elevators, she paused. She had no idea what floor Anthony was housed on or if he was even staying within the casino. She suspected he must be, but it didn’t matter. Unlike Cerveau and the other dancers, Roseâtre wouldn’t turn to dust at sunrise if she were outside. They didn’t hold her soul, only her body and her will.
But the consequences would be less than ideal.
A long, golden arm came around her to punch the up button, but instead of retreating, the hand firmed on her hip and drew her against him. The heat of his skin burned through the cotton of the shirt. The rasp of his jeans brushed against her bottom.
It would be so easy to lean back against him. But the spoils of war went to the victor.
She wasn’t ready to surrender yet. The dampness between her thighs decried this pledge, but she ignored it. The doors opened and she tugged free of the contact, but he was right behind her, crowding her into a corner and planting himself between her and the other guests who filtered on.
Roseâtre’s eyes skimmed over his bare back, the muscles taut and tense as though prepared for battle. Would he be smooth? Would the skin be hot? Would the muscles ripple as the cat’s had?
Would you get your mind out of the gutter?
Folding her arms, Roseâtre tucked her hands under her biceps. She focused her gaze on the pips of the elevator detailing their passage up to the eighth floor, then the ninth, pausing again on the twelfth and thirteenth, but even though many passengers exited, Anthony remained still, watchful.
Awareness flared along the back of her neck. Glancing to the left, she saw a man leaning against the wall, his dark eyes hot and openly staring. He smelled of limes, salt and the barest hint of tequila. Tipping her head to the side, she lifted her eyebrows.
In front of her, Anthony growled, a full-force, rumbling, chest-thumping, growl. She didn’t laugh. But she wanted to.
Because Mr. Lime and the Coconut paled and pressed back against the wall of the elevator as though he wanted to fall right through the steel carriage. When the elevator paused on twenty-one, the man bolted, leaving behind a waft of bad cologne to mingle with the tropical scents.
The doors hadn’t even closed when Roseâtre started laughing.
Alone finally, Anthony twisted to look at her. His dark scowl was completely undone by the amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Enjoy that, did you?”
“I thought he was going to piss his pants.” The mirth bubbling in her chest flexed rusty muscles as she laughed. The sound barked through her, but rose in pitch as his lips twitched.
“He did. A little.”
“Poor man.” Still, her laughter doubled at Anthony’s derisive snort.
She had her amusement firmly in hand, other than the occasional snicker, when they arrived at the fortieth floor and the doors opened. She nearly swallowed her tongue as the call of a bird and the rich, loamy scent of earth swished into the elevator. Anthony stepped into the doorway, bracing his back against the sliding door so it couldn’t close as Roseâtre gaped.
How the hell did they get a jungle into the casino?
She exited slowly, heels sinking into damp soil. The sound of falling water echoed through the underbrush. Overhead, trees seemed to stretch higher than the visible canopy. The air was moist and rain drifted on the wind.
“Wow.” She stopped, her gaze skating over the impossible. Despite her initial jungle impression, it was more like a rainforest, with thick-bodied trees, exotic plants, birds flying overhead and in the distance, the echoing rumble of cats yowling a welcome.
“It smells weird because it’s magic, but it’ll do.” Anthony nudged her forward. Roseâtre turned in enough time to see the elevator doors wink closed behind the bark of the largest tree she’d ever seen.
“They did all this with magic?” Apprehension shivered over her skin. The thump of the doors left her alone, in a mystical forest, seemingly so far from the stage of
But the consequences would be less than ideal.
A long, golden arm came around her to punch the up button, but instead of retreating, the hand firmed on her hip and drew her against him. The heat of his skin burned through the cotton of the shirt. The rasp of his jeans brushed against her bottom.
It would be so easy to lean back against him. But the spoils of war went to the victor.
She wasn’t ready to surrender yet. The dampness between her thighs decried this pledge, but she ignored it. The doors opened and she tugged free of the contact, but he was right behind her, crowding her into a corner and planting himself between her and the other guests who filtered on.
Roseâtre’s eyes skimmed over his bare back, the muscles taut and tense as though prepared for battle. Would he be smooth? Would the skin be hot? Would the muscles ripple as the cat’s had?
Would you get your mind out of the gutter?
Folding her arms, Roseâtre tucked her hands under her biceps. She focused her gaze on the pips of the elevator detailing their passage up to the eighth floor, then the ninth, pausing again on the twelfth and thirteenth, but even though many passengers exited, Anthony remained still, watchful.
Awareness flared along the back of her neck. Glancing to the left, she saw a man leaning against the wall, his dark eyes hot and openly staring. He smelled of limes, salt and the barest hint of tequila. Tipping her head to the side, she lifted her eyebrows.
In front of her, Anthony growled, a full-force, rumbling, chest-thumping, growl. She didn’t laugh. But she wanted to.
Because Mr. Lime and the Coconut paled and pressed back against the wall of the elevator as though he wanted to fall right through the steel carriage. When the elevator paused on twenty-one, the man bolted, leaving behind a waft of bad cologne to mingle with the tropical scents.
The doors hadn’t even closed when Roseâtre started laughing.
Alone finally, Anthony twisted to look at her. His dark scowl was completely undone by the amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Enjoy that, did you?”
“I thought he was going to piss his pants.” The mirth bubbling in her chest flexed rusty muscles as she laughed. The sound barked through her, but rose in pitch as his lips twitched.
“He did. A little.”
“Poor man.” Still, her laughter doubled at Anthony’s derisive snort.
She had her amusement firmly in hand, other than the occasional snicker, when they arrived at the fortieth floor and the doors opened. She nearly swallowed her tongue as the call of a bird and the rich, loamy scent of earth swished into the elevator. Anthony stepped into the doorway, bracing his back against the sliding door so it couldn’t close as Roseâtre gaped.
How the hell did they get a jungle into the casino?
She exited slowly, heels sinking into damp soil. The sound of falling water echoed through the underbrush. Overhead, trees seemed to stretch higher than the visible canopy. The air was moist and rain drifted on the wind.
“Wow.” She stopped, her gaze skating over the impossible. Despite her initial jungle impression, it was more like a rainforest, with thick-bodied trees, exotic plants, birds flying overhead and in the distance, the echoing rumble of cats yowling a welcome.
“It smells weird because it’s magic, but it’ll do.” Anthony nudged her forward. Roseâtre turned in enough time to see the elevator doors wink closed behind the bark of the largest tree she’d ever seen.
“They did all this with magic?” Apprehension shivered over her skin. The thump of the doors left her alone, in a mystical forest, seemingly so far from the stage of
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