Alex lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m only saying.”
There was movement at their table, and two women were standing there. Not the wife posse they had been expecting, but a pair of too-young, too-skimpily dressed women who had obviously been hitting the bar. They looked like they were out to have a good time and were seeking candidates to help them along.
“Fancy a dance, luvvies?” one asked boldly. Her skin sparkled with body glitter, and her eyebrows were drawn on thick, dark, and arched, making her look perpetually surprised.
Nathanael smiled at them, held up his left hand and pointed at his wedding ring. “Sorry, girls. Married.” He pointed at Alex. “Him? Also taken.”
“Awwww!” the girls groaned in unison.
Then he gave Willian a wicked grin and pointed. “Ask him. He’s free as a bird.”
I’ll kill him later,William thought as the girls of one accord turned in his direction, cooing and giggling.
Then, he figured, why the hell not? He put down his drink and held out his arms, elbows crooked, and immediately they latched onto him. The other two men cheered sardonically as William led the ladies to the smaller, upper dance floor. They sandwiched him as expertly as if they practiced the move nightly, and began a slow, sensuous grind. He put his arms around the one in front, the one with the body glitter, and fell in with her movements.
It wasn’t as if he’d had too much to drink; he was well past the age or the inclination to overdo it. But he was lonely and bored. It had been a long time since he’d danced. Sofia used to love to dance, but for years he’d declined her invitations to go out for the evening.
He closed his eyes for a moment, giving himself up reluctantly to the rhythm. The girl behind him wrapped her arms around his waist.
It meant nothing, he knew. It was only a dance. But it was a momentary escape from crushing loneliness, a way out. He took it.
When he opened his eyes, a vision appeared at the entrance downstairs. It was Jacyn, her round belly swaying as she walked in, flanked by Shaundra and Sienna. Both women were dressed for a night out, their hair prettily done, their makeup perfect.
Naisha came in just a beat behind them. When he saw her, it was as if his lungs lost their ability to take in air.
She was wearing the briefest of shift dresses, one that immediately sent his mind backwards to that night when he’d stood and admired her in her silky nightie. It was silver-gray and glossy, clinging to her curves. The straps were so thin he could tear them off with his teeth if he wanted to, and the cowl neckline made no secret of the generous globes of her breasts.
Its hem stopped at mid-thigh, and even then it had slits on both sides, almost to the top of her hip, to reveal a length of burnished leg. As she moved, he could detect an embossed animal pattern that made him think of a sinuous snake, or a coiled leopard. Something powerful, confident and strong. Ready to strike, seize, demolish.
The lyrics of an old Hall and Oats song came to mind:The woman is wild, a she-cat tamed by the purr of a Jaguar.
Wild. Breathtaking. She stole his ability to swallow. To think.
He was still vaguely aware of the two women who he had been so playfully dancing with moments before. Could still feel them grinding on him, competing for his attention, his seduction, and all the benefits they imagined would follow.
But they were like wraiths, barely corporeal. Succubae sent from below to tempt him, but who were already fading like smoke.
Since the last time he’d seen her—a while ago, since he’d been studiously avoiding her—she’d removed her braids. Now her hair was a halo of thick, dark curls, like a solar flare surrounding her head. He wanted to plunge his fingers into it, get them tangled until she was not only his prisoner, but he was hers.
Who is this?he wondered. The Naisha he saw wasn’t the serious governess, or the playful swimming companion he’d seen working with his daughter. She was the confident, stunning model, striding in on killer heels, a silver anklet glittering, mimicking the twinkle of the simple chain at her throat. She stepped inside the nightclub with the utter, incontrovertible knowledge that every single red-blooded male in there would stop whatever he was doing and stare.
A territorial growl was birthed deep in his gut and rose to his throat.
10
Naisha stopped dead at the nightclub’s entrance, on a split level below what she guessed was the VIP area, which was cut off by railings. At the main dance floor off to her left, people writhed and squirmed to the beat of house music, undulating as one, like something out of a fantasy movie, depicting pagan celebration and excess. On the upper, smaller level, people did the same.
Lights flashed, and the scent of sweat and alcohol filled the air, bolstered by the odor of pheromones as the denizens of the club, most of whom were here seeking hookups and excitement, did all they could to taunt and tantalize, draw attention to themselves.
She remembered her days as a model, the endless rounds of parties and clubs, usually after a day of shooting, or for events that her manager had insisted she attend, to make contacts and keep herself in the limelight.
She’d enjoyed it, loved the atmosphere, the excitement, the promise in the air. But that was another time, another life.
It was the enthusiasm of her girlfriends that had brought her out tonight. She had to admit that after the bucolic calm of Provence, a London club did have its allure. With the girls’ encouragement, she’d put on the most outrageous outfit she’d worn in a long time. A silver-gray designer shift dress that clung to everything, every curve and plane of her body.
The dress had been delivered by courier to their suite earlier in the day, along with a massive bouquet, with a note from one of her favorite British designers, saying how happy she was to know that Naisha was in town for a few days, and asking her to please accept this dress from her summer line, with her compliments.
She hadn’t been certain that this Naisha was still the Naisha who dressed like that, but the other women had been adamant that if she didn’t wear it, they were all going clubbing in dressing gowns, slippers and curlers, and it would be her fault. So she’d given in.