Hosting her first booth at a national tattoo convention is nerve-racking enough for artist Senna Whitefeather. Then she confronts the smoking hot Native American with a firm body and piercing dark eyes who's been following her all day. Appreciation for art takes on a new meaning when a challenge to unveil their tattoos escalates into a passionate encounter in the back of her booth. But when the stranger's identity is revealed, will Senna's brazen "go-for-it" attitude backfire?
(32 pages/6156 words)
Digital ISBN: 978-1-61217-838-7
Senna Whitefeather strode into the San Antonio Alamodome, her long heavy braid bouncing between her shoulder blades. Anticipation at being a first-time exhibitor in the World Tattoo Convention put a spring into her steps.
At the entrance, people wove in a crisscross pattern, jockeying for the fastest track to reach the display booths. All around her, conversations buzzed, adding to her excitement. She lifted the plastic badge slung around her neck, angled it toward the security guard then turned left toward the area of her designated booth. And bumped smack into a male—solid muscle from chest to knees—and she stumbled.
Firm hands grasped her upper arms and steadied her. “What’s your hurry?”
The deep voice rumbling near her ear resonated through her bones, kicking up her heart rate, and set her further off-balance. Both hands tangled with the supple cotton of his T-shirt and held tight. All she saw before her was a broad expanse of black cloth. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—” She glanced up—straight into midnight black eyes that seemed to look deep into her soul. Her gaze clung for a long moment then she forced herself to blink.
The stranger smiled and the bronze-toned skin around his eyes crinkled. “Good thing I was, or we’d both have gone down.”
With a quick look, Senna registered the slash of his dark brows, high cheekbones, and long, black hair pulled back along his neck. Another Native American. Strong features balanced by an open smile. Why did she have the sudden urge to sway forward against his broad chest? A chest that appeared capable enough to harbor a woman tied in nervous knots over today’s exhibit.
Spirit of Life, she was late.
“Again, I’m sorry.” She stepped back, away from his broad hands and fought against acknowledging the immediate loss of warmth. No time for distractions, even tall, dark, and sexy ones. “I’ve got to get to my booth.”
With a dip of his chin, he swept a hand in the direction she headed. “The right-of-way is yours.”
Senna hustled down the side aisle but couldn’t resist a quick backward glance over her shoulder. The tall stranger dressed all in black had disappeared into the crowd.