Tease

by Nathalie Gray

  Whoa.

  Was that a choir of angelic voices she heard in the bushes behind her? It must’ve been. That or she’d died and gone straight to heaven and god was one hot dude! Or maybe she was in hell and it was the devil she was looking at. God wouldn’t look so…bad. Bad in a good sense. In a great sense. Bad as in baaaaaad.

  Hubba-hubba.

  For there stood GQ Magazine’s Mister Centerfold. Or so he could be if GQ had an imprint reserved for Bad Boys with both capital Bs. Six feet something of dark-haired—tousled just so—pale-eyed, lean-muscled badass with a two-day-old five o’clock shadow and black martial arts-like drawstring pants stood in the doorway looking at her. He was doing something with his mouth, as one would flicking a mint side to side, but there wasn’t anything there other than one luscious set of lips that glistened like candy. He must have stepped right out of the shower and still smelled of soap. The best scent on a man. Just clean soap. His pale gaze slid down to her sandals.

  “Mr. George B. Archer?”

  A dark eyebrow arched while he extended his hand. “You must be Constable Blair.”

  Her brain screamed, Shake the damned hand, you fool, but she couldn’t move anything except her eyeballs, which were plenty busy for the numb rest of her. But he was gorgeous. And he was baaaad. And gorgeous. So, so gor—

  “That’s me,” she quipped, instantly wishing she had something against which to hit her forehead. “That’s me.” Yeah, Murphy, rich, very rich.

  Did he eat his women out? was the first question that came to her back-flipping brain.

  Of course he does! Look at that mouth, Murphy!

  Was he the kind of lover women talked about in restrooms and hair salons? The kind a woman would keep to herself and become a hissy-throwing, snoop-through-the-e-mails kind of bitch just to keep him to herself? Would he mind if Joan tackled him down to the floor and speared herself over him?

  Just shake the damn hand, wouldya?

  The things she had to do for her job!

  Chapter Two

  Constable Blair continued staring at him while he waited there like an ass with his hand extended toward her. Even if he thought she wasn’t making a very good first impression—she was supposed to act the part of a performer, staring around, looking like a dead fish wouldn’t do—Archer couldn’t help the jolt when a ping of sexual awareness registered on his Babe Radar. From the pic in Adriano’s file, Archer had expected a looker but not this. She reminded him of that chick in the TV show 3rd Rock from the Sun but in a darker shade of blonde. Man, she was hot!

  He was used to women—not a single male student so far—expecting a female trainer and always enjoyed the look of shock or awkwardness or as right now with Constable Blair’s less subtle expression of “Whew, man, he’s hawt”. Not that Archer didn’t appreciate a woman’s admiration. Unless she’d been expecting something else entirely. What kind of file had the police built on him? he wondered. No picture obviously. Too bad, he made excellent pictures. Unless she’d had a talk with the Morality, Alcohol and Narcotics Squad and they’d warned her against “men like him” who trained dancers. Maybe they’d told her he was a perv who made his living watching women shake their asses.

  “You expected someone else?” he said more than asked.

  Constable Blair blinked twice rapidly, nodded. Strands of hair spilled over her shoulder. The urge to tuck them back for her tickled his fingers.

  Maybe I should, see what she’d do.

  “You expected what exactly? A fat perv living in a dump?”

  She laughed. Hard. A whole-body laugh, contagious if unladylike. “Not necessarily fat.”

  It was Archer’s turn to grin. “Good one.”

  Constable Blair seemed to snap out of whatever mental trip she’d been engaging and grabbed his hand as if she meant to break it, shook then dropped it.

  “Thanks for doing this on such short notice.”

  He looked at his hand, felt as if he ought to count his fingers or check the knuckles. She had some grip!

  “Oh, don’t mention it. They’re paying me. Not well, but they’re paying me. Come in, Constable Blair.” He stepped sideways into the doorway to let her pass but not enough that he wouldn’t touch her in passing. He’d always been an opportunistic prick.

  “Call me Joan.”

  “That sounds like an order, Joan.”

  Instantly his dirty mind flashed a vision of her in a pretend-cop latex suit, zipped down, wielding a whip while she slapped pink fuzzy handcuffs on him because he’d be the bad guy of course. He loved to get a good spanking. He loved giving them even more!

  Cops don’t have whips.

  So what?

  “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just…well, just call me Joan.”

  Ah, so she’s a blusher? I love blushers! Good to know.

  The heat of her arm warmed his when she stepped into the waiting room, grinned and turned to wait for him.

  “So,” he started, closed the door. “I’m to train you for some undercover work from what I understood. You need to nail that audition for amateur night this weekend, get inside The Quicksilver, that’s it?”

  The sparkling brown eyes turned serious all at once, so fast in fact, he started to wonder which of the two expressions had been real and which had been for his benefit.

  “Yeah, before the bad guy goes back to Europe and we have to wait another two months to catch him in his club.”

  “What bad guy?”

  Adriano had mentioned The Quicksilver—a newish, ultra-expensive club with ties to organized crime—but not who the police were after. Not that Archer cared. He’d get thirty thousand undeclared dollars from Adriano to play escort to “Lady Joan” while the police would shell out another couple of official grand to train her. Although just looking at her butt in those yoga pants would be payment enough. If he were very lucky, he might even get inside said pants. As a matter of fact, he’d endeavor to do just that as soon as he could.

  Tonight would be perfect. Nothing on TV anyway.

  “Sorry, Mr. Archer. I can’t tell you that.” She smiled as if to smooth the curt words.

  “It’s just Archer. Not mister and don’t call me by my first name.”

  With a big grin, she nodded. “Sure. Just Archer. When do we start?”

  “Right now. It’s only seven-thirty. I have the studio set up and ready.”

  “Good. Show me some moves then.”

  She said this laughing but he could tell she worked hard not to let her nerves get the better of her. Someone with self-discipline then. Good, they always made the best performers.

  She chuckled when they emerged into the studio itself, all black mostly soundproof walls except for the mural mirror, laminate floors around the edges and red exercise mat taking the entire floor in the middle. But he could tell the firemen’s poles caught her attention. She turned back toward him, seemed to try to find something to say, shrugged then cracked her knuckles.

  “It looks like a dojo,” she remarked with a lopsided smile that made him want to slap her butt and nuzzle her neck. Whew, where had the oxygen gone? “But black and red.”

  Archer took a deep breath. “Ah, you’ve been in a dojo before? Which discipline?”

  “No, but I’ve been in movie theaters before. They always look like that in movies, the dojos. Well…” She cleared her throat. “Except for the poles…” Quick megawatt smile. “Do you have a belt in something?”

  A belt in something? No decorum at all, that one.

  “Judo. Regional champion of ninety-one and two. I’m surprised you’re not a martial arts person, being a cop and all.”

  She shrugged, which raised her breasts and his blood pressure. She looked behind him at the poles. “So that’s where they grow firemen’s poles.”

  He barked a quick laugh that caught him off guard. Except for Mel, who’d seen his best and worst sides, cleaned his after-party vomit once or twice back in his stupid years, he usually never let people see him this way,
laughing unguardedly, preferring to let them wonder, keeping the sharp Bad Boy façade on so they wouldn’t see the chewy inside. “Chewy inside”, Mel’s words, not his. She had a way with words, that gal. His female alpha geek friend.

  “Yeah, that’s where we grow them,” he replied, smiling still.

  Can I kiss you? Your lips look so good.

  Instead of kissing her mouths—he loved kissing women’s mouths, both of them—he marched to the CD player set on the stainless steel counter. “I chose some music for you. A few older tracks, a couple of recent ones. Just tell me which ones move you. I’ve come up with a choreography that’s not too hard for a beginner but one that’ll get you a spot at The Quicksilver. And believe me, you will get a spot at that club by the time I’m done with you.”

  Why did he need to strut his stuff this way? He never cared what people thought. When she didn’t reply, he threw a quick glance into the mirror.

  She was checking him out! And not even discreetly!

  He could see her in the mirror smirking as she looked him up and down, settling in the middle and his extra-fine butt. Who cared about humility? Women had always enjoyed his butt.

  Good genes, I guess.

  He stared hard at her in the mirror, sending the message loud and clear. Don’t look if you don’t mean it. A blush rose to her cheeks but she didn’t look away. Well, what do you know! Maybe she did mean it.

  Definitely tonight. Good. It’ll diffuse the tension.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  “What woman wouldn’t?”

  “Are you always so honest?”

  “Always. I’m a cop.”

  Archer couldn’t help the snort of laughter. “Yeah, okay.” Sobering, he lowered his chin, let his eyes do the talking. He knew women loved that look. “How flexible are you?”

  She blushed again—and he was starting to suspect she didn’t blush out of shyness but excitement and, boy, did that ever boost his over-inflated male ego—when he hooked his index finger at her so she’d come take a look at the music selection.

  “I’m flexible enough to make it fun.”

  Archer’s dick twitched. It honest to god did! “Make what fun?”

  Joan smiled widely as she approached, leaned an elbow on the counter. “Sex.”

  “But that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

  “Nope. Just here to learn how to use these things.” She pointed at the poles with her chin.

  “Things”? And cheeky too.

  Archer drew near her, close enough to let her feel the heat of his breath. “You think this will be easy?”

  Can you hear the bear trap creaking open, Joan?

  For some reason he couldn’t explain, he didn’t appreciate how she viewed his profession as easy or fluffy, irrationally wanting Joan Blair to realize and accept the effort and discipline required for his line of work. He was a fitness instructor, dammit, and it was hard! Try convincing people to hang upside down by a hand, once!

  Archer realized his smile wasn’t terribly nice but couldn’t help it. Most people thought pole fitness was for strippers only, as if that made it easy or insignificant. He’d thought that too, before he set up shop. Well, yes, it’d been for dancers originally, but it no longer was and anyway, it was the hardest workout he’d ever done, even after years of judo and a regular gym regimen. He’d first thought of opening his own dojo, as many black belts did—he’d never work for someone else—but had quickly realized the big bucks were with women. They went to gyms the most assiduously, they shelled out the dollars in their pursuit of fitness and a toned body. So after a few hours of Internet investigating, he’d discovered the new craze. Pole fitness. Overhead costs had been laughable, part of his own house, a handful of poles, a mat, some mirrors. Women didn’t need nor want thousands of machines and loose weights. They knew what they wanted. To look good and have fun doing it. He provided that. And more…

  Despite the fact he was crowding her, Joan didn’t seem intimidated and snorted another laugh. “The taking most of my clothes off part will be hard, but that,” she jerked her chin at the poles again. “How hard can it be? You hold on and twirl a few times.”

  I guess you didn’t hear the bear trap then.

  He leaned over. This time he saw a reaction when her pupils dilated. She looked up to meet his gaze. He was so close, he could’ve kissed her.

  All in good time.

  “Can you support your body weight with one hand?”

  “T-To…um, to catch a bad guy?” she replied, probably going for offhand but sounding breathless instead. Her eyes narrowed, her lips thinned. Oh, she had guts, that one. “I’ll support my own body weight and yours. I’m in shape, I’ll manage.”

  Cheeky, gutsy and an overachiever.

  I’m so gonna make you sweat, baby.

  “I can’t wait,” he said, putting his hand on the counter, his thumb touching her elbow. He saw goose bumps appear where their skin met. “I can’t wait to train you.” He gave her his most lopsided smile. The one that had women fanning themselves or fisting his hair so he’d eat them more deeply. Activity he’d taken to Olympic-sport caliber.

  A blonde eyebrow arched. “Train me?”

  Oh, I have your attention now, do I?

  “Train you.”

  “I’m not a dog.”

  Archer nearly puffed in laughter when a vision of them doing it doggy style flashed in his mind. Well, they say guys think about it several times an hour. She’s been here at least ten minutes.

  “No, but you’re here to be trained, aren’t you?” He let his gaze settle on her mouth. He couldn’t resist it. He licked his.

  Not only her eyes but her nostrils flared this time.

  Before she could reply, and oh she looked as if she had good ones lined up from here to Vancouver, Archer straightened and walked away.

  The proverb “quit while ahead” had been written by a guy who’d scored a good point against a cute and witty chick. He was sure of it.

  “Take your sandals off. We’ll stretch first then we’ll start with the poles.”

  Fuck the music. He wanted to see her sweat at the poles, the cocky little shit.

  She’s not little. At least five-seven.

  Cocky little shit just the same.

  It quickly became apparent Joan Blair was flexible and was in good shape as she sat on the mat and grabbed her feet, lay on her legs then did a sort of leg-scissor thing to stretch the back of her thighs. Archer found he could barely concentrate on his own legs—he was too busy looking at hers. She had nice muscle tone under those yoga pants. Which reminded him…

  “Next lesson, you’ll have to wear hot pants and maybe a swimsuit top. Or a bikini if you have it. You have to get used to some skin showing.” Here, Miss I Can Do Anything, try that on for size.

  Archer wanted to pat himself on the shoulder when she snapped her gaze at him, opened her mouth to say something then nodded. He could watch her blush all day long.

  Does she blush when she fucks with the lights on? It must be the cutest thing.

  Archer rolled his ankles, shook out his hands and cupped his hips. “Okay. Let’s see. First, you’ll have to respect gravity. She’s relentless, she’s waiting for you to screw up and sometimes she’s a bitch. But she always has the last word, much like a woman in an argument. So let me show you a few basic holds. Like this one.”

  While Joan’s eyes alternately flared and narrowed to slits, he grabbed the pole next to him with a hand at shoulder height and the other at hip level. Tucking his elbow in his side, he slowly, by small increments to show the perfect control he’d gained over the years of practice, rose until he hung perpendicular to the pole. As he rose higher, his legs at full extension, feet together and pointed, Joan’s face sagged, her mouth opened.

  “I need to learn how to do that?”

  Would a heartfelt “MWA HA HAA” be inappropriate right now?

  “Yes,” he said without panting.

  After a few seconds,
he lowered his feet, pivoted until they faced the pole, parted his legs and “rode” it, each foot sliding on either side until his crotch touched the metal tube. He kept himself suspended thus for a few seconds. “And that one too.”

  He was lying. Joan wouldn’t have to learn either of these but he wanted to show her, as simple as that. Men and their ego. His muscles burned with the strain but he’d walk around in acid-washed jeans before he let it show.

  Lest he start to breathe hard and shake, he let his feet touch, straightened and smiled his big winning one. Those he reserved for his finishing move, right before his opponent at judo spars would hit the mat in a one-two, teeth-rattling thud.

  “Your turn.”

  Asshole.

  Joan smiled despite the very real urge to kick his tight butt and grabbed the closest pole as he’d done, one hand near the shoulder, the other at hip level. With a grunt, she hopped so her feet would leave the mat but they came back right quick. Dammit! So she bounced up again, really put her all into this one and pulled with her upper arm. Shaking and groaning, she managed to keep her feet—oh what?—a foot off the floor.

  A sad, sad display, Murphy.

  Then something very embarrassing occurred. Her bottom hand, sweaty and growing numb, slipped on the pole. With a curse and a thud that reverberated along the metal tube, she twisted forward, hit the pole with her shoulder.

  “Crisse!”

  Chantal would’ve been proud of that one, it came out nice and hissy.

  A smirk firmly planted on his delicious lips, Archer crossed his arms. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Joan rubbed her hands on her pants, tried the hold again and hopped a few times to get her legs straight.

  “I didn’t know you spoke French.”

  “I don’t,” she grunted through her teeth.

  Pride. It was all about pride. To show she was in shape, dammit, she twisted as he’d done, “rode” the pole with much less grace but still, and was smiling when her bottom hand slipped again.

  Uh-oh.

  This time, she snapped forward hard, hanging with only her top hand, hit with her pubic bone—and if it didn’t just feel exactly like hitting her brother’s bicycle horizontal bar—and slid to the floor in a snarling heap.