Privilege (Special Tactical Units Division 2)

She gave him That Look. The one that said he’d had his fun for the night when he’d made her ride his Harley.

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

He could have shrugged and sat down, but he was already standing. And he’d be damned if he was going to click his heels and obey words that seemed simple unless you were attuned to the dismissiveness implicit in them.

Chay reached for Bianca’s hand. She tried to tug free, but his grip was like iron.

“We’re in a restaurant,” he said tightly. “There’s a band playing. People are dancing, including your sister and my best friend, who are out to have a good time. No way am I going to let you spoil that for them.”

“That’s ridiculous! They’re not the ones who suggested dancing. Even if they had, what has it do with us?”

She was right. His reasoning was ass-backwards, but he was already committed to getting her on that dance floor.

“It has what I say it has to do with us,” he said, and if she’d laughed in his face for that burst of male chauvinist crap, he wouldn’t have blamed her—but he didn’t give her the chance to laugh. Instead, he pulled her to her feet, wrapped a proprietary arm around her waist, and led her to the dance floor.

Once there, he let go of her hand and faced her. She looked about as happy as somebody waiting for a root canal.

“I don’t dance very well,” she said stiffly.

“You did fine at the wedding.”

“I did what had to be done.”

“Yeah, well, this is what has to be done now.” He sighed, decided to cut her a little slack. “Trust me,” he said. “They’re never going to invite me to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.”

She almost smiled, which was probably the best he could hope for.

They began dancing.

And, man, she was right.

He’d been so pissed off over being stuck with her at the wedding that he hadn’t really paid attention to how she danced, but just as she’d said, she wasn’t very good. She was stiff. Almost mechanical.

Other women shimmied. Flung their arms in the air.

She moved like a robot.

Why? Dancing was easy. This kind especially. There were no formal moves, no patterns to follow. You just let your body feel the rhythm.

Was that the problem? Was his always-sure-of-herself-not-actually-a-date date only comfortable when her brain was in charge?

Before he could figure out the answer, the music changed. Went from fast and hot to slow and hot. Something bluesy had sent the couples around them into each other’s arms.

It sent his not-a-date date into a panic.

He saw it in her face. In her body language.

She was going to run.

And though he didn’t know why, he was not going to let that happen.

“Bianca,” he said, and when she looked up at him, her eyes wide and almost panicky, something deep inside him stirred. “Bianca,” he said again, and he took her in his arms.

CHAPTER FIVE

They were dancing.

At least that was the lieutenant called it.