“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 to 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.
My preposterous counteroffer demands a salary that rivals that of a tenured surgeon. It also includes other requirements, such as a wardrobe budget, private dressing room, retirement contribution, health care, paid vacation, and free alcohol at the casino bars. The health insurance would be nice since I haven’t had medical coverage since college, but I don’t give a fuck about the rest of it.
With slow exacting movements, he folds the paper and tucks it into the interior pocket of his suit. Then he rests his hands on the guard rail behind him, crosses one shiny shoe over the other, and meets my eyes.
His expression is firm, leaning toward unkind, but there’s a hint of deviousness deep in the brackets around his scowl. I can’t decide if he’s going to kiss me or say something hateful.
It’s curious how he always tilts that strong chin downward, a mannerism that forces him to look up. Since he’s so tall, maybe bowing his head is a matter of practicality. Or maybe it’s deliberate because he knows that upward glare appears darker and more intimidating beneath the brooding mantle of his brow.
I wish he wasn’t so damn attractive or that I wasn’t so enthralled with his severe personality. Because as I wait for him to push the button that will send me back to the lobby and out of his life, part of me regrets sabotaging this opportunity. I need the job, but more than that, I need someone with his impenetrable resolve in my life. A partner who will challenge me. A man who will stand up to me. A lover who will inspire me out of my celibate funk.
It’s not that I’m good at reading people. I’m not. But there’s a subtle air about Trace Savoy, one he tries to stifle. On the surface, he’s too cavalier. Too arrogant and apathetic. It’s a facade. Beneath that callous shell lurks an interested, impassioned, sexual man. I’ve glimpsed it in the creases of his expression, in his heated words, and in the caress of his touch on my face. I want more of it. I need to know if there’s something between us, something that could grow and stretch and take flight.
I search his beautiful face, looking for clues to what he’s thinking and find nothing. “You’re toying with me.”
“Your counteroffer suggests…” He pushes off the wall and in two strides, he puts his face in mine with his hands on the guard rail behind me. “You are toying with me.”
He’s deliberately crowding me. My head doesn’t even reach the knot on his tie, so I have to angle my neck way back to meet his gaze. It’s a position meant to make me feel smaller, more vulnerable. Little does he know, he can’t hurt me. I’ve been hurt—a hurt so mortally, inconsolably excruciating there’s nothing left in me to break.
The elevator dings, and the doors open. He doesn’t move.
And that glare. That hostile, infuriating, sexy goddamn glare makes my thighs clench and my skin heat.
“Maybe I am toying with you.” I want to feel the curve of his scowl, so I give into the indulgence and stroke a finger across his full bottom lip. “What are you going to do about it, Mr. Savoy?”
He flashes me a scathing smile that isn’t a smile at all as it sends chills from my tailbone to my neck. “I’m going to accept your demands.”
Chapter Six
PRESENT
“Accept my demands?” I chase Trace out of the elevator and through the unlit lobby on the 30th floor. “Are you serious?”
His gait is driven and focused as he passes a small sitting area, swerves around a steel reception desk, and vanishes into a dark corridor.
I slam to a halt in the empty lobby, reeling from shock and confusion. Should I leave? Instinct urges me to return to the elevator, because no one in their right mind offers a belly dancer that kind of money, let alone all the benefits I outlined. Did he even read the counteroffer?
Turning toward the window beside a leather couch, I lower onto the cushion and face the glass. In the distance, the St. Louis Arch rises over the banks of the Mississippi River, its curved silver shape like a handle on the twinkling metropolis. Buildings of various heights spread out around it, and among those structures is Gateway Shelter. With its seventy-five beds already occupied, they’ll be turning away homeless people for the rest of the night.
I can’t stop thinking about that as I stare out the window and analyze my feelings. I donate every extra penny to the shelter, which isn’t much. But if I accept this job, if Trace is serious about meeting my ridiculous salary requirements, my God, I could help the shelter expand, add more beds, healthier food, softer blankets. Oh, the possibilities!
I’m getting ahead of myself. Trace is up to something, and it can’t be good.
Would a belly dancer increase the revenue in his casino? Maybe. I saw the crowd gathering downstairs, and that was without my costumes or the fine-dining services he intends to provide.
Am I the best belly dancer in St. Louis? For sure. But he could find a better dancer outside of the city and pay her just enough to relocate.
That leaves me with one conclusion.
He wants me, and his interest is personal.
“Danni!” he bellows from somewhere down the hall. “I’m waiting!”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. If I take this job, I’ll have to train him. The Marlo Vogt’s of the world might jump at his grunting, barking, glowering bullshit, but I work for myself and cower to no one.