The music was fast and loud. Sam expertly swung the woman through a series of intricate steps, and she followed him with smooth ease. The dim light on the dance floor gleamed off her silvery hair as she spun and shifted, her lush mouth curved in laughter as she ducked beneath Sam’s arm and twirled away again. The song ended; without pausing, the band moved smoothly into a slow, bluesy tune, and Sam pulled his partner into his arms.
Quinn’s gaze followed the couple as the rancher slow-stepped the blonde across the crowded dance floor toward the darkest corner of the room, the one closest to Quinn. His eyes narrowed, his body tensed as he watched the pretty stranger plant her hand against Beckman’s shoulder and push in an attempt to put space between them. Beckman resisted and forced her closer, bending his head to whisper in her ear. Quinn’s irritation moved a notch higher. The woman stopped dancing and pushed away from Sam, the frown on her face leaving no doubt that she wasn’t enticed by whatever he’d whispered in her ear.
She hadn’t gone two steps away from him when Beckman, laughing, reached out and caught her arm, pulling her back into his grasp.
That does it, Quinn decided grimly. He shoved away from the wall and strode onto the dance floor. It took only a few short seconds to reach the couple and tap Beckman on the shoulder.
“What the…”
“I’m cutting in.”
Beckman’s surprise turned into annoyance. “Sorry, Quinn. I saw her first.” His hand tightened possessively around her arm.
Quinn contemplated slugging the vain rancher on his picture-perfect jaw. He glanced at the woman and jerked at the heat that surged through his veins. She was even prettier up close. Her eyes were deep blue and snapping with anger. Quinn forgot what he’d meant to say to her. Fortunately, she wasn’t struck speechless.
“I’m not a piece of merchandise.”
The husky, annoyed feminine tone feathered shivers of awareness up Quinn’s spine.
“I didn’t…” Beckman protested.
Quinn and the blonde ignored him.
“Do you want to dance with me or him?” He asked, his gaze holding hers.
“You.”
He held out his hand and she placed hers in his, palm to palm, and his fingers threaded possessively between hers. It wasn’t until he tugged gently and she stepped toward him that they realized Sam Beckman still had his hand wrapped around her forearm.
Quinn turned his head, and his gaze pinned Beckman’s. “Let go of her,” he said softly. His tone was lethal.
Beckman’s gaze flicked from Quinn to the blonde and back again before he glowered and released her. “Hell, Quinn,” he said truculently. “I didn’t even know you could dance.”
“I can dance.” Quinn didn’t bother adding that he rarely practiced the social skill an old friend had taught him. He stared at Beckman for a full minute before the rancher shrugged, muttered under his breath, turned on his heel and left.
Victoria Denning barely noticed when Sam Beckman left. She was far too busy staring at the man holding her hand. He was at least six feet tall, with broad, muscle-layered shoulders. The pearl snaps of his white cotton dress shirt were unfastened at the throat, the cuffs of the long sleeves rolled up to bare powerful forearms dusted with fine black hair. Faded denim jeans outlined muscled thighs and long legs; black cowboy boots covered his feet. He had a straight blade of a nose and high cheekbones; his mouth was thin-lipped and hard. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, and sea-green eyes inspected her from beneath black brows.
Quinn read the same fascinated attraction in the woman’s blue eyes that was hitting him in subtly erotic waves. Every male hormone in his body was on alert, as he responded to a body that was seductively curved and the subtle scent of perfume and warm woman.
Someone bumped him, and Quinn glanced behind him. Only then did he realize that he was standing still, staring at her, while all around them, couples swayed together to the music. He smiled wryly.
Victoria caught her breath and forgot to exhale. The brief curving of his lips softened the austere, hard-boned lines of his face into heart-stopping handsomeness.
“I guess we should dance.” He tugged her closer and slipped an arm around her waist, moving her easily to the slow rhythm of the music.
Being held in the loose circle of his arms was like being encircled by live electrical wires. He turned her, his thigh brushing briefly against hers, and a shiver of awareness chased over her skin.
“Thanks for rescuing me.” She smiled up at him. “I’m Victoria Denning.”
“Quinn Bowdrie,” he answered. “You must be new in town—didn’t anyone warn you about Beckman?”
“That he was an octopus?” she asked. His mouth tilted in a swift half smile. Once again she felt the kick of pure adrenaline rushing through her veins. “No, no one warned me. But then, no one told me that Colson has a resident white knight named Quinn, either.”
He shot her a quick, disbelieving glance.
“A white knight?” He shook his head firmly. “Not me, lady. That’s the last thing anybody would ever tell you about me.”
“Really?” She tipped her head back and indulged her need to look at him. The shadows in the dark corner of the dance floor were broken by the flickering reflections of colored light from the mirrored globe hung in the center of the ceiling. The uneven light alternately illuminated and darkened his features. “Why not?”
“You really are new in town, aren’t you? Wait a while,” he said brusquely. “You’ll find out.”
“Why don’t you tell me—then I won’t have to wait.”
Quinn briefly thought about telling her the truth—that Quinn Bowdrie wasn’t considered fit company for a lady. Especially not one who looked and smelled as well-cared for as she did. Especially not one who heated his blood just by smiling at him.
Instead he decided to skirt the truth and buy himself a little time and a few more stolen moments of holding her in his arms, even if the chaste and proper distance he kept between them was killing him.
“No. I think I’ll let you find out on your own. I’ve never had a woman call me a white knight,” he drawled easily. “I think I’d like to enjoy it for a while.”
She laughed, the sound a low, throaty chuckle that eased over his skin like a caress.
“Hmm. A mystery man.” Victoria glanced up at him, and her breath lodged in her throat. The muscled arm circling her waist had slowly tightened until her body just brushed his as they swayed to the slow beat. Each breath she took drew in the faint, clean aroma of soap and spicy aftershave. Victoria was accustomed to men looking at her with interest, but the undisguised male heat deep in Quinn’s eyes made her skin tighten and warm. Her nerves shivered with awareness, all her senses on overload, and she searched for something to diffuse the charged silence. “It’s true that you’re not wearing a suit of armor—I’m guessing by your clothes that you’re not a storekeeper, either.”
“Nope.”
“Hmm. Maybe a rancher?”
“How did you guess?”
His expression was solemnly surprised, but his green eyes lit with amusement.
“It might have been the jeans and pearl-snapped Western shirt,” she answered. “But the real giveaway was the cowboy boots.”
“Uh-oh.” He glanced at his feet. “Corral dirt and hay on the soles?”
Victoria’s gaze took in the polished but worn black leather.
“No. Unlike boots worn by cowboys in Seattle, yours actually look like you wear them regularly.”
“Seattle?