There was a flicker of a thought back then—that Sam could be involved with this strange twist in Ryan’s behavior—but I quickly dismissed it. I mean, Sam would never allow me to be hurt so much.

Now, though, I can’t help but wonder if Sam was the reason I sat on those steps in a violet dress until midnight, my phone in my hands, miserable.

It took me a while to get over Ryan, but I did, and there were other boys. All short-lived, all fumbling-in-the-dark notches in my senior-year belt. All guys that I dumped the second I felt any hint of emotion. And after what happened with Sal, I haven’t had much interest in anyone.

Now this attractive blond man is ogling me like he wants to teach me all that a teenage boy can’t, and then some.

“Ben! Back off.” Nate’s booming voice pulls Ben’s attention away from my face with a small scowl.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters, sliding his arm off me. But he shoots a wink at me immediately after. Nate doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy listening to something in his earpiece. Something funny, apparently, because a broad smile splits that intimidating face in two. “Hey, Ginger! Your ‘client’ is here.”

I look back in time to see Ginger’s face twist with displeasure. She slams back a shot of something and then slaps a rag down onto the counter as she comes out from behind the bar. Marching past Ben, who’s doubled over with laughter, she points her fingers at the two amused bouncers and says, “You just remember this sacrifice when you’re sucking back a cold Heineken later tonight.” With a pause and a wink, she adds, “Maybe next time you guys can take one for the team.”

That cuts Ben’s laughter off cold. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head fervently. “I only play for one team, and King Kong and that fucking third leg of his are not allowed to join in my game.”

“Feeling inadequate?” Nate responds with a grin and a slap over Ben’s shoulder before his tone once again turns serious. “You better follow her back there for this.”

Casting a lazy salute in my direction, Ben trails Ginger as she grabs her brown-haired dancer friend by the elbow and heads toward the V.I.P. rooms.

There’s no need for me to get comfortable here, not knowing if I’ll be allowed back, so I decide to go home. I prefer being alone, anyway. I take a long, scalding-hot shower so that perhaps I can rid myself of this vile feeling before I get up on that stage and strip again tomorrow.

And the next night.

And the next night.

I hope.

chapter seven

■ ■ ■

CAIN

I grip my steering wheel with white-knuckled force. If I don’t slow down, I’m going to get pulled over or wrap my truck around the guardrail. Acknowledging this, my foot still doesn’t ease off the gas pedal.

She dances just like Penny did.

The style, the grace, the class.

With a mournful smile and her eyes closed. Like she has a secret. Like her mind has disappeared off somewhere, like she’s imagining herself anywhere but on that stage.

It’s a thing of rare beauty, the way her body smoothly swung and dipped and contorted, teasing the men without the need to lie spread-eagled or with her ass in the air like an everyday stripper.

I was hard the second she stepped onto the stage. I was thinking of ways to get her in a private room when her top finally came off.

I’m no better than Rick Cassidy or any of those other vultures.

Finally releasing the breath I’m holding, I lift my foot off the gas pedal, slowing my Navigator to the legal limit. Deep down, I know that’s not true. I don’t condone the girls getting high to loosen themselves up for lap dances and private shows. I don’t take the girls for a test drive when I hire them, and I sure as hell don’t demand late-afternoon blow jobs. The dancers don’t even turn me on anymore. All I see are girls who need a second chance. Girls who need someone to protect them because no one ever has.

The way I should have protected my sister.

And Penny.

But here’s a woman who I want. The second Ben started joking about how her breasts were too flawless to be natural and how he’d be finding out for himself later tonight, I told him he was fired, and I wasn’t kidding. He and Nate exchanged a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-him look and then I guess Ben clued in, because he asked what was going on between Charlie and me. I decided that I needed to leave before I made more of an ass of myself.

So I bolted.

I don’t know if I can handle knowing she’s doing that in my club daily. A temptation that I might not be able to ignore indefinitely because, dammit, this feeling is as addictive as a heroin high.

Hiring her would be a bad idea.

I acknowledge this even as I glance at the stack of papers sitting on my passenger seat. Charlie’s application, her identification, everything I need to forward to my investigator. Just looking at it, at the photocopy of her face, reminds me of my present discomfort. I adjust myself. It’s a little after eleven o’clock. Even with my normal four hours of sleep and a two-hour workout, tonight will be a fucking long night.

I hit the dial button located on my steering wheel.

■ ■ ■

“It’s been a while,” Rebecka purrs, sauntering through my front door. The woman’s voice has a crispness to it that borders on snotty. Until she’s screaming, anyway.

“I’ve been busy,” I manage to get out around a mouthful of cognac.

“I’m glad you called.” Flipping her hands through her jet-black hair, she adds, “Even though it’s late.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“And you will too, soon.” Blood rushes to my cock with her promise. Sharp blue eyes roam my cabinetry as she steps into the kitchen. “Property value has gone up. I could make you a ton of money if you sold now.” It was her real estate agency that sold this condo to me in the first place. Sometimes I think she keeps coming back as much for the business opportunity as the sex. I think she might just be that kind of woman.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her in a dry tone as I watch her turn and stalk toward me slowly, a teasing smile on those red-painted lips of hers.

Her fingers go right for my pants, deftly undoing the button and zipper. “You do that.”

That will be the extent of our conversation for the night.

In seconds, Rebecka is on her knees with those lips wrapped around me, taking my entire length in. With a groan, I set my glass down. Grabbing the back of her head with a hand, I pull her against me. Normally I would never do that to a woman, but Rebecka likes it.

She asks me to do a lot of things other women might not like.

Things that should give me a few hours of distraction before I have to decide what to do about Charlie.

chapter eight

■ ■ ■

CHARLIE

“Charlie Rourke. Twenty-two . . .” Insipid brown eyes slide down my body as he does a slow circle around me. I’m down to nothing but my white thong underwear. He made me undress before any conversation began.

Now, it’s all I can do to pace my breathing and not coil my arms around myself.

With that swollen belly protruding beneath an ill-fitted green-and-white striped golf tee, Rick Cassidy looks like he could be suffering from the impossible: male pregnancy. But it’s not his belly that makes him so unappealing. It’s not even the tuft of hair climbing out the back of his shirt, or his disproportionately skinny legs, or the comb-over, or his misshapen nose, or his porn star mustache.

It’s that phony smile—empty of authenticity, full of bad intentions—that makes my skin want to crawl into my bones. He’s everything I pictured a strip club owner would be. “You’re what . . .” Coming back around to face me, he reaches up to cup my left breast, giving it a rough squeeze. His breath reeks of stale coffee and cigarettes. “A C-cup?”