Page 12 of Mr. Dangerous

5

Naomi

Usually,my Excel spreadsheets only make me sweat because my budget doesn’t make sense, but once Rob leaned against the counter with his eyes intent on my fundraiser plans, I found myself chewing on my lip anxiously. I wanted him to think wellofme.

“People love to do good things,” Rob told me, finally glancing up. The sun filtering in from the enormous kitchen windows caught the silver glint in his blue eyes. “Especially when they aren’t reallydoing anythingatall.”

“People also love beach barbecues.” I felt like I couldn’t give that up without afight.

“They love getting dressed up, dancing, and drinking fancy cocktails more. Enough to also love giving their money toferalcats.”

“You make it sound like the cats will walk amongst them, serving horsd’oeuvres.”

There was something gratifying about his enthusiasm. He leaned on the kitchen island across from me, with his powerful forearms braced on the granite and his posture boyish even though his big shoulders were allgrown-up.

“I don’t know about having a dance,” I said. Even though I already felt myselfcaving.

"It's not a dance. It's not junior high," he teased. Then, with an over-the-top expression of understanding coming over his face, he exclaimed, "Oh. Ohh. You can'tdance."

"It wouldn't matter if I could dance or not. It's not myparty."

"Right, it's for the kittens," he said, as if he were the oneremindingme.

I couldn’t help but imagine a big, successful event where the champagne flowed, the people laughed, and the donations rolled in. I could almost picture myself in a sophisticated black dress with Kate Middleton hair and people saying,oh, you really pulled it offand girls eying Rob as I stood tall in stilettos with my arm tucked through his…I shook my head at myself. This was not a universe where I would ever haveduchesshair.

“You really think so many people would be interested in a black tiething?”

“I really think so. We’ll get something that’s going to have gorgeous photos, society-paper stuff. Businesses will donate too, they’ll see the pay-off. It’ll be cheaper than your barbecue when you factor that in.” He nodded, as confident about charity as he was about kicking downdoors.

“I can’t believe that you want to spend your sick leave planning a fundraiser for cats,” I said. Those gorgeous baby-blues of his widened slightly, and I knew we were skating dangerously close to discussing our random lust for eachother.

Even if I didn’t understand why he lusted after meatall.

Or why my sense of self-preservation didn’t win out over the ache between my thighs and the way my hands itched to roam his hard-planedbody.

Before he could say anything else, I said, “You just want to show off that you candance,huh?”

“Can I?” He straightened from the island, drawing himself to his fullsix-two.

There was still a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, above those cool-water eyes. Despite his workout, he smelled good: earthy and warm with a faint hint of musk. How was that even possible? Rob Delaney's sweat smelled delicious? No wonder I couldn’t concentratearoundhim.

"That's not something I've ever doubted," I said tartly, belatedly answering his question. "Just like you speak all the romance languages and own a tux, I'm sure you candance."

He frowned. "No. I wasn't asking, do you think I can really dance? I was asking if I couldshowoff."

He held his non-casted hand out to me. His hands were big and blocky, deeply tanned and ripped with white scars across his knuckles and callouses along the pads of his palm. He had a workman’s hands, a fighter’s hands, but his fingers were long and deft, like a musician’s. I bet he could play my body like he used to play theviolin.

He reached into his pocket for his cell phone. Music began to play, a slow but sexyLatinbeat.

I had to crack a smile. "You'reridiculous."

"Are youafraid?"

"Ofdancing?"

"Mm-hmm."

"I run a business. I rescue very angry cats. And I do your laundry. I'm not scared of much." I slapped my handintohis.

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