HIS DANGEROUS GAME
And then he appeared.
Dante was waiting near the bar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his shirt black and tailored to every sculpted line of his body. He didn’t just wear expensive clothes; he commanded them. The faint glint of a watch hugged his wrist, and his dark hair, always styled in reckless perfection, was swept back as though his fingers had been there moments before.
The scent of him hit her when he stepped forward: something rich, heady, impossible to ignore. Spiced sandalwood, leather, a hint of smoke, masculine and devastating.
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