A Taste of Heaven (Billionaires' Secrets Book 3) Read Free

dance became more intense as he pulled her closer, whipped her out and then drew her back in. A drummer had joined the guitarist on stage and the hypnotic, pounding rhythm of palms on bongos pulsed through her until her feet took on a life of their own.
    She found herself moving faster, deeper, throwing herself into the dance. She drew air deep into her lungs as she whirled through the air, and came back to rest against his hard body. Somehow everything was effortless, flowing, and she found herself losing track of which part of the room they were in.
    The drumming grew louder, then faded away, the clinking of glasses blended with the rhythmic strumming of the guitar, until the whole atmosphere seemed to throb, to breathe, in and out, round and round.
    Sam laughed aloud with sheer delight. When the music stopped with a flourish, she fell into her partner’s arms. “That was fantastic.”
    “You’re an incredible dancer.”
    “I’m a very rusty dancer, but you’re onto something with that breathing.”
    “In and out, that’s all it takes.”
    “It’s funny how we forget the little things that are most important.”
    He made another hand signal to the guitarist, who launched into a slow song with cascades of rippling notes. Sam let her body sway instinctively to the seductive sound.
    The club’s interior was warm and she could feel her skin—glowing, to put it delicately, but she wasn’t embarrassed.
    Her partner’s reassuring gaze rested on her eyes, not probing or poking about the rest of her the way so many men did.
    Without even thinking, she inhaled deeply and blew it out, and enjoyed the smile that stretched across his handsome face.
    I don’t know his name.
    How odd. To be dancing with someone and have no idea who he was. She knew he owned the bar, so he had an identity, but without a name he wasn’t quite...real.
    Should she ask?
    She blinked, strangely reluctant. A name seemed so formal, like a passport or driver’s license that gave you official status. She didn’t want to tell him that she was Samantha Hardcastle. Her name and picture might not ring any bells down here in New Orleans, but in New York they’d been plastered over the papers for months.
    The Merry Widow, with her much older husband’s billions now at her disposal. Like she’d won or something.
    Bile rose in her gut. She didn’t want this man to know anything about that. To form preconceptions about her as a golddigging tramp who married a rich man for his money.
    “Hey, you okay?” His hand slid around her back.
    She realized her breathing had grown shallow again. She swallowed. “Sure, I’m fine. Sorry!” She drew in a deep and deliberate breath for his benefit, and they both chuckled as she blew it out.
    The guitarist, joined by a saxophonist, as well as the drummer, launched into a swinging, bluesy number. His eyes were closed and his head bobbed in time with the music as if he were captivated by its spell.
    Sam let that spell guide her feet as they danced without touching, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. Sensual and muscular in his movements, her partner moved with effortless ease.
    Maybe it was the sips of champagne, but Sam felt strangely weightless, like all her cares and worries had drifted up to the ornate tin ceiling and hovered there, leaving her free and light.
    “Were you a professional dancer?” His breath warmed her neck as he leaned in.
    She colored slightly. “I competed a few times. Does my dancing look too artificial?”
    He shook his head, his smile reassuring. “Not artificial, just polished, like the rest of you.”
    She resisted the urge to glance down. She couldn’t deny being polished. As Tarrant’s wife, it had been her job. Her hours in between social lunches and dinners were filled with appointments to get her nails done or her hair trimmed.
    She was so used to being buffed to a high shine that she had no idea what she’d look like without the carefully highlighted hair and couture