Irresistible Forces

me.'

Shrugging, Steph pointed to the stage. 'Showtime.'

Margo moaned in self-chastisement. How had she gotten herself into this mess? She should have suggested that her new editor take the assignment himself, though looking like Ernest Borgnine might have been a liability in the Studfinder.

'Here we go.' Steph whooped and cheered with the other insane women while Margo groaned again. Music with a heavy disco beat reverberated through the small club. Varicolored lights rotated and flashed as the emcee announced the first performer.

'Good evening, ladies, and welcome to the Studfinder,' he said dramatically. 'And I guarantee you will find more than a few studs.' The women roared with laughter and applause. A few wolf whistles rose above the din. 'Now get ready for Tarzan.'

Tarzan? The ultimate male domination fantasy. Margo suppressed a shudder of revulsion. It's a story. Get a grip.

Removing a notepad from her purse, she leaned back and started writing down everything she saw, heard, felt in the dim room. This was freedom of speech and expression in action. She had to remain focused. If people wanted to watch exotic dancers of either gender, that was their business. Government had no business dictating morals. Satisfied she'd found the proper mind-set for this assignment, Margo glanced up at the stage. 'Oh. My. God.'

A man — an almost naked one — stood directly in front of her. Smiling. Very slowly, his hips undulated to the music, displaying his well-endowed physique in intricate detail. He wore only an exotic leopard print breechcloth. 'Oh, my God.'

'You said that already. You'll be all right, sis.' Steph squeezed Margo's hand in reassurance. 'Him Tarzan. You Jane. Chill.'

Margo averted her gaze from the grinning god and jerked the umbrella and fruit from another drink. She drained the contents in one smooth gulp, refusing to look again at the wriggling, pulsating male in front of her. 'Why'd we have to sit so close, Steph?'

'For your story, of course.'

Ignoring her sister's laughter, Margo turned her attention back to her notepad. She made more notations about the subject in the breechcloth, leaving out certain details regarding his anatomy. Her editor wouldn't consider that newsworthy, though Margo couldn't help wondering if perhaps The Guinness Book of Records might be interested.

The dancer released what could only be described as a Tarzan yell — one that would have had Cheetah, Jane, and Boy running to the rescue.

'Whoa, baby.'

Her sister's reaction made Margo look up. God, how she wished she hadn't. The man chose that particular moment to shed most of his skimpy attire, leaving only a G-string between the ogling women and his family jewels. The crowd went wild.

Margo went into shock.

'I'm out of here. This is disgusting.' She stood, and the contents of her open purse rolled onto the floor. 'Damn.'

The dancer seemed to think her upright position had other implications. He moved closer to their table, lowering himself in front of her until his pelvis was within reach.

Steph, obviously far more astute than Margo in such situations, rose to the occasion. She held a folded bill toward the man and deftly tucked it into his G-string.

Still staring in horror, Margo tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry.

'You need another drink, sis,' Steph calmly suggested as the music faded and Tarzan returned to his jungle. The waiter made rounds during the brief intermission.

Uncertain how or when, Margo found her spilled belongings back in her purse and herself back in her chair with another drink. Immediately removing the fruit, she sipped steadily. Some of her tension vanished beneath the heady power of demon rum. Her limbs felt warm and heavy. This was better. Much better.

When the music again increased in volume, Margo was still uncertain why women paid money to be embarrassed like this, but she was considerably more willing now to investigate the possibilities. The alcohol had numbed her somewhat and loosened her inhibitions, which was probably why she rarely imbibed. Steph had always accused her of being a control freak.

'This is the show with the Eroticops. It's great. I heard they have fresh meat — er, dancers.' Steph sighed dramatically. 'If all cops looked like these guys, I'd run stop signs on a regular basis.'

Eroticops? Steph seemed awfully familiar with the Studfinder's performers. Just how often did she come here? Margo cast her sister a cursory frown just as the lights dimmed again. The announcer, along with police sirens and flashing red and blue lights, signaled the beginning of the next set. Pencil and paper readied, she looked across the table at her sister.

'Where'd they find him!' Steph asked in undeniable awe.

Curious, Margo sought the catalyst for her sister's reaction and spotted him instantly. Her pencil fell from her grasp and rolled impotently across the table. Her notepad dangled unproductively from the fingertips of her left hand.

This man was built even better than his predecessor, and at the moment he was still fully clothed. A blue policeman's uniform hugged every bulge and hollow of his body to perfection. The bill of his hat shadowed part of his face and eyes. Dark hair curled at his temples and neckline. For some imprudent reason, she wanted to know what color his eyes were.

She felt her sister's gaze on her and jerked her attention away from the man on the stage, but only for a moment. A very brief moment.

'Nice, huh?' Steph asked in that infuriating way she had of knowing what someone else was thinking. Four other 'police officers' joined the first, flanking him in pairs to mimic his seductive movements.

Margo could only nod. Despite her best intentions, she turned her gaze back to the stage, discovering that the lead dancer had moved to the front of the runway and seemed to be dancing just for her. In your dreams, silly. His stare never left her as he gyrated his hips and bent his knees, lowering himself for her inspection.

Her face was hot — and the rest of her body wasn't exactly cool, come to think of it. The man still hadn't removed any of his costume, even though he'd been on stage for several minutes. Some members of the audience were suggesting — loudly — that he should proceed as expected. After all, the other four men in uniform had already shed most of their attire.

For some unexplainable reason, Margo wanted to see what this beefcake looked like unwrapped. Flustered, she reached for her glass and drained the contents. Her head swam as he tossed his hat into her lap in one smooth motion. The smile he broadcasted was deadly.

And familiar.

Margo couldn't speak. It couldn't be…

He peeled away his shirt and now wore nothing but his trousers. She swallowed hard, unable — unwilling — to drag her gaze from the mesmerizing specimen on the stage. She had to know.

Much to her dismay, he blew her a kiss. It headed straight for her as if it had DNA and free will, planting itself right on her lips. She felt it — really, she did. A strange, fluttering sensation commenced in her belly and spread.

She stole a peek at Steph. Her sister was riveted, as were the other women in the audience. Margo glanced quickly around the room, but her gaze was lured back to the dancing figure as if her optic nerves had a homing device. A blue spotlight suddenly bathed him, illuminating his features clearly.

Realization hit home. With trembling fingers, she retrieved her pencil and made notes, though she knew her scribbles wouldn't make any sense later.

Jared. Why now, after all this time?

She felt his gaze boring into her as he danced and swayed on the stage. He must have recognized her, too. Commanding herself not to look, she bent her head over the tablet, scratching away as his shadow passed to and fro across the table amid the flashing lights.