Love Triangle Six Books of Torn Desire - Willow Winters Page 0,9

make him money? I’m a nobody. My belly dance routine earns good tips, but it’s just ambiance, much like a mariachi band in a Mexican restaurant.

“I’m confused.” I pace through the sitting room. “Patrons might enjoy my dance routine, but they come for the food.”

He eyes me impassively. “Have you ever gone to Bissara on the nights you’re not dancing?”

No. I glare at him.

“It’s a ghost town.” He stretches an arm along the back of the couch. “The overcrowded dining room you’re used to seeing? That only happens on the nights you dance. You know why?”

Given the incisive look in his eyes and the cruelty in his scowl, I can guess.

“Sex sells.” His gaze migrates from my face to my thighs and back again. “And you’re dripping with it.”

Humiliation sets my cheeks on fire, and I’m acutely aware of the cold wet crotch of my pajama pants. All his talk about my smiles and curves was just his sick way of making a point. My body serves a purpose, his purpose, and it has nothing to do with romantic interest. I really am a fool.

“Why not just open your own restaurant and offer me a job?” I chew on the corner of my thumb nail. “You didn’t have to buy Bissara.”

He stares without a crease or tic in his rock-hard expression, and the answer becomes clear.

“You want to own the only Moroccan restaurant in town.” Bitterness clips my voice. “To eliminate competition? Or to force me to work for you?”

“Both. But I’m not forcing you. I’m just making the decision easy for you.”

“Oh, it’s easy all right. Easy to tell you to go fuck yourself.” I stand taller and stab a finger toward the door. “I want you to leave.”

“You’re overreacting.” He releases a patronizing breath. “This is just business. I’m offering a salary that’s more than fair, so lose the attitude and take the job.”

Heaviness seeps into my limbs and tightens my stomach. I’m attracted to him, and he sees me as nothing but a financial deal. I’m mortified for trembling and gasping beneath his touch, but I need to get over it and either kick him out or consider his job offer.

I snatch the contract off the table and read it again without looking at him. “Why is the owner of the casino making this offer and not some middle manager?”

“I’m hands-on,” he says in a deep, rumbling voice.

A voracious shiver grips my body, and I’m certain it’s the response he intended to elicit. His assertive stares, inappropriate touches, and suggestive words are all meant to persuade. I’d have to be comatose to not be affected by it. But it’s not just his actions. It’s him. He’s compelling, gorgeous, powerful. The kind of man a woman wants at her side, united and tangled, fighting for her, not against her. I cringe at the thought of making an enemy of this man, but if I keep my emotions out of this, he can’t hurt me.

As I reach the end of the contract, my head is all over the place. It’s a lot of money to turn down, and I suspect Trace Savoy won’t accept my rejection without a fight. Doesn’t mean I’ll back down, but I need to consider every angle.

Shoving a hand through my hair, I lift my gaze. Our eyes connect, and we freeze. Everything stills. We don’t blink, don’t move, don’t breathe. There’s something there, something fragile and gritty and complicated creeping between the lines of personal and business. I know he senses it, too. Part of me wants to demand he acknowledge it, but the other part, the smarter part, knows that nothing good can come from involving myself with this man.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, breaking the trance. He glances at the screen and returns his attention to me. “Why do you dance?”

“It’s my passion.”

“Elaborate.”

Despite his curt tone, I don’t mind answering. Dancing is the piece of myself I will never suppress or hide.

“I love creating art through movement. Not only does it allow me to express my feelings, it makes others feel.” I lower onto the coffee table, bending a leg across the surface to face him. “It’s not about the job or the money or the accolades. I dance because I have to. Because it’s who I am—the artist, the athlete. It’s my outlet to let go, to just be.”

“And you achieve this through teaching?”

“Yeah, but honestly, I’d rather focus on honing my own talent. In an ideal world, I’d perform