Читать книгу Private Dancer - Kimberly Dean - Страница 4

The spotlight was bright as Alicia stood on-stage, pinned in its crosshairs. The light felt hot on her face and even hotter on her body.

Awareness blistered inside her.

There was nowhere to run. No place to hide. She felt like a bug under a microscope.

A vulnerable, prized bug.

The brightness made it difficult to see, but she could feel the attention focused on her. The hungry, lustful eyes of a crowd of men. If she listened hard, she could hear their short, panting breaths.

Around her, music began. Its hard-driving rhythm caught her in the chest and she gasped. The beat reverberated between her breasts, and her nipples tightened. They felt hot and pinched. Shy. The bass started creeping through the floor and into her feet. It jumped higher and higher, grabbing her thighs and encouraging her to move. To dance.

‘Come on, baby. Show us what you’ve got.’

It was time for her solo.

Her heart beat faster in her chest, excited and scared at the same time. She’d never done this before. Of all the solos she’d performed in her life, she’d never stripped off her clothes while going through the motions.

Yet that was what she was here to do.

Unable to fight the tug of the rhythm any longer, she swept her arms over her head. Her hips swayed back and forth timidly, and then with more vigour.

A wolf-whistle cut through the air. The male approval was clear.

She was here to strip. Just the word alone sent a flush of fire through her nervous system. She was going to end up practically naked, her body on display for the Satin Club’s wealthy clientele.

She was going to end up dancing with a pole.

‘Oh, man. Look at her,’ someone groaned.

She couldn’t see who was admiring her, but she could see that pole. The gleaming brass fixture stood at the end of the long runway in front of her. Her knees went a little weak when it glinted under another spotlight, almost as if winking at her. Daring her to come play.

Her palms became damp and she swept them over her undulating hips.

There was just something about that pole. Something hard, challenging and outright sexual.

‘Enough with the teasing,’ a rough voice growled from the darkness. ‘We paid to see skin.’

That’s what they wanted, wasn’t it? To cut through the social niceties, straight to the need that drove mankind.

Sex … or at least the simulated dance of it.

Obediently, she reached for the zipper at the back of her skirt. As she looked down, it seemed odd that she was still in her street clothes. But maybe that was what they wanted. The church secretary fantasy …

The beat of the bass settled between her legs, warm and pulsing.

The heavy skirt suddenly felt too confining anyway. The cut was binding and the material couldn’t breathe. She worked the ugly skirt over her hips and kicked it aside. It was only then that she noticed the stilettos on her feet. Definitely not the church secretary kind.

But maybe the sexy church secretary fantasy.

The naughty black shoes lifted her bottom and pushed her weight onto her tiptoes. Air swept between her legs as she widened her stance to retain her balance. A groan from her left caught her unaware, but the sound reminded her that she was supposed to be performing. Still unsure of the high heels, she did a slow bump and grind.

More groans joined in.

She fought to hold back one of her own.

Oh, the shoes felt incredible. They lifted her up, making her aware of the muscles in her legs and the point of her toes. They certainly drew the attention of the male species like a laser.

In that moment, she felt powerful. Sexy.

Her confidence soared as she strutted down the runway. The heels had ties that wrapped around her ankles. She could feel the ribbon tickling her Achilles tendons. The feeling was surprisingly sensual, like intimate kisses.

She opened the top button of her shirt – and then another to let in the cool air.

Which wasn’t really so cool at all.

Alicia felt like she was going up in flames. She knew the point of all this was to arouse the crowd, but she was naïve enough that she was arousing herself.

And she hadn’t even started in on the pole yet!

Her blood began to pump, warm and thick, through her veins. The tails of her shirt brushed against the back of her thighs and between her legs. Beneath the stiff cotton, her breasts felt achy and full. Her nipples were so tight, even the cups of her bra seemed rough.

‘Take it off. Take it off.’

The chant started, low and steady. It grew in strength and volume as she reached for the remaining buttons on her shirt. The crowd of men was goading her, begging her. She toyed with them for a while, sashaying around on-stage, dancing as the shirt hung open. She wore a sensible white cotton bra and panties beneath it, but even they seemed to push the boys to the edge.

They loved it. The chanting grew louder and more raucous. They loved her.

Gathering her nerve, she swept the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the runway behind her. The almost complete bareness sent a shock through her – like ice had just been brushed over her skin. Her nipples became turgid, poking against her bra cups. Very few men had seen her like this. Only two, in fact. Now, an entire roomful of strangers was getting an eyeful.

Arousal gripped her as sure as a hand between her legs. It held her there as she walked determinedly onward, facing her greatest fear.

And possibly, one of her sharpest desires.

The pole.

Reaching out, she caught it with one hand. The brass was cool. Unyielding. A shudder went through her. Stepping closer, she leaned her forehead against its hard length. Her breasts plumped on either side of it, and her hips rolled forward.

When she softly kissed the hard metal, a hush went throughout the room.

They wanted to see her dance?

Kicking one leg high, she wrapped it around the brass pole. It gripped the back of her knee and the skin of her thigh pinched. That secret spot between her legs squeezed convulsively and then moistened.

Oh, heavens.

Alicia arched her back, letting her breasts thrust upwards. They felt trapped in her prim white bra. She was almost desperate to get it off. The sensation was making her lightheaded.

The confinement was too much.

Reaching back, she undid the hooks from the eyelets. She sighed when the cups loosened. The beat of the music intensified. She could almost feel the crowd leaning forward, wanting to see.

She wanted to show them.

She wanted to feel the freedom. She wanted to feel the nip of nakedness.

Using the leg that was wrapped around the pole, she pulled herself upright. Still, the straps of her bra and the cups remained in place.

In the distance, she heard somebody swear.

The frustration made her smile. Poor baby. She shrugged her left shoulder and the strap fell. She shrugged her right and the elastic snagged on the point of her shoulder.

The music reached a crescendo, and she couldn’t tease any more. She whipped off her bra and threw it away. The crowd went wild as her breasts were exposed. Her nipples pointed at her appreciative fans, pink and proud.

Not so shy anymore.

The act freed her, too. She spun around the pole, holding on to it tightly. Her breasts jiggled as she twisted and arched. She moaned aloud when her nipples bumped against the cool hardness. It felt so good. Her leg tightened, and the metal warmed from the heat of her skin. It pressed tight against her mound, smooth and insistent.

Arching back again, she spun and spun and spun –

***

‘Sinners repent!’

The words blasted next to Alicia’s ear. She jerked in surprise, and her surroundings changed in an instant. She was no longer in the cool confines of the Satin Club. She was outside, across the street, stuck in the crowd of protestors. An electronic squeal made her wince. Her head whipped around and she saw her father. He’d upgraded from a megaphone to a microphone with speakers. Loud, crackling speakers. She plugged her finger into her ear to stop the assault.

Confused, she tried to orient herself. She wasn’t on the Satin Club’s stage; the bright light shining on her was the sun. Her toes weren’t pinching because she was wearing stiletto heels; her feet were sore from standing too long on a concrete sidewalk. And the hard pole she’d wrapped herself around?

Oh, dear Lord.

Her face heated to the point where it had to be crimson. The hardness pressing against her mound and biting into the back of her knee was the yardstick they’d stapled to the back of her sign – the one that said ‘SATIN = SATAN’ She quickly pulled it from between her legs and set it a good foot away from her. She pressed her hand to her face and hoped that nobody had noticed.

If they had, they didn’t say anything. All around her, Sunlight Epiphany’s parishioners were intent on waving their signs at anyone who dared to even pass by the Satin Club on the street.

‘Deny these evil temptations! Cast out your demons and follow the one true light!’ The words boomed from the speakers that had been set up in the back of a pick-up truck. Her father was on a mission and, when he got like this, nothing could stop him.

Alicia winced. She understood their cause, but she wasn’t sure they should be harassing random pedestrians.

Besides, did they really know that the Satin Club was evil? None of them knew for sure what was going on behind that red door. That’s what she’d been trying to figure out when she’d slipped into that fantasy.

Daydream, she quickly amended. It had been a daydream, a flight of a bored mind.

Not a fantasy.

She shifted her weight, trying to bring some relief to her aching feet. She couldn’t help it. She had an affinity for dancers. She was just trying to understand.

What would it be like? she wondered.

She stared unblinkingly at the club across the street as those around her yelled at cars stopped at the light. What would it be like to work in such a place? To dance without clothes? To perform for the specific purpose of titillating those who looked at you?

Her body tingled, wrapped up in the idea, but her brain just couldn’t comprehend. It was just so foreign to her, so dirty. She’d danced nearly all her life. She understood what it was to portray emotion through dance, to tell a story. The stories they were telling at the Satin Club, though … those tales were suited for the deep of night, in the privacy of a bedroom. What were they thinking, putting them out there on display for everyone to see?

It was disturbing and shocking – and, admittedly, a bit intriguing.

‘Turn away from the devil!’

Alicia stepped further away from her father. The noise was just too loud. Instead of screaming at the club, shouldn’t they be trying to talk with the people inside? To explain the dangerous path they were on? Her church was protesting against this place for a reason. How did those women feel about what they did? Did they hate it? Were they yearning for a better life and holier pursuits?

Or did they do it because it felt good?

‘There they are!’ someone behind her gasped.

‘The devil rears its ugly head.’

Rapid-fire words started coming through the speakers. All around her, Alicia felt the energy of the crowd of protestors surge. She looked around, trying to figure out what was going on.

Her eyes widened when she realised that the door to the Satin Club had opened and two imposing men had walked out of it. Men in suits seemed to flock to this place, but these two were different. Their clothing might be expensive and impeccably cut, but it did nothing to civilise the men wearing it. The one on the left was shorter and leaner, with the body of a fighter. And the nose, she thought as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses. For all his ruggedness, he wore an air of gentility, a hard-won polish of money and power. The other did not. Big, muscled and intense, what you saw was what you got. And the big man was unhappy.

Sebastian Crowe and Remy Hunt, owner and operations manager of the Satin Club.

Her sore toes began tapping nervously against the sidewalk. She knew the two men on sight and she instinctively stepped further into the shade of an elm tree. As bad as it had been before, the conflict between her church and the Satin Club had just become more real.

And more dangerous.

Heaven help them.

***

Bas strode across the parking lot with Remy at his side, but his gaze was centred strictly on the crowd gathered across the street. Enough was enough. He’d been trying to turn the other cheek, but the assholes had upgraded from a megaphone to a speaker system. It was time to settle this.

‘I’m sick of these religious nuts.’ Remy cracked his knuckles, but his hands clenched right back into fists. ‘Do we stand outside their church yelling at them on Sunday mornings?’

‘They think they’re saving our souls.’

‘My soul is just fine. They’re the ones who need to “do unto others”.’

The corners of Bas’s mouth curled. ‘The Golden Rule? Really?’

‘Even my grandmother would want their heads. This isn’t spreading God’s word. This is harassment.’

It was, but there was also that tricky business about freedom of expression and the right to assemble.

It was mid-afternoon. The Satin Club opened their doors early for those white-collar good-ole-boys who still liked to conduct business the old-fashioned way – with booze flowing and skin flashing – but Remy was right. This irritant wasn’t just a nuisance anymore. It was beginning to affect business, not only for them but for their neighbours. Hetty from the 24-hour diner next door had already called to voice her complaints. It was time to do more than sit back and take the high road.

Besides, he and Remy had always been more comfortable on the back alleyways, anyway.

Bas’s eyes narrowed. They’d been watching the protestors from Sunlight Epiphany Church ever since they’d shown up a week ago. Reverend Harold Wheeler was the loud-mouthed leader of the bunch. From what they’d been able to gather, the rabble-rouser had moved to town from Birmingham a few years ago after his former congregation had found him elbow-deep in the collections plate. His new followers either had forgiven that little discretion or didn’t know about it.

The decibel level rose when the crowd saw them, and Bas’s jaw hardened. He had nothing against religion – until it was used against him. Then, he wasn’t afraid to fight back.

And fight dirty.

His attention moved over the angry bystanders. As always, it settled on one trim figure off to the side – a feminine figure with soft, curling brown hair and a sweet innocent face – a silent figure with a body that screamed.

‘What did you learn about the angel?’

‘Her name is Alicia Wheeler.’

The way his operations manager drew it out, it sounded like something he’d like to taste. And savour. And lick all over again.

Didn’t they both?

‘The reverend’s daughter and, as luck would have it, a dancer.’

Bas stared at her. Sweet little Leesha was a knockout. She wore boring, prim clothes and flat shoes, but that only made her all the more tempting. His gaze traced down her body, over her full breasts and along her trim waist to nudge at the secret spot between her legs. Did she really think it was hidden by the dowdy skirt she wore?

‘A dancer,’ he murmured under his breath. Now wasn’t that interesting? ‘Is she any good?’ His gaze hadn’t left that private spot. He could practically feel her lush, innocent pussy opening up to him, taking him deep. She’d be tight.

Would she be wet?

‘Not our type of dancing,’ Remy replied, ‘but she can move – although she seems to have given it up since moving back to work at her father’s church.’

Bas’s mouth watered. Now wasn’t that a shame? He could see that sensual body filling out a ballerina’s leotard, her breasts stretching the fabric tight. His palms tingled, thinking of those trim hips rolling and her hair flying around her shoulders. He could hear her breaths panting as her legs flexed and her toes pointed tight.

He’d known there had to be an outlet for her frustration, because, whether she knew it or not, that was one frustrated woman. It radiated all the way across the street and through a security feed. She looked so buttoned up and tied down. She showed up every day at her father’s side, but her expression always seemed calm and controlled. Almost distant. Was that because she was secure in her beliefs? Or was she there only because she was expected to be?

Everyone knew that preachers’ kids could go one of two ways. They either toed the line or went a little wild. Being lashed down with rules and bound by strict expectations could drive anyone to act out, to rebel and experiment with the wrong kind.

He wondered which way Alicia Wheeler went.

‘She’s clean as a whistle,’ Remy said, practically reading his mind. ‘From what I could find, she’s always been a good girl. A model of good behaviour, right down to those succulent toes.’

Her toes weren’t what Bas wanted to suck on.

‘Any vices or kinks? Anything we can use?’

Remy shook his head, but his gaze was locked onto the pretty brunette, too. He’d done the background checks on everyone in the crowd they could identify. He probably knew what kind of perfume she used, what size bra she wore and if there were any toys in her bedstand. ‘She got top grades. She volunteers. Doesn’t smoke or do drugs. She doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket on her record.’

‘Kind of makes you want to shake up her structured little life, doesn’t it?’

A sound came from deep in his friend’s throat.

‘What about sex?’ Bas pressed.

‘She dates the Joe Schmo to her father’s right. I doubt he’s even found a way into her pants yet.’ Remy shook his head. ‘Makes you sad for the girl, doesn’t it? Look at that body. She needs someone who can ride her good and long, someone who could make her moan.’

Maybe someone who could break the chains that were holding her back?

‘Let me take care of this,’ Remy said. ‘I could have this crowd gone by tomorrow.’

Bas didn’t think they were quite to that stage. Yet.

‘I’ve got something else in mind.’

The operations manager sent him a quick look, but then followed his gaze back across the street. Back to sexy, repressed Alicia.

‘Dancers need to dance,’ Bas said softly.

He knew a weak link when he saw one.

The Satin Club was the classiest and most exclusive gentlemen’s club in town. It was also his baby. He’d built it from the ground up, and nobody was going to tear it down, harass his clients or threaten his girls. Protecting it was his job, but he couldn’t attack a church outright. There was no winning that kind of battle.

No, this might take a bit more finesse.

And that’s where the sweet-looking Ms Wheeler came in.

She might not approve of the naked gymnastics their girls performed, but she appreciated art. She appreciated physical movement and expression. As a dancer, there would be empathy there.

Strip away the nudity and the voyeurs. Ignore the money that exchanged hands and all the extra-curricular activities that happened behind the red satin curtains. At the heart of the Satin Club was movement of the human body. The female body. The beat, the rhythm, the instinctual response to the sound of music.

The freedom.

Oh, yeah, as prim and proper as Alicia Wheeler seemed, she’d respond to the core of what happened here. Good girl or not, she’d respond to the dance.

‘Let’s go introduce ourselves,’ Bas said.

It was time to see what would happen if all that repression was unleashed.

***

Alicia watched Sebastian Crowe and Remy Hunt approach like two black panthers stalking their prey. Whenever her father decided to stage one of these protests, she always made sure to do her homework. She studied up on the city’s laws on assembling and permits. She determined the most effective, yet safest places to gather. Most importantly, she learned all she could about the people they were about to aggravate – because people were always aggravated when her father started one of his campaigns.

What she’d learned about these two had made her antennae go up.

Despite appearances, she didn’t like confrontations. She hadn’t wanted to tangle with these two, but her father had insisted. A den of iniquity, he’d called it.

The lion’s den was more like it.

‘Heathens! Lust worshippers! Bow down and repent before the Saviour!’

Grimacing, Alicia worked her way through the crowd towards her father. She wished that Paul hadn’t bought the speakers. They had her teetering on the edge of a migraine. ‘Dad, stop yelling. They’re coming to speak with you.’

He ignored her completely. ‘Admit your sins! Beg for forgiveness!’

She cast a glance at Colin, silently asking for help, but he lifted his hands in defeat. She sighed. If anyone disliked confrontations more than she, it was her boyfriend. If she wanted to even call him that.

That was another problem, but this one was more pressing.

She wrapped her fingers around her father’s shoulder. ‘Please stop.’

A frown momentarily settled on his face. He’d become thinner in recent months. The gauntness almost made him look fragile, but there was a glint in his eyes when the two representatives of the Satin Club began to cross the street. Eight days of this, and he’d finally got a response.

Alicia clutched the top edge of her sign. Please be civil. Everyone, please be civil.

‘God knows,’ her father spat at the two men. ‘The Lord sees what you do in that depraved –’

The words were cut off abruptly when the bigger of their two visitors reached out and simply took the microphone out of her father’s hand like a parent taking a toy from a naughty child. He shook his head and made a show of turning the device off. Alicia looked quickly at her father. Red was starting to creep up his neck. He opened his mouth to speak.

‘Reverend Wheeler.’ The man in the sunglasses shoved out his hand in greeting before he could get out another word. ‘I’m Sebastian Crowe, owner of the Satin Club.’

The words were pleasant, but there was enough steel underneath to make a shiver go down Alicia’s spine.

Her father looked at the outstretched hand in distaste. If he took it, he’d be consorting with the enemy. If he denied it, he might lose the chance to convert the misled. Conflict was clear on his face, but he accepted the handshake. It lasted all of a second before contact was broken.

Sebastian Crowe folded his arms over his chest. ‘I understand you’ve taken an interest in my club.’

Alicia edged further away, but froze when Remy Hunt’s dark gaze snapped to her. She stared at him, surprised and breathing a bit too hard. He was even bigger up close. Big, shadowy and daunting. She was unsettled that she’d captured his attention. There was something untamed about the look he was giving her, something primal and overtly … sexual. Her fingers tightened until the cardboard sign scraped her palms.

Instead of moving on, his hungry gaze swept boldly down her body to settle on her breasts. She sucked in a shocked breath. Her nipples were still tight from her daydream. She hoped her bra hid the fact but –

His gaze dropped lower to the sign and one dark eyebrow lifted.

Alicia froze, that familiar sense of fire and ice sweeping through her. Oh, dear Lord. Had he seen her? All the way from across the street?

Had he seen her – humping a stick of wood?

Mortification washed through her, but he wasn’t even trying to hide the way he was looking at her. His intimate gaze was sleepy but steady, and a muscle ticked in his jaw. She might not have a lot of experience, but her feminine instincts recognised the prickling of her skin and the weight in the air between them. The look was one of lust. Pure, unbridled and white-hot. She swallowed hard when she felt her body respond. Heat settled in her breasts and her nipples beaded tightly. Low in her belly, she felt a clench.

‘Free to demonstrate,’ she heard vaguely. ‘But realise that there are other businesses you’re disturbing …’

The conversation continued around them, but Remy Hunt just continued ogling her, practically making love to her with his eyes. Only he wouldn’t call it that. Something warm and heavy coiled tight in Alicia’s belly. This man hadn’t said a word, but she’d got the message loud and clear.

This stranger wanted to fuck her.

The word sounded coarse in her ears, but her body liked the rough sound of it. Her skin sensitised and thighs squeezed. She was so surprised by the intimate reactions it gave her the power to look away. Shaken, she stepped back.

Only he took a step forward until he was only an arm’s-length away.

Her heart skipped, and she cast a glance at Colin. Pink dotted his cheekbones, but he averted his gaze. A tight sound squeezed out of the back of her throat. She sent a beseeching look towards Paul, Steve, Jeanne – nobody seemed to notice what was happening between her and the club’s manager. They were intent on Sebastian Crowe and seemingly ready to pounce.

What was an uncomfortable encounter was turning unstable. She needed to pay attention and defuse the situation – although she had no idea how to defuse a situation like Remy Hunt. The words ‘noise ordinance’ crept into her consciousness.

‘Father, they’re right.’

The words were hoarse when they passed her lips. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn she saw the Hunter smile.

She cleared her throat. She’d warned her father about this. ‘Anything above sixty-five decibels and we can get ticketed.’

Her father’s mouth worked. ‘They can ticket me all they want. I follow the law of God.’

‘And they’ll impound the sound equipment.’

Those words got through to Paul, at least. He’d borrowed the sound system from a friend. Her father’s new follower leaned over to whisper in his ear.

Alicia flinched when she felt a hot touch to the back of her hand. She whipped her head around and found Remy Hunt still watching her, but now holding out the microphone.

She looked at it in his hand. As she watched, his thumb moved suggestively up and down the side of the moulded plastic. It swirled around the silver knob atop the device and her lips flattened. There was no mistaking that gesture.

She snatched the phallic symbol from his hand, but was horrified when she heard him chuckle. She looked at the death grip she had on the microphone and nearly dropped it. She hadn’t wanted it because he’d made her think of his cock. A cock, she quickly amended. Any cock … penis … manhood …

Her cheeks flared and she quickly hid the microphone behind her sign.

That only drew his attention back to her breasts that were now hard and feeling twice as heavy.

Alicia licked her lips.

And regretted that, too.

Damn the man. What was he doing to her?

Determinedly, she focused her attention on the discussion going on between her father and the Satin Club’s owner. Reverend Wheeler looked flustered and upset, while Sebastian Crowe looked controlled and relaxed. With his sunglasses in the way, she couldn’t see his eyes. As she watched more closely, though, the lines around his mouth deepened.

For some reason, the subtle reaction made her shiver. It was an intriguing mouth. Firm, yet lush for a man. With that nose, the contrast was sexy.

Sexy. The word rang in her thoughts and she tried to push it aside.

These two did offer temptation, she realised. A dark temptation she’d never encountered before so up close and personal. They were both attractive, in a wicked, forbidden way. Her spine stiffened in defence even as her hand turned a bit sweaty against the microphone.

Her father was right about these two.

‘I’m simply saying you should know all the facts before you start to judge,’ Crowe said, his voice reasonable and calm. The line at the corner of his mouth sharpened, though, and Alicia felt that hot, tight sensation in the pit of her stomach slide even lower. ‘Have you or any of your people experienced my club?’

‘We would not set foot inside that devil’s lair!’ Paul snapped.

‘And you couldn’t, because you aren’t a member,’ Crowe continued, unfazed. ‘We screen our clientele. This is a gentlemen’s club. We offer a respite for businessmen looking for an escape from today’s pressures, emails, phone calls and negotiations.’

‘You have whores stripping and showing their wares.’

Alicia gaped at her father. When had the focus changed from the men who paid to enter the club to the women who danced there?

Crowe pulled himself at least an inch taller and that calm composure slipped away to expose a grittier underbelly. ‘My employees are not whores. They are dancers. Artists.’

‘Showing their naked bodies is not an art form.’

‘Are you saying that the female body that God created is not beautiful?’

Her father was taken aback. ‘I … I …’

‘Praise his name with dancing,’ Crowe quoted. ‘Is that not what the Bible instructs?’

Alicia blinked.

‘Don’t you quote the Bible to me,’ her father snarled. ‘It is an abomination coming from your lips.’

Crowe slowly turned his head and Alicia felt pinned. Hunt’s gaze hadn’t moved from her either. She’d felt it stroking over her, hot and slow, even as she’d hid behind her sign. But now she’d drawn the attention of both men. Both stalking panthers.

‘Isn’t your own daughter a dancer, Reverend Wheeler?’

Her father sputtered in surprise before slashing his hand through the air. ‘She doesn’t do that anymore.’

Alicia sucked in air so hard, it hurt her tight lungs. She didn’t know what surprised her more. Crowe had obviously studied her as intently as she’d studied him, but her father …

She’d expected him to say, ‘Not that kind of dancing’. But he hadn’t.

His tone had been so cutting, so disparaging. Had her dancing been an embarrassment to him? Was he really condemning expression through all movement of the female body?

‘That’s a shame,’ Crowe said. ‘I heard she was very good.’

‘Don’t you miss it?’ Hunt said quietly.

They were the first words the big man had spoken and, like his gaze, they were directed at her. The question was so unexpected; Alicia didn’t know what to say. She did miss dancing. She missed it desperately.

‘Don’t you miss the music flowing through your veins?’ Crowe asked, double-teaming her. ‘The rhythm beating in your chest? The passion pulsing?’

The hot knot inside her lodged directly between her legs, and she could feel it throbbing.

Had these two seen her get caught up in her fantasy?

He’d made it sound so basic, so elemental, so … so carnal. She licked her lips and her skin heated in discomfort. She’d never considered it sexual before, but she did miss the way dancing made her feel. Strong, in control and desired. She’d loved becoming one with the music, letting it enter her, thrill her and soothe her. She craved to put her body through the exertion again, to feel her muscles straining and air stroking over her skin as she moved.

Her nerve-endings tingled.

Had her dancing been about more than she’d known? She’d loved the attention of the crowd. She’d savoured their eyes upon her as she’d revealed her innermost self.

‘My club and patrons appreciate our dancers,’ Crowe said. ‘The Satin Club values women.’

‘You objectify them,’ her father said.

‘We empower them. I’d be happy to give you a tour of the place anytime so you can see for yourself.’

Alicia’s gaze flicked up reflexively, only Crowe wasn’t looking at her.

‘Anytime.’

The word was practically whispered in her ear. Remy Hunt was.

‘Come see our stage,’ Crowe offered. ‘We have more than poles. Our dancers pride themselves on their routines. We allow expression that the strip clubs you lump us in with do not. Hell, one of our most popular performers never takes off a piece of clothing.’

‘Hell is right,’ her father snarled. ‘Hell and damnation. We will not set foot inside that viper pit.’

‘Yet you’ll judge it.’

‘We’ll fight the devil wherever we find him.’

But had they? None of them really knew what went on inside that building, Alicia thought. Shouldn’t they learn more before they cast the first stone?

Crowe’s words had struck a chord within her. He’d verbalised her feelings in a way she’d never been able to. This man knew the heart of a dancer and he allowed grown women to do what they loved for a living.

Was that so wrong?

‘So be it,’ he said. His eyes were still hidden, but the chill radiating from him told that they’d gone cold.

As if on cue, a police car crept into view behind them, parking along the curb. Seeing that he had backup, the Satin Club’s owner stepped away and wiped his hands.

Of them? Of the possibility of working towards a truce?

‘When any of you are willing to have an adult discourse about this, let me know.’

This time Alicia knew his gaze was on her. She was the only one who’d tried to keep the discussion polite and open.

‘My offer stands,’ the enigmatic man said before turning and walking away.

A sandy-haired cop passed him, coming towards them. His ticket pad was already out and he was frowning at the size of the speakers that were perched in the back of Paul’s pick-up truck. It was clear that he’d been called about the noise. If only they’d listened when Crowe had warned them.

‘So does mine,’ Hunt said quietly.

Alicia shivered when the words were practically whispered in her ear. When she glanced up, she found the man’s gaze settled suggestively on her hand. She realised that the microphone was snuggled into her palm, and her thumb was worrying the shiny knob atop it. Round and round, the pad of her thumb went. Over and across. Flicking against the edges.

She dropped the microphone like a hot potato and Remy Hunt chuckled as he walked away, leaving her flustered.

Alicia looked around worriedly, but her group’s attention was on the police officer now.

She let out a shaky breath and eased the vice-like hold she still had on her sign. She felt like she’d just escaped danger – or more precisely, that it had just let her go.

She knew about the devil and the temptations it put in good people’s paths. She’d listened to the sermons and read the texts herself. She forced herself to take another step back, only to bump into the tree behind her. The rough bark bit into her shoulders and buttocks as she watched the two black panthers glide away, their strides masculine and confident. Temptations were dark, attractive and hard to ignore.

Her gaze dropped to the microphone that sat propped up suggestively in the grass.

She’d just never realised how sharply temptation could bite. Or how strongly curiosity would pull.