Free Whirlwind by Layla Chase Page A

list lay on the table, and Senna grabbed a pen, inhaling a breath to center her thoughts. I am strong. I am powerful. I create art. Happiness is mine. She looked up at the first person in line, connected her gaze with shining brown eyes, and smiled. “Name, please?”
    The short woman with large, gold hoop earrings leaned close. “Adelita Ramos. This is my first time, and I’m a bit nervous.”
    “You’re checked in for a nine thirty appointment.” Senna rested a gentle hand on the woman’s wrist, hoping to reassure her. “Don’t worry. We’ll chat a bit first, and I won’t start inking until you’re ready.”
    Within minutes, Senna verified the morning appointments were all checked in and advised them when to return. She turned toward the privacy curtain to arrange her implements, and the tall figure of a dark-haired man at the edge of the crowd caught her eye. The man from the entrance. He hung back, head turned sideways, and his attention focused down the aisle of booths.
    A proud nose balanced a strong chin and shiny dark hair pulled back at his nape. Every line of his well-muscled body hinted at the fact he’d been watching her activities until just a few seconds ago. Her breath lodged in her throat, and she couldn’t tear away her gaze.
    Black boots, jeans, and a T-shirt with a leather vest. Only the silver of an oval belt buckle and his tanned arms contrasted with his monotone wardrobe. As if he’d dressed to be unobtrusive.
    Well, buddy, you failed. Her body hummed in sexy awareness of the prime Native specimen.
    Hours later, Senna murmured a farewell to the last client, rolled back her shoulders, and stood, suppressing a groan at stiff leg muscles. She closed up her kit and set aside her implements to be autoclaved later. Several times while working, she’d summoned the image of the tall proud man in black and ran over in her mind places they might have met. The more she thought of him, the more intrigued she became.
    Stepping from behind the curtain, Senna glanced around the booth, secretly hoping to catch sight of him again. Maybe he waited for another chance to accidentally run into each other. A physical collision. The sounds of the convention center—an announcement on the loudspeaker, laughter, a crying child, vendors selling their wares—registered anew on her ears. When she worked, she blotted out everything in her immediate surroundings but the art being created.
    Past her, people strolled along the aisle. Across the way, a thin man rearranged his body ornaments on a display board.
    No mysterious stranger in black.
    Finished with her appointments, Senna checked to make sure a supply of business cards remained on the table and strode into the crowd. Enjoying how the movement worked out the kinks in her legs, Senna walked to the end of the row, intending to stroll up and down each aisle. Pure research. Always a smart move to check on the work of other tattoo artists.
    At the last booth, prickles of awareness ran up her neck and she stilled, pretending interest in the leather goods. When she turned to the left, she scanned the nearby booths, searching for what caused this itch of being watched.
    Nothing.
    The banner over the top of the booth at the end depicted a lance, a shield, and a buffalo. The classic symbols piqued her interest. She hadn’t heard another native artist was in attendance.
    Stepping closer, she studied the tattoo pictures displayed on the booth. The artistry was stark but dynamic, and her heart beat faster. A windswept feather, bending prairie grass, a craggy mountainside. With just a few strokes, the artist had captured the sense of outsider her people often felt.
    The sensation of being in touch with her Arapaho ancestry tightened her chest. She regretted drifting apart from her family who’d remained in the small Wyoming village where she’d been raised. None had understood her thirst for adventure and her need to learn about the world outside the reservation.
    Her