Slave to the Rhythm by Jane Harvey-Berrick Page A

he swung his hips randomly, completely out of time to the music. Cute, though.
    Then I saw a man who captured my attention utterly.
    He was easily the best looking guy in the room, although not the tallest or the most built. But he danced with an easy elegance that made him seem a thoroughbred among carthorses.
    My God! That guy can move!
    I was surprised when I saw his partner: a short, plump woman who was red in the face and gasping for air. It was hard to imagine them as a couple—even harder to imagine that the sexy guy had picked her up. Although they definitely weren’t dancing like brother and sister. Or mother and son. My smile disappeared because only one answer was left.
    He must be one of those men I’d read about, a gigolo in all but name. It was a depressing thought.
    I watched as the woman stopped dancing, clearly out of breath as well as out of her league, and definitely ready to call it quits. Her eyes darted away from her partner as if trying to find an escape.
    When the man grabbed her arm, it was several seconds before he released her, reluctantly backing away. I realized that I’d been holding my breath as I watched the small drama unfold.
    I inhaled deeply, still curious about what the man would do next.
    He ran his hands over his hair as he searched around the room, his eyes ticking off the women he saw, some internal checklist that remained hidden to all but him.
    But then his gaze flickered to me, and a wide smile stretched his full lips. He stalked forward and I automatically pressed myself backward in the chair, defensively crossing my arms.
    “Hi, I’m Ash. Are you by yourself?”
    I gave him a polite smile.
    “No. I’m here with my friends.”
    “I don’t see them.” He paused, his full intensity fixed on me. “Would you like to dance?”
    He held his hand toward me and my eyes opened wide. Was he expecting to swing me around in my chair? Did he think I was that desperate?
    I laughed at his nerve.
    “No, I’m not dancing.”
    He frowned, his hand still suspended between us. “But you like to dance?”
    I stared, my gaze sinking into his, puzzled, annoyed. He hadn’t seen the chair?
    Isn’t this what you wanted? I asked myself. A man who sees me and not the chair?
    My expression softened as I met his intense dark eyes.
    “What makes you think I like to dance?”
    His hand fell to his side and he shrugged again.
    “You’re in a nightclub, and you’re not drinking. So you must be here to dance. Please, dance with me.”
    I sighed with disappointment. Even if he was good looking, the guy couldn’t take a hint. I’d made it clear that I wasn’t dancing.
    He held out his hand again, but I shook my head impatiently. “Then go find someone who will dance with you.”
    His eyes widened in surprise, and then he grinned as he leaned on the table, his face inches from mine. “Maybe I want to dance with you.”
    “Then you’ll be waiting a long time,” I laughed coldly.
    But I couldn’t help my traitorous eyes tracking over his too handsome face. Golden skin stretched across sharp cheekbones, and his lips looked soft and generous. His black eyebrows were arched over dark eyes. And then I noticed a beauty spot shaped like a teardrop beneath his left eye—a perfect imperfection.
    “I’m a good dancer,” he said, looking almost wounded at my continued refusal.
    My anger snapped. Tiredness, my fight with Collin, and frustration at the damned wheelchair taking away this weekend that meant so much.
    “I’m not dancing!”
    “But everyone comes here to dance.”
    “Not me!”
    “You’ll have a good time.”
    “I don’t doubt it,” I sneered. “Your last friend seemed to enjoy herself immensely.”
    A dull red flooded his cheeks and he looked away.
    His reaction surprised me. I’d hurt his feelings.
    Then I felt guilty taking out my bitterness on him, but dammit! Why wouldn’t he leave me alone?
    “Maybe I’d like to dance with a pretty girl for a change,” he said