Page 6 of To Tango, with Desire

Zane’s arrogant, teasing humor was replaced by displeasure.

“Enjoy your night, Zane.”

I turned, threading my way through the crowd, wanting for the first time that evening to be alone. Zane Nasser, billionaire, cherry-popper, and all-around asshole was back.

Big. Freakin’. Deal.

TWO

ZANE

Istared at the computer screen, cursing the data. It might as well have been written in Latin. My mind—normally sharp and disciplined—was sluggish and slow. Swiveling in my chair, I looked out over Melbourne’s city skyline, appreciating the view. Thousands of people were making their way to work, seeking solace in air-conditioned offices. Summer may nearly be over, but it was shaping up to be a scorcher today. I blamed the weather entirely for last night’s lack of sleep.

I liked to rise early. To work out and give thanks to my good fortune. To appreciate the wealth that had enabled me to buy cars like they were cups of coffee, to live a life of luxury. A life I hadn’t been capable of dreaming of as a child.

Abject poverty would do that to a kid.

Even though I felt the pull of today’s training on my muscles, I hadn’t found peace. The weekend milonga had thrown me.

I’d hoped to see Amira again. From the moment my plane had landed on the tarmac, my thoughts had been of her. I’d expected to feel relieved, but something lurked beneath my satisfaction.

Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I wanted Amira with a fierce possession that terrified me. Ever since the night we’d slept together—hell, in the year prior—my thoughts had been consumed by her. I told myself it was the novelty of having slept with a virgin. Something I hadn’t done since I’d been a young and cocky fifteen-year-old eager to become a man.

I’d spent a year watching her at milongas, captivated by the way she moved. I’d kept my distance, content to watch her progress, to see her grow in confidence and skill. But that night when we’d first danced together had changed everything. If I hadn’t attended that class, If she hadn’t been chosen to partner with me, we might never have grown close. We had spent the next few months dancing together, getting to know one another before I invited her back to my place. And it had changed everything.

My instinct after that night had been to haul Amira onto my private jet and set her up in one of my penthouses in France while I conducted my business. To never let her out of my sight, let alone my bed. But experience had taught me that all-consuming passion could burn. I’d made that mistake a decade before and still sported the scars.

And because of it, I’d taken a step back. I’d forced myself to forget her, had actually believed that I could do it thousands of miles away. When I’d spotted the luxurious bracelet on my short trip to Valenza, I hadn’t hesitated to buy it. It’d been madness, sending her an Italian-crafted bracelet worth more than some people’s annual salary. But the truth remained that with Amira, all logic flew out the fucking window.

I clenched my fists against the aching hot need that pumped through my veins. It was better this way. Much better for her to hate me, for her to never find out the truth. And while it filled me with blinding rage to think of her being touched by another man, I was wise enough to know Amira Hadid deserved more than anything I had to offer. She deserved to be loved.

I lowered my shoulders, flexing my fingers.

It was for the best.

And yet . . .

This trip to Europe had given me clarity. A new vision.

I wanted a wife.

An arranged marriage specifically. I could provide companionship. Security. Hell, a luxury most women would beg to have on offer. The only thing I would never give would be my heart. It would be no different from a business arrangement. I could negotiate contracts in my sleep, so how hard would a marriage contract really be?

I jumped again as my phone rang. “What is it, Bilal?”

My secretary’s youthful voice cut through the line. It was Bil’s first week on the job and it showed. I’d given the eager twenty-year-old a chance only because Bil’s mother, Fatima—my secretary of ten years—had been desperate to retire and travel the world. She’d wanted her son to get a good start in life. To have some experience working as a PA.

“Omar Latif’s lawyers called again. About the will.”

“I gave you clear instructions about that, Bil. I don’t care.”

“But they keep—”

“You tell them I’m not interested and I’ll let you keep that cushy job you have there. Got it?”

“Got it, boss.”