Boiling Point (Crossing the Line #3)(10)

The stranger’s firm hand pressed to the small of her back, easing her forward against his body. He groaned in his throat when her breasts made contact with his stomach, the sound reverberating right down to her toes. “Dance with me, zolotse.”

Polly started to decline. Dance? No. She had a job to do…but that note of something in his voice was awakening a familiar craving down deep in her bones. Finally, she succeeded in glancing over the stranger’s shoulder and saw that Reitman was still watching her curiously. Whether the Russian’s forward behavior was inappropriate or not, he’d done her a favor. If he hadn’t shown up, she might be staring at the bar like a jackass. A dance floor would be the perfect place to observe Reitman until the time came to follow him from the club. It had nothing to do with wanting the stranger’s hands on her or the odd surety that he could pinpoint where desire had built the strongest inside her. How? How did she know that? Why was she so sure? “I haven’t danced since middle school, so—”

Her unfinished sentence hanging in the air, the Russian walked her backward, farther into the darkness, his jaw alongside her temple. He murmured something in his language, and even though she didn’t know what his words meant, they went straight to her belly, settling and growing heavy. Concentrate. She needed to concentrate. But it was growing increasingly difficult to focus. She’d only drunk three martinis, and they’d been poured with a conservative hand—she shouldn’t feel her inhibitions loosening with every step.

But…they were. And when the Russian’s fingers slid just inside the top of her skirt to graze her thong, a pounding started in her chest. Yes.

There was no more denying that this mysterious man made her think of Austin. Same height, same masculinity, same sexual prowess. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was the con. She could dull the sharpest corners of the inescapable lust.

No one would ever know.

…

Blimey. Why hadn’t she passed out yet?

Polly had to be made of steel on the inside as well as out. The sedative he’d dropped into her drink was mild, but it damn well should have required him to carry her out the back door by now. He hadn’t planned on it—nor did he like going to such extremes—but he’d had no choice. Not when he’d seen the man at the bar.

His ex-partner Charles.

He should have known. Should have trusted the gut feeling he’d been encountering from day one when he started following Polly that something f*cked up was ’round the bend. It had been too coincidental, seeing Charles in Chicago the night after Polly’s thwarted date with the chap he’d left on the diner’s bathroom floor. He hadn’t wasted time wondering if Charles was Polly’s reason for coming to Tossed dressed like a gorgeous, half-naked club kid, so he’d acted preemptively by doctoring her drink. Polly had no idea what she was up against with Charles, and she wouldn’t be finding out, if he had to send Charles out of Chicago himself.

As soon as the sedative took effect, he would take her home, leave her safely on the couch, and spend the night planning. And wondering just what the hell Polly was about, stalking a murderous con on her night off.

If he didn’t think she’d go nuclear, he would take off the damned prosthetic nose and drop the accent, so he could shake some sense into her as Austin. Right. He was angry with her. Not turned on. Even though the curve of her arse begged his hand to descend, to grab the flesh that mesmerized him on a daily basis. Push those parted lips wide and appease his monumental curiosity over how she would taste. Maybe slide his tongue down to her cleavage, dipping into her bra to swipe at her always-perked-up nipples.

Down, boy. Taking advantage of a pliant, starry-eyed Polly was beneath him—them—and doing so would make him a right bastard. Just a dance. He would enjoy the single dance they might ever share and try to pretend she wasn’t seconds from going lights-out. Or better yet, pretending she hadn’t been seconds from engaging somehow with his ex-partner, a fact that unsettled him greatly.

Polly wound her arms around his neck. “What did you call me earlier? In Russian.” Austin almost cursed out loud when her curves shifted over his lap, his stomach. Come on, babe. Go to sleep and stop looking at my mouth. “I liked the way it sounded.”

Austin breathed deeply through his nose. “This word I said…it means my gold.”

“Hmm. Awfully personal, isn’t it?” The pace of the music picked up, bass thumping in the air. Polly’s eyes slid closed, and relief—and yeah, some inexcusable disappointment—spiraled through Austin…until those eyes blinked back open and her body started to move. And sweet f*ck, did she move. Her body churned against his in a slow roll, accompanied by a flash of her eyes. Drowsy excitement. The way a woman might look the morning after several rounds of sex, but wanting to go one more time before breakfast. Only this wasn’t just a woman, it was Polly, a woman who until now had only been unintentionally sexy. He hadn’t come prepared to withstand her at full measure, her feminine wiles in effect and focused on him.

No, not him. Some strange Russian man lacking in boundaries. Austin gave himself a mental shake, trying to rid himself of the rampant jealousy that thought set loose. Pull back. He needed to stop absorbing the mind-melting sensation of Polly’s body undulating against his and use the opportunity to find out something about her connection to Charles. If he didn’t, he would regret it tomorrow, and Polly would be in further danger. “Who is that man to you, zolotse?”