipher his rambling. She’d only ever seen one man naked until last week. Hazy images assaulted her, but she buried them. Malcolm kept himself in shape. Tall and broad, he had never seemed half as powerful as the man an arm’s reach from her now. She wondered what Razor’s caramel skin would taste like if she licked it.

She shook her head violently to erase the obscene images from her mind. Maybe her husband had been right to keep her distant from other men. He’d always claimed Isabella would be out of control, too sensual for her own good. She’d learned to suppress her desires when she noticed they turned Malcolm off faster than a kick to the crotch. She never would have poured salt on the wound made by his shortcomings.

When faced with something as tempting as the man before her, she had to draw on the reserve she’d worked hard to cultivate. For all she knew, he had a girlfriend. He’d avoided so much as shaking her hand. Plus, hello, she was married until her lawyer came through with no-fault papers and she convinced Malcolm to sign them by whatever means necessary.

So why the hell couldn’t she stop imagining this man caressing her?

Here and now, the only thing that mattered was surviving this week of competition. Isabella allowed some of her fear from
that
night to seep into her awareness. Trusting the wrong person could prove fatal and yet she daydreamed about a near stranger.

Her recklessness chilled her as though ice water ran in her veins. And not a moment too soon.

Razor’s fists unclenched, his shoulders dropped and his tight ass began to sway at eye level as he—hallelujah—kept time with the music. His thighs bunched and released beneath the fabric of his jeans. He didn’t try any fancy moves. He didn’t have to. The simple play of his coordinated swaying spoke volumes.

This she could work with. As long as she began their session instead of drooling over his eleven-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten buns. Before she could consider her actions, she slapped his firm rear. “Nice job, teammate. Now we need to find out what you’re like in hold.”

Chapter Four

Razor’s heart fell to the soles of his filthy socks when the little princess curtseyed then extended her arms to him. He’d never ached to accept an invitation so badly in his life. Not the one offered by her posture. The one burning in those azure eyes.

No doubt about it, he was screwed.

If his attraction had been basic, all about her looks, he could have written it off. The instant chemistry between them, though, made it a million times harder to dismiss. Ms. Isabella Buchanan got him right off the bat—his moods, his bad jokes and his need for space to avoid poisoning his surroundings with the self-loathing rotting his gut after the long winter months.

How the hell could he battle their instant connection?

Now she stood, waiting. Waiting for him to take her into his arms with hope shining from the depths of her soul that he understood even a sliver of her in return. Damn it, he did. Or at least, he thought he did. Unless it was all an act—a con intended to disarm him.

Fuck. He hungered to touch her—skin on skin—so bad there might as well have been a giant magnet in each of his hands, drawing him toward their counterparts in hers. He stepped closer, near enough his breath fanned tendrils of her hair.

The light strands did a piss-poor job of concealing the fading bruise on her cheek. He smothered primal instincts, which shouted for him to claim her and force the barbarian who’d infused doubt into something so magnificent to count the cost.

After all, his intelligence outweighed preprogrammed reactions. Had to, if he were to survive.

Crazy women had no boundaries. Isabella’s sketchy side of the story might not exist in the same universe as the truth, though the fact Malcolm Carrington had declined to comment on her departure had the public scratching their heads.

Razor had come prepared to hate her. Or—better yet—to feel nothing at all. What coursed through him now was definitely not nothing. It was something.

Something monumental.

His palm hovered a millimeter from hers for an eternity. Their ragged but synchronized breathing filled the time until he surrendered, allowing forces of nature to bring them together. Isabella’s fingers folded over the top of his then squeezed. Her other hand rested on his shoulder blade, searing a hole in his shirt. Before he lost all control and slammed them together from collarbones to shins, she broke eye contact and cleared her throat.

The pulse pounding in her wrist caught his attention as they both concentrated on acting impartial for a solid fifteen seconds. When he thought he might have to excuse himself or risk embarrassment the likes of which he hadn’t known since middle school, she jerked his hand. His elbow stuck out to the side at an awkward and uncomfortable angle.

Razor saw her mouth moving. He had no idea what instructions spilled from those glossy pink lips as he mentally recited his new mantra: This could all be for show. She could be sumptuous but deadly. Don’t trust her. Ignore your dick. Ignore your dick. Ignore your—

“James! Are you listening to me?” She wrenched away a moment after repulsion clouded the summer sky of her eyes. “I can’t teach you anything if you don’t open your ears and quit looking at me as if you’d like to spit in my face.”

Her prim and proper schoolmarm scolding made him harder. How the hell fucked up was that?

He hated the wobble in her voice as she finished her verbal smackdown. Regardless of her guilt or innocence, he hadn’t been raised to hurt a woman. “I’m sorry, Izzy.”

“You realize we’ve known each other less than an hour and already you’ve apologized twice? We don’t have time for this nonsense.” He suspected she spun around to hide her reaction. If so, she covered it well. She popped the CD into the cheap stereo. After setting the track to loop, she snagged a broom from the corner with the rest of the supplies. For one surreal second, he thought she intended to take a swing at his head with it.

Instead, she sauntered over in time to the sweeping orchestral introduction that could have come from an old black and white movie or a classy commercial for something he could never hope to afford. He liked it instantly.

“What is this?”

“‘At Last’ by Etta James.”

“Nice.” His grin cut short when she hoisted his arms into that torturous shape then jammed the broomstick into the vee of his elbows, behind his shoulders, until he stayed pinned where she’d put him. “What the hell?”

“Perfect.” She grinned up at him. The dazzling display stole his breath, allowing her to continue steamrolling him. “Now…shut up and dance.”

Razor sputtered when her hands landed on his hips and molded him into position. She might as well have shoved the broomstick up his ass. He’d never stood so straight in all his life.

“Now, place your right palm on the center of my back, between my shoulders.” When he didn’t move, she glared at him. “What? Do I smell or something?”

He couldn’t help but crack up when she did a quick pit check. Princess was busting with surprises.

“Touch me. Now, Razor.”

Fuck if that didn’t bring to mind all sorts of forbidden temptations.

She squirmed beneath his bicep where it dangled off the torture device behind his spine. His hand reached out without the conscious green light from his brain. It spanned most of her shoulders.

“That’s…fine.” She swallowed hard as she stiffened her frame, mirroring his pose by resting her tiny fingers on his shoulder. Her other hand clasped his, folding over the ridge made by his index finger. He marveled at the difference in their sizes. A baby bird couldn’t have seemed more delicate in his grasp.

Razor peered at Isabella’s face, close enough now he could kiss her with no effort at all. In the hushed atmosphere, she whispered, “Feel the beat of the music.
One
two three,
one
two three,
one
two three.”

The romantic melody could have been the soundtrack for a child’s fairytale. The steady thump resonating through him originated from the pounding of his heart…or his cock. At least that’s what he thought until her counting blended with the soft lullaby and Razor found he could definitely hear what she meant.

“Oh, yeah.” He tapped on the base of her neck with the pad of his middle finger. “It doesn’t seem like such a slow song should go that fast.”

“Yes, yes. It does.” She beamed. “You have it. Now imagine walking forward, three steps at a time. Starting with your left foot. Left, right, left, pause. Right, left, right, pause.”

He’d no sooner thought about it than his body began to move as though he’d done it a million times before. The instant he stepped forward, she stepped back. They moved as one. Their graceful promenade bore no resemblance to bopping from side to side with the bass in a club. Hell, the times he’d really gone for the bump and grind had nothing on the intimacy of dancing like this. When he reached the far wall of the studio, he turned, unwilling to let Isabella go. She flowed with him like water over a rock in a stream.

“Very good.” She beamed up at him when she squeezed his fingers. “Keep your arms locked, maintain the basic step and I’ll follow wherever you lead.”

Goddamn, did she know what she did to him? How such a sweet promise nearly made him drunk with longing? Razor closed his eyes, feeling instead of thinking for the first time in months. A rough breath bellowed his chest, pressing it against the dual mounds of lush but perky breasts. When had he cradled her so close?

The pebbled tips of her nipples branded his ribs, obliterating his concentration. He tripped. To avoid smashing her, he stutter-stepped and ended up tangling their legs beyond saving. They were going down.

Razor shrugged the broom off. He smothered her in a bear hug. He rotated so his side absorbed the brunt of the impact. The air whooshed from her with a pronounced, “Oomph.”

“Shit! Izzy! You okay?” When her shoulders shook beneath his palms, he wondered if he hadn’t somehow hurt her.

But when she lifted her head, there was no mistaking the childish exhilaration flushing her checks and brightening her eyes for anything harmful. She draped over him, propped on spread hands that kneaded his chest.

“I’m better than okay, James. You did great. We’re going to kick some serious ass Wednesday night.”

Before he could react, she lunged over him, bussed his cheek—stroking every inch of his body with hers—then sprang to her feet. He shook his head when she offered him a hand up, as though he wouldn’t drag her to the floor again if he accepted. Not that parts of him objected to having her close, maybe beneath him next time.

Damn it.
When she gazed at him with those wide, innocent eyes, he couldn’t believe her capable of involvement in something as base and disgusting as a sex slavery ring. Could this sprite sell out other women to those who would inflict horrors guaranteed to mar their souls forever?

It seemed utterly impossible. And that’s when he knew he’d already lost all objectivity. In less than one hour, she’d planted the seeds of major doubt in his ironclad conviction of her guilt and treachery.

“I need air.” He tried to ignore the shock he caught in her expression before spinning away.

“What did I do, James?”

The flare of regret at her dismayed whisper didn’t assuage his guilt. Instead, it fanned the embers of his annoyance, transforming his lack of caution into a raging bonfire of self-recrimination. Especially when he had to stop himself from returning to her and begging her to forgive his temper.

“I told you. Don’t call me that,” he snapped as he stomped from the room. “Give me five.”

“Be ready to learn choreography, you jerk.” Her undignified shout rang along the hallway as he slipped into the stairwell.

He respected the strength it took for her to focus on the task at hand when he’d obviously hurt her. Or at least surprised her. If only he could do the same—block out the desire clamoring for his attention to the detriment of his common sense—they’d be set. He needed a little time to clear the scent of her strawberry shampoo, the sound of her lyrical laughter and the feel of her lithe, young form locked in his arms from his system.

Then maybe he could think straight.

Isabella splashed icy water from the bathroom sink onto her cheeks and the nape of her neck. She fanned herself with a wad of coarse paper towels. When that didn’t help, she cranked open the grimy window, blasting her damp skin with brisk spring air. Nothing worked. She gawked at her rosy cheeks in the cracked mirror. Could she be having hot flashes thirty years too early?

Damn it. No.

Could she rationalize the heat burning her up as if she had a triple digit fever?

Damn it. No.

There was only one valid explanation. The reason had stormed from the closest thing she’d had to fun in years for God knew what reason. Fickle men. She’d never figure them out. Had she become so pathetic and starved for attention that anytime someone glanced at her with a tiny bit of interest, or a truckload of hunger, she caved?

Okay, so Razor looked like an avenging angel and carried some serious scars. She still shouldn’t allow him to affect her. Isabella couldn’t afford to depend on him, to have his opinion matter so much. Not so soon after she’d finally torn herself from Malcolm’s influence. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again, trusting another person for far too long when her instincts screamed at her to run. No, she had ruined her life with blind faith once. She wouldn’t do that again.

If Razor screwed up, she’d call him on it. If he earned her respect, she’d give it. But never again would she surrender her soul to someone who didn’t deserve it. Who wouldn’t care for it.

Isabella laughed at herself as she returned to the practice room, ready for round two. What the hell was she doing, thinking of souls and forever? All she had to do was dance with this surly man for a few weeks. After that, she’d never see him again.