Private Dancer Read Free

bored housewife, but bored housewives didn’t follow men for ten miles to a bar in one of the roughest parts of town. No, she hadn’t come to The Red Monkey for an afternoon of unbridled passion. The moment’s regret he felt at that realization didn’t make him any less determined to find out what her real motives were. In his business it was dangerous to take anyone for granted, even Ivory soap types with lace collars.
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    She turned back to him and his breathing held for a split second. The liquid softness of her gaze hit him again, as though it reflected something soft in him, some need. He rejected the idea as insane. There wasn’t anything soft in him. Not anymore. And as for needs, they got a guy burned. A woman had taught him that.
    “Do private dancers have to have names?” she asked.
    The anger flickering inside him had little if anything to do with her. It was old business, but its heat had aroused him nonetheless. He couldn’t tell if her voice had gone raspy from fear or excitement, but it was clear she intended to play out the game. He resisted the desire to shake his head and laugh. She wasn’t a pro, not unless the church-lady look was selling on the streets these days. Whoever she was, it shouldn’t take much to call her bluff, especially since he’d been playing this kind of game all his life.
    “You’re right,” he said. “It’s better without names.”
    Say when, lady , he thought, reaching out and capturing a dark tendril of her hair, testing its silkiness with his fingers.
    Bev went very still as his skin brushed the delicate flesh just behind her ear. A moment later he was drawing those same fingers along the curve of her throat as lightly as he’d touched Elayne Greenaway.
    She was afraid to move as his hand descended, afraid that any sudden gesture would unlock the anticipation trembling inside her. What was he going to do? Actually, she had a fairly good idea, but she hoped fervently that she was wrong. It would be easy enough to stop him, but she knew this was a test of her mettle.
    Her heart leaped at the intimacy of his touch, but she willed herself to stay still, unflinchingly still ... even as his fingers drifted over the rise of her collarbone and down toward the opening of her blouse.
    He hesitated a moment, just at the top of her breast, where the skin was exquisitely sensitive. She sensed he was giving her a chance to call it off, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Her pride was involved. The game had turned into a battle of wills, and she needed to win. If anyone stopped, it would have to be him.
    A gasp burned in her throat as he dipped lower, into the warmth between her breasts, into her cleavage. You bastard, she thought. This was outrageous! Her heart raced wildly, and her breasts strained against her bra. And yet she didn’t move a muscle. Or try to stop him.
    “What do you think you’re doing?” she said, barely getting the words out.
    She could feel the heat of his stare even through his dark glasses. His nostrils flared slightly as he slipped his hand inside her blouse and cupped her breast.
    “This,” he said. “How do you like it?”
    Her skin flamed with shock and embarrassment. How did she like it? She wanted to break every one of his miserable fingers! She averted her eyes, unwilling to let him see her rising fury. He wanted her to react to him. If she moved or even blinked, he would win.
    He wasn’t going to win, by God! She was. That had become her mission in the past ten seconds. No man was going to make her feel like a whimpering failure again.
    Her concentration was so intensely focused on his hand that she could feel him searing her flesh through the silk of her bra. Her nipples became painfully engorged, her skin hypersensitive. She could feel every detail of his hand, the roughened texture of his palm, the heartbeat in his fingertips. It was throbbing everywhere, in her breasts, in her throat, in the