by Leslie Kelly
She had drawn him back. Just as he—the very thought that he might be in the crowd again tonight—had worked to draw her here, as well.
Not that she needed much of a draw. She loved what she did. She positively came alive while moving under a spotlight. The fact that her clothes were falling off her body as she did so was completely incidental.
She honestly didn’t care.
“He came back,” she whispered, almost bouncing on her toes, so excited she could hardly stand it.
Not just excited. Relieved.
Because though she’d only seen him from a distance, she already felt incredibly attracted to him. He’d be a marvelous distraction from the other man who’d been occupying her thoughts lately.
The one she couldn’t have.
She began to smile, feeling, for the first time in days, a little upbeat. Working at the club was her one outlet, her only escape from the life she had so wanted to avoid coming back to here in Chicago. She loved these secret, wicked weekends.
And now that she’d realized there was another man—someone else—who could cause an instant, aching sort of want deep inside her, Izzie Natale sensed those weekends simply wouldn’t come fast enough.
“You’re not the only man in Chicago, Nick Santori,” she whispered while the stage crew finished stripping the stage for her signature solo number.
When she’d first seen the ad in the paper for dancers for a Chicago gentleman’s club, Izzie had had no illusions about what the job would entail. She wasn’t some young dance ingenue who’d turned up for an audition only to be shocked at the very idea of taking off her clothes for a bunch of men.
Izzie had taken off her clothes for plenty of men. Sometimes even groups of them.
It wasn’t as if the Rockettes danced in a whole lot of clothes. And during the three months she’d performed with the Modern Dance Company of Manhattan, she’d done two nude artistic performances.
The dancing she did at Leather and Lace wasn’t exactly artistic. But, then again, she wasn’t exactly nude, either. After all, she never took off her G-string.
Yes, her audience in Chicago was after sexual titillation rather than cultural stimulation. But, honestly, judging by the way some of the modern-dance aficionados had come backstage and tried to pick up the dancers, she figured the motivations were, at heart, exactly the same.
Dancing was dancing. After the dire prognosis she’d received when having her torn ACL repaired several months ago, she didn’t care where she was performing, or what she was wearing when she did it.
Honestly, now, having had a taste of it, she realized she couldn’t have chosen a better venue. Because here, hidden behind a red velvet mask, she was free to be everything Izzie Natale of the famous Taylor Street Natale’s Bakery was not.
Sexual. Uninhibited.
Free.
Before she’d even dragged her mind into readiness, she was introduced and her music had begun. Izzie moved onto the stage, dancing for herself and herself alone, as she always did, letting the petals fall where they may. She remained above everything, even oblivious to the money being tossed onto the stage—the crew would pick it up when she was finished. She also ignored the gasps and avid stares of the crowd.
Except one man’s avid stare. His, she wanted to see, though it would prove difficult with him standing in the most shadowy area of the place and her nearly blinded by the spotlight. But when the choreography moved her downstage right—closest to the bar, and him—she risked it and looked.
And nearly fell off the stage.
Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God.
She lost the beat of the song and got a little tangled on her own feet. She also had to throw down an extra couple of petals a few measures too soon to try to cover her misstep.
Because in that quick flash when the light had hit him just right, she’d recognized the face, those shoulders, that hair.
It was Nick Santori who stood near the bar. Nick was the same dark, shadowy stranger who’d had her blood pumping through her veins, throbbing between her legs both last week when she’d first seen him here and a few moments ago when she’d glimpsed him again.
The bastard. Was she never going to be free of him? Would no man ever make her feel that crazy/excited/hungry feeling she got whenever he was in the vicinity? And what in the hell was he doing here, anyway?
Worse—what was he going to do about it if he realized she, the woman who’d shot him down in the bakery two days ago, was the Crimson Rose?
Her mind awash with the ramifications of Nick’s presence, Izzie finished her number. As soon as it was over, she darted behind the curtains and stuck her arms into a short, silky robe hanging right backstage. Barely noticing the crew members, who immediately got to work re-setting the stage for the more typical dancers, she hurried down the back stairs toward her private dressing room.
Normally, all the dancers would share one and Izzie was no prima donna who required her own space. But the owner of Leather and Lace had insisted on giving her a private, coat-closet-size room because of how serious Izzie was about protecting her identity. Once he’d realized just how much the “mystery” of the Crimson Rose enhanced the club’s reputation—and brought in more customers—he’d upgraded her to one the size of a small bathroom.
Before she could duck into it, she heard his voice. “There you are! Hold up a second, I want you to meet someone.”
She was in no condition to meet anyone—especially not another one of Harry’s cousins or old fishing buddies. There was always someone ready to play on old friendships or family connection to meet the dancers.
On the positive side, Harry was as protective as a papa bear and the introductions never went further than a quick handshake or a signed autograph. Despite how much some of the men he brought around seemed to want it otherwise.
Pasting on an impersonal smile behind the mask she hadn’t yet removed, she turned around.
“This is Nick Santori. I’ve just hired him to beef up our security.”
Izzie sagged against the wall. If it hadn’t been there, she might have just fallen sideways onto the tile floor, but thankfully, her shoulder instead landed on some hard wood paneling and it kept her vertical.
More than she could say for her heart. It had gone rolling down and had landed somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, which was now churning with anxiety.
“This is...”
“Rose,” she quickly interjected, cutting Harry off before he could say her real name. She cleared her throat, seeking the sultry, husky tones she’d always used when greeting fans backstage at Radio City. The one that was quite different from the voice Nick had heard at the bakery just a couple of days before. “Nice to meet you.”
He held out his hand. She took it. Time didn’t stop or anything, and the floor didn’t buckle beneath her feet. But, damn, his touch did feel fine.
He had big hands. Strong hands. A soldier’s competent hands. They were capable of brute force. Yet equally capable, she knew, of tender care. Like when those hands had helped her pull her ugly bridesmaid dress into place, then gently lifted her back onto the dance platform and back into their waltz so many years ago.
“Nick’s brother Joey Santori sent him in. You remember him, don’t you? He did all the work upstairs. You met him last month.”
Yes, she had...and it had been a closer call than this meeting with Nick, who could see almost nothing of her face because of the mask. She’d barely had time to duck behind a changing screen before coming face-to-face with Nick’s older brother.
Now she had to wonder...had Joe seen her? Recognized her? And was he now playing Mr. Neighborhood Protector by sending his baby brother in to watch out for the girl up the block?
Possible.
God save her from Italian men.
One plus—he hadn’t told Tony. Because no way would her overprotective brother-in-law have let Izzie’s new job go undiscussed. He’d have come down on her with some big-brother lecture about how s
he simply had to quit now, immediately, if not sooner. Either that or he’d have told Gloria, who would have had a shrieking meltdown over what the neighbors and her sweet, impressionable boys—wild little maniacs, in Izzie’s opinion—would think.
“Harry, help! Some CEO’s at the door saying he had reservations for ten,” a frantic voice called from the top of the stairs. The hostess who worked the front desk came clattering down three stairs and spotted him, relief evident in her face. “You need to get up here.”
Muttering under his breath, Harry offered Nick an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. Never fails. Tell you what, why don’t you talk to...Rose...get an idea of what her routine and schedule are like and then meet me upstairs in thirty minutes?”
Nick nodded and they both watched Harry walk away. Well, Nick watched Harry. Izzie watched Nick.
She hadn’t noticed at first—she’d been too frazzled herself—but Nick appeared tense. The muscles in his neck were rock hard, his jaw jutted out stiffly. Beneath his wickedly tight black T-shirt, his broad shoulders were squared in his military posture and his hands were fisted at his sides.
Interesting.
If she had to guess, she’d say he wasn’t particularly happy to meet her. It was as if he actively disliked her...which didn’t make much sense.
The only reason he could have for already disliking her was that he had somehow recognized her. That he’d looked into her eyes, revealed behind the mask, and seen something familiar. Or heard a note in her voice that he’d heard before. He certainly hadn’t seemed very happy with Izzie-the-baker when she’d practically pushed him out of the bakery the other evening and imagined he’d convinced himself she was at best a pain in the ass and at worst a complete tease.
But if he looked at her and saw only a complete stranger...what could he dislike about her after knowing her for all of two minutes? Nick wasn’t the judgmental type. She couldn’t see him working here if he had some kind of problem with women stripping.
Besides, his dislike seemed personal, directed only at her. He’d been perfectly fine with Harry.
“So, is tonight your first night?” she asked, keeping her tone low and thick. She sounded sultry—wicked—but that couldn’t be helped. She needed to disguise her voice, at least until she knew for sure whether Nick had recognized her. Or if he’d been tipped off by his big brother.
“Yes.”
“How do you like the club?”
He shrugged, noncommittal.
“Come now, you’re not shocked are you? I imagine you’ve been in places like this all over the world.”
His dark eyes narrowed. “How would you know I’ve been all over the world?”
Oh, man, that was stupid. She’d just tipped her hand. “I mean...you look like the military type, with the hair and the all-black commando look you have going on. Am I right?”
He nodded once, still not unbending one iota.
Izzie had to force herself not to react to all that simmering, intense male heat. Nick had been adorably sexy when flirting with her and trying to pick her up. And incredibly sensual when seducing her with his kiss.
Now...when he was all dark, intense business, he was absolutely devastating. Dangerous, almost, and though she’d never feared him, she couldn’t contain a tiny shiver.
If he decided to kiss her now, it wouldn’t be with sweet, sultry persuasion. It would be with raw, overpowering hunger.
She wanted that kind of kiss from him.
“I saw you here last weekend,” she said, not even realizing she was going to admit such a thing until the words had left her mouth. That probably wasn’t smart. She needed to keep the upper hand here—letting Nick know she’d been aware of him from first glance wasn’t a good way to do that.
“I came in to talk to Harry about the job.”
“And you watched me dance.” She dared him to deny it.
He nodded once. The jaw flexed.
“Did you like it?”
“You’re talented.”
Oh, if only he knew.
“You’re not...uncomfortable around me, are you?” she asked, trying not to laugh. “I mean, having seen so much of me?”
He shook his head. The shoulders tensed. “This is a job, Miss...”
“Rose will do.”
“As you wish. The point is, I want to keep you...all of you...safe. Meaning we need to implement some new security procedures.” He sounded impersonal, but every movement or flex of his body screamed that his tone was a lie. He was definitely reacting to her and Izzie would lay money it had nothing to do with him knowing her real identity.
If he knew who she was, he’d never remain stiff and unyielding, trying to keep up this professional act. He’d be either seducing her—finishing what he’d started the other day—or else he’d be lecturing her for doing something so out of character for a nice Italian girl from the neighborhood.
Nope. He didn’t know who she was. No way in hell. So why he was being so stiff and gruff, she really didn’t know.
“Would you like to come in while I change?” she asked, gesturing to the closed door behind her. It had a cheesy little tinfoil star on it—a joke from one of the other dancers, who’d been remarkably welcoming after the first week or two. Considering their clientele had increased significantly since she’d been performing at the club, she figured they were all benefiting from the “mystery” of the Crimson Rose.
He hesitated for only a moment. Then nodded. “Sure.”
Opening the door, she walked in and ushered him in behind her. “Sorry for the mess.”
The space was crowded—one mirror, surrounded by bright lights, covered an entire wall. A long, sturdy vanity, connected to the wall, ran the width of the room, reducing the floor space to about a three-foot-wide aisle. The vanity was covered with makeup and hair products. Not to mention G-strings and pasties.
He saw those and blanched, quickly looking away. Shifting uncomfortably, he moved back the tiniest bit, but was stopped from going far by the door, which Izzie had closed behind him.
A muscle worked in his cheek and he crossed his massive arms tightly across his chest. His feet spreading a little apart, he looked like a sturdy, unmovable sea captain standing on the deck of a ship. Unapproachable, unweatherable, unflappable.
Only, he wasn’t unreachable. Because she’d seen that look at her sexy, glittery underthings. And his reaction to them.
Which was when Izzie started to get an inkling of what was bothering him. It wasn’t a matter of him liking her or disliking her. Of him recognizing her or not recognizing her.
He wanted her. She just knew it.
Nick wanted to have sex with a stranger—a stripper—and he didn’t like that about himself. He didn’t like that weakness. She could practically hear his thoughts now, since she’d been raised exactly the way he had.
It wasn’t good. It wasn’t nice. It didn’t quite fit the wholesome neighborhood-kid image.
It was, however, very honest. And despite how he felt about it, Izzie liked that very much. As a matter of fact, she loved that he wanted her. Not quite as much as she’d loved that he’d wanted Izzie—the invisible girl—but pretty darn close.
Trying to hide her smile, she walked around behind a changing screen and slipped the silky robe off her shoulders. Tossing it over the top of the screen, she murmured, “You’re not...uncomfortable in here with me, are you?”
He didn’t reply at first. Glancing at the mirror, she saw his reflection—saw him shake his head. Then he cleared his throat, answering aloud, “I’m fine.”
He was turned toward the wall—away from the screen, away from the mirror. Which was probably a good thing, considering the reflection ran all the way to the far wall...even on her side of the changing screen.
If he looked in that mirror, the screen would prove to be completely superfluous. He’d see every bit of her...except her still-masked face.
She took her time getting dressed.
“That’s good. If you’re go
ing to be working here, I suppose you’re going to have to get used to seeing a lot of your coworkers.” She licked her lips and almost purred as she added, “Much more than you’d see in a normal job.”
“I’m not easily shocked,” he muttered.
Turn around and we’ll see.
But he didn’t. Curse the luck.
“Can we talk about your routine, how you drive to work, what time you usually arrive?”
Bending over, she slipped out of the tiny G-string, then straightened and draped it over the top of the screen, answering his questions as she undressed. She never took her eyes off him, waiting for him to turn around, imagining how his eyes would widen and his mouth would drop when he realized he could see every move she made in the mirror.
He remained in the same position; however, the flash of movement must have caught his eye. Because his gaze shifted over—quickly, almost imperceptibly—but he definitely glanced.
She watched his reflection, seeing the way his body grew harder. His black trousers highlighted the clench of his muscular thighs and that tight butt. Though he made no sound at all, he dropped his head forward and slowly shook it, desperation rolling off him though he remained entirely silent.
Triumph surged through her as she realized what was happening. He was dying for her. And desperate to resist her.
Izzie continued to take her sweet time as she pulled on a pair of tiny panties—not much bigger than the G-string she’d just discarded. Then she added a matching lacy bra, cut low, almost to her nipples. Not the type of underclothes one would expect of a baker...they were the types of silky things she wore beneath her clothes to remind herself that she was not a sweet Betty Crocker wannabe.
Through it all, Izzie was careful not to dislodge the mask. She was also careful of her clip-in hair extensions. They took her shoulder-length dark brown hair down to the middle of her back, and added reddish highlights that worked well in her act. If he recognized her, the game would be over. And right now, Izzie was enjoying the game too much to let it end.
Particularly because she’d begun to see exactly how it could be played.
With no rules. No restrictions. Complete anonymity.