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As the music stalled between songs, she realized she had been standing there for… she had no idea how long. She shook herself out of her reverie and extended her hand, even as a hot flush crept up her neck.
“I’m Jasmine,” she said.
When he didn't take her hand, her brows shot up. Maybe he really didn’t speak English. As her hand fell away, her mind blitzed through all the cultures that didn’t do handshakes, but he didn’t seem to fit any of them. Maybe he had been raised in an adopted country? She didn’t speak Arabic or Thai, but perhaps he was used to customs where it wasn’t common for the opposite sex to touch.
“Are you…?” she began in English before she finished in Russian. “Are you from Russia?”
His expression didn’t change.
“Spanish?” She tried out a few words, but when he didn’t react, she resorted to her limited Portuguese and received much of the same. “Italian?” Again, nothing. She moved onto French, German, and out of sheer desperation, Mandarin.
"I'm running out of languages here,” she said ruefully.
“How many languages do you speak?”
His deep voice, so unexpected, made her jump.
Her mouth dropped. "You speak English?"
"How many languages?”
Her hands started to go to her hips before she realized how that would look and dropped them back to her sides. "Why didn't you answer me?"
“I wanted to see what you were going to do.”
She’d dealt with her fair share of arrogant and elitist men, but even they played nice at these affairs because offending the wrong person could have dire consequences. This guy… Apparently, he didn’t give a shit.
“Where are you from?” she demanded.
“Colorado.”
The jeans suddenly made sense, but if he was American, he should know better. Her eyes drifted over him and rested on his boots for a moment before she traveled up to his face, which revealed nothing of what he was thinking. She was used to temperamental men and had become adept at handling them, but this man…
Even now that the ice was broken, he had yet to crack a smile or introduce himself. It was hard to determine his age with that stony face. She couldn’t tell if he was in his twenties or thirties. His size didn’t help. She was unable to think of a classmate or even her childhood playmates who had half this guy’s bulk. Who the hell was he?
“How many languages, Jasmine?”
At the sound of her name said in that dark rumble, her stomach did an odd flip.
“Five.”
The silence that fell between them made her skin prickle.
“That must come in handy,” he said finally.
She gave him an arch look. “It does, but usually, I don’t have to go through every language I know to get someone to talk to me.”
“Talking isn’t my thing.”
“It isn’t mine either, but I rise to the occasion during these events.” She paused deliberately, but when he gave her nothing, she waved her hand. “This is usually the point in the conversation where you’d give your name.”
“Roth.”
She perked up. “JamesRoth?”
His reaction was immediate. He tensed, that big body of his straightening to its full height. For the first time, his expression shifted, but not in the direction she’d hoped. Those eyes she’d thought so placid and beautiful began to glitter as a storm brewed. Her writer’s mind immediately listed adjectives to describe the force of his personality that beat at her overstimulated senses. How fascinating.
“How do you know my name?”
