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CHAPTER THREE
HERNAMEINCairo’s decadent mouth, instead of that drawledMs. Hollis,was like a lick against the hottest, sweetest part of her. It jolted through her, lightning need and the same dancing fire, making her melt. Everywhere.
Brittany couldn’t seem to jerk her gaze away from his, and even knowing how dangerous that was didn’t make it any easier. Her heart was a hammer against every pulse point, slamming into her again and again, but she made herself smile as she shifted position into something more pinup worthy, as was expected of a woman wearing as little as she was.
She told herself it was the game. What the costume demanded.
And so what if she’d never given an audience member the time of day after a performance before?This is different,she told herself, with starch.This is our own little war, him and me, and I’ll win it.
“Was I unclear in Monaco?” she asked him. She was aware that they were attracting all kinds of stares as the music cued up the next act, but she couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to that the way she knew she should. She couldn’t break away from the tractor beam of his arrogant gaze long enough to read the room and react accordingly, and she didn’t want to think about the implications of the situation. “I thought my walking off without a backward glance was a fairly straightforward message.”
“I assumed that was a ploy,” he replied in that same deceptively mild way of his that really shouldn’t tear through her the way it did, making her feel hollow and needy and too many other raw things to name. “I thought I’d come here and speak to you in the language you understand.”
“Rather than in Pompous Ass, the language of rich men? Don’t worry, I’m fluent.”
He didn’t answer that directly. Still holding her gaze with his, he reached into the inside pocket of the sleek coat he wore and pulled out a leather billfold fat with euros. Very, very fat. He didn’t so much as glance at it, he simply peeled a purple note from inside and slapped it on the table. Then another. And another.
“You appear to be suggesting I’m motivated by five-hundred euro notes,” Brittany said. Through her teeth. “Surely not.”
Cairo didn’t say a word. He merely added another note to the pile. Then another. One after the next.
“I’m sure I’m mistaken,” she bit out, as the pile continued to grow. “You can’t possibly be calling me a prostitute, can you?”
He didn’t quite laugh. Not quite.
“Of course not,” he replied, in a scrupulously innocent voice that made the lie of it feel like a slap. “Your prices are much higher and you require legal vows, if your matrimonial history is any guide. Hardly a rendezvous in a back alley, is it?”
“True,” Brittany replied, her voice a different sort of slap that her palms itched to replicate against that dark-shadowed jaw of his. “But I have no intention or interest in making vows of any kind with you.”
That sharp smile of his edged over into something feral.
“So you say.” He threw another few bills onto the tabletop, carelessly and insultingly. Deliberately so, she imagined. “Then a lap dance it is.”
Brittany jerked her attention away from him for a moment to see the club owner over by the bar, furiously gesturing for her to sit down. To stop blocking access to the stage, she realized, now that the next act had started. And it was simple, of course. She should merely walk away from Cairo again the way she’d done once already. She should pretend she’d never met him. She wanted nothing more than to do exactly that.
So she had no idea why instead, she settled herself on the arm of his chair and gazed down into his face as if she really was the hardened stripper she’d played on TV instead of the innocent sometimes even she forgot she really was.
“I don’t give lap dances,” she told him loftily, pretending she hadn’t surrendered something critical in sitting down like this. As if that blaze in his caramel gaze didn’t show sheer male victory and something edgier besides. As if she didn’t recognize she’d lost what little ground she’d gained by denying him in Monaco. “Though I’m happy to take your money, of course. You appear to have far too much of it.”
Cairo shrugged as if it was nothing to him, the thousands of euros in a purple pile on the table. What were mere thousands to a man who had untold billions in property alone?
“All I want is a dance,” he told her, and he was so much closer now than he had been in Monaco. Too close.
The arms of the seats were made deliberately wide and comfortable, all the better for the girls to perch upon, so she wasn’t touching him—because Brittany didn’t dotouching.Especially not with men. And she told herself she didn’t recognize that craving in her for what it was, elemental and obvious, so close to that magnificent body of his as he lounged there that she could feel the heat he generated in the space between them.
Then he made everything that much more mad and wild when he reached over and started to trace a lazy little pattern against the skin of the thigh nearest him, right at the top of her stocking and below the ruffled red-and-black underwear she wore.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
She wanted to leap up. She wanted to slap his hand away. She wanted to slaphimlike the offended virgin she actually was, but she didn’t dare give herself away like that. And the more she sat there and let Cairo touch her, the more she seemed to forget why allowing this to happen was such a terrible idea.
They both watched his idle finger for a while. Maybe entire years—decades—while inside, everything Brittany had ever been and everything she knew about herself crumbled into dust and shivered away until there was nothing left of her but that pulsing heat between her legs.
Her worst fear come true.
But she still didn’t move.
“Or perhaps you prefer a private room after all,” Cairo said, the low rumble of his insinuating voice adding to the spell he cast with that impossibly elegant finger against her thigh rather than breaking it. “Is this how you upsell the punters, Ms. Hollis?”
