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He wasn’t helping her to buy into his self-proclaimed innocence.
Scarlet was just about to turn around and head back to the corner where she could catch a cab to the St. Francis when she spotted a shiny black door. It was at street level, so that didn’t seem right. But what the hell?
She walked toward it, slid back the heavy metal latch, and yanked the door open. A hard-driving beat suddenly filled the alley. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her. There was a single bare bulb blazing in the tapered entryway, which led to a black wrought-iron spiral staircase descending into the bowels of the facility.
Scarlet shot off another text to her friends, to give her exact location.
She then made her way down to a lower level with maybe a ten-foot ceiling and a long stainless-steel bar that was lined with patrons and shots of tequila. Sapphire and silver strobe lights bounced off the tables and stools. The music was loud with a quick tempo and reverberated within her.
A petite chestnut-haired twentysomething greeted her. “May I take your coat?” she asked over the wail of electric guitars and animated conversations, offering Scarlet a claim ticket.
She divested herself of the trench coat but kept her purse strapped across her body and tucked the perforated piece of paper inside.
Scanning the throng of people, she searched for Michael, knowing he’d stand out even in a dense crowd. But she didn’t catch sight of him as she wove through the conglomeration, heading toward the bar. She wedged herself between a burly sort and a lean-muscled guy and then further surveyed the scene.
The inner sanctum gave way to a break in the wall so that the club flowed into a larger space, mostly occupied by an enormous dance floor that was edged by tables, sofas, and chairs.
This back portion spanned two stories, with black iron catwalks suspended from chains overhead. The walkways were fused together in a crisscross shape, creating a huge X above the dance floor, and several women in skimpy lingerie and high heels gyrated and whirled about to the music, Coyote Ugly style. Voluminous tresses flew about as their heads whipped this way and that. It was like walking onto a 1980s MTV video set. Or being front row at a rock ’n’ roll Victoria’s Secret show.
“Buy you a drink?” the burly one asked Scarlet.
“Thanks, but I’ll get my own.” She caught the attention of the bartender and ordered a martini. “Dirty it up, will you?”
“You got it.”
While he made her cocktail, Scarlet’s gaze returned to the dance floor. Then she eyed the perimeter, finally catching a tall, wide shadow on the move. He stealthily worked his way through the crowd toward her, shifting out of the inky fringes so that the flashes of light fell on him.
Scarlet’s heart nearly stopped.
This was not a version of Michael Vandenberg she’d ever expected to see.
He’d ditched the designer suit and neatly styled hair. Instead, he was dressed all in black—leather jacket, V-necked T-shirt, jeans, and boots. His short onyx hair was tousled, sticking on end in places.
The breath escaped her body in one long stream.
Hell-o, Big Bad Wolf.
An ultra-sexy, riveting Big Bad Wolf.
And that did not bode well for her.
Scarlet vaguely heard the bartender behind her serve her drink and tell her how much she owed. She barely heard anything beyond the thumping of her heart.
Her nipples were instantly hard again. Her panties damp.
And Michael hadn’t even reached her yet.
He did, however, stare directly at her, his gaze locking with hers. Heat blazed in his eyes and a cocky expression crossed his captivating face as she gaped.
Warning signals went off in the back of her head, a million red flags unfurling and catching a stiff breeze.
He was a double threat—wildly arousing and quite possibly a villain.
Not exactly the type of man a smart woman would be creaming over at midnight in a nondescript club she didn’t even know the name of.
As he approached her, he extracted folded bills from his front pocket and peeled off a fifty. He reached around her, his gaze unwavering, and slapped the cash on the bar. “For the lady’s drink. And I’ll have a Bombay Sapphire martini.”
“Right away, Mr. Vandenberg.”
