Page 160

I run into Xavi Dumas, from the Barcelona branch, and he asks me to dance. I accept. Then several other men ask me, and my self-esteem returns. Suddenly, Eric is beside me, and he asks my companion for permission to dance with me. My companion concurs. Me, not so much. When he puts his hand on my waist and I put my arms around his neck, the band plays “Blue Moon.” I gulp and dance.
“Are you having a good time, Miss Flores?”
“Yes, sir,” I say flatly.
His hands burn on my back. My body reacts to his touch, his closeness, and his scent.
“How’s life?” he asks again in an impersonal tone.
“Fine,” I manage to say, “lots of work. And yours?”
Eric smiles, but his expression is twisted as he leans in close to my ear.
“Excellent. I’ve started playing again, and I must say, it’s much better than I remember. By the way, Dexter gave me some souvenirs for you the other day, for his hot goddess.”
I try to pull away from his arms, but he doesn’t let me. He squeezes me against him.
“Finish dancing with me, Miss Flores. Then you can do whatever you like. Be professional.”
Everything itches, but I don’t scratch.
I endure being pulled around, looking into his surly expression, and when the song ends, he gives me a cold and gallant kiss on the hand.
“As always, it’s been a pleasure to see you again. I wish you the best.”
His nearness, his words, and his coldness have wounded my soul.
I go to the bar and order a Rum and Coke. I need it. After that, I drink another, and I try to be as professional and cold as he is. I’ve had the best teacher. Eric Zimmerman won’t get the best of me.
I watch him, incensed, while he enjoys himself with the women. They all fall at his feet, and I know who he’s leaving with tonight. Not with the Italian. With Amanda. Their eyes show it.
I hate them!
At one o’clock in the morning, I decide to ditch the party. I can’t take it anymore! Miguel has left with his own sexual hurricane, and some other guy is bothering me.
Out on the street, I take a deep breath. I catch sight of a taxi and flag it down. I give the address and, in silence, I return to my hotel. I walk up to my room and take off my shoes. I hear gasping in the room next door. Miguel and his hurricane.
I sigh. They’re going to give me quite a night.
I sit in bed and cover my eyes, and the tears finally come. What the hell am I doing here? The panting from the room next door gets louder. Ugh! Finally, pissed off, I slap the wall twice. The gasping stops, and I shake my head.
Seconds later, they knock on my door, and I feel my chest get warm. I’m such a party pooper! It must be Miguel coming to apologize. I smile, and, when I open the door, I look into Eric’s scowling face. My expression changes.
“Well, well ... I see I’m not who you were expecting, Miss Flores.”
Without asking permission, he walks into the room, and I close the door. I don’t move. I don’t know what he’s doing here. Eric turns around in the sitting area, and, after making sure I’m alone, he looks at me.
“What do you want?”
The Iceman looks at me—looks at me hard.
“I didn’t see you leave the party, and I wanted to make sure you were all right,” he says indifferently.
“If you came here to see who I’m playing with at the hotel, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t play with people from the company or when people from the company are nearby. I’m discreet. And as far as whether I’m all right, don’t worry, sir. I know how to take care of myself all on my own. So now that you know, you can leave.”
When I say I play at other times, it stirs him up. I see it in his face. But before he can say anything that could make me even angrier, I take charge of the situation.
“Get out of my room right now, Mr. Zimmerman.”