His lips quirked. “For such a youngster, that’s pretty deep stuff.”

 She’d experienced a lot of heartache and hardship in her life. Sometimes she felt ancient. “I’m young, but I’ve been through a lot.”

“What scares you?”

“Not being enough.” The words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. Damn it.

“Enough for what?”

She closed her eyes. Enough for someone not to care where she came from. Or how she came to be. To take her for who she was, warts and all. But she didn’t say it. It sounded childish to her. “Enough to take a chance on.” A partial truth.

“What happened between your parents?”

Shaking her head, Izzy exhaled and tried to shimmy off the edge of the railing, but Flynn’s arms tightened around her. “Tell me.”

Swallowing hard, she decided to tell him the truth. It’s what she wanted from him; he deserved the same from her. “My mom was the illegal Mexican housekeeper who knew all of the Chastain’s dirty secrets.  She was promoted to nanny when my dad and his wife got pregnant with my half brother.  But he died. And my dear father, the congressman, in his despair took gross advantage of my mother. Not once, but for years he came to her. I was the proof. I had no idea. I was told my father died before I was born. Eventually, my father’s wife put two and two together. I was eleven when she figured it out. We were kicked to the curb, my mom threatened with deportation.” Her voice hitched.  “It was the second-worst day in my life. After that, Momma worked twenty-hour days, cleaning houses during the day and offices at night. From the age of eleven, I worked after school trying to contribute so she didn’t have to work so hard. She died with a damn dust rag in her hand.” Izzy laughed bitterly. “The day after she died, I took that damn rag and threw it at my father’s face and told him she was dead and he could take his threats and shove them up his ass. I told him if he ever came after me for anything, I’d tell the world what he’d done.”

Compassion shone in Flynn’s eyes, not pity. Pity she would never accept. “How old were you when your mom died?” he asked.

“Sixteen.”

“I was sixteen when my mom died.”

“I’m sorry.” The urge to cradle his head to her heart overcame her. She resisted, afraid he wouldn’t be comfortable with it. “Our moms died when we were both sixteen.”  Smiling sadly up at him, Izzy said, “If you loved your mom like I loved my mom, I know how hard it hurt and still hurts.”

“I loved her a lot.”

“How did she die?”

His lips tightened and he took his time with his answer. “Of a broken heart.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like we both have douchebag sperm donors.”

He cracked a small smile. “So the senator knows you’re his daughter?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes.”

He was silent for a long time. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ve written off the Chastains.”

“Then why search for your sister?”

“Because that’s what a big sister does.”

“What is she like?”

“Gorgeous, bright, talented.  Alex excelled at everything she did. The perfect daughter. Until she went off the deep end.” Izzy laughed, the sound harsh. “Oh how daddy dearest must have had a coronary when he found out she was stripping. Oh no, not the beautiful senator’s daughter. That was what he’d expect of his dirty little secret, Isadora, but not the amazing Alexandra.” She choked back a sob. “Who am I to disappoint him?”

Flynn shifted uncomfortably. “So you’re saying you did it because it was expected?  Not as a means to getting information on your sister?”

“I did it because I choose to do it.” She pushed off of him and strode past him into the suite. She turned at the threshold and said, “And Flynn? If you have a problem with it, tell me now so we won’t waste our time pretending it doesn’t.”

She didn’t tell Flynn about her education or career path. A part of her was afraid her truth wasn’t good enough for him. It was easier for him to think she was the love child of an illegal immigrant the boss had knocked up, because she had no control over that. But she did control what she did at the club. That way, when he got tired of her, he’d use her lack of pedigree and job choice as his excuse. That rejection she could handle.  It was what she had lived with all her life. She understood it.

She turned to continue into the room.

“Isadora,” he said, his voice commanding. “Come here.”

Swallowing hard, she turned. Chin up, back straight, she faced him. He stood at the edge of the terrace, the fading sun haloing him in a warm orange glow. Her heart did a slow stutter beat. He was so beautiful she had no words to describe him in her mind. That he wanted her, thinking she was a ding-dong cocktail server who had flashed her boobs to his friends, and was still willing to help her find Alex, went miles in her good book. It scared the living shit out of her, too. She’d had enough disappointments to last a lifetime.

“I don’t want to.” She felt fragile now, and if she went to him, he would touch her, and she’d melt. She needed to be strong. He was getting too deep under her skin.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m afraid when you find out who I really am, you won’t like me.”

“Who are you?”

“An illegitimate cocktail server slash stripper with issues.”

His lips quirked.

He couldn’t erase who she was, what she’d done. He needed to understand the reality of her. “I’m not a debutante. I never will be. Your friends have seen me almost naked. I know that bothers you.”

His jaw tightened.

Touché. “You could never take me out to a social event with them.”

“Why are you putting up barriers when we agreed to just hang out and have fun?”

Izzy nodded. “Right, sorry, just fuck buddies.”

“Stop saying that,” he growled, pushing off the railing.

“Why, when it’s true?” She exhaled. “You can’t hide me away in a hotel room. No matter how nice it is, I’m still me.”

She turned and strode into the bathroom and took a shower. When she emerged, he was sitting out on the patio with a short glass of scotch smoking an aromatic cigar. He stood as she came out wrapped in the big fluffy white robe that came with the suite.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He threw back the rest of his drink. “Get dressed, I’ll take you somewhere nice, in public, and show you off.”

“You don’t need to prove—”

“I’m not trying to prove anything to anyone. I don’t need that validation. I’m hungry, you’re hungry. I want to go to a restaurant, restaurants are public places. Now please, hurry up before I toss that robe over the railing and we both starve to death.”

“Okay,” she said and hurried to get dressed. Fifteen minutes later she was ready, her hair dry, light touch of cosmetics, lips brushed with glossy pink lipstick, wearing a white jersey knit halter style miniskirt romper. It was comfortable but dressy and the color looked good against her olive skin tone and pink-tipped hair. She wore her favorite gold chandelier earrings, and matching bangles, complete with a pair of natural-colored canvas peek-a-boo wedges with a thin ribbon of gold woven through the straps. She felt good, and liked knowing that despite the sleek lines of her outfit, it didn’t scream, strip club.  Quite the opposite.  It was rather chic and she wore it well.

When she strode back onto the patio, Flynn was reclining in his chair, a full glass of scotch by his hand. His legs were extended and he looked every bit the predator. His eyes narrowed as his full lips tightened. His pants swelled and his chest rose as his breaths deepened. His eyes narrowed as he lazily gave her a long, thorough perusal.

“Do you have any idea how fucking sexy you are?” he growled.

“I-uh, no.”

“You’re perfect. You deserve a man better than me.”

“I don’t want a man better than you right now.”