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At least she hadn’t wasted her four years at Juilliard.

Her lips curled in the appropriate half smile, Lynn kept her shoulders soft and her eyes sparkling. Yes, she loved the idea of fusing classical ballet with a contemporary story. Yes, this was truly an opportunity to be on the cutting edge of her profession and her art, a perfect comeback vehicle for a ballerina of her reputation.

Thinking of six solo duets, she squelched a sudden, vicious need for chocolate and sipped her Perrier under Dominic’s watchful and guileless eyes. The brilliant and sought-after choreographer was cataloguing every move she made.

“Each one will be a story arc of strength and characterization of ‘a modern woman’.” Dominic used his hands in air quotes then gulped another swallow of his cognac. The tiny diamond on his pinky winked at her in the dim intimate light of the bar. “Lovers and enemies, friends, foes. I have the main steps outlined, but you know how it goes.”

“Of course.” Lynn kept smiling while relief threatened to melt her. The contracts had been signed; she was the prima for the Pas De Deux production. After nearly two years of recovery, she would be back onstage, and all the sacrifices wouldn’t be for nothing.

“You do know Pavel Zolotov signed on.”

She kept her smile firm even if every nerve inside in her body stiffened. “It will be good to see him.”

“I’m counting on it.” Shrewd grey eyes watched for even the smallest signal of disgust.

Lynn took another fortifying sip of water and wished like hell for chocolate. Zolotov had broken her heart as publicly as possible, using her naïveté to elevate his own exposure. And started her tradition of pre-rehearsal one-night stands.

“Darling, if it’s a problem—”

She peeled her lips back in a wider smile. “That was what, seven, eight years ago?” She tried a charming, elegant shrug. “We’re both professionals.”

“We’ll start off slow.” Dominic drank his cognac with flair. “I figure—” He stopped mid word, raised his eyebrows at something over her left shoulder. “Helloooow there.”

Curiosity beat down manners, but when Lynn turned she didn’t see what he was looking at.

“Tall and dark and Puerto Rican walking into—of all the joints—this bar. A bodyguard, excuse me, ‘security specialist’.” Dom’s diamond sparkled with another set of air quotes. “Mateo something. I met him at a party when that opera diva was in town.” He leaned closer to whisper. “When a man looks like that—” His hand fluttered dramatically over his chest. “Just like Whitney and a hot Latin Kevin Costner.”

She snorted, couldn’t help it. A glance up at the mirrored ceiling showed the Latin Kevin Costner hunched over a drink sitting in a booth just behind her.

“What was I saying?” With occasional glances over her shoulder, Dominic pushed away his empty glass. “I’m just thrilled with this. Just flying. The cast is too—I got a guy pushing off retiring. Simon Powell—you know him?”

Under the rapid-fire words, Lynn nodded. “He was a pretty big deal in New York.” And had always been unfailingly kind to her amidst the curious glances and the half-hidden whispers. In the incestuous world of ballet, he had appointed himself a type of older brother, encouraging her when she was ready to end everything, silently sitting with her while she tore up newspapers and cried.

“You don’t stay a big deal when you start pooh-poohing the parts.” A short and dismissive shrug. “He’s perfect though. We’ll start off slow and build. You’ve settled in?”

She’d moved yesterday into a luxury efficiency with rented furniture and bars over the windows. Her fault for waiting till the last possible minute to get a place.

She just nodded and kept her perfect posture until Dom ran off with a light airy kiss over her cheek—as if he was afraid anything else would sully her perfection. Ironic, since tomorrow he would choreograph multiple seductions with her in the starring role.

When she was sure Dom had left, Lynn let herself slouch in the rich dark leather of the booth and pulled the pins out of her hair. Relief and dread spilled over taut nerves.

Pavel or no Pavel, the contract was already signed. Just because she’d been a naïve idiot when she was barely twenty was no reason to let her family’s sacrifices go to waste.

Giving in to the craving for something sweet and rich, she ordered a chocolatini. Waiting for it, she looked up at the mirror image of herself—wild honey curls, loose sloppy posture, elegant wool dress minimizing breasts a touch too large.

She figured with two hours of class and eight more sweating in rehearsals, she’d drop plenty of weight. Which meant she could allow herself at least a drink to celebrate.

When it finally came, Lynn toasted herself, letting the rich taste curl softly in her belly. A good drink and a one-night stand. A pre-rehearsal staple for the past seven years.

The Latin Kevin Costner was still brooding over his glass in a booth behind her, his hair dark and curly, his exposed forearms taut and sprinkled with crisp hair. And when he suddenly looked up to meet her gaze, his eyes as dark as midnight, she knew he was the one for the first duet.

Sliding her fingers through her hair to tousle up her curls, she gulped down liquid courage and stood up. “Drinking alone?”

Time hummed while those onyx eyes skimmed over her. “Not if you join me.” The rough husk of his voice caressed her skin with subtle shivers.

Keeping her smile firmly in place, Lynn slid into the booth opposite him. This was the awkward stage—the casual attempt at small talk.

“I’m Lynn.” Short sweet and without baggage.

“I’m bad company.” He lifted up a long blunt finger to signal for another glass. And in a move she considered positive, he jerked his chin towards her, indicating a refill.

She hadn’t counted on the long silence. The past few times she’d done this, men happily talked about themselves before proceeding to preliminary groping.

This one wasn’t in a hurry to make the second move.

“Lynn. Russian?”

She shivered when he said her name, slow, as if seeing how it tasted on his tongue. “Ukrainian.” Surprising that he picked out her accent—she barely had a trace of it left.

Silence stretched until their drinks came. He took a long gulp from his glass. “I don’t do small talk.”

“Then I’ll get to the point.” She studied him over the rim of another chocolatini. A stubborn jaw, a crooked nose that looked like it’d been broken more than once. Heavy black eyebrows, tired liquid brown eyes. Firm lips and a day’s growth of stubble.

Dangerous. Not like the fragile male dancers she was used to. Under the beat-up leather jacket, he looked big, male and rough.

More shivers danced over her spine. “I’m starting a long and stressful project.” She doubted a man like him would be impressed with details, and that at least was a relief.

He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a single word. Instead, he simply cradled the now-empty glass in his wide palms.

“I won’t have time for…anything.” Lynn never could actually say the words. Luckily her chosen partners always got it. “I want to have one wild night before I start.”

Now his eyes flashed to her. “You want to get it off before your thing?”

She should have gotten up, but that was probably what he hoped to accomplish. “Putting it crudely, yes.”

“You’ve no idea who I am.” He spoke clear and slow, an edge of danger to that raspy, make-me-wet voice.

“You’re a bodyguard.” She gave him a thin smile, noted the way his lips were full and firm. “And I’m a good judge of character.”

“I bet.” Another signal for a refill. This time Lynn shook her head when he tilted his head silently asking if she wanted another.

Usually men jumped at this chance for a meaningless quickie. Sex was a simple means to blow off steam, a way of reminding herself that being touched meant nothing.

Just as it would mean nothing when Pavel would touch her tomorrow in a perfectly orchestrated parody of love.

He didn’t look at her as they sat in the uncomfortable silence amidst the murmurs and the laughs and clinks of glassware. A woman wrapped in heady perfume shuffled past their table for the door, letting in the cold San Francisco wind while she called out for a taxi.

The chill ripped through the fake warm courage of her drinks. Keeping her movements casual, Lynn pushed her glass away. His hand closed on her wrist, his fingers warm and firm and callused. “You change your mind?”

Her pulse raced now at that dark voice, that firm yet gentle grip. The flush that started at her cheeks became a tingling flood of heat between her thighs.

She forced her voice to remain even. “I’m not sure yet.”

His gaze stayed steady on hers even when he let go. “Why do you do this?”

No one had ever asked. “I’m seeing my ex tomorrow.” It came out in a rush, a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. “If you aren’t interested—”

That dark gaze narrowed on her face. “I’m interested. Would you like proof?”

If the intent had been to make her blush, he was too late. “I’ll take your word for it.” She took a breath. “My place is just around the corner.”

His mouth curved now, dangerous and wicked. “Lead the way.”







At least she hadn’t wasted his money or his time.

Three Stolis pleasantly buzzing in his head, Mateo opened the heavy wooden door into the wind and fog that was late February in San Francisco. The woman—Lynn—walked out beside him. A queen wrapped in a long white coat.

Maybe she was exactly what he needed. Good healthy sex instead of wishing for another drink and wondering if alcoholism was far away.

Eight months on leave, one hell of a date to celebrate. Nearly a year since the Bloods left a civilian injured and his partner nearly dead. Nearly a year since he slapped his badge onto the captain’s desk after some idiot with a psychology degree declared him unfit for duty. He was unfit while his partner lost the use of both his legs.

With the wind tearing into his jacket, Mateo snuck a look at the Queen of Sheba with her head held high, her profile elegant and perfect, those bright curls ravaged by the wind. Before he could talk himself out of it, he reached out to touch her hair, felt its warm silk against the cold skin of his hands. And was surprised to see confusion in her eyes.

“You sure about this?”

She shrugged, her face lit up by streetlights. Fine bones with gently arching brows, soft brown eyes a man could drown in. Her lips weren’t painted, and in the cold lights of the night, Mateo found himself wondering what they would taste like in the searing wind.

He wasn’t a man who wondered long.

Ignoring the passing cars, he took her arm, spun her around. Gave her a moment to scream or pull away before he fit his mouth over hers for that first taste.

Dark and rich chocolate, pliant and warm.

She pulled back with her hands over his chest, her warm eyes wide and dreamy.

“You sure about this?” His body tightened with pleasant hardness. Before, that brazen show of nonchalance hadn’t done much for him. But her sweet upturned face, her softly parted lips appealed to him more than he would’ve liked.

She’d use him to get back at her ex. He wouldn’t think of the past for a few hours. The way he figured, they were even.

“I’m sure.” Trembling husky voice. She left her hands splayed on his chest, her fingers long and delicate. Mateo pictured them wrapping around his cock and took her mouth again.

Harder this time, until she trembled, moaned softly when she took a breath. He eased away before giving in to the urge to slip his hands under her coat and see what her skin felt like.

“You taste good,” he murmured instead and took her hand in his.

To his surprise she didn’t pull away. “I’m up there.” She tilted her head at a freshly painted five story with bar-covered windows on the first two floors. Through the haze of arousal, the cop in him couldn’t match the student haven on Fullerton Street with the elegant white coat draped over her slim body.

“Last chance to back out.” He was a fool to say the words. She looked determined to go through with it.

Her smile was sweet and somewhat shy. “I told you. I’m sure.”

Bravado now, he could tell by the way she squared her shoulders, kept her spine tall and straight. Her hand still joined in his, her fingers cold and delicate, they went through the metal-trimmed gate to walk up to the second floor. She flipped on her apartment lights to reveal old wicker furniture and empty walls.

“Nice place.” He still couldn’t connect her to it: the seventies décor, the postage-stamp-sized kitchen, couple of brown cardboard boxes shoved along the walls.

“Can I get you anything?” She stood just out of his reach, playing the polite hostess before the next required step.

She didn’t look like the destructive type, yet by all indicators, she expected cold and faceless sex. Except he could sense nerves pumping from her, as if she was afraid, excited. Maybe a little bit of both.

Arousal was a hot fist in his gut. “Come here.”

Those long unpainted fingers inched up towards the light switch.

“Keep the lights on.” He reached for her white coat.





Lynn didn’t know why she was trembling. Surely this wasn’t nerves, not now, not when the awkward part was over. There was no reason to feel nervous with this intense dark-eyed stranger who technically hadn’t even told her his name.

Her pulse fluttered somewhere in her throat when he unbuttoned her coat and with slow movements drew it off her shoulders.

Maybe this wasn’t right. He didn’t act as if he wanted her, but then again, she hadn’t made the most romantic proposition. Maybe he really was some kind of psycho…

“Last chance,” he murmured, still not touching her, his heat enveloping her body.

She watched his face, those dark and intense eyes, those sensual lips that seemed both merciless and sexy. “You’ve already said that.”

He kissed her, hard and raw, and sent her pulse out of control.

“I have condoms.” A breathless whisper. She didn’t want romance, didn’t want shivers or nerves. Except arousal teased at her skin, caressed her with his heat, stroked her between her thighs with light and teasing movements.

“You’re a girl scout.” He still hadn’t touched her, as if giving her that final chance to change her mind and kick him out.

Her pulse roaring in her ears, Lynn reached for the ties of her dress and tried to keep her hands from shaking.

“Hold on.” He moved to stand behind her, the rough skin of his palms gently closing on her wrists. Slow, his hands moved over her bared arms, sliding over trembling skin, drawing her into his body.

Her buttocks pressed against the hard bulge of his cock. The arms that closed around her were strong and taut and clad in leather. He nudged her forward, his scent surrounding her with every step. She reached the tiled bar with him behind her, braced her forearms on the cool hard surface and fought for some semblance of control.

“Bedroom.” She hadn’t intended for her voice to come out breathless. More shivers tap-danced up her spine.

His breath was hot against the sensitive shell of her ear. “Not just yet.”

The long length of his body trapped her against the bar, those blunt hard fingers once again moving over her arms, traveling lower with exquisite slowness, brushing the sides of suddenly aching, swelling breasts.

“Where do you like to be touched?” Low intimate voice.

She pressed her hips against him and tried to stop herself from shivering again. “Surprise me.”