Dance with Me, My Lovely

by Jaye Roycraft

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  ImaJinn Books

  www.imajinnbooks.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Jeanette Roycraft

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Dance with Me, My Lovely

  By Jaye Roycraft

  Chapter One

  The lights dimmed, with only the spark of anticipation charging the room. Feedback grated from a microphone, and an echo of female squeals immediately followed.

  "Ladies, the Pony Express is proud to bring you the finest adult entertainment on the North Shore. And now, to close our show tonight, back by popular demand, we are excited to present Chicago's own Italian Stallion, Lucius Santangelo!"

  The announcer mispronounced his name again, no doubt on purpose—Luscious instead of Loo-shus—not to mention how he butchered Santangelo, but it didn't matter. The name meant nothing more to him than it meant to the women in the crowd. They wanted only one thing tonight, and that was to indulge in fantasies they kept hidden like guilty secrets. He lifted a corner of his mouth. Who understood guilty secrets better than he did?

  Screams drowned out his name just as the spotlight hit his eyes. Lucius hated this first moment as much as the crowd loved it. The trite character name “Italian Stallion” made him want to wince, and the intensity of the spotlight burned his eyes. The annoyance and discomfort were brief, though, and he let none of it show in his expression, for this is what he lived for.

  The seductive music started slowly, and the shrieks died to a collective hush of expectation. He took a moment to inhale a long, slow breath through his nostrils, held it, then exhaled through his mouth. There was no sweeter fragrance in the world than a room full of women all baying after him like hounds on the hunt. It was a warm, ripe smell—a bouquet of perfume, heated flesh, and the musk of desire. These were no teenaged girls in the audience, but women in their prime—well developed and in full bloom. He would not disappoint them, and neither would they disappoint him.

  He allowed a smile to grow slowly, like foreplay. In time to the music, he rotated his hips hesitantly, like a motor begging to be started. The screams rose again, as if their volume could fire up his engine. He let the sound crest and wash over him, soaking him with all the heat and fervor of the bodies giving voice to those impassioned entreaties. He loved this moment. It was one precious beating heart magnified a hundredfold, life at its fullest, and it was all for him.

  But he halted the gyrations and instead paced the length of the stage, teasing with his smile as much as his walk. The noise ebbed again in anticipation, and in its absence he felt the weight of the crowd's collective stare. He gazed back at the dozens of eyes following his every move, not feeling like an animal on display, but like a king before his subjects.

  The music quickened, and his moves kept pace, though he heard only the ancient, elemental beat that pulsed through his brain, not the forgettable notes that blared from the speakers. His body was on automatic pilot now, grinding like a well-oiled machine. He ran his hands up his thighs and higher, just missing his crotch, to the buttons on his suit coat. He popped them slowly, as if he were uncorking champagne for a beautiful guest, each opening a grand event to be celebrated unhurriedly. He slid his hands over his shirt to his throat and ran his fingertips over the silk of the collar to just beneath his ears. A pause, two beats of music, then his fingers traced the edge of silk down to the points of the collar. He stroked the stiff points with the pads of his thumbs as if he were playing with a woman's nipples, and when he unknotted his raw silk tie, it was with the same mouth-watering patience and precision that he would use later this night in rolling down some woman's panties. He closed his eyes, and his vision turned inward for a moment. As he dangled the tie from the crook of one finger, his mind's eye saw panties and a bra drifting to a bedroom floor. The full image of tonight's conquest, naked and shimmering with desire, filled his mind and hardened his cock.

  He opened his eyes to a hooded slit. They were adjusted to the light now, and his acute vision allowed him to see beyond the barrier of light into the haven of darkness sheltering the crowd. Many women would be only too happy to share the stage with him in the spotlight, but many more, he knew, preferred to do their fantasizing in the anonymity of the shadows. He understood how those who favored the shadows felt, but for his purposes tonight, those who were less cautious were the easiest to seduce.

  Few were truly beautiful. Some were pretty, but most were average—middle-aged, middle-income single women out for a good time. Collectively, though, they gave him what he needed—passion to feed his senses. Later, he would single one out to feed the wolf, for the beast was lickerish and not so appeased by scent and sound alone.

  But that was for later. He let the tie fall. The women cheered, but their voices faded into the same oblivion as the pop music had. His shifting gaze landed on a front row table as he shrugged out of his suit coat and caught the sleeves with his fingertips just before the coat fell to the stage. The eager ones who were on their feet and crowding the stage almost blocked his view, but he spotted a thirty-ish woman who sat stiffly at the table, her gaze locked with his as securely as her unmoving body was locked in her chair.

  He let the coat slip from his fingertips.

  The woman was pretty in an unspoiled way, with auburn hair that, even in the darkness, glowed like a dying fire. Her skin was smooth and darker than fair, but it looked natural, not squeezed out of a bottle or helped along by the sun. She held his gaze, and in that moment of fleeting connection, he felt her awkwardness and introversion. He tried to catch her individual scent, but in the ambrosial stew of smoke-filled air, he couldn't. Still, he imagined her tang—pure and clean—and wondered if she was a virgin. She was trying to move in her seat in time to the music, but she held her body stiffly, like she was sitting for a job interview, not watching a man strip.

  Still, there was something more liberated in her gaze than in her body. He unbuttoned his shirt from the top down, but instead of spinning around, as he usually did at that point in the performance, he remained facing the audience.

  The woman had pale eyes, a strange contrast to her honey-gold complexion. Come on, love, dance with me. Talk to me with those eyes of light.

  His fingers reached his waist, and he unfastened his belt, pulling it from his waistband as his hips rocked back and forth in time to the beat of the music. Loop by loop the belt slid to freedom. Come on, love, it's just you and me in this room. Tell me what you're thinking. He dangled the freed belt and let it drop.

  And he felt it. Desire. No, it was more like longing—longing and a strength that was at odds with her slight frame and rigid posture. He smiled at her, just for her, but she didn't smile back. Instead, he felt her touch, her mind to his, so quick and powerful it was like a slap. It was gone as rapidly as it had come, yet she stared at him still, and he gazed back. Everything had changed in that brief connection, for he knew she knew at least one of his guilty secrets.

  He bid her a silent farewell. The redhead was danger, and that wasn't what he needed tonight. He needed prey that was quick, predictable, and uncomplicated. It was all his faltering control could handle. But that was for later tonight. For now, the dance—and the hunt—were still his to enjoy.

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  Cate Greenbush had almost missed the show. Her friend Merri had been badgering her for months to go, but Cate had been jus
t as adamant about refusing.

  "The Pony Express will be fun!” Merri had wheedled. “And it's men. You're always talking about the lack of men in your life."

  She wanted a man in her life desperately, that was true enough, but not like this. The word “express” didn't have a place in the description of any man Cate wanted. Express relationship. Express sex. Ugh.

  "I am not going to find marriage material at a dance club, especially not one with male exotic dancers.” She'd spit the words out like they'd been pieces of forbidden fruit, and pieces none too tasty at that.

  But Merri was not a friend to back down. “Maybe not, but you're not going to find a man sitting at home every night with your drums and crystals. You think the catch of a lifetime is just going to come knocking at your door? You need to get out!"

  Cate had tried very hard not to take offense at her friend's ignorance of what it was she did for a living. Merri was her best friend, yet she understood very little about Cate's job. Cate had tried to explain to Merri that what she did was real, not some carnival act or worse, a deliberate con, but Merri had never gotten past the eye-rolling stage. Still, Merri accepted her, and that was more than most people did. In the end, Cate had relented and agreed to come to tonight's show. It wouldn't find her a man, but it would be a harmless night of fun. And it would get Merri off her back for a week or two.

  In fact, the more Cate had thought about tonight, the more excited she'd become. She did talk to Merri about men. She talked about them, thought about them, and dreamed about them. Other people would call what she did fantasizing, but she preferred to call them dreams. Fantasies were nothing more than make-believe and illusion. Dreams and visions, on the other hand, could come true. They were meant to come true. She knew from her work that there was nothing more powerful than a dream. Not that she expected to find the man of her dreams here, of course. But she could indulge herself and immerse herself in sights, sounds, and feelings that would fuel her future dreams.

  So they'd gone out, and Cate had done her honest best to have a good time. The room was warm and smoky, and she regretted dressing for the chilly November weather instead of a room full of hot men and heated women. Still, she'd smiled at the more outrageous costumes and cheered when the silly garments hit the floor. But when the dancers had invited women from the other front tables to approach the stage, Cate had scrunched down in her seat and tried to look more inconspicuous than she knew she already was. The thought alone of stuffing a bill into some sweaty guy's G-string was enough to make her cringe. Not that the dancers weren't easy on the eyes. They were all young and attractive, with great bodies and dazzling smiles. They were talented performers, with no lack of charm. But it was the kind of charm she imagined would ensure them a different woman in their bed every night, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to be prey to that particular brand of charisma.

  So all in all, she was glad when the lights dimmed and the headliner, the Italian Stallion, was announced.

  Cheers went up all around her as he was announced, but Cate sank even lower in her seat and groaned. Visions of Rocky Balboa in a G-string swam before her. But when the spotlight shone on Mr. Stallion, she straightened up. He was hardly what she'd expected, and for a moment she wondered if there was some kind of mistake. This man couldn't be the grand finale. He looked older than the other dancers by about ten years, and instead of a costume he wore a very expensive looking ivory suit with a matching tie and black shirt.

  As soon as he started dancing, Cate knew why he danced last. There was a fluidity and confidence to his movements that didn't look learned or practiced but a natural part of him. Cate herself had always felt out of sync with her body, a result, she supposed, of being such a spiritual being. Not so this man. He looked more comfortable in his skin than anyone she'd ever seen. It wasn't that his moves were wildly original or flamboyant, but they were performed with an ease and grace that completely awed her. And a sexiness, she had to admit. The other dancers had done high-energy routines, but the unhurried control that Mr. Stallion exhibited brought visions of slow-motion, all-night sex to her man-starved mind. On top of all that, he was just as striking in his appearance as in his outfit. He had long dark hair tied back, eyes so dark they looked black, and skin that the spotlight paled to the color of his suit. Light and dark, just like his costume.

  As he shed his coat, Cate swore he was looking right at her.

  Impossible, she thought. The spotlight's shining right in his eyes. He can't possibly see me.

  And yet the feeling persisted as he unbuttoned his shirt. His eyes seemed focused directly on hers, and she couldn't look away. It was as though he were dancing just for her, and no one else in the room mattered. He undid his belt and slid it from its confining loops, and all she could think about was the slow sex she had been dreaming about lately. Her head was light and her mouth dry, but she felt her lower lips part and swell with a throbbing ache. The rush of desire was like some illegal drug that made her wish all the more she had someone permanent in her life.

  The liberated belt dangled from his fingertips like a serpent, or like the one part of the male anatomy she hadn't seen tonight. She felt her cheeks burn at the image in her mind, and he grinned at her as if he could read her thoughts.

  Stop daydreaming! He can't even see you, silly. It was just an illusion, part of the intimacy of a live show. Those in the audience always thought the performance was just for them. And it is, isn't it?

  An image flashed suddenly behind her eyes, blocking out the dancer and her fantasy. Death. It was the spirit of a woman with black hair who was holding out her hands and beseeching her. The image was brief, but like a lightning bolt in the dark, its revelation was just as forceful. Death. Blood. And in the shadows, a man. The dancer? No. Maybe. Probably.

  But the dancer continued, and she put the vision out of her mind. She felt uncharacteristically out of control, as though she was in a trance and her body was moving of its own volition. She felt caught up in the rhythm of his body, her own hips grinding in her seat in unison with his. When he untied his hair and shed his shirt and trousers, she was spellbound. Again he differed from the other dancers. They'd all been tan and buff, like junior bodybuilders. Mr. Stallion had the lean, hard body of an athlete, but somehow Cate doubted he spent much time in a gym. Still, she preferred his more natural look.

  Everything about him was more subtle than the other dancers—his costume, his moves, and his body—except one thing. There was nothing at all subtle about his package or the way it hung in the tiny black G-string. She was afraid to think about what his penis would look like, freed and fully erect, but she did. When she wondered what it would feel like inside her, she felt all the liquid in her body drain south. Unaccustomed wetness between her legs made her squirm in her seat, but as long as her gaze remained on Mr. Stallion, the ache only grew.

  In her mind, where all things were possible, and all things, including herself, were perfect, she felt herself dancing with him. She matched his moves—back and forth, in and out, around and around—in perfect unison. One with him. A part of him. She felt graceful and light on her feet, able to bend and move like his shadow. No, not a shadow, but something with substance. His partner.

  Her hips rocked in her seat in time to his, and she felt her muscles contract and release, contract and release. A wave of heat washed over her, and she felt wet again, as if all the charged heat in the room had resulted in a downpour. The dancer's gaze was still on her, like skin against skin, hot, slick and smooth.

  When the dance finally ended, Cate was on her feet and cheering with Merri and the rest of the house. But with the end of the show came the end of the magic, and the memory of the disturbing vision of the spirit came back to her.

  She wanted a man, and her body had told her in no uncertain terms that this was the one, but as usual, who and what she was put a major crimp in her social life. It was bad enough she couldn't snag a man and hold him. She couldn't even be a swinging single, like ton
ight. How could she enjoy the most gorgeous man the Pony Express had to offer when all she could see when she looked at him was an image of blood and death? How could she possibly want this man so much when her sensible half suspected he was a killer?

  Cate sighed and, not for the first time in her life, wished she didn't see dead people.

  Chapter Two

  After Lucius finished his routine, a pretty blonde in the front row ran to the stage and handed him a rose. She had on a low-cut knit top that bared not only cleavage, but the better part of milky white breasts. Her top outlined the straps and cups of a skimpy bra, but neither the bra nor the top did anything to hide her prominent nipples.

  He could smell her heated flesh, and the scent was so strong he swore he could taste her on his tongue. Her combination of perfume, sweat, and musk called to his beast, and the beast responded with a quickening of his blood. This is the one. He smiled and gave her his usual thank-you in the form of a practiced eye wink.

  He met the blonde soon after the show ended. It was strictly against house rules for the performers to date patrons, but the club did little to enforce the rules. Lucius knew he wasn't the only dancer to get away with some after-hours entertainment.

  The blonde told him she lived only two miles away, but the drive seemed endless. The wolf was unusually hungry tonight, and impatience tortured him with a hard-on that ached so much he wanted to tell the woman to pull over to the curb and give him a blow job.

  He didn't understand the loss of control. In the past, it had been his norm to spend time seducing and making long, slow love to his women before taking his own pleasure. His discipline, forged over time and honed razor-sharp by practice, had always allowed him to reign supreme over his baser instincts. It had kept him safe, kept the women he was with safe, and made possible a stable life in the community. Lately, though, his control had faltered. More and more his actions were ruled by the beast—that part of him that lived only for blood and whatever pleasure and power derived from sating his hunger.