Private Dancer Read Free Page B

answer to his change in attitude. Was he still aroused too? And maybe a little shaken by the force of it? The thought sparked a shower of sensations that strained Bev’s already overworked nerves.
    “I like this song,” she commented, unable to clear the telltale throatiness from her voice. The ice had long ago melted into a warm slush on the barroom floor.
    “I like dancing to this song,” he said. “With you.”
    His leg brushed hers and the accidental contact sent a shock wave of expectation through Bev’s entire body.
    Suddenly she was aware of his hand at the slope of her spine, of its heat and subtle guiding pressure. Her senses heightened with every brush of their bodies. She inhaled deeply, trying to clear her head, and breathed in his scent, rich with aged leather and the tangy, yeasty fragrance of beer.
    There was an undeniable thrill in being close to such a man, even if she was loathe to admit it. A woman— his woman—would never know what to expect.
    Bev was also aware of the music that throbbed from the jukebox, romantic and a little sad. She was a sucker for sad love songs. They plucked at her heartstrings and forced her to acknowledge the sweetness that was missing from her life. The ordeal of her five-year marriage had eroded her confidence and chipped away at her sense of identity, until sometimes she wondered if she would ever feel like a whole woman again.
    And yet now, with the melancholy ballad swirling around them, Bev could feel the faint yearnings of womanhood stirring. She’d almost forgotten what it was like to be in a man’s arms. It surprised her that the need to be close, to be touched by a man, was still there, still strong. She certainly didn’t want to be manhandled again, but for some crazy reason she did want to be held. She wanted to feel a man’s strength and sheltering warmth. Just for a moment.
    She squeezed his hand without realizing she was doing it.
    The answering pressure she felt startled her.
    Their dancing slowed to a stop, although Bev’s heart began to race. He held her without moving, as though he were waiting for something. “Why won’t you look at me?” he asked.
    Bev looked up instantly, knowing that any hesitation would put her at a disadvantage. She saw her own reflection in his dark glasses and felt hopelessly exposed. Could he see the fear lurking in her eyes? Could he see the fascination? Did he know that she was hypnotically drawn to what he represented? Thrills. Reckless thrills.
    He knew. He could see it all, the fear, the erotic flashes of excitement. She was a woman primed for a night of dangerous love. She wanted that lacy blouse taken off her, even if she didn’t know it herself. He wasn’t sure what attracted him more, her obvious inexperience, or her need to disprove it. But he was attracted. Then again, maybe it was her eyes that had him hooked. A man could climb into those eyes and never find his way out. A man could forget he’d sworn off women like her.
    He smiled and curved his hand to her hip, his fingers drifting over the sudden tension in her buttock. “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “or why you’re here, but I want to dance with you again. Now, privately .”

Two
    “P RIVATELY ?” bev said. “I guess you mean—”
    He nodded slowly.
    There was no doubt what he meant. So why was she nodding and smiling weakly when she should have been racking her brain for excuses? She felt as though she’d just hit a wall of sensuality head-on—and she wasn’t handling the collision any better than Elayne Greenaway had.
    Now she understood what Mrs. Greenaway wanted with him. He was the kind of man who made a woman drunk with expectation. Erotic expectation. Everything about him, the leather jacket, the Ray Bans, even the scar that rode his jaw, spoke of smoldering encounters in the dark. Sexually speaking, he was a trapeze act without a net, far too great a risk for the Bev Brewsters of the world.
    “Upstairs,” he said