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Authors: Nia Stephens

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She slipped her arm in his like she did two or three times a day with Kylian, but she was all too aware that this meant something different. She had to watch out for his footing as well as her own, which was already treacherous because of her super-high stilettos.
I am going to make Kylian pay big-time,
she decided, leading Thomas to the bar's doors. She could feel her cheeks flushing a shade of pink much brighter than the blush she was wearing. She was almost glad that he couldn't see how embarrassed she was.
I can't do this,
she thought miserably.
I'm going to make myself look like—
seem
like an idiot.
She wondered if he could feel the slight tension tightening every muscle. She thought he might. Walking with Thomas was more like ballroom dancing. She didn't have to tug on Thomas's arm to guide him—he noticed the slightest pressure, just like she did when a partner led her across the floor. She was often grateful for the ballroom lessons, though she had complained when Fee told her to take them. It was better than ballet for teaching graceful movement, how to be conscious of everything her body was doing, as well as be attuned to someone else's movements. She thought Thomas might have taken lessons, too. He had the same sort of body consciousness—which meant he probably knew exactly how tense Bree was.
An older man in a tuxedo was waiting by the door—not a bouncer, because this wasn't that kind of club, but a ticket-taker. Probably the owner. He greeted Thomas by name and winked at Bree, promising them the best seats in the house.
He delivered, too, leading them through the crowded club to a table ten feet from the stage. It was obvious which one was the man in charge: Buck Buchanan was tall, broad, and wild-haired. He looked more like an English poet from the eighteen hundreds than a Latino musician. But if Bree had any doubts about him, they disappeared once he began to play. With a name like Buchanan, he probably wasn't born in Brazil, but he played samba as if it had rocked his cradle in São Paulo. Bree couldn't help tapping her feet, and even thought about asking Thomas to dance. She was pretty sure he could dance—and dance well—from the way they walked in together, but what if she was wrong? If he couldn't dance, it might hurt his feelings, and she didn't want to do that. But maybe he would be more hurt if she didn't ask him just because he was blind? Bree didn't know what to do. She had never felt so awkward on a date before, not even at her first formal when her date got trashed on spiked punch and threw up all over the dance floor.
The loud samba music made talking impossible for a while, which gave Bree a chance to get her reactions under control. Maybe blindness wasn't such a big deal. It might be if Thomas were poor, but Mr. and Mrs. Fira clearly had more than enough money to make Thomas's life pretty close to normal.
“Do you know how to samba?” Thomas asked suddenly when Buck Buchanan announced that they were going to take a quick break.
“No, but I think I could pick it up,” Bree said cautiously. She had been watching the two couples that had braved the tiny dance floor, and it didn't look all that different from other Latin dances.
“When they come back on, let's try it,” he said with a grin.
“Well . . . all right.” Bree smiled bravely, then remembered that he couldn't actually see her smiling and frowned in despair.
There was yet another awkward silence, which Thomas ended by asking, “Want another drink?”
“Sure.” Bree signaled “two” to the bartender, who brought another Coke and Diet Coke. Thomas had apologized as soon as they were seated for the fact that he was well known at the club, which meant that they knew he was underage. Bree told him she didn't care. She liked the swimmy feeling she got after a couple of drinks, but didn't need it to have fun.
“Okay, we're back,” said the bandleader, springing back to the stage. “And I want to see some dancing this time!”
Thomas smoothly got to his feet and held out a hand for Bree. She took it, feeling as if every eye in the room was on her and Thomas. He seemed entirely at ease, leading her to the floor. She was worried about the other couples crowding them—the dance floor wasn't much more than fifteen by fifteen feet—but they were given plenty of room. Too much room? Had everyone noticed that Thomas was blind? Maybe not—he moved with such assurance.
He slipped one arm around Bree's waist and held her left hand with his right, just like ballroom dancing. But their bodies were pressed close, and the rhythms were faster, more exotic. Bree closed her eyes and relaxed into the dance, trying to imagine what he was experiencing. Bree could smell his cologne, something subtle and spicy, and feel his pulse in his wrist. He danced better than any of her partners at school. She thought maybe it was because his eyes didn't distract him, but she couldn't bring herself to ask. She just enjoyed herself as they moved across the floor in perfect rhythm with the music and each other.
“This'll be our final song,” Buck Buchanan announced. To Bree it seemed that time had passed very quickly.
“Do you need to call your driver?” she asked Thomas.
“In a minute,” he said. “Right now, I just want to dance with you.”
The last song was a slow one, at least compared to the other songs the band had played. As they drifted across the floor, Thomas kissed Bree on the throat. It was brief but exhilarating, and it hinted at things to come. Whatever limitations blindness might have brought to Thomas's life, it hadn't kept him from dating. He was amazingly slick—almost too slick. But Bree didn't want to judge him on just one kiss. That seemed more than unfair.
While the members of the ensemble took their bows, Bree and Thomas clapped louder than anyone else in the club.
“It's still early,” Thomas said as Bree led him back to their table. “Want to come over to my place?”
Ordinarily, Bree would have laughed. She did not go home with guys on the first date—except in the case of Sean, the Thandie Newton stalker, and that was a complete disaster. On the other hand, Thomas might have a hard time maneuvering around anyplace Bree could suggest. Maybe it made more sense to go to his place?
“I don't know,” she said thoughtfully. “Are your parents there?”
“No, they're in Venice. The company is based there.”
“What do they do?” Bree asked, stalling.
“Shipping. We've got offices in a lot of places, but we're based in Venice. We have been since the eighteen eighties.”
“Well, sure,” Bree decided. “I guess. But I don't want to be out too late.”
Halfway there, though, Bree realized she had made a mistake. It would be wrong to dump a guy because he was blind—that was obvious. But wasn't it also wrong to do things you wouldn't normally do for the same reason? This was sketchy territory. And it didn't help that Thomas had been trying to get to know Bree's body by touch as soon as they got into the car.
“On second thought, maybe I should go home,” Bree announced. This was more than a little awkward, since they'd been locked in an intense kiss just a moment before.
“Why?” Thomas asked, eyebrows raised in a textbook expression of innocence. Bree began to wonder how many facial expressions were learned from watching other people and how many were innate. She realized then that she didn't know how long he had been blind; she had assumed that he was born that way, but maybe it was recent? No matter how curious she was, it wasn't something she could ask, which just made things more and more uncomfortable for her.
“Well, I barely know you, Thomas,” she explained. “You could be a serial killer or something.”
“A blind serial killer?” His voice was a touch sarcastic, so Bree didn't mind snapping back.
“I don't even know for sure that you're blind.”
“Huh?”
“This could all be an elaborate act to get girls into your apartment where you rape them and cut them into little pieces.”
Thomas made an odd gasping noise, which sounded to Bree like shock. Then he burst out laughing.
“Sorry,” he gasped after almost a minute. “But I don't think anyone has ever actually been scared of me before.”
“I'm not scared,” Bree insisted, crossing her arms over her chest indignantly. She was used to Sutton and Kylian laughing at her, but this was different. “I'm just cautious. This is New York.”
“Bree, look carefully,” he said, removing his sunglasses for the first time. His eyes were pale blue, quite beautiful, and definitely blind. They didn't track at all, even when she wiggled her fingers at what would be the edge of his vision, if he could see.
“Okay, I believe you,” Bree said, suppressing a shiver. It was irrational, she knew, but on some level she found his blank gaze absolutely terrifying.
“I guess there might be blind serial killers, but I'm not one of them.”
“Okay, fine,” Bree said. “I'm still not going home with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it's just not a good idea on a first date. It's too fast. I'm sorry.”
“It would be a little difficult for me to rape you, you know.” Now he sounded annoyed.
“I realize that. But we're still in the car, and you're awfully grabby.”
“So are you saying you weren't enjoying it?” He crossed his arms over his chest, like a spoiled kid. Which, of course, he probably was, though the same was true of Bree. But Bree had had enough.
“Whether I enjoyed it at first is not the point. Now I want to go home, so either get your driver to head to Central Park West, or I'll call my driver and get him to come to wherever you think we're going,” Bree growled.
“Relax, Bree. I'm not kidnapping you. Hey, James,” he said, switching on the intercom. “Could you go back to Bree's place instead?”
“Yes, sir,” said James.
“Thanks,” Thomas said, settling back into the creamy leather cushions, his arms still crossed. After a long silence, he put a hand on her knee. Once again, she was amazed at how aware he was of her position. It was spooky.
“I'm sorry, Bree,” he said gently. “That was pretty obnoxious. What can I say? Only a complete idiot wouldn't try to talk you into coming home with him.”
“It's all right, I guess,” Bree said. “But I want to be clear: even if I had gone to your place, we would not have had sex. I'd have to know you a lot better before that's even a possibility.”
He grinned a sly grin. “What do you want to know? I'm happy to tell you anything you want to know.”
She patted his hand gently. “Not Twenty Questions stuff. I mean
really
knowing somebody.”
“Sounds like that could take a while.”
“Yep.”
He paused, thinking it over, then said, “You're worth the wait.”
Bree had to laugh. “How would you know? We just met!”
“Some things you just know.”
“Like what?”
“All kinds of things.”
Like . . . whether someone is a serial killer?”
They laughed about that and other things until they arrived at Bree's apartment.
“I'll call you tomorrow,” Thomas said, kissing her on the cheek.
“All right, then. Goodnight.” She didn't wait for James to get the door for her. She almost ran into the Edwardian, despite the skyscraper heels, trying to escape from her confusion. She was attracted to Thomas, but she didn't believe that they had all that much in common. The ride to the club had been awkward in one way, and the ride from the club wasn't much better. Ordinarily, she would drop a guy like that as soon as possible—second date conversation was even harder than first date conversation.
This was no ordinary situation, though. Bree knew perfectly well that most guys were initially attracted to her looks—and most of the time that was all they found interesting. With Thomas, that couldn't be true. Whatever interested him went beneath the skin. Maybe he could see—no, feel—something between them that would grow into something truly special if Bree gave it chance, even though so far Bree had stronger feelings about her favorite eyeliner than she did about him.
On the other hand, though he wasn't drawn to her physical beauty, he was definitely interested in her body. Maybe the only thing between them was their clothes, and all he wanted was to take them off?
Bree was too tired and too confused to come to any sort of conclusion. She said hello to Ameera, who was amazed to see Bree home at such an early hour, and went straight to bed.
 
The next morning, Bree felt fantastic—an unusual event for a Saturday morning. She didn't have any real clarity about the Thomas issue, though, so she decided to head down to Sutton's apartment for a second opinion.
Sutton was also wide awake, though still ensconced in the massive lake of ruffles and lace that was her canopy bed. After a quick review of Bree's entire evening, Sutton wanted to go back to sleep.

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