chocolate, not vanilla.µ
She stared at Sullivan as he moved across the stage. He halted, struck a sexy pose.
Every lean muscle
rippled.
Jesus.
He unzipped his pants, stroked the length of his«Rio sucked in a tank full of air, held it.
Slowly, sensuously, the denim slid down narrow hips,
displaying powerful thighs and strong calves.
When he kicked the garments aside, Sullivan straightened to his full height³a towering statue of regal flair
fit for any queen·s fantasy.
Breathing again, Rio lowered her gaze.
Good night!
Brazilian G-string. Miniature.
Bulging flame-red against bronzed skin. Unblinking as he gyrated, she
wasn·t sure the fabric would hold together or hold all it carried inside the thin material.
Barely enough to
cover«She drew in the next breath between her teeth and sat straighter on the stool.
Óoh, gir-irl,µ Galaxeé breathed, fanning her face twice as fast as the music·s rhythm. ´He·s exactly
what you need.µ
Air flowed from Rio·s lungs in a long, unsteady rush. ´You mean us. Killer Bods.µ
Í mean you,µ her partner
qualified. ´You need a good fucking by a young buck just like him to fry
your brains senseless. You·ve been going without way too long.µ
Śhut up.µ
Water and ice spilled over her hand as she set the glass down, splashing on the wooden bar top. An
instant later, Luanne the bartender wiped away the
puddle and handed Rio a fresh white towel.
´You do. That·s why you·ve been so evil.µ Smoothing her hand down the length of her auburn dreadlocks, threaded beads clicked together. Galaxeé flicked the thick mass over her shoulder, still staring
at Sullivan, mesmerized.
Rio tsked. The nerve of this woman. She folded the towel neatly into quarters and laid it across the
curved bar. Yeah, maybe she had been evil, but she·d never shown bad manners to anyone other than her
best friend and, of course, her ex-husband Devon, the midlife-crisis hound.
Arching one eyebrow a fraction, Galaxeé said, ´You·re getting another pimple, too, right there in the
center of your forehead. At your age, any fuckable age, lack of weenie action always launches a round of
zits.µ
Śhut up. Where do you come up with this mess?µ She stole another glance at Sullivan. This man
wasn·t lacking anything from what she could tell.
Galaxeé leaned back, dangling her arms behind the chair, cackling. Ít·s true, especially after wrestling
the monthly blues. I used to get them.µ She·d hooked up with a new honey, an older man who, after four
months, still lavished her with expensive gifts, bombarding her with boyish love. ´Besides, I can tell you
really like the way this guy looks, the way he moves. Your aura·s melting, on the verge of disintegrating.
And it·s the first time I·ve seen your eyes glaze over in almost two decades.µ
Aura. And glaze? She tsked again. Sometimes Galaxeé
talked too much smack. No one caused Rio
Saunders to glaze over,
especially youngsters. ´Bar lights, disco lights³µ
´Bullshit. Admit it. He·s hot.µ
He was hot³is hot³and far too young for her. Plus, he was nowhere near right for her. ´Why do
you think he came here for a job? Why not apply at Silk·s?µ
Smoothly Silk, Killer·s sole competition, employed two African American dancers Rio and Galaxeé had
disqualified from their league of performers a month before their own club opened. The guys were physically unsuitable for near-naked entertainment.
´Maybe he did,µ Galaxeé replied as the music died away. ´We need to interview him anyway.
Ask
him.µ
Bryce collected his clothes and went backstage. After stripping out of the G-string, he struggled into a
pair of tight stone-washed jeans.
Luckily, his navy knit pullover soaked up sweat. It was
freezing outside.
Snow³big flakes³had begun to fall by the time he·d arrived here. Winter had settled on Denver on
Halloween night as usual, and continued a blustery rampage.
This was the stupidest plan on record. Galaxeé and whoever the hell this Rio broad is will never hire me. Should·ve come up with a better scheme and left Dallas out of the mix. If he ever finds out, our friendship is history.
His half sister, Angelina Berardi, owned Killer·s competition and Bryce was her silent partner.
Silk·s
was headed straight to hell as long as Killer Bods kept its doors open.
The club·s downward spiral had stretched his cash thinner than ice after a first hard freeze, compounded by Thorobred
Computers lacking a new
contract over the last seven months. Banking on a few
still in the till, he hadn·t exactly wanted to strip to please a bunch of frenzied chicks. But, he also had a
second working program: boxing in Jason Simmons, one of
Killer·s dancers, who needed somebody to
knock the arrogant chip off his shoulders. Simmons dated
Angelina³as in, walked all over her.
Armed with a fail-safe plot backed by his computer
expertise, Bryce had pretended he·d met Rio
Saunders. Dallas had fallen for the in-lust ruse.
Íf you want her,µ Coop had said,
´you got to get close to her. I·ll tell you what, my man. She is not
easy meat. The woman·s got soul and determination, along with much class. This club means everything to
her. Everything, dude. Nothing and nobody gets in her way when it comes to Killer Bods. As for Galaxeé
Barnett, don·t try to get slick³
nothing gets by her. Some of the guys nicknamed her ¶Loose Lips·
for good
reason, and she knows
everything that goes on,
somehow. But the owners are professionals, all business.µ
At the time, Bryce needed Dallas·s foot-in-the-door help.
Śhe must have an old man or sugar daddy.µ
Not many chicks had their own business without financial help³like Angelina.
Ńot. Unless she·s got him under lock and key, hogtied and gagged. She dates. Saw her with a couple
older dudes, fifty-ish maybe. I·ve never seen her with a youngster like you, and never any guy tinted on
the color scale·s lighter side, especially one with hair longer than Cher·s. I·ll get you an application, drop a
heads-up, but you gotta lose those damned Coke-bottle
glasses. Makes your eyes look bigger than E.T.·s
peepers. Might want to think about waxing, too.µ Laughing, Dallas said, ´Hurts like hell.µ
Testily conforming, Bryce permitted a beautician to chop off his locks to near-respectable length. Lasik
surgery corrected the crappy vision he·d had since childhood.
Horn-rimmed glasses had been a pain in his«
on the bridge of his nose. Fuck waxing.
The new look had earned him lots more attention when he had little time for play. Work kept him
busy, kept his libido in check most of the time.
He tucked the pullover inside his jeans, slung his black leather jacket over his shoulder and went out
the dressing room·s door.
Unfamiliar with Killer·s layout, he strode back across the stage and down the
stairs, his gaze directed at the floor. Through a collection of tables stacked with hardwood chairs, he wove
his way to the bar where Killer·s owners sat. Dancing was the easy part.
´Very nice.µ
business tone from the call for try-outs.
Éxceptionally provocative.µ
That sultry voice, chilly as a winter pond, floated through his senses, heating his skin
unnaturally.
Bryce looked up. The partner?
Exotic features fit her³coppery skin coloring, short-cropped platinum-blond hair lengthening to a shag
that framed an oval face.
Penetrating catlike hazel eyes held his gaze. When was the last time his heart
stuttered and pounded like a damn kettle-drum? He wiped away the cool trickle of sweat from his forehead.
´Thanks.µ
´Better than nice.µ Galaxeé tipped her martini glass toward him. Śheer perfection.µ
Encouraged, Bryce nodded, smiled. One point for his side.
´This is my partner Rio
Saunders.µ
´Tell us something,µ she said.
´Why aren·t you dancing at Silk·s?µ
Busted. Ears on fire, his face surely flushed five different shades of crimson. ´They aren·t hiring.µ God,
he hoped not. He·d forgotten to ask his sister. Ánd Killer Bods is better known, hiring the best of the best.µ
´Bravo. Smart reply for someone so young.µ
At least she flashed a brilliant smile. More encouragement, except that degrading ´youngµ
crap
declared like a long-lost aunt.
Scooting up on her barstool, Galaxeé said, ´Grab a seat.
Would you care for a cocktail while we
discuss business?µ The offer earned a flat-out frown from her partner.
Bryce declined anyway, needing to get back to the office clearheaded. Building and selling desktop
computers killed off brain cells the same as man·s favorite poison, not to mention the headaches software
development induced. If he nailed this gig at Killer·s, his work schedule would turn
crazier than it already
was. After laying his eyes on luscious Rio Saunders, he thought dancing here might be well worth a
pounding migraine.
´How long have you been
shaking?µ the woman of his super-erotic dreams asked.
He dragged a stool across the floor, placed it directly in front of her and said, ´Years, but not professionally.µ
Truthfully, dancing ran a close second to skiing, third to computer work. Dallas had worked with him,
claiming he had no rhythm or soul. Lacked funk. He·d laid down the law of the club.
Jam well, if he wanted to get next to Rio. Seductive moves earned the right to get close to her. Above
all, he·d better know where to start.
Bryce knew exactly where to begin.
Even now, he imagined her skin felt soft as cotton. Nothing could be finer, except the blond hair
framing her face. Would the tuft of hair between her legs feel as silky? He intended to find out one day.
Slide his hand up her thigh, part her soft flesh, teasing her relentlessly.
´You do very well for a«a baby,µ
she said.
He raked his fingers through his hair, his sensuous thoughts frozen in one brutal second. Í·m pushing
twenty-nine. I·m not a damn newborn.µ
Óoh, with a temper.µ
Bryce yanked his head around at Galaxeé·s gum-popping
explosion.
Śorry,µ she said, but the disapproving sideways glare she gave her partner meant
otherwise.
She·d sided with him. Add another point for the one-man team.
Sliding down on the stool, he spread his legs wider, nearly made contact with Rio, but she twisted in
her seat, crossing a pair of lengthy, stunning limbs. Ám I at least in the running?µ
´You most³µ Galaxeé began.
´We like to discuss each
applicant before we make a final decision,µ Rio interrupted, which earned
another narrow-eyed glare from Galaxeé. She patted the stack of applications. Éverything on your résumé
is current? Phone numbers, addresses, etcetera?µ
Eyes locked on hers, he nodded.
Émail, too.µ When she didn·t deny having Internet access, he mentally ticked off an important item on his agenda.
´Well, Mr. Sullivan.µ She stuck her hand out. ´We·ll be in touch one way or the other.µ
What? The interview was over too damn quick³completely illogical. He·d interviewed potential
technician applicants, at minimum, for an hour. And this was what, three minutes? Four?
Two-hundredforty
stinking, chitchat seconds? How could she learn anything about him in so little time? Granted, he had
abbreviated his account of the duties at his day job for good reason, but hell.
Bryce leaned forward and
clasped her delicate hand. Long and slender, nails well
manicured, her
fingers curled around his with softness enough to caress a man into delirium while she kept him under the
spell of her eyes³eyes he could drown in. He really wanted to drown.
He held on longer than he should have, but for a shorter time than he would·ve liked, without
resistance, until Galaxeé cleared her throat.
´Thank you for your time,µ he said.
When their palms slid slowly apart, Bryce got to his feet.
Galaxeé added a sly wink to her handshake.
He slung his jacket over his shoulder and started toward the front door, telling himself not to look back, not
to appear too eager or too arrogant. Step two now
completed.
A blast of bitter-cold air and snow flurries whirlwinded into the club before the heavy door slammed
shut.
´He likes you,µ Galaxeé said.
Ánd he·s got a penetrating pair of gray bullets that were fixed on you
every second. When he arrived here, I was concerned, ready to boot the boy out. His aura was dark,
murky. It glows now. Maybe it was fear, trepidation.µ
Rio rolled her eyes.
´Did you notice how he opened for you?µ
Śtop,µ she said flatly.
´He did! An open invitation only for you. He·s well hung too.
Majestically.µ She grinned, winked. ´You
couldn·t hide your attraction either. Your tits swelled.µ
Śtop it, Galaxeé.µ She had to admit, her lacy bra still felt uncomfortably binding.
Í saw your nipples perk up under the silk. Bet Bryce saw them. Stood out like cat·s-eye marbles. Bet
it made your tattoo spread with bigger, pink ears.µ
Rio hated the sound of a
cackling witch, but she agreed with Galaxeé on one item. Bryce Sullivan was
very well endowed.
She·d felt the first signs of pleasurable interest: nipples tightening, quivering between her legs when
she·d glanced down at the bulging thickness nestled inside tight jeans. Lots of inches. Lord.
What would it
look like during an erection, a big oak tree? She shuddered.
Why couldn·t he have a tenor or sissy voice instead of an I-can-make-you-come-multiple-times bass?
God, she loved hearing a
seductive, low-pitched rumbler, whispering, promising a
thoroughly carnal
interlude. A tenor would·ve made it so much easier to forget Sullivan and file his application at the back of
the folder. Or in the circular file.
Still, at her age, any twenty-eight-year-old was too young, too inexperienced; she would consider it
robbing the cradle.
Uh-uh. No way.
Anger crept under her skin for thinking of the sinful images, if a liaison ever happened. It never would, not in this lifetime. She had more important issues on her mind, like Killer Bods and
her future.
Denver·s metro area had plenty of room for another women·s club to strip Killer·s of its dancers and
clientele.
Í bet he·s got a hundred young chickies chasing after him.
Besides, I don·t like men who flaunt their
meat and put it on display like a hot item on a smorgasbord.
Especially rookies.µ Temper had crept into her
tone.
´He can·t help it. It·s part of him.
What do you want him to do, cut it off? Is that why you like Dallas ³Dickless?µ Galaxeé laughed hard, mouth wide open, head falling back.
´You drink too much,µ Rio said.
She meant it to sound snappish and snatched up the
applications. Í·ll
make copies for you. When you·re sober we·ll discuss them.µ
Rio stomped toward their office above the club. Four-inch stilettos clicked noisily on the wooden stairs
as she planted each foot, climbing each riser. She might hide her innermost feelings, but they never slipped
by Galaxeé. The woman had an impossible perception, able to see through her, see inside her brain, read
her thoughts. Ever since
childhood, darn her.
Galaxeé had the nerve to call herself a fortune-teller and worked as one for a year, back in the good
old days. She·d changed her first name from Cecilia for that reason alone and legally
processed the
paperwork. Astrology, palm readings and dreams were her best games. She·d said it was all in the hands
and mind.
Two weeks ago, Rio had had a nightmare involving snakes. She should·ve known better than to tell
her partner, who explained any visions about snakes meant a good ´fuckingµ encounter and, if the dream
included an anaconda, a big cock.
Rio chastised her for using foul language and laughed off the prediction, even when the dream
featured one very large, very stout serpent chasing after her.
She·d awakened startled,
drenched in a sweat
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