Black and Blue

“Let’s go,” he snapped.

* * *

Five hours later, Evie invaded the Lucky Horn, claiming a table just to the side of the stage.

Blue was the club’s newest stripper.

They’d found out the place was hiring, and he insisted she apply.

“Screw that,” she’d said. “You want someone on the inside. Therefore, you are responsible. I shake tail for no one. Besides, one of us has to pry information out of the patrons, and the more people look at your face, the more likely they are to recognize you. And let’s be honest, up on the stage, no one is going to be looking any higher than your groin.”

He’d only huffed and puffed for a few minutes. “Someone is trying to either abduct you or kill you. Meaning you need a disguise. What better disguise than stripper?”

Nice try. “Give me one hour and I’ll show you a better disguise.”

And she did!

Right now, her hair was so blond it was almost white, and streaked with pink. Her eyes were bright blue and her chest hugely inflated by a silicone-infused bra.

Blue had taken one look at her and shaken his head in disapproval. Disapproval she didn’t understand. No one would recognize her and she fit his preferred type of female.

But on top of the disapproval, he displayed zero hints of arousal. And the lack, well, it disappointed her.

Lo. Bot. Omy.

Even with his scar and piercings, Blue was hired at first sight. No one had a body quite like his. Cut from granite. No one could move quite like he did. Every action was a sensuous mating call.

Now, hoping she appeared awed by her surroundings, she scanned the club. Dark walls, dark carpet. Dim lighting, except onstage. At both sides of that stage, women dangled from wires, their naked bodies sparkling as they twisted and turned into different sexual positions. In the center, glitter rained from the ceiling, sticking to the exposed skin of the half-naked bumping, grinding brunette currently teasing the audience with the removal of her G-string.

One of the patrons shoved a bill in her box—and, no, box wasn’t a euphemism. Men weren’t allowed to touch the goods until they’d paid, stuffing their money inside an actual box at the edge of the stage. The bills disengaged the shock line, allowing the girl to stroll up to the patron and settle a high-heeled boot on his shoulder, giving him the perfect money shot.

A topless waitress arrived and asked for Evie’s drink order. “Beer in a bottle. Don’t pop the cap.” There was no reason to think anyone would try and poison her, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

The brunette finished her show, and a husky voice spilled from the intercom. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are proud to introduce the newest addition to the Lucky Horn family. Give it up for the hard and horny . . . Jack Hammer!”

This was it! Unable to contain her excitement, Evie clapped her hands and bounced in her seat. Sometimes agenting had its perks.

The curtain at the back of the stage parted and out strode Blue, wearing nothing but a scowl and a pair of black leather underpants.

Blimey. She lost her breath. She’d expected to be amused by his situation, but she was inexplicably aroused. He had muscle stacked upon muscle. His skin was pale, like all Arcadians’, and yet, there was a shimmery golden undertone, as if he’d showered in fallen angel dust. He looked wild. Dangerous.

And, okay, quite livid.

The waitress arrived with the beer, and Evie waved her away. “You’re blocking my view.”

As always, power radiated from him. Did anyone else feel it?

He stood still as a statue as the music played. Someone booed. Someone else threw a chip at him. Gonna blow his cover.

“Let’s see your best moves, Mr. Hammer!” Evie put her fingers in her mouth and whistled. “Yeah, baby. Yeah! Show Momma what the good Lord gave you!”

Somehow he found her in the dark and glared. Then, from one moment to the next, the tone of the glare changed. From anger to anticipation.

Uh-oh. What just happened?

He sauntered in her direction, and her hands began to sweat. At the edge of the stage, he tugged a bill from the waist of the underpants—if some skank backstage put it there, I’m going to . . . nothing—and stuffed it in the hot box, lowering the shield.

He hopped off the stage. The crowd watched, awed.

Surely he wouldn’t close the distance between them.

He did.

Leaning into her, he braced his hands on the arms of her chair. “How about a lap dance, sugar plum?”

Bloody hell. Shivers cascaded down her spine.

“Your nipples just beaded for me. I’ll take that as a yes.”

No way he could tell. Her bra was far too thick.

“I can,” he said, as though reading her thoughts. “I can feel your reaction.”

Her eyes widened, and her response died as his hands encircled her waist. He lifted her to the tabletop, better aligning their bodies. He forced her legs to part and the apex of her thighs to cradle his—

Oh, bless me. His massive erection.

Then he danced. Slow and steady, grinding against her sweet spot. Ratcheting her desire to an earth- shattering level. A place where fires raged. She couldn’t stop her hands. They roamed over his chest, glided over the scar on his face, tangled in his hair.

If the patrons cheered or booed, she didn’t know it. She was utterly focused on the man in front of her, hyperaware of his every move. Of his power, stroking her with the mastery of a thousand hands. Of his scent in her nose, champagne and strawberries. Of his gaze, boring deep into hers—perhaps seeing into her soul. Of his erection, pressing where she needed him most, retreating, pressing again, and—oh, keep going, please. A moan escaped her. The pleasure . . . too much . . . not enough . . . Give me more. Give me everything. Eden was right. The day had come. Evie wanted some guy to give it to her good and hard.

Press, retreat. Press, retreat. Liquid heat pooled between her legs, the crease in her jeans just making everything worse. Press, retreat. Or better. Press, retreat. No, definitely worse.

Her head swam with the force of her arousal. A dangerous pressure built inside her, coiling, readying. If he kept going, he was going to make her come. Right there. In front of everyone.

Dismayed by the thought, she dug her nails into his bare chest. Felt the heat of his skin, and gave another moan.

“Don’t,” she whispered, panicked. “Please.”

Just like that, he stopped.

He was panting, his lips thinned and pulled taut against his perfect teeth.

He turned away from her and returned to the stage, quickly disappearing behind the curtain.

This is being more careful around him? her good sense screamed. Really? Stop threatening that lobotomy and actually do it!

Evie tore the cap from the beer and drained the contents. Then she signaled for another and drained it, too.

Once her body had calmed, she pretended to have a nice buzz going and tripped her way to a table of older gents who looked to be regulars, very familiar with the lay of the land. Over the next hour they hit on her and teased her about the we-swear-you-were-having-sex dance Jack Hammer had done with her. Trying not to blush like a stupid schoolgirl, she bought them several lap dances—not from Blue, because he was still backstage, probably searching the offices and cursing Evie’s very existence—and they finally stopped hitting on her, instead treating her like one of the guys. That’s when she paid for a round of drinks for everyone in the club.

Eventually, all of the patrons came over to thank her and ended up staying to talk. She learned far more than she’d hoped.

Mr. Gregory Star and his entourage visited the club at least twice a month, and they always migrated to the