The Untamed Argentinian

A curl of excitement unfurled inside her as Nero met her stare. ‘I’ll pick you up at ten,’ he said.

Now what had she done? Bella wondered as Nero got back into his car and roared away. One thing was sure; she was playing a far more sophisticated game than she was used to.

Up in her hotel room, with its state portrait of a very beautiful and glamorous Eva Peron smiling down, Bella’s problems were mounting. She had packed three sets of riding gear for this trip, an unflattering old-fashioned swimming costume that covered up far more than it revealed, a matching cover-up, a pair of shorts, some work clothes, jeans, sneakers, boots, a pile of T-shirts, some serviceable underwear and a couple of sweaters. At the very last minute she had added a neat pencil skirt with a pair of chunky-heeled shoes, a tailored blouse and jacket, just in case she needed to attend a business meeting during her visit. Tango costume, it was not.

Though as she wouldn’t be dancing…

She definitely wouldn’t be dancing, Bella told herself firmly, remembering how it had felt to be held in Nero’s arms at the polo party. And, as strictly speaking this was a business outing with her boss, the pencil skirt would be perfect. Tying her hair back neatly, she told her heart to stop behaving so erratically and, with a final check in the mirror, she drew a deep breath and left the room.

Nero was leaning against the wall at the foot of the stairs. Surrounded by an adoring crowd, he was signing autographs. Yet another reminder that she was out of her depth here. Thank goodness for her sensible business outfit. There was no danger she could be mistaken for one of Nero’s girlfriends looking like this. In fact, she should be able to reach the front door without anyone noticing her—

‘Bella?’

Wrong. Nero was at her elbow. Or, rather, she was at his. He was so much taller than she was. He was like a solid wall of muscle protecting her from his fans, all of whom seemed intent on getting a piece of him. But all he had to do was speak a few words in his own language and with a collective sigh of understanding the crowd fell back.

‘What did you say to them?’ Bella asked, impressed.

‘I told them you were here so you could learn to dance—’ Nero’s powerful shoulders eased into a typical Latin shrug. ‘I explained that you come from a place where dancing is practically unheard of, and that this is a mercy mission on my part. They understood completely.’

I bet they did, Bella thought. She tilted her chin as Nero held the door for her and walked past him with what she sincerely hoped was a businesslike expression on her face—in the manner of a woman whose intention was to do anything but dance her way into danger tonight.

The tango club was situated on the top floor of an old building. Vast and echoey, the white-flagged floors had turned grey with age and the tiled staircase was of the same vintage, but the people hadn’t come to admire the architecture. They were being drawn upstairs by the heady pulse of music, which floated down from an open doorway on the upper landing.

Bella was soon to discover that the whole of the attic space had been transformed into a dance hall. The air was warm and sultry, and the room was lit by candlelight which gave it a golden shadowy hue. The scent of wax melting was added to the faint overlay of perfume and warm clean bodies—and something else…something heady and alluring, which Bella flatly refused to identify as emotion, let alone passion.

Wooden chairs surrounded tables covered with welcoming red-and-white cloths—though no one seemed to be eating as far a

s Bella could tell—they all were too intent on watching the tango demonstration. The room was packed and hushed. A couple was about to start. A table was quickly found for Bella and Nero, who murmured something in Spanish to a waiter before ushering her ahead of him. She was so drawn to the upcoming performance she almost stumbled—and would have done if Nero hadn’t steadied her. ‘Sit, Bella,’ he prompted.

She sank down on the hard wooden chair, tingling from his touch. This next couple seemed to be the one everyone had been waiting for—and this wasn’t the glitzy entertainment Bella had seen on TV back home, but something earthy and sensual, and unashamedly erotic. The moment the accordionist began to play she was drawn into another world. The couple on the dance floor held each other’s gaze intently as they moved with feline languor to the steady beat of the music—though this could change in a heel tap into something fierce and aggressive. As the rhythm rose in a climactic wave Bella realised that these dramatic changes from slumbering passion to outright conflict and back again to soothing gestures were exactly what the spectators had come to see. There was no doubt the woman gave as good as she got—pushing her partner away with a blistering glare, only for him to snatch her back again.

This was how her life could be, Bella reflected whimsically, leaning her chin on the heel of her hand. Instead of safe and bland, she could change it in an instant to risk and danger and attack—

Nero returned her to reality with a jolt, asking her what she’d like to drink. ‘Water, please.’ She didn’t trust herself with anything stronger.

How far out of her comfort zone was she now? Bella thought as the performance heated up. If there was one thing she had already learned in Argentina, it was that the tango was the vertical expression of horizontal desire, and she’d have preferred something a touch safer for her first outing with the boss.

Her boss…

It could be worse, she reflected dryly, taking him in. Nero had dressed for the evening in slim black trousers that complemented his incredible physique. His powerful shoulders tapered to his narrow waist, which was cinched by a leather belt. His shoes were black and highly polished, and his shirt was white and crisp—

And he was dressed for dancing, Bella realised with a sudden blaze of panic. Nero was an athlete—one of the world’s top athletes. And the tango at this level couldn’t be attempted by anyone who didn’t enjoy peak fitness. ‘Do you dance?’ she said weakly as the crashing finale and riotous applause brought the display they’d been watching to a close.

‘I love to dance,’ Nero assured her, putting down his glass of wine. ‘I love anything where I have to use my body.’

She didn’t doubt it, Bella thought, swallowing deep as one of the startlingly beautiful young girls in the club sashayed towards their table. How could she compete with this? Was that why Nero had brought her here? To humiliate her? Was this Nero’s revenge for not allowing him to buy Misty?

She was clutching her glass so hard she would break it if she wasn’t careful, Bella realised. Then some demon got into her and, throwing caution to the wind, she sprang to her feet. ‘I’ll dance,’ she said wildly, only to find her voice blasting through a momentary silence.

People stared at her. The young girl stared at her. How ridiculous she must seem in her office clothes when everyone else around her was dressed…well, not for the office.

‘Bella?’

Tall and imposing, Nero was holding out his hand to her. The music was thrumming with an almost irresistible beat. She did a quick inventory. Her skirt had a slit up the back and everything that should be covered was covered—

And she was nothing if not game. She hadn’t come to Argentina to be pushed around, or to be pushed into the shadows. Adopting the typical haughty stare of a female tango dancer, she tilted her chin as a challenge to Nero to follow her to the dance floor.

‘Are you sure about this?’ he murmured.