Again, he offered his hand. Her brain battled with curiosity, but it was her body that made the decision, and before she realized it, her hand slid over his rough palm. What kind of job did the man do? It was way more than pushing paper, that was for sure.
It was another question to add to her list as he pulled her onto the dance floor and took her in his arms. It didn’t take much to be overwhelmed by him. Taller by a head, his touch was light around her waist, but she’d never felt so possessed in her life, and she knew she was in deep trouble.
Chapter Ten
In the middleof the packed dance floor, Orla was in a protective cocoon as she swayed in the arms of this stranger. This Sam Ferguson. Being so close to him, she could smell his expensive cologne, a mixture of warm vanilla and leather with a hint of musk. Some men used scent as a statement imposing it on others, but not him. This cologne was like a spell, softly invading her nostrils until it was too late.
At a guess, she suspected it revealed much more of the man than it concealed. No surprise there, as men on the fringe of legality rarely outed their true self, something she’d learned through years of experience in dangerous situations. However, Orla sensed deeper layers in him. He wasn’t showing off his wealth or power like most of the men in this room, although it was obvious he was dangerous. It was something she could feel coursing over her skin where he held her hand, and where he touched her on the small of her back through the delicate fabric of her dress with the other. Only a man of intelligence and restraint would be able to do that, and, if she were right, it would make him the most dangerous person in this place.
“Are you always this lost in thought when you’re dancing with someone, Ms…?”
As if she was giving him her real name. “I don’t think you asked me to dance just to learn my name.”
His smile never wavered. “Are you the type of woman who underestimates herself so much you think a man wouldn’t be interested in her apart from her body?”
It was her turn to smirk. “I know so. As for my name, half the people here are probably not using their real ones. Sam Ferguson may not even beyourreal name. What is the point of giving you mine?”
A rumble of laughter shook him, transferring to her body as he tightened his hold on her and spun them. Her head was spinning a little when he steadied her again. “It is my real name. But maybe it doesn’t sound exotic enough, thus giving the impression of being fake.”
The more he talked, the more Orla heard a new sound in his words. So far, his English had been quite international, without any particular distinction, but now, not so much. It was then it clicked in her mind. “You’re Australian.”
The surprise on his face was genuine, so was a slight hesitation, although he quickly recovered. “You have the ear for it. It’s been a long time since I left my home and I traveled a lot, I believed it had disappeared. Although some of my colleagues tell me when I’m pissed off, the Aussie comes back with a vengeance.”
“And what pisses you off so much that you lose your composure, Mr. Ferguson?”
He seemed to ponder it for a second as he spun her and pulled her back in his arms. “Please, call me Sam. Nowadays, not much. I’m not an angry guy. Not anymore. If I had to guess something that would get to me, it would be a loss. I guess that would piss me off.”
More questions rose after his answer. Too many powerful men would’ve spoken about money or contracts, even lovers, confrontations, or treason. She’d expected him to be like most men. But loss? It had a deeper vibe that got closer to emotions. What hardships could he have experienced that would make him so philosophical with her?
For the longest time, he looked down at her, his amusement gone, replaced by uncommon intensity. His green eyes detailed her face, his head started to lower and for a second she thought he was about to kiss her, but instead, he stepped away.
Bereft, Orla almost lost her balance. There had been a connection, something she’d experienced only a few times. Something tickled deep inside her, and more importantly, in her brain. It was an annoyance she’d felt before, and she forced herself to crush it and focus on more important matters.
With his amused grin back in place, Sam took her hand and kissed her palm. It was intimate, way too much for a complete stranger, so why did her body relax so easily into his?
Without a word, Sam bowed and abandoned her among the couples whirling around and vanished in the crowd.
It was the hand of another man touching her that brought her back to herself and to the task at hand. “Hey, babe.”
It seemed that Damon had left the pink-haired lady after all. If Orla was honest, she’d lost track of time. For all she knew, they could have fucked ten times before he came back to her. Instead of engaging in a useless discussion, she took his hand and led him back toward the kitchen. From the laughter she heard behind her, the man probably thought he was about to get lucky.
Ignoring his chuckle, Orla pulled him through the first door she saw on the left and closed it behind them. In the dim light, she could see a few discarded chairs and strewn tablecloths. The door had a window, but the staff were too busy to peek in their direction, and Orla honestly didn’t care if they did. All she wanted was a quiet place to speak without being overheard.
However, before she could utter a single word, Damon plastered her against the only free wall and kissed her.
A kiss wasn’t the right word to describe how his lips descended on hers as if ready for a fight, licking, biting, and bruising. At that moment, Damon Evans exuded nothing but impatience and contained violence. Her brain misfired from the lust that had been building up inside her body after her dance with Sam. As Damon bruised her lips, it wasn’t the biker she saw behind her closed eyes, but laughing emerald eyes. Orla wondered how Sam’s lips would taste.
As she debated between quenching the lust that was messing with her brain and pushing him away, the biker began to tear at her light embroidered dress, quickly undoing the couple of buttons that held it together and tossing it away, leaving her wearing her 50s style golden bikini. Damon descended between her breasts like an animal. Her body responded, but something felt off. For a split second, she had to decide if what was unfolding should continue. She wanted to release, but Damon Evans, as handsome and willing as he was, wasn’t whom she wanted.
“Oh, sorry! I’m deeply sorry.” A young waitress dropped a box she was holding and instantly turned as red as a tomato.
It should have felt like an ice bucket being poured over her head, but this unexpected interruption was more of an eye-opener.
Damon cursed when he turned and saw she was buttoning her dress. “Come on, babe! I’m hard as a rock here.”
She might have laughed at him; instead she kissed his cheek. “And you also made me forget why I’m here. I think it would be better if we were talking with people, and with that waitress barging in on us, I think it’s time to leave. I’m going to grab a drink. Join me; I have a couple of questions for you.”
With him cursing behind her, Orla retied her dress and stepped out the door. With a quick look in a side mirror to make sure she was presentable, she reapplied lipstick, straightened her shoulders, and headed back into the ballroom.
