moment she'd decided to give in to the passion that flowed so easily between them while they danced, she was now sure she'd be a fool not to take advantage of it. In fact, it had become exactly what she wanted to do. Even if they formed a purely physical bond, it would still be glorious. Brief, she knew, but glorious still.
He lived in a charming old building with outside stairs to his second-floor apartment. She hadn't known what to expect, but it was starkly furnished and spotlessly clean. A black leather sofa divided the open living room from his bedroom in the rear. There was a small galley kitchen on one side and a bathroom on the other.
"Would you like more wine?" he asked.
She shook her head and reached for the buttons on his shirt. "Do you always wear black?"
He caught her hands. "Yes, and before you go any further, I should warn you the man I killed also knew how to handle a knife."
She took a step back, but she didn't care if he had scars. "Do you want to turn off the light?" He'd left a single table lamp lit by the sofa and it lent the room a warm glow.
"No, then I wouldn't be able to see you, but you might not want to look at me."
She thought it couldn't be possible until he pulled off his shirt to reveal a long scar that angled across his well-defined abs to his left hip. It must have been an awful wound, but the scar scarcely marred his hard-muscled body. She traced the narrow line with her fingertips, then pressed close to kiss the smooth hollow of his shoulder. It would be a waste of breath to warn him to be more careful in the future, but with that awful scar, he looked as though he was lucky to be alive.
"It doesn't bother you?" he asked.
"Everything about you bothers me," she admitted softly. "The way you look, your voice, the cologne you wear, to say nothing of the way you dance. You'd fascinate any woman."
"I didn't see a line when we came in." He wove his fingers in her hair to pull her into a lingering kiss.
"The way you kiss is awfully good too," she added, without admitting he'd just turned her spine to marshmallow cream. Just touching him warmed her all over, and the heat pooled low in her belly. She'd never liked being confined in another man's embrace, but she couldn't get close enough to him. For the first time in her life, she felt as though she were exactly where she truly belonged.
He leaned away to turn on a CD of soft guitar music and brought her into a slow dance. They huddled close, their feet barely moving. He licked her earlobe and muffled her giggles with deep kisses.
It felt as though they had forever to make love, and she savored the dance until they were both too dizzy to stand. She led him toward the bed. It was neatly made with a black duvet.
"I don't want to ruin your clothes," he murmured.
She'd forgotten she was wearing any. She looked down to find the dress she'd worn the first time they'd danced together. "I'll go home in a bed sheet if I have to."
He picked her up in a tight hug. "No, we can do better than that. Let me help you."
He slid the zipper down the back of her dress and held her hand so she wouldn't lose her balance as she stepped out of it and kicked off her shoes. He tossed the dress over the back of the sofa and reached for the hooks on her bra. She'd worn lavender lace lingerie, and her panties soon sailed with her bra to the sofa.
His glance rolled over her slowly. "You're as beautiful as I knew you'd be."
"Thank you." She played her fingers down his arm and reached for his belt buckle. "The first time I saw you..."
He tapped a fingertip against her lips. "I was mad at Santos and rude to you. I'm sorry."
"Was that only three days ago?"
"No, it was in another lifetime."
She understood. Together they'd created somewhere entirely new. When he eased her down on the bed, there was none of the anxiety she'd felt with other men. There was only a deep hunger, as though he were the real reason she'd come to Barcelona. She'd never believed in fate, but as he ripped off his boots and threw his pants