Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(59)

“No, the problem is that you scare half these fellows to death. That’s why you aren’t dancing.” She sensed his approach. A finger traced along her forearm, sending a tingling sensation through her.

She felt her heart thud in her chest, and in spite of herself, she turned to face him. The image she had held in her mind was put to shame.

Smiling down at her was the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on. His hair was trimmed close to his skull, not all slicked back like most of the men here wore theirs. The light in the club was dim, so she couldn’t quite make out the color of his eyes, but she thought they were a clear brown, maybe hazel. His nose was straight. His lips full, the lower one a tad more so than the upper one that curled a bit beneath a well-defined philtrum. His chin strong and with a cleft. “And the other half?” she asked, though her mouth had gone dry.

His nose crinkled up, followed by a raise of his eyebrows. “They just know they’re not man enough to handle a woman like you.”

Feeling herself flush, Jilo lowered her eyes and took a sip of her sour mash, her lips puckering at the taste. She only looked up after she had set the glass back on the table. “So who the hell are you?” she asked.

His eyes lit up, and he leaned in like he was about to confess the darkest of secrets. “I’m the man who’s going to ask you to dance.” He pulled back and lowered his eyelids. “When I’m good and ready to, that is.” He placed his hand on the chair she’d been saving for Mary. “May I?” he asked. But he pulled the seat out and joined her before she could say no.

As if she would say no.

“Aren’t you scared of me, too?” she asked, looking directly into his eyes.

“A little, but I kind of like that.” He slid his hand over toward hers, the space between them not even wide enough to accommodate a sheet of parchment.

Jilo burst out laughing. At him. At herself. “Shit.” She swiped up her whiskey and downed what was left.

“That’s no way for a lady to speak,” he said.

Jilo returned the glass to the table and cast an eye over her shoulder in each direction. “I don’t see any ladies here.”

His hand shot out and caught hers. “I do. Right here.” He turned her hand over, tracing his finger along her palm like he was some kind of sideshow fortune-teller. “You can try to pretend otherwise, but you’re a good girl.” He released her and leaned back, eyeing her like he was surveying her. “I might even go so far as to say ‘respectable’ if you weren’t sitting here by yourself sucking on that swill.”

“I’m not as respectable as you might think.” Her mind flashed to how it had felt to have Lionel on top of her, inside her, rutting for his pleasure alone. The way sex with him had always left her feeling disconnected from her own body. On the outside, watching from a corner of the room. An unloved convenience. A hole where he could spill his seed. The thought of Lionel cut through this new man’s glamour. “Did you borrow that tie?” she asked, the devil in her trying to drive this man away before he could drive her out of herself, too. Suddenly she wanted nothing more than to be gone from this place. Pushing away from the table, she reached out for her purse.

“Stay,” he said, “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what I’ve done to upset you, but that wasn’t my intention.” If he’d so much as blinked, she would have given in to the urge to flee, but he sat perfectly still, watching as she decided. She let her bag slip back down to the table.

He waited for her to relax in her chair before he spoke. “Maybe it wasn’t something I’ve done. Maybe it’s what the fellow before me did.” He raised his eyebrows. “Hmmm? You should tell me, ’cause I’d hate to chase you off before I get that dance.”

“Then you better get to asking,” she said, but her urge to flee had already dissipated.

The band wrapped up the fast swing it had been playing, and began another, a sentimental one that drew the couples closer. He stood and held out his hand to her. “I was only waiting for a slow dance.” A naughty smile curled his lips, and she felt a matching expression form on her own face.

The band played “The Very Thought of You,” though their version featured a few improvisations she’d never heard on the radio. The handsome stranger held her close and swayed to the music.

“I don’t even know your name,” she said, nearly ready to kick herself for ruining the moment.

He leaned in. His breath felt warm on the sensitive skin on her neck. He whispered into her ear. “Guy,” he answered, though the way he said the name, it rhymed with “bee.”

“Guy,” she said, leaning back. “What the hell kind of name is Guy?”

At that very moment Mary swung by them with another beau. At least this one was a repeat. “Jilo,” Mary called out while passing, “this place is wonderful.” She laughed. “And I don’t even know how to dance!”

Guy and Jilo came to a dead stop on the dance floor. “What the hell kind of name is Jilo?” he demanded, though she could see a spark of laughter in his eyes.

“Oh, shut up,” she said and laughed, expecting him to start dancing again. But he didn’t. No. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers, and her knees gave way beneath her. It didn’t matter though, he held her tight. She closed her eyes, and reached up to link her fingers behind his neck. Fire passed down her spine, returning the strength to her legs. Then she felt his body begin to sway again, her own slipping easily into his rhythm.