Page 26 of To Tango, with Desire

Seeing Amira at the mixer had shifted something inside of me.

It was wild and possessive—a far cry from the reasoned man I had become. It had taken years of practice, of watching and learning how the other half lived for me to shed my old skin, my old habits. I’d been a street kid, the son of a junkie, and, up until I’d turned eight, living a life of poverty had been my guaranteed future.

Once upon a time, I’d thought a lot of things were guaranteed. I shoved aside the painful memories, the heartbreak that had consumed me for so long. I’d moved on from that. From her. And I’d vowed I would never fall in love again.

But whenever I was around Amira, I felt a primitive need to hold on and not let go. It was like a switch had been flipped and I wasn’t sure I liked it. The idea of us picking up where we’d left off six months ago was ludicrous. Dangerous.

Something warned me to tread carefully. Especially now that Kade was involved. Just the thought of that bastard dancing with Amira made me want to knock him out. I’d forced myself to hold back the night of the milonga. I’d made myself watch as Kade had touched her. And it had nearly killed me.

Amira wasn’t mine. I had no claim on her. Exactly how I wanted it. Right?

I hadn’t even put her name down after the mixer. No woman there had come close to intriguing me.

For so long, I’d learned to put work before relationships. Work had never let me down. Work had never betrayed me. But I wanted more. Since Omar’s death, I had become restless. I hadn’t realized until I’d traveled to Europe that I wanted to settle down.

But I needed advice. No, I needed direction.

As if by some kind of divine intervention, my phone rang.

I answered immediately.

“Maryam.”

“What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, still surprised at her uncanny ability to know when something was up. I was sure Maryam De Lotto was some kind of clairvoyant. She had an eerily accurate way of sensing things.

“Who said there was—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Zane. What is it? Work?”

“No. God no, Maryam, everything is fine.”

“Ah. It’s a woman, then.”

Well, shit.

“Maryam—”

“You met someone at the marriage mixer?”

“No, well, yes. I knew her from before then.”

“And she’s someone you’re thinking of marrying?”

“What? Maryam . . .” I was about to deny it, but a wild idea that had no basis in anything that was reasoned or, hell, even sane, materialized. “It’s complicated.”

“Women are. But we’re worth it.”

I picked up a pen, running my fingers over its smooth finish. “I beg to differ.”

I passed the fireplace, the bookshelves, then paced back to my desk. My mind was racing. What if . . .

No.

“You found a woman but she’s giving you trouble. So what? You’re just going to walk away?”

The idea was ridiculous.