Page 6 of Wrong Pawn. Right Capo.

His eyes…. God…I can’t see the exact color, but I know they’re dark, pinning me in place like I’m some prey he’s been hunting for.

Something in my stomach flips.

I turn away from him, gulping the rest of my drink. Looking for another, I turn to move deeper into the crowd, but my heel catches on the hem of my dress.

The sudden yank jerks me off balance. I gasp, stumbling forward and slamming into something solid.

No…someone solid.

A strong arm catches me by the waist, fingers splaying wide over my lower back, steady enough to stop my fall completely. My palms slap against a broad, unyielding chest, heat radiating straight through the expensive fabric.

For two traitorous seconds, I forget to be angry.

My body reacts before my mind catches up, hips pressing instinctively closer, breath hitching as everything about him hits me at once.

The smell hits first. Tobacco, with the luxurious fragrance of sandalwood underneath it. He reeks of control. My pulse stutters as my torso molds to his without permission, thighs tightening reflexively.

What the fuck, Elena!

He clears his throat, knocking me out of my reverie. Thankfully, he can’t see my face imitate the color of a ripening tomato under this mask. Straightening, I rearrange my dress in quick, jerky movements.

“Thank you,” I say, my lips curling up in a smile that fades almost immediately because he simply turns around and swaggers away.

Godforsaken asshole.

I snatch a fresh glass from a passing waiter’s tray and down the drink, letting the sharp burn slide down my throat. The music swells, heavier now, and when someone settles a hand on my hip, I don’t immediately pull away.

We sway to the rhythm of the beat until his fingers creep lower, fisting my ass through my dress. I stiffen and peel his hand away, shaking my head.

He laughs directly in my ear and does it again. The fucker’s obviously drunk. Before I can react, a shadow looms over us. I don’t see the stranger at first, but the scent of sandalwood hits me right before a firm hand clamps down on the man’s wrist mid-motion.

The grip is brutal and unyielding.

The man gasps, buckling slightly. “Hey…what the hell do you want, man?”

He gives no reply, just a slow tilt of a head. A silent command for him to walk away. When the drunk guy doesn’t respond immediately, the pressure increases.

The drunk man winces, yanks back, and scrambles away into the crowd without another word. I’m left standing there before the stranger who just saved me, pulse racing, stomach tight.

“Thank you,” I say quickly, words tumbling out. “Apparently I have one of those faces people think means yes when it really means no. God, I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

He doesn’t say a word. Instead, his hands rest on my hips, swaying me gently to the music.

I swallow. Heat curls low in my belly. “You don’t look like much of a dancer,” I continue, glancing at him, “but…you dance well.”

I can barely make out his expression, but the scorching heat that engulfs my body tells me what his eyes are assessing.

“I don’t look like a lot of things,” he rumbles after a moment of silence. And now the only thing I can focus on is how rough and buttery his voice sounds. Fuck, I just know he’ll talk me through sex.

Wait. No. No sex.

“Then what do you look like?” I ask, cutting off my presumptuous thoughts. It’s just a dance, nothing more.

He doesn’t respond; instead, he turns me around in a twirl. I’m out of breath by the time I’ve circled back into his arms, my heart pounding harder. There’s still no response, and for God knows why, there’s an urge to fill the silence.

“Do you always rescue strangers?”

His lips curve into a half smile. My skin flushes as his body crowds mine, his breath warm at my ear, pulling me closer.