Tease

by Nathalie Gray

  He released Archer, who angrily adjusted his shirt collar and jacket. “Yeah. Got it.”

  Ring sucked his teeth again, gave Joan a long look then strode for the elevator. “You coming or what?”

  He took them down one floor, and as soon as the large stainless steel doors opened, Joan couldn’t help the small “Whoa” of shock. The club was huge. It looked even bigger in person than what she’d read about in the file. A cavernous room, two levels deep with mezzanines made of clear thermoplastic and tubular metal while a large dance floor, all black and shiny, occupied the center of the “cave”. At the far back gleamed a catwalk, just like at fashion shows, with tiny lights along the edges. On both sides near the wall and surrounded by a three-sided golden cage were firemen’s poles that glistened as though water continuously oozed down the length of them. The lingering smells of cigarette and industrial-grade cleaning chemicals permeated the air.

  “Go down there,” Ring said, pointing over the balustrade at a table near the long bar where a group of people sat and seemed to be filling out forms from clipboards on their laps. A man sat with a laptop open in front of him. “Ask for Moses.”

  He left with a last mocking look at Archer, who gave it back with interest.

  As they made their way downstairs via a curving, clear staircase, Joan described the place in as many details as possible, including approximate measurements when she could and guesstimates the rest of the time. Her guys would need all the details she could provide. When they’d reached the lower level, Archer walking so close to her he nearly tripped her—he looked pissed—the older man with the laptop looked up from the table and made a “come over here quickly” gesture.

  “You guys just made it. I was gonna give out the names of those who’d gotten on the list,” he said as soon as Joan was within earshot. “You’re gonna have to really work it if you want a spot.” He proffered a clipboard and a pen. “Fill that out. Make it quick, I got about ten minutes. Who’s that?” He spoke rapid-fire. Quick, chopped syllables.

  Archer visibly bristled. “I’m her manager.”

  “Manager?” the older man, Moses she assumed, said, narrowing his eyes. “It’s amateur night.” A few heads turned their way.

  Joan forced a laugh, even made an “aww, shucks” gesture. “He’s not the one dancing. I am. I’m the amateur.”

  Moses’ face crinkled when he smiled. “Oh, the boss will like you.” Turning back to Archer, the older man ran a hand in his thinning gray hair. “So you’re here for moral support?”

  “And to make sure she’s safe,” he replied deadpan.

  Shit, Archer!

  She wanted to slap him upside the head. She could just imagine the concert of groans from her colleagues in the van.

  “And to make sure you got this as well,” he added quickly. “It’s the music to her routine. Three minutes, twenty-five seconds.”

  Nice recovery. Maybe Chantal won’t kick your ass.

  He pulled the memory stick from the inside pocket of his jacket and gave it to Moses, who took it with a growing grin. She was starting to like the old fart. Too bad he’d be arrested with the rest of them.

  “You didn’t get this passed through the front guy or Ty? My boy, you enjoy living dangerously. If Ty learns you snuck something by him, he’s gonna hit the roof. And it’s not pretty when he does.” Moses took the stick, placed it on the table beside the pile of CDs.

  Joan looked around at the women and the couple of guys sitting at tables along the catwalk, most of them dressed in tight-fitting clothes and wearing too much hair products, and couldn’t help the inward cringe. How many were here out of desperation? Desperation Laramée would make sure to harvest. One of them, a dark-haired young man with a certain androgynous beauty, looked up, met her gaze then quickly lowered his eyes.

  Her cop instincts were instantly on alert. Who was this guy? Why was he looking at her that way? He was shaped like a gymnast too, and wore a big tattoo over his shoulder, which she could see below the sleeve of his tight sleeveless faux cowboy shirt. Cowboys didn’t wear lava-red silk shirts, did they?

  “How many dancers are you looking for, sir?” Joan asked of Moses, instantly regretting the “sir” at the end. The young man had unsettled her. Shit. No time for this.

  Moses shook his head. “Don’t try to suck up to me, girl. You don’t need to. Just looking at you is good enough for me.” He pointed to the stage and winked. “But since you’re so polite, if you do good, you’ll get to go first tonight.”

  By her side, Archer grabbed her arm and led her a few paces away. “Something’s not right here,” he murmured near her ear. “I don’t like that Russian guy.”

  “What makes you think he’s Russian?” Still, she took a few seconds to describe him to their unseen audience.

  “The cheekbones, the eyes. Anyway, would you just listen?” He unbuttoned her jacket so he could stay close to her. “That Ty guy is dangerous. And he has a gun.”

  Joan nodded. “I know. He has two actually. One in the left pant leg. Both big. Black suit, piercings, he’s the security boss. I don’t recognize him from known associates either, so he must be extra sneaky.” She relayed more details to Archer’s shirt so her guys in the truck would visualize the situation in as many details as possible. “Anyway, James, they probably have a whole arsenal in the place.”

  Archer straightened, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set into a thin, angry line. When he grabbed her by both arms and put his face right against hers, Joan knew he wasn’t joking about this. “Something is going on.”

  Without looking as if she were, well, looking, she peeked over Archer’s shoulder and caught the young “Russian” man studying the lay of the place, gazing up at the balconies, back at the fire exits—they were locked, she was sure of that but they’d soon be unlocked quite effectively and forcefully by Sauvageau’s unit—then he turned his gaze to her and smiled. There was something chilling and intent in that quick look.

  Fuck. Archer is right. Something is going on.

  “Today would be nice too,” Moses called behind them. The affable smile was gone.

  “We have no choice,” Joan murmured. She pulled an arm out of his grip and finished unbuttoning her jacket. “We have to keep going.”

  “Shit, Joan.”

  But she no longer listened to Archer. Her gaze had traveled from her companion’s angry face to another man standing on a balcony overlooking the club. He wore a pale gray suit of impeccable design and cut. His curly blond hair was raked back over his skull, lending him energy and youth, even if he was in his fifties. Claude Laramée. In all his criminal splendor. She couldn’t believe that after months of investigating, of endless frustrations, she was finally meeting the man in the flesh, in his club and was about to bring him down. Goddamn, it felt good!

  “He’s here,” she hissed close to Archer’s collar. “Gray suit, black shirt, physical appearance is the same as on the file. He won’t be hard to pinpoint.”

  Archer turned to look up at the mezzanine. She heard him whispering a curse.

  The goal was in sight and this fired Joan’s blood as nothing ever had before. Well, except for Archer’s fine handling.

  “Wish me luck.”

  She yanked the jacket off, shoes too, squared her shoulders and spotted the stairs leading to the catwalk, which she reached just as Moses was standing.

  “Good of you to join us,” he said, a sarcastic grin pulling his cheek. He nodded at someone high up behind her. The sound booth probably. “Do your thing, miss. Good luck.”

  Archer only had time to hiss through his teeth when she left him by the side of the stage. Feeling horribly exposed in her Turkish dancer costume, Joan walked to the closer pole and rolled her shoulders. Man, she was so nervous she could pee!

  After adjusting her belt, she looked out at the small crowd, barely a dozen, and fixed her stare on Archer, who went to the bar, leaned back against it and must have thought he was doing a good job at playing Mister Cool Ca
t. He looked pissed and twitchy. Poor guy.

  When the song began, Joan stopped looking at him. It was hard to focus whenever she looked at Archer.

  Despite the light—or as bright as a club could be during downtime, without windows or any direct sunlight—there definitely was a sensation of closeness, of being enveloped by the place, even if the size dwarfed anything she’d ever seen. Up on the mezzanine, Ty—or so she surmised—stood beside Laramée and leaned on his elbows. The ring at his eyebrow flashed.

  She forgot Ty too.

  The only one she kept in her sight was Laramée.

  He was the prize. The goal. The target. And right now, he’d be her audience of one. If she impressed him enough, maybe he would even invite Archer and her backstage or something. Have a drink while the police gathered at the door. She was the Trojan horse in this story. And he was Troy. She’d have the perfect opportunity to keep an eye on him. And if he didn’t play nice, she’d find a way to keep him busy. Her only problem would be Ty.

  Her skin squeaked against the pole when she twisted down its length, one leg at full extension, the other tucked under her for a perfectly smooth landing. Man, Archer was a good trainer! Three minutes and twenty-five seconds had never felt so short!

  Archer thought his heart would stop beating when Joan finished the routine, the dreaded Reverse Knee Spin apparently mastered once and for all. He could tell she’d pinned the audience too for both guys up on the mezzanine—Ty and probably The Boss, if he’d have to judge by the clothes and deportment—stared down at the stage with their mouths hanging open. Ty was the first to recover. He leaned in to his boss, murmured a few words then did the sort of thing that had once sent Archer into a fit of rage at a bar. Mel would probably remember better than him since he’d been a little wee bit, well, inebriated. It’d happened a few years before his parents’ deaths, a time when Archer had felt great, untouchable even. Anyway. A guy, equally drunk but rude on top of things, had looked at Mel, grinned and made the motion with his hips that he’d enjoy “sticking it in there, if you know what I mean, huh-huh-huh-huh”. The disgusting pig. Archer had lost it when the guy had reached for Mel’s arm to whisper something in her ear. She’d looked so shocked and for a split second she’d looked worried too. Even in his state, Archer, who’d been training hard for an upcoming judo championship, had neatly sent the guy crashing through a table with a perfectly executed Yama-Arashi—Mountain Storm Throw—the guy must have thought he’d fallen off one for real. It would’ve won Archer a gold medal. Too bad judo judges didn’t hang out in bars.

  So when Ty was done presently pumping the balustrade in front of him to show just what he’d do to the gorgeous dancer at the pole, Archer just about lost it and only the tape pulling on the skin of his twitching pecs reminded him there was something bigger and more important than his ego here. And it could be dangerous to Joan, so vulnerable and alone up on the stage. So he calmed down, at the price of much breathing and mental murders—he had to satisfy his male pride somehow.

  Moses turned back to look at Archer and gave him the thumbs-up. “Your girl’s good. She’ll go first tonight. Say around ten-thirty, okay? You can hang out in front with the rest until then.”

  Archer nodded. In a sick puppy kind of way, he felt proud Joan had nailed the audition, had blown them all back on their asses and put his routine to excellent use, but at the same time, he felt jealous and pissed off and scared that she’d just caught the eye of two very, very dangerous men.

  He was waiting for her with jacket ready to cover the essentials—goddamn pigs were still looking at her as if she were a chunk of meat—when a beaming Joan came strutting down the catwalk, all legs and glitter. Man, she was so hot, so incredibly hot. And funny. And smart. And kind.

  And a cop about to kick your ass. Just you wait until you tell her about Gentlemen Inc. and the thirty grand and all them notches on your pole.

  If he gave the money to charity, would it make a difference? He doubted it.

  “That went well, I think,” she exclaimed, jumping off the catwalk without using the stairs. She bounced, created a glorious wave effect with the penny belt that made drool accumulate in his mouth. He wanted to kiss her, pin her against the stage and take her right then and there. And he was getting hard just thinking about it.

  Remember Ty, man. Remember the look in his eyes.

  His erection killed more swiftly and deeply than if someone had shown him videos of a baby rabbit being gutted with a wooden spoon, Archer took a long breath and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. He helped her get the jacket back on.

  “You were fantastic,” he murmured. “And I love you.”

  Oh fuck! Oh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!

  Had he just said that?

  No, you didn’t! No, you didn’t! You moron!

  Joan tensed in his arms. She pulled her face away to look up into his. “And now we have it for posterity too.”

  Her grin didn’t make him feel any better. What an idiotic, selfish, thoughtless thing to say. And great choice of locations too, with gangsters coming out of the glasswork and everything. Genius.

  “You sure know how to use that pole, Madame Bauer.”

  Names travel fast in this place.

  Archer didn’t need to turn to know The Boss stood behind him. His French Canadian accent made the word “how” sound like “ow”, without the breathed H. He steeled himself and plastered on The Smirk as Ty and his boss came over, the blond man with his hand extended to Joan.

  “I’m Claude. It’s nice to meet you.” He smiled.

  Fuck, he’s good.

  He had that middle-age good looks going for him, blond hair with very little gray and big bright teeth like that Virgin Records founder. He’d only seen Claude Laramée on TV as he moved in and out of courthouses for the various mistrials, dismissals and other drama, but the man in the flesh was positively charming. As in cobra charming.

  Joan shook his hand and seemed to want to release it but the guy held on, twisted her wrist—Archer knew exactly what to do against such a grip. It was called Katate Dori Nikkyo, it added a couple of hinges to a guy’s arm and it hurt like a bitch.

  His blue eyes on hers, Laramée kissed the top of Joan’s hand. “Enchanté. Can I call you Susannah?”

  Because he’d learned to know her over the last few days, Archer recognized a fake smile and a blush that had everything to do with anger and wanting to kick the guy’s ass than some feminine excitement over having her hand kissed.

  “Sure. If I can call you Claude.”

  Laramée smiled wide. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  And I’ll have you spinning on a rotisserie hook, you sleaze. I’ll have you that way!

  Ty’s gaze kept going down the length of her, an act that ratcheted Archer’s blood pressure quite effectively. Oh, and the prick knew it too since he glanced at Archer, sucked his teeth then resumed visually disrobing Joan.

  The goddamn prick. The ugly, brutish, lowlife. I’d like to—

  As though he knew what Archer was thinking, Ty turned toward him and the air between them charged with electricity. Archer swore someone could get zapped if they walked between the two of them.

  Laramée grinned tightly. “And you have a manager too, I hear.”

  “I’m James.”

  “Sure you are,” Ty replied then repeated the name but with a lisp and a precious smile. “Dzaymes.”

  Archer smirked. “Funny.”

  Laramée grinned, those big bright teeth gleaming. “I’ve never seen you in my club before, James.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  Great going, antagonize the ruffian Joan is risking her life trying to arrest. Great going, genius.

  He shook his hand and Archer wanted with an unhealthy passion for the crook to squeeze his hand too hard and too long as he’d done to Joan, just so he could show him a thing or two about joints and human anatomy. But the prick let it go at the appropriate time.

  Party pooper. />
  Laramée gave him the once-over. “Nice suit. Designer?”

  Archer tried not to curl his upper lip. “Custom-made. Turkish silk.”

  “Nice.”

  “Thanks.”

  Turning to Joan, the boss smiled in a way that made Archer’s hair stand on end. “Come have a drink with me, Susannah. I’d be delighted to show you around.” He presented his elbow for her to take. Clearly, the guy wasn’t used to asking and even less to being refused.

  Archer swore he could hear the horrified, collective “NOOOOO!” inside the police truck parked outside. He couldn’t let her out of his sight. He was the one with The Wire, goddammit!

  “Oh, I’d love to,” Joan said, throwing Archer a warning glance. “After my performance?”

  Laramée shook his head. “No. Before.”

  Archer took a step, instincts and eons of males wanting to protect their females guiding his steps if not his brain. “Where she goes, I go.”

  Ty’s hands twitched at his sides. “Remember what I said, pretty boy?”

  Archer didn’t give a flying rat’s ass. Flying, crawling, swimming, driving a truck…any and every kind of rat ass. That jerk was not taking Joan out of his sight.

  Joan grinned wide. The fakest grin he’s ever seen on her. Couldn’t they see she was putting on a show? Couldn’t they tell she was faking it? He could. “It’s okay, James. Claude will take good care of me.” She took the offered elbow, winked then patted the man’s forearm as if she were testing the muscles there.

  Archer wanted to faint. Faint like a girl! A frisson of fear crawled down his back and for a second, he swore his heartbeat would interfere with the mike’s reception.

  Jesus…no…

  And as one of Montreal’s most notorious criminals was leading away the woman Archer loved, he was reduced to seething in silent rage, cursing at the whole affair and Adriano and Mel too, just for good measure. She was the one with all that brain. Couldn’t she have kept him from getting mixed up in all this shit to begin with?

  He watched Joan leave, climb up the stairs toward one of the balconies, one last smile for him then disappeared through a door partly concealed behind a column. He logged the door’s location carefully in his memory and as soon as he had a moment, he’d make sure to relay the information to his shirt.