Dante's Shock Proposal. Amalie Berlin
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to dance like she wasn’t the offspring of an ostrich and a three-legged goat.
Ignore the tide-like sensations rushing up her arms and over her body from having his hands on her.
No problem.
“I did. And it’s new,” she admitted, and, as she’d done, he focused his attention on her mouth as she spoke. “I’ve been thinking of these dates as a kind of last hurrah before motherhood. Because I never really go out. Or date—mostly because it’s just way too much trouble. But I thought maybe if Jefferson played his cards right and wasn’t...”
“Ugly?”
Lise winced, but nodded.
She should definitely stop talking. If she talked, the truth would come out. If she just didn’t say anything, that wasn’t lying, even if it was a slippery-slope sort of deception.
Also, she should stop licking her lips.
No matter that recognizing her before had put a damper on his wolfish expression, Dante seemed to have changed his mind. He looked at her mouth longer than she spoke, but his brows had come down in a completely different fashion, sex-laced anticipation darkening his eyes.
She felt her ankle wobble and released his hand to throw both arms around his shoulders, holding tighter to him. The wobbly ankle added one more thing for her to concentrate on than her frazzled brain could handle.
If she wanted—and if she could rationalize hooking up with him in any way that could be considered safe or sane—Dante would be her last hurrah.
A last hurrah of epic proportions. He might even come with mojitos.
Dante didn’t say anything, he just pulled her a little closer so that his mouth was at her ear and she could feel the slight stubble on his cheek as he sang the Spanish lyrics softly along with the music.
The shivers his song brought rushing forth across her skin made his arms pull tighter, though he leaned back enough to look into her eyes again.
“You should let me take a picture of you then text it back to him. Make him suffer for his bad decision.”
And he wanted her, too. This was actually happening. Dr. Dante Valentino wanted her, even after he’d worked out who she was. Two years of nothing but business between them at the hospital, then they meet once outside the hospital...
Why was he still talking about Jefferson?
“You think that’ll make him suffer? For all we know, he snuck in, got one look at me, and left in a hurry.”
“He didn’t,” Dante said, still holding her close, though he’d stopped steering her around and they now swayed in one place at the edge of the stage, out of the way.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. He’s straight, and if he’d seen you tonight... Trust me.”
Trust him. As if that were the easiest thing in the world. Trust the sexy man who led a double life.
On the other hand, what harm could a picture do? Maybe Jefferson wouldn’t suffer, but he might feel slightly guilty to see that she’d gotten dressed up and waited for him in a nightclub by herself for so long before he actually called it off. Teach him a lesson for the next woman he got fixed up with.
“Okay,” Lise said, pulling back to get her phone from her bag. “But make me look good. Maybe there’s some kind of sexy filter we can use.”
While she pulled the purse off and hung it properly on her shoulder, he stepped back in to murmur something unbearably sexy in her ear. Warm. Playful. And entirely too Spanish for her to understand at all.
Even after three years in Miami, all she’d managed to understand was querida.
But it was enough.
A moment later he’d had her posed under the lights and taken a snap. Before she could even see it, he’d sent the picture to Jefferson.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
He handed the phone back. “It’s better to say nothing. Then all he’ll have is a bunch of questions, and that will make him suffer worse.”
She righted her bag and stashed her phone, then found herself back in his arms as a faster song started.
He pulled in close, that sexy mouth and fantastically gravelly voice still singing by her ear. Pressure at her side had her spinning and he stepped in until she felt him against her back, his hands landing on her hips.
This couldn’t be the same man.
She looked over her shoulder and saw Dr. Valentino, but in nearly every respect he was someone else with only tiny flashes of the man she knew peeking through—like when he did whatever he wanted and expected people to keep up or catch up.
Catch up was all she could attempt. “Is this a salsa?”
“No.” His voice came warm at her ear. “It’s a bachata. Simple moves. Hips, feet. Easier. Step-step-step-tap. Exaggerate the hips with the steps.”
Seduced by dancing. That’s what this was. She could spot the symptoms, name them, and couldn’t bring herself to give a damn.
Strong hands on her hips led her through the steps, the pressure of him at her back steering her as sure as he’d done when facing her, but in this position she could get a lot closer—feel the heated length of him. His thighs brushed the backs of hers, his chest moved against her back. And her bottom...
When her body seemed to have learned the dance, he spun her back to face him and said nothing at all, though the looks he gave her brought back that surge of bold, powerful sexiness she felt.
Heady and fueled by mojitos and bad decision-making, Lise stepped in before the dance was over—breaking step—and leaned up to press her lips to the corner of his mouth. Even side on, he stopped dancing.
He stopped everything.
And he didn’t kiss her back.
MISTAKE?
Mistake!
Lise broke her half-brave half-kiss and stepped back so swiftly that Dante’s arms broke loose from her waist.
“I’m sorry.” She touched her mouth, remembered her lipstick, looked at his mouth, and then reached up to start smudging it off as best she could. “That was bad of me. I mean, five minutes ago we were fighting.”
Rubbing someone’s mouth was almost as personal as kissing them.
Right.
She snatched her hand back. “Really, I’m sorry. I’m going to...”
Die.
She pointed back at the table and gave up saying words. A pivot and she hurried off in that direction.
“Stop! Why are you so jumpy?” He caught up to her in two strides and slung an arm around her waist again, then took the closest hand as well. “You have nothing to apologize for.”
“You didn’t kiss me back.”
“They were signaling me from the stage. Snuck past while we were dancing. There’s nothing I’d like to do more than dance with you and kiss the jumpiness out of you. Don’t apologize for anything but your aim.”
They’d reached the table and he turned her into the chair and scooted it in for her. But when she thought he was going to leave, she felt his hand fist in the back of her hair, heat and awareness spiked her chest. He tugged her head backwards over the chair, arching her neck until she looked straight up at him, the action so sudden, so unexpected, and her rum buzz left her speechless. All she could do was stare up at him. She could feel the pulse in