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Then the tempo picked up. So did her pace. She arched and swayed across the stage with feminine grace. But to most, she appeared lonely-removed from her surroundings-revealing a sensual want that begged for fulfillment that would never come.
Anyone in the audience would have fulfilled it for her.
Anyone.
Every move she made set the billowing layers of her costume in motion, until the petals nearly danced around her on their own. They parted to reveal her slender legs, providing a peek here and a glimpse there.
And then they started to disappear.
Every man in the place leaned forward. Wherever she turned, another bit of fabric hit the floor. Her hands moved so effortlessly that the layers seemed to fall by themselves. The light pinks and puffy outer veil went first, followed by the heavier satin pieces. Soon her long, perfectly toned legs were revealed up to the thigh. A drape of satin covering her stomach fell next, torn away from the strings of a bikini top.
She continued her siren’s dance as the fabric fell away, the tempo pushing harder, her hips thrusting in response. Finally, when she wore nothing but a sparkly red G-string and two tiny, delicate pink petals on the tips of her breasts, she glanced at the audience, deigning to give them her attention. Normally, at this point, she would offer a saucy smile, pluck the petals off her nipples, then duck behind her curtains. She’d give them a glimpse-quick, heart-stoppingly sexy-then disappear into the dark recesses of the club until her second performance of the night. But tonight…tonight, she hesitated. No. Tonight, she froze.
Because as she cast a final glance at her audience, seeing a number of familiar faces in the crowd, her attention was captured by a shadowy figure standing in the back of the room, beside the bar. Ignoring the expectant hush from those familiar with her performance, all of whom were waiting for the payoff moment they’d come to see, she focused all her attention on him.
She couldn’t see much at that distance, both because of the mask she wore and the spotlights still shining in her face. But she saw enough to send her heart-already beating frantically due to her performance-into hyperdrive.
From here, he appeared black-haired and black-eyed and black-clothed. She could make out none of his features, just that tall, dark presence-broad of shoulder, slim-hipped. He might be dangerous, given his size and the shadowy darkness swallowing him from her view-but now, at this moment, she felt lured by him. Entranced. Captivated.
Their eyes locked. He knew he had her attention. And in that moment, she desperately wanted to walk off the stage, across the room, close enough to see if his face was as handsome as his shadowy form hinted. Then closer-to see what truths lay in the mysterious depths of those inky black eyes.
But suddenly someone whistled…someone else catcalled. She realized she’d lost track of the music and the dance and the audience and her reasons for being here.
Titillation. Seduction. Those were her reasons for being here. Which made it that much more strange that, right now, the Rose was the one who felt seduced.
Enough. Time to finish.
Sweeping her gaze across the crowd, she gave them all a wickedly sexy look, as if her pause had been entirely purposeful. And entirely for their personal delight. In it, she invited them to imagine just who had her breathing hard-licking her lips in anticipation. Who had her skin flushed and her sex damp and her nipples rock hard.
She only wished she knew the answer.
With one more sidelong glance through half-lowered lashes, she reached for the tiny petals-pink, to match the tender skin of her taut nipples-and plucked them off.
The crowd was roaring as she disappeared behind the curtain. They cheered for several long minutes during which she regained her breath and tried to force her pulse to return to its normal, measured beat.
When it did, she took a chance and peeked through the curtain, her stare zoning in on that dark place by the bar.
But the shadowy stranger was gone.
1
FOR THE FIRST TWO WEEKS after he’d returned from the Middle East, Nick Santori genuinely didn’t mind the way his family fussed over him. There were big welcome home barbecues in the tiny backyard of the row house where he’d been raised. There were even bigger dinners at the family-owned pizzeria that had been his second home growing up.
He’d been dragged to family weddings by his mother and into the kitchen of the restaurant by his father. He’d had wet, sticky babies plopped in his lap by his sisters-in-law, and had been plied with beer by his brothers, who wanted details on everything he’d seen and done overseas. And he’d had rounds of drinks raised in his honor by near-strangers who, having suitably praised him as a patriot, wanted to go further and argue the politics of the whole mess.
