All Night Long. Melissa MacNeal
you can spend the rest of your evening—”
“Nice try, Priestess. Shall we sit over here for awhile?”
With an exasperated roll of her eyes, Lola traded her empty flute for another full one and allowed him to steer her toward a small table in the rear. Even after chugging bubbly, her spirits were deflating. Why was she feeling like a misfit at a middle school dance? So damn disappointed because the captain had snubbed her—when Cabana Boy here was trying his damnedest to show her a good time.
Sheesh, if she were with Dennis, he’d be schmoozing at the bar or working the room for new clients in this moneyed crowd, because dancing had never been his thing. Not even a simple slow dance like the one they were playing now—while Skandalis gazed haughtily into the enamored eyes of his third partner since he’d walked away from her.
Lola sighed forlornly. Instead of making her giddy, the booze was taking her down with the sheer exhaustion of this long, stressful day. Damn shame to be all tricked out but ready to bury herself in bed. Alone.
God, she wanted a cigarette. When she realized she was holding the stem of her empty champagne glass in the fork of her fingers, she shoved it away. Damn that Dennis! This was all his fault!
The orchestra struck up a sultry Latin introduction, and Lola could not watch Captain Skandalis faux-fornicate to another tango. “Look, I’ve got to use the little girls’—”
Damned if Aric didn’t stand up, like he planned on going with her!
And then a hand landed on her shoulder and a soft voice murmured, “May I have the honor of this dance, Lola mia? I requested this song just for you.”
Was she dreaming, or had every head swiveled at the raw longing in that voice? She turned to find Rio DeSilva smiling at her, within kissing distance, his Spanish eyes glowing golden-brown in the low light. He stuffed a folded bill into Aric’s pocket. And when her warden didn’t take the immediate hint, the security agent dismissed him with a pointed stare.
No dialog. No king-of-the-jungle guy games. Aric simply headed for the exit.
What was it about this man DeSilva? Oh, it didn’t hurt that his ivory tux and that black shirt with the tab collar rendered him fatally attractive…enough of a rebel bad-ass to make Lola suck in her breath as she returned his gaze. When those eyes wandered down to her lips, she licked them, wondering if her lipstick had held up through all that champagne.
His sigh sounded hungry.
Lola blinked, aware that Rio’s warm hand still rested on her shoulder, and that the orchestra had slithered into a seductive rendition of “Whatever Lola Wants.” Her mother used to ham up the lyrics of this song when she was a kid, acting like the spoiled princess she was…whatever Lola wants, Lola gets….
She smiled. Swallowed. The willowy black singer in strapless red sequins crooned the opening line into her mike—surely a blatant message to Captain Scandalous, who would not be dancing this one with her. Rio’s hand slipped down to the small of her back, and as he escorted her toward the dance floor, her pulse galloped.
This man was not her mother, nor was he hamming it up to humor her. Rio DeSilva knew exactly what Lola wanted, and he intended to give it to her. Maybe right here on the dance floor.
The brief flicker of that fantasy made her blink. Made her think, before she succumbed to the tang of booze on his breath—how would his tongue taste?—and the aroma of smoke that clung to his clothes.
“I—this is so romantic, that you requested this song for me,” she bleated, “but it’s been years since I learned to—”
“Give me thirty seconds in this dark corner, and the basic step pattern’s yours,” he said, effortlessly easing her out of the crowd and into tango position. “Give me another minute, and I’ll be yours, as well, Lola mia.”
Lola swallowed. It’s all she had the strength to do, once his seductive words sank in.
Wasn’t this the man who’d kept his distance earlier, saying he wouldn’t cross the captain’s line? Yet here he was, teaching her to tango in front of God and Skandalis and everyone.
“Gliiide…gliiiiide…step, step, step. Gliiiide…gliiiiide…”
How had she come to be pressed this close to him, thighs rubbing and hips flexing in rhythm? Her arm was dramatically thrust forward with his, and he was whispering the dance pattern as though telling her how he wanted her to make love to him. All the moves and nuances that would take him over the top.
And she was so damn ready to take him there.
“Gliiiide—gliiiiide—step, step, step,” he murmured again.
The singer’s castanets did a sexy click-click-click to that same beat, and Lola realized then that she was dancing, right there on the dance floor, without having to think about what came next, or having to coax her partner along like she’d done in ballroom dance class. Somehow DeSilva had step-step-stepped her onto the parquet floor, and—like an illusionist making magical things happen—the man with the tiger eyes had her dancing the tango on intuition.
The debonair Spaniard held her gently against his hip, his lead so smooth as to be invisible: just the merest pressure and pull of the warm hand that held hers. She caught a glimpse of the captain, who’d paused on the sideline to watch them.
Lola straightened to flaunt herself, her head held high and proud—like she’d seen in the movies. Rio’s grin flashed his approval: his eyes narrowed seductively, which cast the rest of his bronzed face into a mask of sheer seduction.
Gliiiide—gliiiiide—step, step, turn.
Without a hitch they negotiated the edge of the floor and insinuated themselves between other couples caught up in the passion of the dance.
Lola caught a whiff of brandy and fine tobacco, manly scents that increased his mystique and had her inhaling deeply: feeding her need for nicotine, yet firing her desire for something much more addictive. Rio Benito DeSilva was now a very seductive puzzle she longed to solve, slowly. Naked.
The music slowed to a dramatic halt, and as though he’d done it a hundred times, the Spaniard tipped her backwards into a dip that had her holding her breath. His face was mere inches above hers and the kiss on his lips had her name on it.
“Lola,” he breathed.
As though on cue, the ballroom lights went down. How long would he hold her this way? How long could her leg bear her weight?
And yet, she felt no concern. Rio held her firmly against him as time stood still. There was only the silent shimmer of the mirror ball sending its sequins through the room, and those lips inching so, so close she could feel the warmth of his breath.
A vein fluttered above his collar.
Lola stretched to kiss the smooth skin between its rounded black tabs; to feel the beat of his pulse against her lips.
The soft strains of a rhumba brought her upright—through no effort of her own—and Rio led her into the secretive sway of impassioned prey and predator, circling…seducing. Step-step, pause…step-step, pause.
Somehow her feet followed the beat. Somehow her body followed his lead, for Lola’s mind was too swept away to be of any assistance.
Were people really standing along the sideline, watching them? Did she look as perfect with Rio as this felt? It was a heady sensation, to merely let go and let this man take control of her with the power of those eyes. Eyes focused only on her.
And yet, Rio’s gaze wasn’t domineering or arrogant, like someone else’s she knew—some Greek guy whose name escaped her now.
Around each other they went, circling and swaying. Her fingertips remained lightly against his palms so he could have his way—so Rio could lead her into another step pattern without saying a word. Why and how their bodies brushed and then parted, Lola didn’t know. There was only the throb of the bass pulse and the whisper