Page 23 of The Tracker

Goosebumps rose along her skin as she leaned her forehead against the tile and tried to cool the fire still burning beneath the surface. It was the memory of him, branding her from the inside out, a phantom touch seared into her flesh, craving left behind like fingerprints on her soul.

She imagined what would’ve happened if the phone hadn’t rung. Would he have carried her to the bedroom? Bent her over the couch? The thought sent heat racing to her skin, mocking the chill of the water.

What the hell was happening to her?

She dressed deliberately—carefully. If he thought she’d let that kiss hang unanswered, he didn’t know her very well. Yet.

The cocktail dress she chose was black, short, and cut within an inch of scandal. It was the kind of dress that whispered danger and dared judgment, one Peter had always called too provocative for corporate events. She wore it anyway.

Because tonight, she didn’t want to blend. She wanted to provoke. To reclaim something. The confidence that had been slowly bleeding out of her since the engagement, the illusion of control she'd clung to like a life raft. This wasn’t about seduction—it was about stepping back into her own skin, and making damn sure Dawson Hart noticed every inch of it. It hugged her curves, dipped low in the front and lower in the back. She swept her hair up, added blood-red lipstick, and stepped back into the main space with her heels clicking a staccato of challenge.

Dawson looked up from his laptop—and stilled. His gaze raked over her, slow and incendiary.

She gave a little twirl. "Do I pass inspection?"

For a split second, something flared in his eyes—heat, possession, hunger—but he locked it down fast, burying it behind a blank mask. His jaw flexed as he shut the laptop and rose, the tension in his shoulders speaking volumes even if his lips stayed silent.

He didn’t answer.

They rode in silence to the venue. Evangeline stared out the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of light and shadow. Her skin still tingled where Dawson's mouth had been, the ghost of his touch lingering like an unfinished sentence. Every bump in the road seemed to echo through her spine. What the hell was she doing? She should be focused—this fundraiser mattered, her family’s reputation mattered—but all she could think about was the way his thigh had pressed between hers, the way he’d said he wouldn’t stop. Safety had never thrilled her. Peter had been safe. Predictable. But Dawson? He was a walking question she ached to answer with her body.

Her pulse throbbed at the memory. She crossed her legs, trying to ignore the ache building between them. Was he pulling back to protect her? Or himself? The silence stretched, thick and humming with everything unsaid.

The event was held in one of the newer hotels on the River Walk, all chandeliers and polished chrome. Every time someone greeted her, Dawson was there—solid, intimidating, lethal in a tailored suit. She could feel the eyes on her, some admiring, others calculating. That was the game—appearances, influence, legacy. And now, Dawson was part of her equation.

She leaned in, letting her voice brush his ear. "I should probably bring you up to speed on who’s who. Dance with me? That man by the bar? Oil lobbyist with a fetish for interns.The woman next to him? Her father’s golf partner’s fourth wife. Plastic and poisonous."

His brows lifted, but he followed her onto the floor.

The music was smooth jazz, something smoky and low. She stepped into his arms and tilted her face up, watching the flicker of conflict in his eyes. He held her close—but not close enough. His hands were firm, guiding. Restrained.

“You’re a surprisingly good dancer, cowboy. Let me guess—cotillion lessons as a teen?”

“Bounty hunting didn’t cover ballroom.”

“You’re holding back.”

He met her gaze evenly. “If I weren’t, you’d be against that wall again. Only this time, I wouldn’t stop.”

Her breath caught, a tremor skating down her spine. The low timbre of his voice wasn’t just a threat—it was a promise. Her body answered before her mind could catch up, pulse kicking hard, thighs clenching in anticipation. She was both terrified and aching for exactly what that meant.

Heat pulsed between her thighs.

“Tempting,” she murmured.

“You don’t know the rules.”

“Then teach me.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

He guided her through a side door and out onto a quiet balcony, the sounds of the party fading behind them. The river shimmered below, lights twinkling across the water.

Dawson turned her into the shadows and backed her against the wall again. This time, he kissed her like he was starving. Her knees nearly buckled under the weight of his kiss. If he’d ordered her down, she would’ve dropped without a second thought.

His mouth was hot and commanding, tongue stroking hers with precision, hands planted beside her head, hemming her in with quiet authority. The brick scraped at her back—roughand unyielding—but all she could register was the overwhelming contrast of his warmth. Dawson’s body radiated heat, his nearness a furnace she willingly stepped into. Her pulse surged, and every breath carried her closer to the edge. A wave of need sluiced through her, molten and undeniable. She clutched his jacket, not to pull him closer, but to steady herself against the undertow he’d unleashed. Every nerve ending reached for him, trembling at the brink of surrender.

And then—he stopped.

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