Page 12 of Hot Shot

“Marco Solis, I would never in a million years have guessed you’re such a good dancer.”

He freezes in place, his mouth falling open. “Did you just compliment me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” I mutter. “It’s the only thing you’ve got going for you.”

He grins and resumes dancing. “Right. So are you just going to stand there watching me?” He moves closer and sets his hands on my hips.

His smile transforms his face from its usual broody darkness into an attractive glow that pulls me in. I dance, in my small, circumspect moves, as always conscious of my long legs and arms and how goofy I’d look if I let loose.

He’s a better dancer than I am.

The song slows and he pulls me closer still, maintaining heavy eye contact that makes my skin tingle everywhere and heat pool down low inside me. Somehow he spins me and pulls me back against his front, doing some hot grinding moves that increase the blood flow to my girl parts. Whoa.

I swallow.

I let the music fill me up and take me over, moving to it instinctively but also moving with Marco’s body. The rest of the people dancing around us fade away and become a blur of light and shadow, the music pulsing right to my core. When he turns me to face him again, he keeps our bodies pressed together. I like that our faces are nearly level, nearly eye to eye . . . nose to nose . . . mouth to mouth.

This is crazy, but I’m ensnared by the smoldering heat in his gaze and the big hands on my waist. I want him to move those hands all over me. Anticipation thrums through me and heat builds between us. I miss a step, nearly tripping over my own foot, and Marco’s lips lift into a smile.

His eyes gleam in the dark club and I know he feels it too. How could you miss it—that hum of awareness, the sparks that practically crackle between us.

Shit. This is no good!

“I need a drink,” I mutter, pulling away from him. Instead of returning to the banquette where we left Olympia—she’s chatting with a guy sitting next to her—I head toward the mauve glow of the bar. I wait for the bartender to notice me, but the gorgeous girl is paying more attention to the male customers lining the bar. The girl’s attention lands over my shoulder. I glance back, and sure enough it’s Marco. He makes eye contact with the bartender and she nearly breaks an ankle scurrying over to him.

“Oh for Chrissake,” I mutter.

“What was that?” Marco murmurs in my ear. “You want tequila?”

“You said I was too drunk.” I eye him balefully.

His lips twitch. “Two shots of Casa Mendoza, please.”

The girl’s eyes widen briefly, but she nods and steps away to get the expensive tequila.

“Are you trying to get me drunk and take advantage of me?” I joke. Then I wish I didn’t say that, because I have this weird, disturbing feeling that he doesn’t have to ply me with alcohol. There’s something so attractive about him tonight that he could probably get me in his bed without too much trouble. All he has to do is smile.

“No,” he says. “If that’s what I wanted I would have ordered you another Legspreader.”

He says it so deadpan I stare at him, then pick up the glint in his eye. A laugh bubbles up from inside me. “You made a joke!”

“You don’t need to sound so shocked.”

The bartender arrives with our tequila, served in appropriate glasses, I note appreciatively. The tequila-tasting lessons apparently sank in. I have to admit I’m even acquiring a bit of a taste for the spirit, but it has to be good quality. Oh Jesus, I’m becoming a tequila snob.

And I bugMarcoabout that.

Marco holds up his glass and gives it a swirl. He nods approvingly. “Beautiful legs.”

His gaze drops from his glass to my literal legs, and heat coils low inside me at the husky timbre of his voice as he says that.

I know what he’s talking about, from those tequila tastings we’ve gone to, the “legs” of the tequila being the way it runs down the sides of the glass, revealing essential oils.

“Lagrimas de la agave,”he adds.

Dammit. I close my eyes. Hayden thinks it’s sexy when Marco speaks Spanish.Ifind it annoying. Really. “Tears of the agave,” I translate.

“Have you been taking those Spanish lessons?” he asks, one eyebrow arching.

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