Page 29 of Tower

She bit back another dig at him and drank wine instead.

His grin expressed his knowledge that she was trying at civility. Maybe at some point he would return it and let her go home. Or at the very least, explain why he wouldn’t.

“You haven’t questioned me about a cell phone, or worried about your mother calling you. Why?” He finished his drink. The ice clunked against the crystal glass.

“I’ve never needed a cell phone.” No harm in telling the truth about it; he already knew her mother had been overprotective. “I usually had Santos or one of his men with me if I left the house.” Which was pretty rare. And it wasn’t like she had any friends to call even when she managed to get out of the house without an escort.

Peter tapped his finger against his chin, seeming to consider what she said then smiled a bit wider. “And now? When she calls home looking for you? Santos isn’t around, from what my men have found. He ran away.”

“Of course, he did.” Azalea wouldn’t expect that coward to stick around to feel her mother’s wrath when she returned home to find her daughter kidnapped right from beneath his nose.

“Any idea where he would have run to? A different home? A vacation spot?” Peter pressed her, pushing her glass of wine out of her reach. The warm buzz of the alcohol worked its way through her, but she didn’t need him to tell her when she’d had enough.

“No. We weren’t exactly friends.” Santos despised having to babysit her as much as she hated having him around.

Peter continued with his questions. “And your mother? Will she come home when she calls and no one answers?”

She shook her head and stood, taking a few steps to the railing where she looked down at the floor below where couples moved to the erotic beat of the music. She could almost pick out which women in the crowd were there for work and which were playing out pleasurable fantasies.

His body pressed against her from behind, his aftershave enveloping her.

“Do you know how to dance?” he asked.

“I do.” Her mother had brought instructors into the house once a week during her teen years to teach her the art of dance. She knew some ballet, but mostly she’d been taught to dance at social gatherings. It had been one of the small shimmering lights of hope that her mother would allow her to be a normal woman and enter into society when she was old enough.

Without a word, he linked her hand with his and led her down the stairs to the main level and onto the dance floor.

At his gesture, a new song sprang to life from the bandstand next to the main stage. The crowd moved aside, giving Peter the room he seemed to demand.

Turning to her, he released her hand and offered his arms. She stepped into his embrace, holding his left hand with her right at shoulder height, and felt his right splay across her shoulder blades.

Apparently, he’d taken a few lessons himself.

Peter flashed her a smile and guided her into the first step as the singer began.

Azalea forced herself to focus on the paces, enjoying the fact they weren’t dancing to any ballroom melody that her mother had forced upon her. But Peter wouldn’t be ignored. His fingers touching her bare back reminded her with every step that he controlled her. Not only the dance.

“You took lessons?” she asked when his stare became too much to bear in silence.

“My mother’s fault,” he said with a hint of sadness. “My father couldn’t dance to save his life and it was something she enjoyed. I was the next best thing, so she taught me.”

Azalea imagined a young Peter dancing in a living room, dancing on a mother’s feet. “Do your parents live far away?”

His eyes clouded, and he looked over her shoulder, turning her with a slight dip before answering. “My mother passed away a long time ago, my father right before her.” His lips tightened as he spoke; his entire body beneath her touch tensed.

He spun her again, reeling her out and bringing her back in, closer to his body as he moved her along the dance floor.

“You didn’t answer me about your mother,” he said when she spoke again. Apparently, the topic of his family was off-limits. “Will she come running home when she calls and no one is there to answer?”

She took note of his set jaw and the firmness of his hold as the music continued. Reminding herself she’d decided to play nice with him in order to get answers, if not freedom, she answered him. “She’s at some meeting and won’t be home for a few more weeks. She rarely calls me if she’s away for business, so she probably doesn’t know I’m not at home. If she’s been in contact with Santos and he didn’t tell her, she most likely won’t know until she arrives home.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “She doesn’t call you while she’s away? What sort of business is she in that she can’t call her daughter?” The accusation in his questions wasn’t lost on Azalea, and she couldn’t blame him. From what little he’d told her of his own mother, of course, it would seem odd to him.

“I don’t know what her business is, actually. She’s always told me it’s complicated.” Azalea looked away from him, not wanting to see the disapproval in his features anymore.

“So, she won’t know you aren’t home for a few more weeks.” He turned them again and picked up the steps to match the tempo of the music.

“Maybe I can be home before she gets back.” Azalea took a chance. Either he would continue speaking freely with her, or he’d become agitated that she brought up her freedom again. “Maybe we can spend the next few weeks together, and I can go home before she returns. She promised we’d start looking for my own apartment when she was done with this meeting.” She could hear the hope spring into her own voice.

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