Strip Search (3 page)

His gaze honed in on her again, rich with promise and knowledge. This man knew a thing or two about sin. His thumb glided down his fly, directly down the length of a bulge a blind woman couldn't miss.

Nicki sucked in a breath and held it.

A reproachful half-smile taunted her just before he yanked on his shirt, stripping it clean away from his body, exposing miles more muscle heaped on his beefy shoulders. A Celtic knot tattoo encircled one of the hard swells of his very healthy biceps. Even his thick forearms, lined with wide veins, attested to his strength and vitality. Holy cow, he looked like he could bench press her Crossfire convertible.

He grabbed his shirt in his large fist and, with it, stroked his way down his chest, throwing his head back to expose the long, strong column of his throat.

Lying to herself was useless. She'd love to be the one to put ecstasy on his face. And thinking that about a prospective employee was about as smart as cranking her air conditioning on and flinging her doors wide to the Vegas summer.

Mark fastened his hot gaze on her once more. He tossed his shirt away with a snap of his wrist and strutted closer, so close she could see a rivulet of sweat sliding down his corded neck. There was no doubt this time; her panties were definitely damp.

Wearing nothing but a naughty smile from the waist up, the Adonis look-alike gyrated his hips in a deep, lazy movement, demonstrating a sure rhythm to the music. The perfect rhythm, in fact, for--

Stop there,
she told herself. For God's sake, she was a grown woman who'd had her fair share of gorgeous men. What was her problem?

Besides not having had a flesh-and-blood man in so long her sexual skills had moved from rusty to corroded beyond salvage?

The notion that sex was like riding a bike seemed too easy, especially when confronted with a man who could probably win the bedroom Tour de France, blindfolded. Not that she'd ever know personally.

Suddenly, he turned away. Nicki's eyes widened at the sight of his naked back and leather-clad ass. Views of his front and back were equally drool-inducing. No doubt, he got a woman both coming and going ... and coming again.

She drew in a deep breath. Now would be a good time to get her head on straight, rather than mooning over an auditioning man like a thirteen-year-old with her latest
Teen Beat
magazine. Mark Gabriel was here to serve a purpose, potentially to make her money. Business, her club's future, financial independence--those were her priorities. Period.

But then he grabbed his leather pants at both sides and pulled. Suddenly, he wore a small black G-string that showed his taut, sculpted ass. And well ... the future seemed really far away.

Aware that her mouth gaped open, Nicki closed it. Again, he swung his hips. The muscles in his legs and backside moved in fluid harmony. Every shift in his position showed off his rippling back to perfection.

Where had this guy come from, Hunks R Us?

Finally, he turned and faced her, arms swinging at his sides, as he and his taut belly undulated closer. Now she had to peer up at him, and the new angle had her wishing she had invested in a video camera. It also gave her a really up close and personal view of the fact he wasn't small anywhere.

Resisting the urge to wipe her sweaty palms down her jeans, she sat on her hands instead, to restrain herself from the powerful temptation to touch. Her panties had gone beyond damp.

Mark smiled, as if he could read her mind.

He dropped to one knee in front of her on the raised stage, and they were nearly eye-level. His gaze seemed to say that he would love nothing more than to master her body, grant her every midnight fantasy. Everything below her waist wholeheartedly accepted.

The music throbbed around them, hot and insistent. He reached out. Toward her. Closer, closer, those long fingers and that broad palm came. He held a lock of hair that framed her face between his thumb and forefinger and slowly drew it through his grasp. Then he feathered his thumb along her jaw as he stared deep into her eyes, as if she was the most fascinating creature in the world.

Her heart all but stopped. Her skin tingled. Everything between her legs ached. She'd run out of adjectives to describe how amazing Mark Gabriel was--a first for her.

With a wink and a dimpled smile, he stood, swung his hips once more, and struck a bodybuilder's pose that delineated every muscle of his mind-blowing body as the music stopped.

Nicki didn't know whether to clap madly or run to the stage to attack him, ripping off her clothes as she went. Or send him away before she indulged in the latter.

Instead, she sat stunned, mute.

Mark uncurled from his pose. Casting her a quick glance as if to gauge her reaction, he casually gathered his clothes and music, then hopped off the stage. He stood right in front of her, glistening and gorgeous and--oh God--she could smell him now ... pine forest, a hint of sweat, and a whole lotta man.

She exhaled and pasted on a smile. "Well done."

The smile toying at the comers of his mouth displayed his amusement. "Thank you."

He shifted right, directly into her line of vision, so that she was suddenly staring at his rigid six pack and ample ... attributes. Hot tamales, he was temptation on two legs. It would be so easy to indulge her craving for a little afternoon delight and put an end to the lengthy celibacy that suddenly constricted like a spiked collar. His golden skin sliding over thick muscle just brought on fantasies of the power he could bring to bed, the--

"Nicki?"

Great, he'd caught her staring. Well, duh! She'd been as subtle as a dog panting after a whole pile of juicy bones. She glanced again at his ... package and figured any analogy that contained the word "bone" was just a bad idea right now.

Clearing her throat, she stood and met his gaze. "Sorry. Zoned off for a minute. Remembering some things I left unfinished in my office."

"I know you're busy. Sorry if I kept you too long." He shrugged into his shirt.

"It's fine. Um, since all I have is a name, I'm going to need some contact information. I've got a few more auditions over the next few days, but I'll call once I've made a decision."

He gave her the number to his cell phone as he donned his pants. Thinking it was a shame to cover up such awe-inspiring scenery, she scribbled his number greedily. Gee, if she called him during a weak moment and lured him into great phone sex, would he know it was her?

"I've got caller ID. I don't always answer the phone, but for you I will."

Nicki bit her lip to hold in a gasp. Had he read her mind?

"Address?" she asked.

He hesitated. "I just got into town yesterday, so I don't really have one. Once I find a job, I'll be looking for a place. For now, I'm staying at a motel."

"No sweat. I'll just ... call."

"I'll look forward to it." He extended his hand in her direction.

Oh, goody, she was going to get to touch him. Even if he only offered her a handshake instead of an invitation to do the wild thing. Her belly knotting, she folded her much smaller hand in his. Lightning singed its way from her hand, up her arm, straight to her chest the instant he touched her. From the moment she'd set eyes on him, she'd known he had potent written all over him in big red letters. His handshake more than confirmed it. The knot in her stomach tightened ... just like her nipples.

Lord, what would happen if the man kissed her, spontaneous combustion?

"Thanks for coming out." She hoped her smile looked nice and impersonal, as if she were talking to her uncle or old Mr. Piedmont who bagged at the grocery store a few blocks away.

"My pleasure. And hopefully yours, too." He winked. Oh, yeah. If the gods were kind, he had no idea just how much.

F
our o'clock already? Nicki sighed as she climbed the stairs to her second floor office. Dancers would start arriving in another hour. The club opened at seven. She'd wasted the afternoon on five auditions, each less inspiring than the last.

Shoving aside the irritating voice in her head, Nicki opened the door to her office. And stopped.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Unsettling was sitting in her chair.

Blade Bocelli. Six feet of Italian machismo, with an intimidation factor of about a thousand. Blade had made it his personal crusade to watch every move she made, snoop through her files, and act like he owned the joint.

"What are you doing in my office?"

He turned toward her in his own good time, his cheek-bones wicked slashes down his chiseled face. His dark stare hovered somewhere between flat and challenging. "Your accounting."

"What?" Nicki snapped. "I better not have heard you right."

"Your ears aren't broken."

"Damn it, no one said you could--"

"Your uncle said I could. In fact, I think his exact words were 'Update her fucking books, because she's not.' "

"He only owns thirty percent of this club. The rest came from the inheritance my father left me and the willpower I used to stop buying Jimmy Choo shoes. I worked my ass off doing PR for clubs in New York and saved every penny I could. I'm here every day, every night. I've dedicated my life to Girls' Night Out. It's
mine!"

"I represent your uncle's interests, and he thinks otherwise," he said, then dismissed her by turning back to the late Marcy Hamilton's computer.

No way was she going to let some big testosterone-oozing lug tell her how to run her place. Unfortunately, talking to Uncle Pietro about Blade's overbearing presence did absolutely no good. Why was it that all old-school Italian men assumed that anyone with a vagina was automatically missing a brain?

Feeling her blood pressure soar, Nicki reached for the phone anchored to the waistband of her shorts. "This is crap, and I'm going to put a stop to it."

"Pietro is in Sicily. He ain't gonna answer you."

Damn it.
Reluctantly, she let go of the death grip on her phone.

"When is he due back?"

"Don't matter. Someone killed Marcy two months ago. You haven't done jack since," his voice rumbled. "Face it, you need help. Pietro is just making sure you get it."

"It's my business; I'll deal with it."

"When?" Blade's gaze, sharp as his name, cut her with demand. "Receipts need to be tallied, expenses logged. You were running on a shoestring and a prayer when you opened. The club may be crowded more often than not, but these books still need watching."

He was right. As much as Nicki hated it, she'd been avoiding the math portion of the business ever since her accountant, Marcy, had been gunned down in the parking lot one night after her shift. Putting off her bookkeeping wasn't an Einsteinian move. It had to be done.

"And I'm telling you to stay the hell out of my books. I'll hire someone to take care of it."

"Do you have that much extra cash? Once I finish, I can tell you for sure."

"You won't finish a damn thing," she insisted through gritted teeth. "I said I'll do it."

His terse laugh grated across her nerves. "You can't balance your checkbook."

"I could if I really tried," she blurted.

Instantly, she wished she could take it back. Her comeback sounded as mature as a six-year-old.
My sandbox
is
better than yours.

He shot her a skeptical stare. "The fact you don't try only proves you're no accountant."

"Neither are you!"

"I manage."

With a lightning bolt dangling from one pierced ear, a gun holstered inside his leather jacket, and shoulders as wide as a bus, he looked like he managed to do a lot of things, none of them very legal.

"Look, who else you got to do this?" he challenged. Nicki paused, thinking. Zack Martin, her lead dancer and stage manager, had his hands full. Besides, she wanted him focused on making money, not crunching numbers--assuming he even knew how. None of her employees had any accounting in their backgrounds that she knew of. Some hadn't even finished high school. Still, she wasn't helpless.

"Lucia. She can do it for me."

He hesitated, but his poker face gave nothing away. "Yeah, I guess your books are more important than that research paper she's writing. It's just her full, tenured professorship on the line."

She resisted the urge to wince. Lucia had come to her for the summer, begging for a change of scenery and the chance to write for a very important publication with a minimum amount of interruption. Nicki knew her books were so off balance, it would probably take even a whiz like her sister several weeks to sort it all out.

And that left her with no one. Except Blade.

"Listen to me." She wagged a finger at him. "This is temporary. The minute I have the money, I'm going to find someone else to keep these books."
Someone I trust.

He shrugged as if he couldn't give a shit. "I'm just doing what the boss asked me. You hire someone else who makes him happy and you can afford it, I'm done."

The day couldn't come soon enough for her.

"Anyone call while I was taking auditions?"

"I'll keep your books. I'm not a fucking receptionist."

The man made her grit her teeth. "Do you have to be an asshole all the time?"

Blade shot her a tight, dangerous smile. "Just doing my job."

If someone had asked him before tonight what his definition of a good time
wasn't,
Mark could have come up with a fairly healthy list: root canals, being in jail, speaking publicly. But after tonight, he knew that watching oiled-up pretty boys take off their clothes ranked up there, too.