He tilted his glass toward me again. “To getting along.”
I met his toast, the crystal chime soft and sweet. Then for a moment—just a heartbeat—I forgot why I was really there.
Roman’s gaze caught mine over the rim of his glass, hooded and heavy with heat. The air between us shifted, less conversation now, more electricity, like the moment before a storm when everything stills. He set his drink down, his fingertips resting on the glass as if the gesture itself was calculated.
“So tell me, Kara-with-a-K,” he murmured, “what does a woman like you want out of a night like this?”
I leaned in, crossing one leg over the other, the lace of my dress whispering against my skin. “Maybe I haven’t decided yet,” I said. “What about you?”
He smiled faintly. “I think I just did.”
My pulse stuttered in my throat. I told myself it was strategy, that I was only reading him, studying his tone, mapping the rhythm of his control, that this was just a job, but the warmth in my chest betrayed me.
“Careful,” I said lightly. “You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough.” His fingers brushed the stem of his glass, not looking away. “You walk like someone who doesn’t wait for permission. You smile like you’re used to getting what you want, and you watch people the way men like me watch the stock markets.”
“That sounds a lot like flattery.”
“It’s simply a little bit of analysis.”
I laughed quietly. “Is that what you do for fun? Analyze women in bars?”
“No,” he said. “Usually, I’m the one being analyzed. Tonight’s a pleasant change.”
I tilted my head, studying him openly now. “You handle being watched very well,” I said.
He smiled at that, his eyes twinkling just the slightest bit. “Comes with practice.”
“I imagine you get a lot of it.”
“Not from anyone worth my time,” he replied. Then more softly, “Until now.”
The words hit me harder than they should have. He was too smooth, too good at this, and I was supposed to be better than to fall for it. And yet I stayed seated, my body leaning slightly toward him as if I was actually interested.
He reached for the bottle and topped off both our glasses. “Tell me something true,” he said.
“Truth is overrated.”
“Humor me.”
I thought for a moment, then said, “All right. I like control.”
His brows lifted just slightly. “In everything?”
“Almost everything,” I answered smoothly. “Sometimes, though, it’s more interesting to give it away.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound dark and rich. “That,” he declared, “was averyrisky thing to admit.”
“I like risky.”
He leaned forward again, voice dropping to a murmur. “Then we understand each other.”
The music changed again, this time to a slower song. He stood, offered his hand. “Dance with me.”
“I don’t dance with strangers.”
“Then get to know me.”
