The band plays on and I look over to see Lisa and her husband twirling around the dance floor having a good time. Crystal is at the bar talking with a gentleman I have never seen before, and I hope they are hitting it off. She deserves to meet a nice guy.
I continue to look around the room when my eyes stop at the entrance and a man who is so beautiful it takes my breath away.
Alexander Asher walks into the room looking fierce and determined. All six feet of him are standing tall, and he’s positively gorgeous in a black-on-black tuxedo fitted at the waist, showcasing the incredible body underneath. A white shirt and black bow tie outline his masculine neck and square jaw, while his golden highlights twinkle in the mood lighting of the room and his bronzed skin looks like silk. Strong thighs, broad shoulders and a chest that was created by God to model a double-breasted suit . . . oh, my.
The band is currently playing a Brian Setzer tune, but I can only hear Beethoven’s Eroica playing in my head. It’s a structurally rigorous composition of great emotional depth, just like the man who inspired the song to play in my head.
He looks around the room, taking in the event. A man approaches him and shakes his hand. While they talk, Asher’s eyes continue to roam. Another man comes up to him and he carries on a conversation with him, as well. In between words, his eyes still look about the gala . . . searching . . . for something.
It is when those golden eyes find mine and the full, luscious lips curve up slightly that I realize what he was looking for.
Me.
Asher courteously excuses himself from the men he is chatting with and walks toward where I’m standing with my feet frozen on the black and white tiles on the floor. I wait for him like I am the bulls eye about to be struck by an arrow. When he approaches, he stands in front of me looking directly into my eyes. Taking a moment, he gives me an adorable half grin and extends his hand.
“Hello. My name is Alexander.”
I place my palm in his and quiver at the memory of what it feels like to have these hands on my body.
“Emma Paige,” I say, shyly. I laugh inwardly at our little exchange.
Asher releases our hands, our palms skimming as they pass, our fingers lingering just a little too long. He raises his left hand lacing his fingers through my hair and curls a strand behind my ear. “You changed your hair.”
I nod and blush at the fact he noticed. My head wants to fall into his hand, but I keep it upright.
“You look beautiful,” he says, his voice smooth like caramel.
I accept his compliment and offer him one in return. “You look very handsome, yourself.”
And, by God, he does.
“I’ve missed you.”
I wasn’t expecting him to say that, so I don’t know what to say in return. We are a ball of electricity, the two of us, standing here in the middle of a crowded reception surrounded by hundreds of people yet feeling like we are the only two in the room. He looks down at me and takes a small step forward and speaks in my ear, his words almost a whisper. “Dance with me.”
My hand instantly finds his as I allow him to walk me over to the dance floor. The band is playing a slow melody, the lead singer now crooning to an Adele ballad. His right arm snakes around my waist and pulls me in tightly. His left hand encloses my right, delicately, as if he might reinjure it if he’s too rough.
He pulls our hands into his chest. His eyes on me as we dance.
I follow his lead, dancing slowly, but with rhythm and purpose. Being this close to him again, it triggers every feeling I have for him. From the moment I fell in love with him in Italy to the day he shattered me into a million pieces.
Walking hand in hand through the streets of Capri I got to know him. On a boat in the middle of the ocean I let him into my heart. Playing the strings of a cello I fell so deep for him I have been trying to claw my way back to the top ever since.
Looking up at him, flecks of brown dance in his honey-wheat eyes. My tongue absentmindedly skims my lower lip and his pupils dilate.
“I have been dreaming of this.”
I blink back at him, unsure of his meaning. “You dream of dancing with me?”
“I dream of holding you.”
His strong hand places pressure on my back, pulling me in tighter so we are virtually melded together. His other hand raises mine and his lips skim my scar. He is so beautiful and his words are equally as gorgeous . . . but they are just words. And he is just a man.
“Asher—”
“Alexander.”
“What are you doing?”
