They seated the plus-size woman beside the scarred mafia boss as a joke, but then he asked her to dance

When Leandro Vitali walked onto the dance floor leading Clare Donnelly by the hand, the string orchestra seemed to miss a beat.

Conversations across the ballroom faltered. People stopped drinking. Waiters frozen in mid-stride with trays of champagne watched as the towering, scarred king of the Minneapolis underworld led the full-figured records researcher into the center of the floor under the massive crystal chandelier.

Clare felt her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her face was flushed, her skin tingling where his hand rested against her back. His grip was broad, hot, and shockingly secure.

"Don't look at them," Leandro commanded softly, leaning his head down so his breath brushed against her ear. "Look at me."

Clare raised her eyes.

Standing this close to him, she realized just how large he was. His shoulders blocked out the entire ballroom, creating a private, secluded sanctuary in the middle of six hundred staring eyes. The scent of him—expensive cedarwood, cold air, and fine leather—wrapped around her senses.

He stepped into the rhythm of the waltz.

Despite his massive frame, Leandro moved with an effortless, predatory grace. He didn't stumble; he didn't rush. He held her firmly against his chest, steering her across the polished floor with total, absolute command.

Clare let out a long breath, letting her weight shift into his movement. To her absolute shock, she realized she wasn't clumsy at all. With Leandro guiding her, her movements felt fluid, sweeping, and natural.

"You move very well for a man who spent three months in a trauma ward," Clare said softly, looking up into his scarred face.

Leandro’s eye softened. "Two years of physical therapy. My left leg was shattered along with my face. The doctors told me I would walk with a heavy cane for the rest of my life."

"You don't walk with a cane," Clare noted.

"I refused," he said simply. "Pain is just information. You can choose to ignore it."

Clare looked at the jagged line running down his cheek. Without thinking, her hand gently smoothed over the shoulder of his jacket, her fingers coming to rest near his collarbone.

"It must have been lonely," she whispered softly. "After the crash."

Leandro paused for a fraction of a second in his step, his hazel eye locking onto hers with a sudden, deep vulnerability that made her chest ache.

"Before the accident," Leandro said quietly, turning her gently through a sweeping arc on the floor, "people pretended to like me because I had money and a face they saw in magazines. After the crash, the weak ones ran away. The greedy ones stayed to see if they could steal my business while I was bleeding. It wasn't lonely, Clare. It was clarifying."

He dipped her slightly—a smooth, elegant tilt that made the navy skirts of her dress billow around her ankles—before drawing her back flush against his broad chest.

A collective gasp rippled through the surrounding crowd.

Over near the pillars, Blair Kensington looked as though she had swallowed poison. Wesley was sweating profusely, downing his third gin and tonic in ten minutes.

"You've given them something to talk about for the next six months," Clare said, a small, breathless laugh escaping her lips.

"Good," Leandro whispered, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Let them talk. I haven't enjoyed a conversation this much in four years."

Before Clare could answer, a man in a sharp charcoal suit approached the edge of the dance floor. It was Leandro’s chief of security—a heavy-set man with a sharp hairline and an earpiece curling down his neck.

The security guard didn't step onto the dance floor, but his face was tense, his eyes wide with urgent concern. He caught Leandro’s eye and gave a single, firm nod toward the main exit.

Leandro’s posture instantly hardened. The relaxed, warm expression on his face vanished, replaced in a split second by the cold, calculating mask of the Vitali empire's ruler.

He completed the turn of the waltz, bringing Clare safely to a stop near the edge of the floor. He didn't let go of her hand immediately.

"Duty calls?" Clare asked gently.

"Unfortunately," Leandro said, his voice dropping into a dark tone. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a slow, warm kiss against the back of her knuckles. The gesture was so old-fashioned, so intensely intimate, that Clare felt a surge of heat rush straight to her face.

"Will you be at your office on Monday morning, Ms. Donnelly?" Leandro asked, his single hazel eye fixed on her face.

"Avery Claims Group," Clare said softly. "Third floor of the Municipal Building. I’m always there at eight."

"Good," Leandro said. "Because I have a feeling I’m going to need a very thorough records researcher very soon."