Page 11 of Hot Shot

“Marco is one of the owners of Conquistadors. His partner Beck is my friend Hayden’s fiancé.”

“Oh! Conquistadors. I’ve heard of it but I’ve never been there.”

“Well, you should definitely come.” Marco flashes a wide, white smile that makes my belly do a little flip. Damn those dimples. “We have over sixty premium one hundred percent blue agave tequilas.”

“Uh . . . tequila.” Olympia makes a face.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Marco says, turning on the charm. “But tequila isn’t all about lime and salt and shots. A fine añejotequila is rich and smooth, with complex flavors.”

“Blah-blah-blah,” I say. “Yes, you’re the tequila expert.”

Marco’s jaw tightens.

“That’s fascinating,” Olympia says.

I swallow the word “traitor” along with the last of the champagne. “I need another drink.” I bound to my feet, proud that I only wobble a bit on my heels.

Marco grabs my hand and tugs me back down to the banquette.

“Hey!”

He lifts a hand and catches the eye of the server he flirted with earlier. She hurries over, her long legs tanned and toned.

“I’ll have a Monterey Pale Ale,” he says. “And the ladies will each have a glass of water.”

The girl’s smile becomes fixed. “Of course.” She disappears.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask him. “This doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

“No? Why not?”

“It’s cool. Trendy. Fun.” I give him a meaningful look.

“Ha.” One corner of his mouth kicks up. “It’s my night off. The guys suggested I needed, uh”—he coughs into his hand—“some fun.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Shocking.”

“I can have fun.”

“I need to use the ladies’ room.” Olympia wiggles her feet into her shoes and stands. “Back in a minute.” I’m sure I hear her mutter, “Not that you’ll even notice I’m gone,” as she walks away.

Marco spares her a glance then turns his glower back on me.

“You’re as much fun as a colonoscopy,” I add.

To my surprise, he laughs at that. And holy hell, when he laughs, his big white smile lights up the room, his face creasing into the most amazing, gorgeous laugh lines, crinkling his eyes and making them sparkle.

The waitress arrives with our drinks. I take the glass of ice water and gulp it down. Much as it annoys me that he ordered water for me, I needed it. Marco, however, leaves his beer sitting on the table in front of us, takes the water from me and sets it there too, then grabs my hand.

He shocks me by pulling me up off the bench and stalking toward the dance floor, towing me along.

“What the hell are you doing?” I demand.

I’m six feet tall in my Louboutins, but he still has a few inches on me and outweighs me by probably a hundred pounds. No, not that much. Maybe . . . hell, my mind refuses to do math as he spins me onto the dance floor in a smooth move that has my jaw dropping.

“We’re dancing,” he replies.

My feet won’t move for a few seconds as I stare at him. He moves to the music with shocking rhythm.

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