Page 3 of To Tango, with Desire

By the end of the tanda, I was restless, desperate to rid myself of the memory of that night. Alejandro led me off the floor and—curse him—straight towards the one man who was responsible for my nervous system failure.

At some point in the last song, Zane and his side piece had approached Tilda, chatting away as if my world wasn’t about to implode in 3, 2, 1.

“Zane, brother! You’re back! We thought you’d emigrated.” Alejandro embraced him, slapping his shoulder for good measure.

Play it cool, girl. No big deal.

Good lord, he was sexier than I remembered. Tall, dark, handsome, with magnetism that would’ve been frightening if it weren’t so deliciously compelling. There was an intensity to him, an edge that made women stop and stare.

Clearly, six months apart had left me hungry for more than just his attention. I’d all but worn out my Rabbit from overuse.

“It’s good to be home,” Zane replied. “Congratulations, World Cup champions. Very impressive.”

Alejandro’s grin lit up the room. “Not gonna lie, it feels good.”

“I heard the tour was a big success.”

“It was brilliant. We're glad to be back home though. Thank you again for the flowers.” Tilda beamed. “They were exquisite.”

“And the whiskey.” Alejandro whistled. “Top shelf.”

“The very best for the best. You deserve it, my friend.” Zane’s eyes locked on me. “Amira.” He stepped forward, his mouth brushing against my cheek. That familiar scent of cinnamon and leather hung in the air.

I wanted to linger but drew away. Zane’s expression was neutral, polite. And for some reason the inability to read him sparked my temper.

Did he even think about the virgin he’d deflowered and then ghosted?

“Zane.” Out of habit, I fidgeted with the gold bracelet on my wrist. Realizing my error, I whipped my hand behind my back. Too late. He caught the movement, his eyes flashing in pleasure.

I’d made a habit out of wearing it, but doing so now left me feeling embarrassed. Two months after we’d slept together, a package had turned up at my parents’ house accompanied by one beefy security guard. In it was a dainty bracelet, along with a note.

You were made for gold.

No signature. No contact details, save from the packaging. A jeweler in Italy.

I’d known exactly who had sent it. Only Zane would make sure it was delivered with a bodyguard. Out of spite, I’d kept it in the box for a good month, refusing to touch it. But out of curiosity—a terrible habit of mine—I’d caved in, deciding that a gift so beautiful was meant to be admired.

I wore it to remember that night and the way he’d made me feel.

Zane stepped back, gesturing to the petite blonde beside him. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of mine, Karina Katia Tarasova. We bumped into each other in Europe.”

“I was taking some exclusive private lessons with fabulous teachers in Paris when I turned a corner and walked straight into him.” Her laugh was low and smokey. Her features, delicate. She reminded me of one of those pretty porcelain dolls. “When he told me he was coming back to Melbourne, I decided to cut my trip short and join him. I have many homes around the world, and as summer is nearly over, I thought why not come back for a visit.”

“Welcome back, Karina.” Tilda smiled.

“Please, everyone calls me Kiki,” she replied, her Russian accent low and melodious.

“Will you be staying long?” Alejandro inquired.

“I haven’t decided.” Kiki shrugged. “Zane has convinced me to stay in Melbourne a little while longer before I head to Sydney. I go where the wind takes me.”

As the talk turned to travel, I assessed the sleek sophisticate. She was small in stature, well-polished, and not much younger than Zane. She looked worldly and, from the sounds of it, well able to burn money flying across the world at a whim.

“When you get older, you take all the opportunities life brings. Something you don’t have to worry about.” A pair of catlike green eyes swept over me. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Ah. A little kitty.”