I press the button and step in when the doors open. The ride up to the fifteenth floor is quick, since this is a dedicated elevator for the upper floors, and then I step into the dimly lit hallway and walk the length of the corridor to the end where our suites share the same alcove and flash my keycard.

Inside the AC is chilly and welcoming. Lake Tahoe doesn’t get hot, but hot is relative, right? And August is hot just about everywhere in America. I place my briefcase on the desk and then open it up and take out Katie’s file. I’ve got three weeks of surveillance on her already, which is kind of ironic, considering what she does at her law firm. But let’s face it. When I told her I was a professional, I meant it. I knew she’d end up being a client the first night we were introduced. She had the look of fear back then. Today she had the look of desperation.

I add her to my collection and then close the safe, ready to head back downstairs, when I notice the light flashing on the room phone.

Hmmm. No one calls me on the room phone but management. So I hit the speaker button and press pound seven to get my voicemail.

“Mr. Novak,” Amy, the resort manager, says in her businesslike tone, “there was a meeting this afternoon. I had it on your calendar and you missed it. I’m sure, as always, you have a good reason for that? I expect to hear it tomorrow at nine AM sharp.” She pauses for a moment to sigh. “And Fletcher, just so you know, it had better be monumental.”

There’s a click and the computer voice starts giving me options before I can disconnect the call.

Fucking management. I hate that corporate shit they do. And I hate these monthly meetings even more. But I have a show to do, so I push it away and head back downstairs. The ordinarily quick lift takes a few minutes and is filled with rich, drunk gamblers by the time it gets to my floor, so when I finally walk back through the stage door, Chandler is already calling my name.

“Fletcherrrrrrr…” he roars above the crowd of cheers.

“You’re late again, bro,” Bill says, walking by with his costume in his hand, sweat falling down his face after his dance routine. His hard body is rippled with muscles and his wet-look thong is stuffed with dollars.

But I’m a professional, remember?

I take the small set of stairs two at a time and push the curtain aside, just as Chandler says my name again. His expression is one of annoyance as he looks at the curtain, but then he realizes I’m here and it turns to relief. “Novakkkkkk…” he says, placing the mic in the stand and walking off stage on the opposite side.

I throw up my arms, allowing the tight white t-shirt to stretch across my chest and rise up from the waistband of my tattered jeans a little. The spotlight flashes directly overhead—just one brief tease of what’s to come—and the audience goes wild at that little bit of skin. But before they can do anything else, the stage goes dark again and the music starts bumping.

I don’t talk on stage. No one wants to hear what I’ve got to say. They only want to see what I can do with this body. Hardened from years of sports and diligent gym visits. Lean muscles accentuated with a grace that you only get with a decade or more of martial arts training. That’s all they want. That’s all they see. I’m just something to look at when I’m up here.

So I give them exactly what they expect. A show.

I start dancing, my hips moving to the beat of the song. Another flash of light from above. Another round of screams. And then silence as I freeze.

Whistles and catcalls start. But I hold my pose—fingertips on the back of my shirt, ready to oblige their insatiable need for the sight of bare flesh tonight. Then another flash. I drag the shirt up in that brief glimpse, and then darkness mimics my pause. The next flash they see my abs, the dream six-pack that’s mostly genetics, but I do my share of crunches. Then another flash and I give them the pecs, flexing the muscles and making them dance a little. And in that final flash, I rip the shirt over my head.

The front row stands, waving their dollar bills in the air, begging to shower me with money.

I twirl the shirt several times, taking in the throngs of women with their hands up, ready to catch the prize, and then throw it to a little redhead just as all the lights come on to the beat of the bass. I train my eyes on the crowd, ready to start the real show, and then the lights switch from me to them, lighting up their faces—red with the heat of five hundred woman jostling for position in the room. All of them there for me in this moment. It pans to the left side, and I use those three seconds to search for my star. Then down the middle. My eyes train on a woman in a light-colored suit sitting dead center before I lose her in the darkness and switch to the right side.

But she’s the one. She’s my star tonight. And she has no idea how hard I’m about to rock her world.

I stride down the catwalk, the thumping music penetrating my boots and sending shockwaves up my legs. I train my eyes on the woman in the suit and take in her male companion, the only other person at her front-and-center table. Gay, I deduce, after half a second. He’s too well-dressed in that fashionable way that only a gay man has. Best friend, probably. Safe.

She has a neutral expression as I stand on the stage just above her, but her upturned face is an aphrodisiac that I can’t deny. It’s soft, unlike her eyes, which say guarded. But I’m used to that. It’s my specialty.

I extend my hand and she shakes her head no, her lips pressing together. Her gay friend pushes her a little, trying to persuade her to accept my offer, but she shakes out another no.

The crowd starts jumping when they realize she doesn’t want to participate, so I move on and save her for later. I walk to the left where a girl in the tell-tale bachelorette veil is trying to squeeze in one more night of fun before she gives herself to the man of her dreams forever.

This time when I extend my hand, the new star reaches for it eagerly. I grip her wrist and bend down, wrapping my other hand around her waist, and easily lift her up on stage with me.

She glances back to her friends, blushing, but I wrap my hands around her waist and pull her back into my chest. My hips are doing their own dance against her ass, making her blush even more. A palm comes up to her mouth to continue the act.

I lean into her neck and yell over the music. “Wanna play the game with me tonight, sweetheart?”

She nods enthusiastically as her friends go crazy down on the floor.

Thought so.

I dance around her, touching her in places that would make her fiancé mad with jealousy—if he were here, and he isn’t—and then I spin her around and place her hands over the taut muscles of my waist. She lets out a breath of surprise but the blushing is gone and all I see now is desire.

She wants me.

Maybe that man she’s gonna marry is perfect. He could be a millionaire with a huge house. His job might be something so far above me, I’d look like an insignificant ant under his shoe. He might have a Harvard education and enough investments to put ten kids through college.

But right now, in this moment, all she wants is me.

I do the dirty dance with her, my body pressing against hers. The sweat is already pouring out of me, dripping down my stomach and pooling into the band of my tattered jeans. But her fingertips relish in it. They drag up and down the hard muscles of my abs. And I let her get her feel. I let her touch me anywhere she wants, waiting to see how far she goes. When she reaches around for my ass, that’s the signal. I place my hand on her head and press. She gives in easily and falls to her knees in front of me, looking up, her mouth poised in front of the zipper of my jeans.

I bump against her face and the crowd roars.