So...shockingly. She felt a kind of limpness creep up her spine and straight to her jaw. His tongue plunged into her mouth, from zero to light speed in seconds, coaxing her to stroke against his.
As if she could even consider breaking away from him in that position, his free hand cupping and holding the front of her throat, fingers stroking there without pressure but still burning her skin. It excited her, coiling in her chest so that she couldn’t catch her breath from Dante’s brand of blatant sensuality, fueled with more than a hint of danger. The taste of his mouth, a hint of the mojitos they’d been drinking, and something more thrilling than she could even have imagined before that second, intoxicated more fully than alcohol could, and she lost awareness of how long they kissed, knew only that her hands crept up, aching, empty and seeking.
When someone nearby hooted in appreciation, Dante broke the kiss, lifting his head enough for them to see one another. Promises danced in his deep brown eyes and she couldn’t look away even if she’d wanted to.
“Stay for the next set,” he said, face still inches from hers. “But don’t dance with anyone else unless you want me jumping off the stage and reminding you why you’re waiting for me.”
Mute and breathless, she could only nod. The command in his voice was something she recognized from his way at work, in surgery, and not one piece of her wanted to disobey.
He kissed her again, a soft little kiss as if to seal the deal, then lifted her head back to where it should be. His fingers slid from her hair and stroked down over the back of her head once to right her usually smooth locks, before he returned to the stage.
Oh, she was going to make a mistake. Big mistake.
And it’d be worth it.
Dante hoisted himself onto the stage, bypassing the need to weave past the other musicians to reach his piano. He’d no more sat than the first notes of the next set rang out from the horns to his left.
Thank heaven it was a fast number. His only outlet was his hands right now, and they could only move with the music, not fast enough to deal with the energy surging through him.
From memory, without even needing to think about it by now, he began to play.
For once he didn’t fall into that peaceful place where he felt between worlds. His mind didn’t blank at all.
It filled with Lise. He couldn’t recall the last time anyone had excited him this much.
When he’d first seen her, every drop of blood in his body had hummed, pressure everywhere increasing in a kind of awareness he’d have called supernatural if he wasn’t supposed to be a rational surgeon. He’d immediately known there was someone in the club worth seeing.
But his interest—while authentic and entirely sexual—had gotten a little off track when something about her had struck him as familiar. He’d started clicking through the possibilities as to why.
Slept together before? No. That body would be impossible to forget.
Someone who’d been in the club before? No. He’d only owned it for five years, but if he’d ever seen her there, he would’ve paid attention. Would’ve gotten her number.
Someone he’d known in his past? One of his former marks? No, she wouldn’t have looked at him like that if that was the connection.
Hospital? Family of patient? Staff?
Then it had crystalized.
Bradshaw. This morning’s nurse. He’d seen her not even ten hours ago, and would see her again Monday morning. Would she have this magnetic draw hidden in gray cloth and without the sexy makeup and inferno-red lips?
Not if she went home with him tonight—and the way she blushed and smiled said she would. Things could get messy at work. He was already certain she’d not tell his secret, but this might be too big a hope.
The song ended and another began, but he couldn’t change his thoughts as easily as he changed keys. He wanted her and that was reason enough to engage in a little after-hours fun.
The eye-roll when she’d spoken of marriage told him she wouldn’t take one night out of context. That helped. That made it easy. Why was he still thinking about it?
The lights made it impossible to see her or her table and he wanted to look at her. When the next song rounded out and his hands were free, he snatched a radio from the side, turned away from the crowd. Quietly, he issued an order for Max, Manager of The Inferno, to have the lights lowered to anything but spotlights.
When the lighting shifted to swirls of color over the dance floor, his vision cleared.
Still at the table, he confirmed, but she sat there staring at her phone now, a tiny, satisfied, smug little smile curling one corner of her now naked mouth.
Jefferson had texted back after getting the photo.
Suffering. Good. Just as Dante expected. A little light manipulation of the man who’d humiliated the woman coming home with him tonight. It felt like justice, not that he could really tell the difference between justice and vengeance these days.
Time came for the piano to join in the next song again, and he finally let the music take him. Forty-five more minutes, a half hour break, and then another long set before he could do what he really wanted: drag Lise home with him and peel that dress off her.
* * *
While Dante played, Lise’s courage started to wane. Her desire was there—had been there all the time, bubbling under the surface of her quiet everyday life—since she’d gotten the job in Neurosurgery. Ignored. Designated unimportant—a luxury, a frivolous, stupid luxury that had no business in her daily life. But it felt different now. She’d had the lusty crush for years, and it had never caused her insides to quake.
One night could be amazing, or it could lead to life-plan-altering complications.
As much as she wanted him to jump down from the stage, capture her head and kiss her senseless again, what would it do to their work relationship? Had that kiss already changed their work relationship? Would she already be unable to look at him without imagining his hands in her hair and on her bare throat?
She loved her job. She also loved the money—which had enabled her to buy a little cottage of her very own in pricy Miami. Money had gotten her to the first goal on her list of what a responsible woman would do before having a child.
One kiss could be forgotten.
One night with Dante...wasn’t worth her future plans.
The very idea of losing her unconceived child opened a cavern inside her, refining her focus.
Right.
Remember the plan. Even knocking it off schedule was unacceptable, or would be as soon as she selected the best donor and worked out a schedule of some sort.
Who even knew how long or how many tries it might take to get pregnant once she’d found The One from her database?
Good decision.
While she gave herself a mental pep talk, her cell phone buzzed—another message from Jefferson, this time with an ETA.
* * *
Dante swung the door of his office closed a little harder than he meant to, knocking a jacket off the hooks on the door. He left it. Max usually spent his evenings on the floor, which suited Dante—it meant he could have solitude in the office they shared whenever Dante wanted.
Lise wasn’t there. She hadn’t waited, and he’d been so certain she would. Worse, as much as he’d fiddled with her phone earlier tonight, he hadn’t gotten her number.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d so misjudged someone. He’d given her exactly what she’d wanted, but she’d left anyway.
Had she left when Jefferson had finally decided to come groveling—something he felt confident he’d accomplished for her? He could check security