High-society dance floors were always lively without becoming overly noisy. Elegantly dressed men and women of noble bearing adhered to the same set of rules: they did not force their way in when the floor was crowded, yet when the atmosphere began to stagnate because the dance floor was too empty, they were more than willing to offer themselves up as another spice in this fragrant cup of mulled wine, displaying their beauty with restraint and elegance.
But some people were simply born to draw more attention than others, like Bruce Wayne. And if the woman dancing in his arms was Natasha Romanoff, the suspected former Soviet Union female agent who had been exposed some time ago—and if she was a hundred times more beautiful than she had looked in the photographs—it was like dropping a nuclear bomb into the ocean of human attention. No one could help but look their way.
Natasha's red hair was like blazing fire. Whenever she spun, the lingering traces of her every movement resembled flames spreading outward, igniting the entire dance floor in an instant. Before this, almost no one had believed that anyone could stand beside Bruce Wayne without being overshadowed. Yet Natasha used her knife-sharp beauty to slice through the canopy of Wayne's money and power.
The music gradually slowed, meaning the focus on the dance floor had shifted from dancing to socializing. Arkham Batman held Natasha close as they slowly moved toward the edge of the floor, then murmured in her ear, "During that last dance, at least fifty people stared at you without blinking."
"How do you know they weren't staring at you?"
"Ever since I became president, those lusting after my looks have restrained themselves somewhat. At least they don't dare stare so openly for that long. So they