Merciless (Playboys In Love Book 3)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  “Give it up, for Raven!” The MC draws out her name like he’s introducing a prize fighter in Vegas, and the crowd goes absolutely ballistic when the electric guitar starts up from Janet Jackson’s controversial early ’90s song, “If.”

  Now I’m more than mildly curious, and I sit up a little straighter in my chair as I get my first glimpse of the woman called Raven.

  Clad in skin-tight leather and a short blue wig, she commands the stage, walking with all the confidence of a runway model to the beat of the music while slowly unzipping her halter top. The amateurs never go fully nude, and I’m curious what she has on underneath, but she’s working the strip-tease like a pro.

  As she gets closer, I try to get a good look at her face, but half of it’s hidden behind eye makeup that reminds me of a peacock in shades of bright blue and green, the same as her glittery lipstick. The only things I know are that her bone structure is beautiful, and she has the sweetest cupid’s bow mouth that gives me all sorts of dirty ideas.

  Raven whips off her top, revealing a set of pert tits in what looks like a not-quite see-through string bikini. Because I’m in the front row I can just barely make out the shadows of her areolas, but nothing more. Being in the biz, I’m not normally fazed by the nudity of performers, but this woman has me wishing I could see every detail of her breasts.

  She grabs the pole with one hand and swings around. As she faces front again, our eyes lock, and it feels like a horse kicks me square in the chest. She holds my gaze as she continues to move with a seductive force and Janet sings about wrapping her lips around her lover’s cock. I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees with my hands clasped to keep them from reaching for the stage. She manages to sever eye contact to play to the rest of the crowd, but I don’t dare look away, and I feel a strange sense of satisfaction that she always returns to me.

  “Is it just me or is Raven giving our Rowdy-boy some serious subliminal messages?” Addison asks between shouts of encouragement and tossing money on the stage.

  From the corner of my eye I see Roman look at me and chuckle. “Careful, brother, it looks like you’re about to drool all over yourself.”

  “Fuck off,” I return without moving a muscle.

  “Seriously though,” Addie continues, her relentless nature proving why she’s called the Honey Badger. “Between the eye-fucking and suffocating sexual tension, I’m calling this a match.”

  I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. Addie likes to consider herself a professional matchmaker and takes full credit for getting “Jance” together when Addie sent Romeo the Handyman stripper—aka Chance—over to Jane’s instead of the plumber she actually needed.

  “Stay out of the man’s business, wildcat,” Roman ordered.

  “But—”

  “Addison,” he warned.

  She sighs dramatically, making sure her discontent can be heard over the loud music. “Fine, but I want the record to show that I’m predicting this to happen. I think I’ll call you Ravstin, or maybe…”

  Addie continues to contemplate the name she’s giving my fake relationship with the mysterious woman on stage, but I’ve tuned her out because Raven just tore her pants off, and my brain has officially shut down thanks to all the blood in my head rushing south.

  She has the body of a dancer, with toned abs, muscular legs, and a firm, round ass under the high cut of her bikini bottoms. The platform heels make her calf muscles stand out with long lines like they would if she was up on toe shoes. And that’s when it hits me. The muscle definition, the soft position of her fingers when she extends her arm, her graceful movements even with the fast choreography. Raven isn’t just any kind of dancer; I’d bet good money she’s a ballerina.

  The song is approaching the end. Facing away from the crowd, she jumps to grab the pole as high as she can, locks her legs into place, then throws her upper body back and uses the strength in her thighs to hang upside down with her arms stretched out to the sides. Suddenly she drops several feet on the pole, and a bolt of fear pierces my chest as I imagine the worst. But my worry turns to awe when, on the last beat of the song, she stops on a dime, with the tips of her short blue wig brushing the stage. And once again, her gaze is locked to mine.

  My hands are itching to touch her, to run over her fluid lines and learn her body like a blind man. Then I’d take control of all that beauty, positioning her however it suits me, posing her like she’s my very own pleasure—

  I break out of my baser ruminations when she rights herself and strides to the back of the stage, only pausing long enough to grab her top and pants. She must be in a damn hurry to go somewhere, because she didn’t even bother to pick up the money. Shit. She’s not a regular here, which means Raven won’t be coming out to mingle with the customers. In a few minutes she could be gone, and I might never see her again.

  As the MC starts announcing the next girl, I shove to my feet.

  “Hey, man, where are you going? Raquel could be up next,” Liam says.

  “Then try to keep the murder off your face and show your girl some support. I’ll be back.”

  I stride across the main floor toward the hallway that leads to the backstage area. I’m a man without much of a plan right now, driven by pure instinct and the slight chance that I didn’t imagine the connection between me and the mysterious dancer known only as Raven. But I’ll be damned if I let the night end before I find out.

  Chapter Three

  Emi

  “Get a hold of yourself, Emi.”

  My whispered self-admonishment doesn’t do any good. I can still feel the slight tremble of my hands as I pull on my skinny jeans and fasten them. I’ve performed in front of people my entire life, including some of the most prestigious members of the dance community. I’ve experienced a myriad of feelings when I perform, from nervous to exhilarated and everything in between. But never in my life have I felt turned on while dancing…until tonight.

  That man. Sitting directly in front of the stage, it was hard to miss him. But the intensity of his gaze had threatened to burn right through me. Any time our eyes met, desire spiked in my belly like I’ve never known. His focus was all-encompassing and heavy with power. The harder I danced, the more I felt him, as though he was staking his claim on me right there in front of everyone. And heaven help me, I liked it.

  Usually after my dances at Cardinal Sin my adrenaline keeps me flying for a while. But tonight was more than just the freedom of dancing without judgment. Somehow the Man Unknown wordlessly offered me a taste of forbidden pleasure, and now I’m shaky and on edge, like coming down from a new and dangerous high.

  Which is why I need to get out of here. I’m not even bothering to mess with my wig and makeup. I need to go home and settle my nerves with a glass of wine and a hot bath. Digging through my bag, I finally find my tank and pull it on over the black bikini bra just as I hear the voice of the last person I wanted to talk to tonight.

  “Raven, sweetheart, you were fucking amazing as always.”

  Slipping on my black ballet flats, I take a deep, calming breath before responding to the owner of the club. “I’m not your sweetheart, Geno.”

  “You could be, though,” he says with all the charm of a rattlesnake. “You could be the sweetheart of Cardinal Sin. Treated like royalty, making the kind of money other girls can only dream of.”

  Geno Tomasino is your stereotypical wannabe-mobster. Nothing like the “old country” Italians I’ve grown up around my whole life. Geno wears flashy suits, gold chains, and pinky rings, and enough gel in his hair to make me wonder if it’s even able to move after shampooing.

  Shoving my costume and heels into my bag, I say, “We’ve gone over this before, Geno. I’m not interested in being a regular. I gotta go.”

  “Come on, Raven, gimme a chance here, will ya?”

  I start to walk away, but his hand clamps around my upper arm, stopping my escape. Fear wars with disgust in my gut at the feel of his fingers banded around my bicep. I slice him
into a thousand ribbons with my eyes and infuse my words with the iron of my will and the ice in my veins. “Get your hand off me, Geno, unless you want me to break it in five places.”

  A total bluff, but the conviction in my voice does the trick. He releases me and holds his hands up in supplication, grinning in that way that looks more like a sneer.

  “I didn’t mean anything by it. I can see you’re in a hurry. If you change your mind, you know where to find me. Be seeing you, Raven.”

  I shake off the creepy-crawlies left by Geno’s touch and make to get the hell out of here. Pulling open the door to the hall, I head left down the long corridor that leads to the employee parking lot. Normally, I’d exchange a quick and friendly conversation with the bouncer who guards the door to the dressing room, but I’m not in the mood for small talk tonight, so I keep my head down as I pass him.

  “Night, Derrick,” I say, not wanting to be entirely rude.

  “Raven, stop.”

  It’s him. I don’t know how I know this, only that I do. I also don’t know if it’s his voice or his command that pulls me up short, but I obey as though reaching the end of a tether.

  “Where’s Derrick?” I ask without looking back.

  “I told him I’d cover for him and sent him out to watch our friend dance her way down her bucket list.”

  He must be talking about Raquel. The fact that he’s here to support his friend and not the kind of guy who trolls strip clubs for cheap thrills makes me stupidly relieved. Stupid because the kind of man he is has no bearing on me whatsoever.

  “Then you should be out there with him.”

  “I wanted to talk to you.”

  Every inch of my body is aware of him as he finally walks around to stand in front of me. I keep my gaze leveled at his chest, figuring it should be a fairly safe spot to rest my eyes. But the way the black cotton of his V-neck stretches over his muscles and hints at the smooth, tan skin of his pecs makes my mouth water. There probably isn’t an inch of this man that can be considered safe, and that only serves to send my pulse racing.

  He grips my chin lightly and guides my head up. I don’t even realize that I closed my eyes until I hear him say, “Look at me, Raven.”

  I do, and the close-up version is even more beautifully intimidating. Thick sandy-blond hair that’s short on the sides and styled longer on top, perfect lips, strong jawline dusted with hair, and light green eyes that hold me captive as securely as a pair of chains.

  “You didn’t stop to pick up your money before rushing off stage.”

  “I don’t do it for the money.”

  He cocks his head slightly. “No, you don’t.”

  I bet people take his beauty at face value and never notice the cunning mind working behind the pretty facade. But standing here like this, with his eyes peeling back the layers of my armor little by little, I see it. And if I let him stare too long, I’m afraid he’ll discover that part of me I keep hidden from the world. It’s both unsettling and exciting. What would it be like for someone to know that side of me?

  You know what it’s like. He’ll brand you as damaged or a freak, just like the others.

  “I need to go,” I say as I rush past him.

  “Wait.”

  He catches my left wrist to pull me back to him, and for the second time in a very short while I’m held in a man’s firm grip. But this is nothing like the pins and needles from when Geno grabbed me. This is all tingly heat, skating just beneath the surface as it races up my arm and across my chest. My nipples pebble, trapped against the thin layers of material, causing warmth to pool in my belly and flush my cheeks.

  The way his pupils are swallowing up the green of his irises and the tension in his jaw tell me he’s aware of the effect he’s having on my body. Yet his gaze hasn’t dipped down to take in the view like so many guys might do. And I’m ashamed that a part of me wants him to, wants him to rake his eyes over me possessively.

  “What do you want?” I manage to ask.

  “I’m Austin. Tell me your name.” Before I can give him the lie, he adds, “Your real name.”

  I shouldn’t tell him…

  “Emi.”

  With his free hand, he skims the back of his knuckle over my cheek. “Emi,” he repeats in a gruff tone. “I want to see you sometime.”

  I’m not in the market for anything serious, and I’ve never been a casual fling kind of girl. I should tell him no… “You’ll have to find me first.”

  This time when I walk away, he lets me. And before the back door closes, I hear him say, “Challenge accepted.”

  Chapter Four

  Austin

  Emmélie DeLuca.

  She wasn’t all that hard to find with a few keywords entered into Google, but that’s only because I’d recognized her dance ability beyond what she did to Ms. Jackson at Cardinal Sin. A search for “professional female ballet dancers in Chicago” pulled up a mere handful of results, making it rather easy. Even if she hadn’t given me a shortened version of her name, I would’ve recognized those soulful eyes anywhere.

  I’ve had a busy week. When I wasn’t at the station for a tour, I was helping my Dad with his DIY (or in his case, Do It with Your Son) kitchen renovation project. Since he retired from the department last year, he fills his time trying to be handier than he knows how. I’ve had to call Chance a couple of times to help him when he got in too far over his stubborn head. Benefits of having a best friend who owns his own construction business. At any rate, between my job and my dad, I haven’t had time to do anything about seeking out Emi.

  But that all changes tonight.

  I took a chance that I’d find her at the Bissett Ballet Institute, the dance school started by her mother. It’s the least creeper-ish thing I can do. Getting one of my cop buddies to give me her home address would be crossing the line, but she told me to find her, and the fact that she runs the school is public knowledge, so here I am.

  The website said they run classes up to nine at night, so I showed up a little after as the last of the students were leaving. My hand was on the long handle of the glass door when Hozier’s “Arsonist’s Lullabye” began to play. Emi started to dance in front of the wall of mirrors and I’ve been frozen in place, watching her move like the sultry music is flowing through her, the heavy beat bending her body to its will like it owns her. She’s not conforming to any one discipline; it looks to be a mix of ballet and modern dance, and it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.

  She’s wearing a pair of tight dance shorts and a loose long-sleeved shirt that falls off her shoulders and gives me peeks of her bare stomach when she raises her arms. Her long, black hair is pulled into a ponytail, and her face is covered only by a fine sheen of perspiration—very different from the blue wig and dramatic makeup I saw her in a week ago.

  Unable to stay away any longer, I pull the door open and step inside, careful not to make my presence known. She’s lost in the music, and I can’t stop watching her.

  But I need to do something, because this situation calls to my kinkier side, and this isn’t the time or place for that. Not with her. Not yet.

  Maybe not ever.

  That might be the case—I have no way of knowing whether Emmélie DeLuca is the kind of girl who shares my darker desires—but so many things about her call to me. I won’t pass up the opportunity to explore things and see where they might go.

  My feet move before my head even registers the steps, and then she’s suddenly in my arms as I catch her around the waist in the middle of a series of turns. She gasps, but before her shock can fully register, recognition lights in her eyes.

  “Austin,” she says breathily, her chest heaving and hands gripping my shoulders.

  Dipping her back, I give her a cocky half grin. “Found you, Emi.”

  “You certainly did.”

  I bring her back to rights and force myself not to hold on to her when she takes a big step back. Instead, I widen my stance and cross my arms. She mimics m
e, and it’s just the cutest damn thing I’ve ever seen. My wide smile probably says as much.

  “Took you long enough,” she says with a challenging brow. “What’s the matter, not fluent in the internet?”

  “Nah, I was just playin’ hard to get. Betting on absence makin’ the heart grow fonder and all that good stuff.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, but I’d forgotten about you. Out of sight, out of mind and all that good stuff.”

  Emi turns dismissively toward the mirror, lowers the stereo’s volume with a remote, and grabs her water bottle from the floor, squirting a healthy amount into her mouth. Watching her throat move as she swallows is like torture. I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman’s neck more than I do in this moment, to feel her pulse jump under my lips and taste the salty sweetness on her skin.

  I can tell she’s trying to appear confident, but she’s not quite pulling it off. I hold her gaze in the mirror as I move to stand behind her, less than an inch between our bodies. Gripping the ballet barre on either side of her, I lower my head and speak into her ear. “I don’t believe that for a second, Emi. I’d bet you’ve been thinking of me just as much as I’ve been thinking of you.”

  She releases a shaky breath but lifts her chin the slightest bit. “Unless you thought of me hardly at all, you’d lose that bet.”

  “I don’t lose, darlin’. Now, the way I see it, you owe me a prize for finding you.”

  Emi rolls her eyes, showing me a hint of feisty that I more than like. She turns to face me, being careful not to let our bodies touch in the process. “There’s a bowl of suckers on the desk over there. Help yourself.”

  She pats my chest, then ducks under my arm to escape me, but I catch her wrist and pull her back. “Not so fast there, Emi.”

  “Where’s the accent from?”