by Thorne, Elle
His smile was predatory. “Room four.”
She sneered at the word “room” but bit her tongue this time. Usually, her filter was off and she would scoff at him for calling the curtained space of real estate a room.
She turned to go, jumping forward and lurching when his thick hand smacked her ass. Maia made haste toward room four, not because she was anxious to go in, but because she wanted to be away from Scapelli.
Who the hell could it be? Her mind traveled over the ones she’d gone into the private rooms with, but they were a blur. She didn’t remember their faces, and she sure as hell didn’t know their names.
She opened the curtain, a phony but toothy smile plastered on her face, and stepped into the room, then slid the dingy thick fabric back into place, sealing off the room from prying eyes.
His back was to her. The pole and miniature stage was in front of him. Short dark hair, and, even from behind, it was clear this man—dressed in all black—was pure muscle. All muscle and power.
She inhaled a long, deep breath, allowing it to sit in her senses.
In spite of the smoke and sweat and sex smells in LaDonna’s, she picked up his scent—forest and musk mixed with man.
And one more thing.
Shifter.
Shifter!
No one here knew she was a shifter. And though she used hunter’s block regularly and couldn’t be detected by scent, she had a sneaky suspicion he knew she was one of his kind.
She stepped back because the only reason a shifter would be here was to take her home.
Home. She bit back the self-deprecating laughter rampaging in my mind at the thought Manuel’s mansion could be called home.
Maia would slip out. She would leave, escape this shifter. She slowly turned around on filthy, tiled floors that had not seen a mop since the building had become LaDonna’s.
Snap.
Fingers wrapped around her wrist with the sureness of an iron band.
She gasped and jerked on her hand. “Let me go,” she hissed.
“Easy.” His voice was low.
Her eyes didn’t need any time to adjust to the dimness of the room. One of the perks of being a shifter—seeing damned well in poor lighting.
He wore a black shirt, buttoned up, formal, but no business suit for him. She couldn’t imagine him in one. Ink peeked out of the sleeves, and a sliver of ink was barely hidden by his collar. The black shirt was formfitting, highlighting a broad chest and flat abs.
His pants fit like a second skin, clinging to muscular legs that weren’t strangers to exercise.
The man was pure sexiness.
She inhaled deeply again.
She picked up the scent of his shifter animal.
Black panther.
“Where are you going, Dulce?”
Dulce.
Sweet.
Her stage name.
Her Italian was far from good, but she knew the Spanish word for sweet, so when they’d asked her what her stage name was, that was the word she’d used and that was the one they gave her.
She swallowed the lump of fear. “I think you have the wrong person.” The words came out with difficulty.
She pushed the curtain aside, ready to leave.
Except she saw Scapelli waiting nearby, watching the rooms. When he noticed her, a frown appeared on his face though his eyes remained dead-looking and expressionless. She drew the curtain closed quickly.
“No, mia bella.” The man tugged her wrist, pulling her away from the curtain. “You’re the exact one I came to see.”
“See?”
“You dance? Right? And other things?”
It shouldn’t have happened. It shouldn’t have. She cursed her leopard for her reaction, because when he said the words “and other things,” a tightening happened in her core, a reaction that belied her fear.
* * *
Franco tried to peel his eyes off the woman in front of him. He tried to measure her without letting an iota of all the things he was feeling to be put on display.
Full-hipped, full-breasted, with a waist that tapered in, she was a vision in a thong and gold bra.
He was here for a job, not to ogle her. No matter how many times he told himself this, the panther in his head roared in response.
He’d kept a close eye on her for days now, entering LaDonna’s, leaving just before dawn, dark circles under her eyes. He’d even watched her dance. That was the hardest of all—watching her dance, putting that body on display for random strangers who couldn’t possibly appreciate the woman inside of that body.
It had almost killed him when he’d seen her go into the little curtained rooms with clients. He’d considered homicide in those moments, and the only thing that deterred him was the fact he knew she didn’t do anything in the rooms. He’d paid Scapelli a hefty amount to let him watch her covertly.
She’d been a good girl in the private rooms.
As good a girl as a stripper could be.
She’d stripped down to her thong—left that on, thankfully—then she’d danced, shaking her full tits into the face of whomever had paid for her time in the little room.
Franco had seen her dance in here more than once. He couldn’t do it anymore. He knew he’d kill the next man who wanted to see her privately.
This is a fine way to not do the job I was sent here to do.
Fuck the job. He’d get to that later. Now, he had to get this woman away from the creepers before one of them pushed too hard to get more from her—a blowjob or some sex. Then he’d have to kill the motherfucker.
And find a way to get her out of here without arousing suspicion.
So, Franco decided he’d hire her for a private dance and circumvent any other men trying to usurp her time by hiring her before she went on stage.
Scapelli was more than willing to make the extra money, and the bankroll for Franco’s job was fairly extensive, so it didn’t take a big hit.
Hell, he’d do this every night until…
Until what?
He’d have to make a decision, make a move, get something resolved.
Dark hair, so dark it gleamed in its blackness, begging fingertips to pull on it, tug on it, twist in it, and move her head any way her lover fancied.
Lover.
The word made his cock twitch.
He took in her frame again, that delicious lushness, then he moved his gaze up to her face.
Full lips. Just as he liked them.
Big eyes framed in dark lashes. Perfect.
High cheekbones with just enough flesh to not make her look like a gaunt skeleton. And one long scar, slightly raised, almost completely hidden by makeup. He’d seen her get the scar, months ago, when a grizzly had slashed at her face during a match in the underground fighting ring. She had no idea he’d witnessed the act.
“You owe me. I paid Scapelli.”
At those words, her face blanched, her paleness intensified. His panther could hear her pulse, feel the way it jumped in her reaction.
Chapter Two
Maia now knew what it meant when someone’s blood ran cold. She’d thought she’d known it all those years with Manuel, but this man, his statement, the threat she knew it could hold…
That really made her blood run cold
She nodded. “Okay.” Her voice was flat. She couldn’t have made it sound cheerful if she’d wanted to.
“Take a seat?” She tried to move toward the tiny stage and pole, except he held her hand. Held it while he walked with her, and, finally, he released it so he could sit while she continued toward the stage, her head held high and her back stiff. She tried to make her hips sway. Goodness knows she tried to do all the things she was supposed to do as a stripper.
She couldn’t. It was all she could do to get to the stage without losing the nearly nonexistent contents of her stomach.
She turned slowly, facing the man, then took the time to really study the face attached to the predator who was here for her.
; Black eyes. Black as sin. Black as charcoal.
Equally black hair. A complexion that was a mix between olive and tan.
A bottom lip that was full and sensual made a contrast to the cruel slash of his upper lip.
His brows drew down. “What’s wrong?” His voice was deep, as if containing the timbre of his panther’s growl.
“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” She kept her tone light and mysterious, hoping to fool him.
His brows drew down farther. Not fooled. “Get on the stage, then.”
I can do this.
She turned on her autopilot.
Stripper autopilot.
She raised her leg up to the stage, letting the way her legs angled give him a glimpse of an outline beneath the gold thong’s fabric. She’d practiced this in the mirror. She knew the exact view he had. A hint of a sliver of her netherlips, and mostly an outline, strategically hidden by the fabric.
No longer frowning, he raised one brow. She couldn’t tell if he raised it from interest or because he knew exactly what she was up to. She didn’t want to guess that one.
She raised the other leg to the stage then reached for the pole.
One more talk to psyche herself into faking.
Come on. You can do this, Dulce. Just don’t look at him and move to the music.
Sure, she could do it.
Stripper autopilot: reengaged.
She reached for the switch that would cast a spotlight on the area around the pole.
“Don’t.” The word was clipped.
She glanced at him, her finger poised over the switch, a question in her eyes.
“I don’t need it.”
Of course he didn’t. He was a shifter. Shifter vision was that damned good.
She pulled her hand away.
The sound of the music on the main stage drifted into the little room.
She swallowed down her apprehension and tried not to let the attraction she felt for the man in black get to her. Or her leopard. Especially, her leopard.
Maia reached for the pole. Cold metal jarring her, she swung her body around it, letting the gauzy cape flow behind her, giving him a tantalizing view of her ass.
The thing she couldn’t do—she couldn’t smile. Usually, Maia could plaster a smile on her face, even a fake one, when she put her hands on the pole.
Not now.
Not for him.
She let her body go through a routine while her mind traveled to another place, a thousand miles away…
She had been a mistake, anyway. She wasn’t planned, nor was her twin sister, Katya. Twin cubs, both born of a white tiger shifter and his leopard shifter mistress, in the outskirts of Sao Paulo, Brazil.
Both of them had been abandoned to the orphanage run by natives, left in locally woven baskets, with a picture of a woman holding them, their mother. She knew that was her mother because she saw the picture every day, and she’d grown up to look just like that woman who held the twins with a sad smile on her face.
The natives who found them believed they were local jaguars who’d been reincarnated. That they were half goddesses, half leopards.
Katya and Maia. Twins. Abandoned shortly after birth, worshiped by the locals until a drug lord came into the area. A damned drug lord named Manuel, who took a fancy to her and Katya and removed them from the orphanage at the age of fifteen, bringing them to live with him…
Maia pushed her memories away.
In the background, the music had faded to another song while she finished on the pole and glanced at the man in black. He watched her without even the slightest hint of interest. It felt as if, as far as he was concerned, he could have been watching the most boring movie.
Normally at this point, she’d work the tiny stage, have a drooling client right there up front with tips in hand, trying to catch a sneaky feel while he tucked bills into her bra and thong. Not this man, he was still in the chair, sprawled out, still watching, unmoving.
She chanced a glance at his pants. No sign that would indicate he was remotely interested. Plenty of bulge, none of it hard or defined.
She averted her gaze from his pants but made the mistake of looking into his eyes.
Amusement shone in the black, piercing gaze.
The next song was a slow, sensuous one. She reached back, unclasped her bra, using one hand to cover the goods while she tossed the bra behind her. The act she usually put on, one where she pretended she was shy and coyly moved her hands away, as if a virgin being coaxed, wasn’t an act this time. She didn’t want to bare her breasts to him. She didn’t want him to see the hard peaks and to maybe surmise it had something to do with him. She wanted to blame it on the temperature.
But she couldn’t.
She was aroused and wasn’t even sure if it was the man or the circumstances.
She found herself wishing she knew his name, wishing she knew what he was like as a little boy.
Maia shook her head to drive the weakness away.
I have no business getting mixed up with a man. Not any man. Especially not a man who may have been sent here by Manuel.
She cupped her breasts, making a hand bra, concealing the creamy mounds from him and, at the same time, trying to conceal so much more. She was confused at his lack of interest. But then again, she was sure he wasn’t here for the show, he was here for her.
And not in a good way.
Anger flared in her for the way he was making her go through this act when he was probably going to snatch her and take her back to Manuel. So why the cat and mouse? Why be the cheetah that toys with the little antelope on the plains in Africa?
Anger turned to fury, and her dancing became choppy. She missed beats, didn’t give a shit. Her helplessness ate at her.
Anger and desperation and an overall who-gives-a-shit mentality drove her actions.
Maia let her hands fall from her breasts, uncaring that he would see them, no longer fueled by any sort of twisted desire she didn’t understand. Now, she was fueled by the anger and the helplessness of her situation.
She could kill him. She could try. She could fake acquiescence and kill him later.
She studied his face from beneath her lashes, hidden by the veil of her hair as she struck a different pose. His eyes held an emotion she’d almost peg as sympathy. His stern upper lip had softened.
Drawing the dance out would postpone the inevitable. Unless she could get Scapelli to help her. If Scapelli thought for a second LaDonna’s would lose a dancer…
Would he care? I’m replaceable. Just one more set of tits and ass. There’re plenty in Rome. Lots of girls who want a little money and are willing to flash some skin.
But the owner, Balmo, wanted her here. Once, she’d slipped and said she didn’t want the Tieros to know she was here. Balmo had taken that and run with it, assuming several different sorts of subterfuges, though she wouldn’t give him more information. He’d rubbed his hands gleefully, happy to pull one over on the Tieros. It seemed rivalry with the Tieros’ organization was common in the human community as well as with the shifters.
The one time she’d threatened to leave, Balmo told her he’d tell the Tieros where to find her. That was something she couldn’t have. She was stuck.
Maia pushed the thought away and continued dancing and, raising her head, looked him square in the face, defiant and deliberate.
His eyes locked with hers, not dropping to ogle her breasts, not noting the way they bounced with each step.
Maia faltered, her feet doing something they never ever did. They tripped and tangled with each other. Her heels locked like pieces of a puzzle for a second before she jerked them loose. She swayed and pitched to the side, hand reaching out to grab the pole to keep from catapulting off the stage and landing in an embarrassed heap at his feet.
Before she could touch the cold, hard metal of the pole, she found herself being held in arms that were equally hard but the complete opposite of cold. His body emanated a heat that encompassed her,
surrounding her like a blanket on a frosty day.
He held her tight to him, her naked breasts pressed against his body. Her nipples taut against the fabric of his shirt, her body fully aware of the hardness of his muscular physique. One hand was on her back, just above her ass, while the other was on her shoulder, steadying her.
The energy between them was electric. Maia couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t make her body function. Her lungs burned from the trapped air. Tiny spots appeared before her eyes, reminiscent of a disco ball. The lights began to spin.
His touch.
Heart-stopping. Breath-stopping.
His lips were moving, but she couldn’t process what he was saying.
Fear, anger, and lust merged and intertwined in Maia.
She closed her eyes, seeking to clear her mind, to exorcise his effect.
* * *
Unexpected.
That was the first thought that crossed Franco’s mind. His body’s reaction to touching hers was unexpected. He knew it had been the same for her. He heard and felt it in her pulse.
It had never been this strong before, with any other woman.
His panther was practically purring at the sensation of those full breasts, nipples hard as pebbles poking against his chest. The fullness crushed to him.
Sexy women didn’t move Franco, not easily. He didn’t find much thrill in the conquest of women simply for the sake of getting in their panties.
His cousin and friends often found amusement in the notion that, while they were spending their evenings courting ladies, Franco was the one who didn’t. He’d always been impervious to women.
Until now.
Until her.
“What do you want from me?” Her voice was a low, tortured whisper.
All of you.
He couldn’t tell her that. “This performance.”
A shudder washed over her, making her body shake against his.
There was a long pause. She was motionless except for the occasional struggling breath. Her pulse had joined with his and become one, as if beating in the same body.
She moved slightly, not out of his arms, just a tiny readjustment.