Cindy Dees - The Medusa Proposition

She turned and strode away from him with as much aplomb as she could muster. But she didn’t count on him following her inside. Furthermore, she didn’t count on him reaching out fast to wrap his arm around her waist tightly enough that it would take violence on her part to shake it off. Heads were already turning their way, and if she wasn’t mistaken, eyebrows—and tongues—were wagging.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” he murmured. “Dance with me. It’s a waltz.”

“And your point?”

Of course he ignored her question entirely and instead commented, “Did you know the waltz was declared scandalous when it was introduced? It was thought to be too sensual for proper ladies. So. Are you a proper lady or not, Miss Ellis?”

She opened her mouth to suggest as politely as she could that he remove his hand from her waist before she broke his fingers, but before she could, he spun her around him and onto the dance floor. Despite his dashingly lean appearance, the guy was shockingly strong.

And she was waltzing.

With Thomas Rowe.

Playboy. Billionaire. Bastard.

And all she could think about was how incredible sex with him would be.

Tom grinned as the waltz shifted into a slow ballad, the kind where the guy pulls the girl as close as he thinks she’ll let him without slugging him, and the dancing is actually just swaying and shuffling while checking out each other’s bodies. Paige made to step back, but he tightened his arm around her waist to prevent the movement.

“What are you doing?” she whispered furiously.

Amused, he murmured back, “Your reputation isn’t wrecked, yet. One dance with me could just be a polite thing after I granted you an interview. But two dances means there’s something going on between us.”

“You are such a jerk!”

“You’re just now figuring that out? You mustn’t have done your homework on me before our interview, Paige.” Her entire body vibrated in his arms, almost like she was growling. He grinned down at her. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

Her eyes narrowed to distinctly feline slits. For just a moment, alarm resonated in his gut. If she’d been a man and looked at him like that, he’d have given second thoughts to provoking the guy any further. But as it was, she barely came up to his chin and couldn’t weigh much more than half of his solidly muscled 220 pounds.

His left hand slid down the slinky satin of her gown, caressing the inward curve of her spine. Her body arched slightly away from the touch, which brought her belly very nicely into intimate contact with his groin. Blue lightning snapped and crackled in her eyes.

He probably ought to stop. But damned if he didn’t want to see just what she’d do if she exploded on him. His hand slid lower. The pert bulge of her derriere filled his hand like it had been made for him. Her flesh was firm and resilient and, about as quickly as he registered its sexy texture, went rock hard under his palm.

Her gaze went black. Cold. Furious.

Oooh whee, she was pissed off. It was a sight to see. He had himself an armful of fireball, now….

Her gaze left his for a moment, focusing on something over his left shoulder. Alarm flashed in her eyes, at sharp odds with the fury pouring off her.

And then, without warning, she went limp in his arms, a hundred plus pounds of deadweight jerking him downward. It wasn’t that he couldn’t hold her weight. In fact, he did it easily. It was just that he had to adjust to the surprise of it.

A slight breeze whiffed over the top of his head. What the—

Something hooked behind his right ankle. Jerked sharply. Twin fists smashed into his shoulders. He flew backward, slamming onto his back at full length on the dance floor.

Something heavy landed on top of him. Breasts smashed into his face, and he smelled the most luscious combination of warm female and sexy perfume he’d ever encountered.

Holy cow. She was a hellion when she blew up. He mumbled against her chest, “I want you too, honey, but do you think this is the place for—

“Shut up and stay down,” she snapped. He froze. That was exactly the tone of voice one of his buddies on his old Special Forces team would have used when bad things hit the fan.

“What’s up?” he bit out. Paige was vibrating again, but this time it was pure fight-or-flight adrenaline coursing through her. He could smell it on her skin.

Her breasts lifted away from his face far enough for him to breathe, but she continued to sprawl on top of him. And then it dawned on him—her stance was protective.

She spoke without glancing down at him. “Someone just shot at you. Stay here. I’m going after him.”

And then her weight lifted away from him and she was racing across the room in a flash of ice blue satin. He leaped to his feet. People around him were staring, still frozen in that moment of initial shock before they began buzzing like bees. He hadn’t experienced the time distortion of a hyperadrenaline rush since his Special Ops days, but damned if everyone around him wasn’t moving in slow motion now.

With preternatural strength, he bolted after Paige. She was already slipping onto the terrace and into the night. He put on an extra burst of speed. If she got to the gardens before he caught up with her, it’d be hell not to lose her in the thick tropical foliage and overhanging palm trees.

She dodged down a shadowed path between giant ferns and he followed suit, thankful for her pale dress in the blackness. Damn, she was fast! His legs churned as he chased after her. A branch whipped across his face and he ducked grimly, but pressed on.

Surely she was mistaken. They’d been on a crowded dance floor, for goodness’ sake. There was no way of knowing who the shooter had been pointing at … assuming there even was a shooter. He wouldn’t put it past Paige Ellis to have imagined the whole thing. She was a reporter, after all. She made her living sensationalizing things.

For all he knew, she was chasing nothing at all. But he couldn’t in good conscience leave her alone to the vagaries of whomever might be in this isolated area late at night. Although the way she’d knocked him down in the ballroom, she probably could take perfectly fine care of herself. Okay, so he was out here tearing after her because she interested him. And very few women did that.

He stretched into a full run, arms pumping, breathing hard. There. Another glimpse of blue satin ahead. He ran even harder. Sweat popped out on his brow. The path turned sharply and his dress shoes slipped on the crushed granite. He flailed his arms and managed to catch himself, but Paige had pulled away again.

How big was this stupid garden anyway?

Yard by yard, he gradually closed the gap on her. How on Earth was she running in high heels? The foliage thinned slightly. He vaguely recalled hearing about a rose garden that this resort was known for.

And then he glimpsed something that made his blood run cold. A second fleeing figure not far ahead of Paige. Attired in all black and running like his life depended on it. Worse, she was almost on the guy. And what exactly was she planning to do with him once she caught him? The guy was obviously a pro. He’d break her neck in a heartbeat.

For the first time tonight, true panic speared through him. He’d been shot at plenty during his military career, and he’d had plenty of bullets wing past uncomfortably close to him before. But the idea of watching Paige get her head ripped off scared him like nobody’s business. He dug deep and with supreme effort found an extra gear. Ten yards from Paige. Eight. Five.

A shot rang out and he flinched reflexively.

Rifle. High-powered, large caliber. Sniper rig, then.