Page 39 of Power Play

In a move born out of awkwardness, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, and shifts his gaze away to the couples dancing behind me. “This isn’t coming out the way I’d intended it to.”

“I agree. I’m confused.”

“Can I start over?”

Our eyes meet, blue against blue. I think of Jenny’s words, urging me to live a little, to enjoy life. “Ask me to dance,” I tell him instead. “I might say yes.”

He doesn’t even bother asking, not with words. In a corny gesture that’s straight out of a rom-com movie, he scrapes back his chair and stands, then holds out his hand in silent offer.

God, he looks good. So good that I almost forget the reason that I’m here to begin with. Employment. Financial security. The ever-present fear of never succeeding in my career.

I shouldn’t be playing these games with him. I should be questioning him. Pushing him for insider’s information that will keep my butt onThe Tribune’s payroll, for as long as the company’s doors stay open for business.

But I don’t say no. The thought of feeling his arms wrap around me as we sway to a sickeningly sweet slow number is too great of a temptation to resist. The last time I entered the Omni, I roamed the ballroom aimlessly, wishing that someone would ask me to dance. This time around, I’ve made the first move and I don’t regret a single thing.

Duke rewards me with a blinding, masculine smile when I place my hand in his. Then, the next thing I know, we’re swaying on the dancing floor. Like this was the plan for the evening all along. Like we’re actually on adate.

The thought is headier than I’d like to admit. It’s a thought I’d do well to remember doesn’t translate to reality.

As Duke’s hands settle on the small of my back, I hold no illusions that this night is anything more than a sequence of dances and small talk. I’m not stupid, nor am I blind to the fact that once Duke discovers my betrayal, we’ll never speak again.

My heart squeezes at the thought, and I dig my nails into his broad shoulders. The scent of pine swirls around me, heady and intoxicating, and I succumb to the temptation of pressing my cheek against his hard chest.

“Did I get you?” His voice is a deep rumble against my face. “If I step on your toes, I apologize in advance. I’m a shit dancer.”

“I heard that all athletes are great when it comes to dancing,” I say, enjoying the way he squeezes my hand as we shift around another couple. “I thought it was ingrained in your DNA or whatever.”

“It must have skipped me.” The hand on my back skips up to my neck and then flutters back down, tracing the beads of my spine.

“What else aren’t you good at?”

“More fodder for your article?” He says it like he’s in on the joke, but the guilt and worry over the truth stiffens my back in an uncontrollable flinch. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

So, I pretend that I have nothing to hide. “I’m just curious.”

“Are we playing Twenty-One Questions again?”

I shake my head, my cheek brushing the lapel of his tuxedo. “We don’t have darts.”

“We don’t need darts.”

Propping my chin on his chest, I tip my head back to meet his gaze. The lights in the ballroom have dimmed. The president has taken his seat, and the only conversation I hear is the quiet murmuring of dancing couples over the thunderous pounding in my ears. “What are you thinking, then?”

Intense blue eyes dip to my mouth. “You don’t want to know.”

“Maybe I do.”

My heart beats rapidly, and I’m so consumed by the way his hands have come to rest below my shoulder blades, tugging me closer to him, that I barely register the fact that there’s been a song change to something upbeat and flirtatious.

We’re moving no faster than a sloth climbing from tree limb to tree limb.

Which is to say, I don’t even think we’re lifting our feet off the ground anymore.

Plus, let’s be honest: I’d climb Dukeif I ever had the opportunity.

“Are you planning to use this new intel against me in your article?” Duke asks, bringing my focus back to the conversation at hand. And not, you know, how good he feels snuggled up against me as we sway back and forth.

The guilt sharpens, twisting just a little too deeply. “I wouldn’t. Ask me your question.”

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