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“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 ingénue 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 sized 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.
