by Katee Robert
Inside the darkened club, thumping dance music and throngs of young, scantily clad bodies greeted them. Spinning black lights over the packed dance floor washed the entire scene with the eerie purple tint of an erotic dream. The overall chaos made it hard to see, hard to hear, and, best of all as far as Stacy was concerned, hard to think. Yes, tonight was exactly what she needed.
“That went well,” Kylie said over the deafening beat of the music, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Always.” The bar was calling her name. Time to heed that call, because she felt good for the first time in weeks—relaxed, confident, and completely in her element—and aimed to stay that way. She needed to stay that way, if only for one night.
The muscular, slick-haired bartender did a double-take as soon as he saw them, and then stretched his lips into the smarmy grin he’d once told Stacy made him a dead ringer for Ryan Reynolds. In reality, it made him a dead ringer for Ted Bundy. Gary Swinton could be counted on for a lewd comment, and an indecent proposal, but he also poured a stiff one, so she returned his grin.
“Hey, Stacy. Kylie. I didn’t expect to see you ladies here tonight. Just had to come back for a chance to get it on with The Swinton, huh? Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty for both of you.”
In your dreams, she thought, but sadly, the retort was probably entirely too accurate. “With smooth lines like that, how can we say no? We just need a couple thousand martinis first and then we’ll be good to go. Let’s start with two.”
Gary winked at her chest. “Two martinis, coming up.”
Kylie gave her a conspiratorial shoulder bump. “It must be good to know some people will never treat you differently, no matter how big a star you become.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s really comforting.” But, strangely, it was. The team at Deuces, strippers and staff alike, knew her. She didn’t have to put on an act for them, or be on her best behavior. She could be her uncensored, snarky self.
An arm looped around her neck from behind. She jumped, and, for one terrifying moment, wondered if Worst Nightmare had tracked her down and intended to choke the life out of her right then and there. But then a reassuringly familiar voice said, “You, Snowflake, as an angel? I think you’re a shoo-in for most ironic costume.”
Stacy laughed at her ridiculous moment of panic, and then turned to face Ginger, the tall, improbably endowed, flame-haired dancer who headlined at Deuces. Tonight she wore a skintight black bustier that barely kept the girls under wraps, along with a short, transparent black mesh skirt that showed off her black satin thong. Garters, fishnets, and a tall black witch’s hat completed the ensemble.
“Hi Ginger. Decided not to wear a costume tonight?”
“Watch it.” She brandished a sparkling black wand. “Or I’ll put a spell on you.” The redhead pulled Stacy into a hug, and then said, “Oh, good, you brought the nice one too,” and gave Kylie a squeeze as well.
Stacy took the drinks Gary put on the bar, handed one to Kylie, and clinked glasses with her. “Happy Hallow—”
“Woo-hoo! Looky who’s here!” Sunny-haired Southerner Lee Ann closed in on them, dressed like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Ariana, the haughty brunette Russian followed, looking like a Parisian hooker in a black-and-white striped tube top, a tiny, front-slit leather skirt, and fishnets. She led Vern, the club’s manager, by the shiny tie of his 1920s mob boss costume.
While Lee Ann gave Kylie an exuberant hug, Vern stopped in front of Stacy and shook his head. His droopy brown eyes and sagging jowls provided the perfect canvas for his feigned disappointment. “You back again, kid? Didn’t I tell you that whole acting thing wouldn’t work out?”
She laughed. “That is exactly what you said, you miserable grouch.” He was the world’s biggest cynic, but deep down in his cold, black heart, she knew he was happy for her.
“There are no shows tonight because of the party, but since we go way back, I’ll clear the stage if you want to hop up there and make some money. Take Kylie with you, and I guarantee you girls will clean up.”
She took a big swallow of her martini and gave him a raised eyebrow over the rim of her glass. “You can’t afford me now, Vern.”
He turned to Ariana and shrugged. “Look at that. Pretending like she’s too good for us. She probably doesn’t even remember how to shake the moneymaker anymore.”
Ari smiled. “She is big star now. Her muscles are soft.”
Stacy finished off her drink in another large swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol in her throat and chest—Jesus, that felt good—and put the glass on the bar. “I haven’t forgotten a damn thing.” She pointed to the stage, where groups of partygoers, mostly female, danced and swayed seductively to the music, hoping to attract attention from the guys congregating on the dance floor directly below. “I play a showgirl on TV. I still dance every day, and I can put any of those girls up there now to shame.”
“Talk is cheap,” Vern said.
“You need me to prove this? Seriously?”
“I dare you. Come,” Ari took her hand, and Lee Ann’s, and tugged them toward the stage. “See if you remember Triple Threat.”
Triple Threat was the name Vern had given an intricate, over-the-top sexy dance Stacy had choreographed for three dancers—typically Lee Ann and Ari, and featuring her as the main dancer, naturally. She mentally reviewed the steps as they wound their way through the packed dance floor. The crowd parted easily enough, and a couple of cute, hard-bodied “construction workers” lifted them up to the stage. And then, there she stood, front and center, with all eyes on her. Just how she liked it. The distinctive opening notes of Flo Rida’s “Whistle” seeped from the sound system—a perfect song for the dance, with its playful, steady rhythm. She gave her body over to that beat, letting muscle memory kick in. Within seconds, the three of them were performing the routine as if they still did two shows a night, three nights a week, with the notable exception that they kept their clothes on.
She felt amazing, alluring, almost like her old self again. The strobes kept everything dreamlike and anonymous. She sensed, rather than saw, the other girls on the stage back off, so as not to suffer by comparison. Then the guys moved in. Guys with the confidence to vie for the attention of the hottest girls on the stage. She flirted with a gorgeous African-American model type who wore a white towel wrapped around his waist like the Old Spice guy. He smiled and worked his way closer, impressing her with dance moves as tight as his abs.
G.I. Joe arrived next, complete with biceps-revealing cammies that couldn’t possibly be military issue, and worked his way between her and Lee Ann. “I’m not just a job, ladies…I’m an adventure.”
She laughed and spun away. Ginger danced over and handed her a drink. The lemon drop, heavy on the vodka, went down smooth as ice. She gave the empty glass to G.I. Joe. “Here’s your next mission, soldier.” He saluted dutifully and danced away.
The vacant spot he left behind offered her a view of the club. She spotted Kylie and Trevor cuddled up together by the bar. The sight of Trevor brought unwanted thoughts of Ian flooding back. Was he here too? She scanned the room for one ridiculously painful heartbeat. No sign of him. A heavy sensation sank through her chest to settle in her stomach. She labeled it relief and turned back to the stage.
The second drink kicked in, giving her a nice buzz. She raised her arms over her head and looked up to watch the shadows they cast in the purple lights shining down from the ceiling rig. Someone behind her chose that moment to give her a hip bump, and toppled her off balance. She stumbled forward and might have fallen, but two strong arms caught her and pulled her up against a hard, male chest.
Her breath clogged her lungs for a moment, then burst out in a rush. “Thanks,” she managed and looked up at her rescuer. A black ski mask obscured his face. A soft, black, long-sleeved shirt covered what felt like a carved-from-granite upper body. Dark jeans hugged his lean hips and molded his thighs.
A low, almost gravelly voice reached h
er ears. “You okay, Angel?”
…
Ian didn’t miss Stacy’s quick inhale, or the way her eyes took a leisurely tour of his body. Then she smiled up at him. A slow, sexy smile that grabbed him by the balls even as he fought the impulse to give her hell for unleashing it on someone who, for all she knew, was an ax murderer.
“I’m way better than okay,” she replied, still working the naughty-girl smile.
He didn’t trust himself to reply. His temper already hovered at the top of the red zone from watching her flirt, flaunt her traffic-stopping body in the scrap of a costume, and command the attention of every guy in the club. When they’d first met, she’d been a stripper, yet strangely, the fact that she’d earned her living dancing next to naked had never bothered him. Why? He’d known she wanted him, and only him. But now, irrationally, he felt jealous of himself, because she stood there sending him an open invitation while assuming he was a stranger.
Apparently she wasn’t looking for the strong, silent type tonight. She took a step back, and reluctantly, he dropped his arms.
“Thanks for the save, Mystery Man.”
“My pleasure, Angel.”
She tipped her head to the side and stared at him. “It could be. We’ll see.” Then she frowned a little. “What the hell are you supposed to be, anyway?”
He closed the distance between them and brought his mouth down next to her ear. Her familiar scent immediately teased his nose. Even the ski mask couldn’t protect him. “Cat burglar.”
“Mmm. A bad boy.” Her lips moved provocatively to form the words. He imagined lifting his mask, pressing his lips to hers, and sucking her breath right into his lungs. “Guess I’d better keep an eye on you, so you don’t run off with anything I don’t want you to have.”
“You can try, but I’ve got very”—he ran his fingers up her bare arm, over her shoulder and along her collarbone to the sensitive spot where it dipped into the hollow of her throat—“quick hands.”
His touch provoked a small, involuntary shiver. Maybe her reaction unsettled her, because she danced a few steps away. “Sometimes I prefer slow hands,” she said, and shot him another lethal smile.
Some jerkoff in a caveman costume danced up behind her. She turned. As she did, her skirt flared out and offered anybody with sharp eyes a glimpse of the most luscious ass he’d ever had the pleasure of sinking his teeth into. He looked around and discovered that practically every man in the vicinity had sharp eyes. Then she did a fascinating swishing move with her hips. His attention zoomed in on that mesmerizing ass again. He narrowed his eyes. Could he…? Was that her thong he could see through the gauzy skirt of her outfit?
Caveman ran his meaty paws over her hips and around to rest at the small of her back, his fingers riding the swell of her backside. Fuck it. He was going to arrest this guy…
Before he could stalk over and break up the grope-fest, Stacy went low, ducked out of Caveman’s hold, and swiveled up to dance with Old Spice. Old Spice actually had some real dance moves—moves that didn’t involve running his hands all over his partner. Ian experienced another flare of jealously as he watched them fit their bodies together and execute a fluid groin-to-groin dirty dance, even as he recognized they connected on an artistic level—one dancer to another. He wasn’t exactly hip-locked, but he couldn’t compete with Old Spice’s talent.
Suddenly, he deeply regretted the “wait her out” plan he’d subscribed to for the last six weeks. He’d wanted to take their relationship to the next level. What if she’d been testing his commitment by breaking up with him? A very possible scenario, considering her upbringing had taught her to question everyone’s motives. Instead of going after her balls-out, he’d responded by diving headfirst down the exit chute she’d opened…at least as far as she could see. And what, exactly, had she been up to in the meantime? Had she found other playmates to keep her occupied? The thought twisted his guts like an invisible fist.
G.I. Joe reappeared with another drink. She trailed her fingers along the edge of Old Spice’s towel, and then turned and smiled at G.I. Joe. He handed her the drink. Everyone watched as she tipped her head back and indulged in a long sip. Her cammie-clad lackey wrapped an arm around her waist and tried to pull her close. Stacy kissed his cheek and slithered out of his grasp. She hooked her arm around Ian’s neck and swayed into him.
“Hello again, Mystery Man.”
“Hello, Angel.” He brought his arm up and splayed his hand across the base of her spine, just below her wings. His touch remained light, but he knew damn well the gesture looked proprietary to their audience of hopefuls dancing nearby. He felt proprietary, and protective, and possessive as all get-out. But she was enjoying the dance and all the attention. If he got too territorial she’d shake him off and move on to the next guy.
Keeping her arm around his neck, she turned so her wings pressed against his torso and his hand spanned her waist. Her head brushed his chest as she finished her drink. G.I. Joe hustled over, hips leading, and attempted to draw her away under the guise of taking her empty glass. Stacy relinquished her glass but stayed where she was. He couldn’t help smiling beneath his increasingly hot, itchy ski mask. Take a hike, Joe.
“What do you think, MM? Spotted anything you’d like to get your quick hands on?”
Was she all talk, or was she seriously looking to hook up with a complete stranger tonight? He fought the urge to rip off his mask and ask what the hell she thought she was doing. Instead, he flattened his hand against her stomach, spreading his fingers so his thumb brushed the swell of her breast and his little finger rested south of the subtle indentation of her belly button. “Something might have caught my eye.” He swept his thumb over her breast, as far as he could reach, coming dangerously close to her nipple.
She sucked in a fast, shallow breath as her nipples tightened to stiff little points beneath the flimsy fabric of her costume. The swift, involuntary sign of arousal pleased him to no end, even as he wondered how she could allow a random guy on a dance floor to put his hands all over her.
Then she returned the favor. She rocked her hips back into the cradle of his, humming with satisfaction when the hard ridge of his deliriously happy cock nestled against her ass. She tipped her head back and looked up at him. “Might? You don’t sound too sure.”
“Could be I need a closer look.” His dick throbbed, and he battled the pure, animal instinct to lay claim to the snug valley between her cheeks. Instead he contented himself running his thumb over the soft, yielding curve of her breast. He held his breath, hoping she’d take the bait and offer to go somewhere more private. Then he’d read her the riot act, about…everything.
“Tell you what, MM. You look to your heart’s content. Let me know if you reach any conclusions.” With that, she slipped out of his hold and sashayed over to Ariana. Lee Ann backed in from the other side, and the three of them proceeded to seduce every man in the vicinity with a hot, girl-on-girl-on-girl bump-and-grind. His aching privates gave the act a standing ovation.
He couldn’t take much more. Six weeks without so much as a handshake from Stacy had drained his strength and weakened his willpower to the breaking point. Add in the skimpy outfit, the pulsing music and the sensuous dance moves…hell…every man had his limits. When Old Spice gyrated over to get in on the action, Ian decided he’d had enough. He caught Stacy’s arm and tugged, bringing her around to face him.
She bumped into his chest and put her hands on his biceps to steady herself. “See something you like?”
“Yeah. I like the way you dance.”
A satisfied grin curved her lips. “I dance even better in private.”
His reply popped out of his mouth before he thought things through, and it had nothing to do with keeping her safe. “Show me.”
Chapter Four
Oh, she’d show him, all right. Stacy led Ian off the stage and through the throngs of guests partying it up on the dance floor. Who did he think he was fooling? Did he honestly believe she
hadn’t realized who he was the minute he’d caught her and held her against him? The scent of his soap, the way their bodies fit together, the timbre of his voice—even if he was trying to pitch it lower to fool her—all gave him away. For one moment her moronic heart had leaped at the possibility he was here to fight for her and convince her to give them another chance.
Then reality crashed over her like a bucket of cold water. He wasn’t here because he’d finally surrendered to an overpowering desire to see her. The damn letter accounted for his presence, because neither he nor Trevor thought she was capable of handling one crackpot pen pal on her own.
She intended to show him exactly what he could do with his overbearing, cocky, Neanderthal mentality. She’d handled her stalker, and now she would handle Ian, too. He’d get no glimpse of her still-aching heart. Instead, he’d see a carefree woman looking for a no-strings-attached good time with a handy stranger. By the time she finished, he’d be wondering if she even remembered his name. She’d take him on the ride of his life. Show him what he’d been missing.
Immature? Probably, but wounded pride spurred her on. Just don’t get sentimental. Don’t say or do anything to clue him in. And don’t flip your damn hair, she coached herself as she pushed through the mobs of people loitering in the hallway leading to the private VIP rooms.
She glanced back at the tall, dark figure behind her. Maybe being with him one last time would bring her some closure and enable her to move on. Something had to, because three drinks hadn’t helped. Prancing around and partying like she’d done in her wild-child days hadn’t helped. For the last six weeks, she’d waged an internal war to stop herself from running to him, telling him she’d made a terrible mistake, and asking him to forgive her. Every single day. She had to make it stop.