Читать книгу Hot In Here - Susan Lyons - Страница 5

Backstage, pacing, Scott Jackman heard the raunchy music swell, the crowd whoop and roar. He groaned. What the fuck had he gotten himself into?

Who’d have guessed his lifelong ambition to be a firefighter would land him here? Yeah, he’d known that, as a probie, he’d be the butt of a bunch of stupid jokes. But if he’d ever figured he’d have to boogie his own butt across a stage in front of hundreds of screaming women—not to mention a bunch of gay guys, the gang from good old Fire hall 11, and his little sister—he might have…

Hell, no. Whatever his parents might wish, he’d never been cut out for the farming life in Chilliwack.

He was a firefighter, through and through. And firefighters were tough. If he could risk his life in smoke and flames, he could bloody well get through three minutes on stage.

Scott had made the first cut in the competition, based on photos submitted by a couple hundred guys. He was one of twenty-four finalists for twelve firefighter calendar spots. If he didn’t win a month, the guys at the fire hall would never let him forget it.

Beyond the curtains, the last notes of music were swallowed up in a thunder of applause. Crap. The audience was voting with their hands, feet and voices, and it sounded like the guy on stage was sure to make the calendar.

The curtains parted and a panting, laughing man burst through. He’d gone out wearing full firefighter turnout gear and was back minus the helmet and jacket. His muscled upper body gleamed with oil and sweat, and he was hauling up his turnout pants over leopard-print briefs. A fire hose was slung over his shoulder.

God knows what he’d done with the hose on stage.

Whatever it was, the audience sure the hell had got off on it.

Shit, shit, shit. What had he been thinking, trusting his sister Lizzie to put together his act? Tap? Fucking tap dance? In front of an audience that clearly wanted raunch?

Was it too late to change his plan? There were still a few people ahead of him; he had time to work up a new routine.

Nah. Lizzie’d kill him. She’d put a lot of time into coaching him. Helping him remember what they’d learned in those long-ago childhood dance lessons, and turning it into something very adult.

But the guys at the station would rib him to death if he made a fool of himself.

’Course, it wasn’t like they didn’t already.

The next competitor strutted toward the curtain, wearing turnout gear and—oh, great—carrying an axe. Music started up. This piece, too, had a hip-grinding rhythm.

Scott groaned again, then clapped the headphones of his iPod to his ears and cranked up the music Lizzie had chosen. He closed his eyes, settled into the beat. Imagined the steps, riffs, the way his hips and arms would move to the music. The sultry notes of the sax began to heat his blood. Man, this kind of music always made him feel like sex.

Speaking of which…if he sold his number and made the cut for the calendar, there was a damned good chance he’d be going home tonight with one of those screaming firefighter groupies. Preferably one with a killer bod and long blond hair.

The other women were clapping but Jenny Yuen lifted her digital camera and snapped a final shot of the latest…contender was the only word, the way the guy’d clasped his hands together over his head like a victorious boxer. His build, though, was more like one of those hulky weight lifters who heaved barbells over their heads. Gross!

“Any guy with such overblown muscles has to have a tiny dick,” she told her girlfriends. “That’s why he brought an axe. It’s his penis substitute.”

The Caprice nightclub, packed with a few hundred very warm bodies, was a noise machine. Everyone was yelling, and Jenny, at five-foot-nothing in her kitten-heeled pink sandals, had to scream even louder.

The club was set up with tiny tables shoved close together. Jenny’d come early to make her case: a midget reporter doing a cover story needed a down-front vantage point to shoot photos. As a result, she’d scored a primo table for her and her best gal pals, the Awesome Foursome.

“Isn’t it balls that shrink from steroids?” Suzanne Brennan shouted back.

The cheers finally died down and the girls settled into their seats.

“Yeah, it’s testicles,” Ann Montgomery said. A lawyer, she was a stickler for accuracy. “And a reduced sperm count, and erectile dysfunction.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jenny said. “Could’ve sworn it was dicks.”

“Doesn’t exactly matter, does it?” Rina Goldberg was the fourth member of the Foursome. Her naturally soft voice had grown hoarse from all the screaming. She took a sip of her lemon-drop martini. “The guy’s not going to be much use to a woman, either way.”

“True enough,” Jenny said as her mind flagged a story idea. Obviously there were a lot of misconceptions about the side effects of steroids, and this was stuff young women and men needed to know. Like, if the people in this audience knew the truth, would any of them be cheering for Mr. Muscle-Bound? How could a guy be sexy if unwrapping his package was going to lead to a major letdown?

She reached for her own chocolate martini. Man, was that great! Almost as good as sex—with a guy with a functioning package.

Better than sex with Pete, her most recent dumpee. He’d functioned, but the sex had, after the first few times, turned out to be ho hum.

Pete, from Korea, had been the latest in a string of taboo lovers she’d kept secret from her majorly old-fashioned family. For them, only Chinese guys rated as date-worthy.

For her—second-generation Canadian and a thoroughly modern Jenny—race, culture and religion were irrelevant. She wanted a guy who was smart and sexy. And, while some of the family-approved Chinese boys had turned out to be stimulating conversationalists, not a single one had ever turned her crank.

And her crank was getting rusty from a month’s disuse. Being in this room was both heaven and hell for a sexually frustrated girl.

Because, no two ways about it, sexy was what tonight was all about. The people in this room were on a mission: to choose the men who would grace the next Greater Vancouver firefighters calendar. Civic pride was at stake. Vancouver simply had to have the hottest guys on their calendar.

Besides, the hotter the guys, the more people who’d buy the calendar, and the more money raised for charities like the Burn Fund and Cancer Lodge.

Music began again, calling Jenny’s attention back to the stage as the next competitor sauntered out. He was dressed in full turnout gear, the way most of the others had started. When this one peeled off his helmet, she saw he had silver in his close-cropped hair. No question he was handsome, though. She snapped a shot.

“This is more like it,” Ann said, leaning forward.

“Too old,” Jenny shouted.

“Old enough to know how to handle his hose,” Suzanne chimed in, and they all laughed.

The man was gyrating to a classic rock number with a sexy, throbbing beat. He peeled off his bulky jacket, revealing a white tank top stretched over taut muscles.

“Oh, yeah,” Ann said. “No steroids here, and I bet this guy’s package is fully functional.” She fanned herself with her hand.

“What’s this thing you’ve got for older men?” Jenny asked.

“It’s not age, it’s about appreciating quality,” Ann shot back.

Jenny studied the man who filled her camera lens. Nah. Had to be damn near forty. To a twenty-three-year-old like her, that was definitely old.

Still, she had to admit the silver fox was more attractive than the limp-dick steroid guy. And he did know how to move. Watching him, Jenny felt her whole body throb in time with the sexy beat. She pressed her thighs together, squeezing against the burn of arousal between them.

Okay, so maybe she wouldn’t kick this fox out of bed just for having silver hair.

When he finished his number, she leaped to her feet and joined her friends in cheering loudly. “My vibrator’s going to get a workout tonight!” she shouted to them.

“I know exactly what you mean!” Ann called back.

Then Jenny climbed up on her chair, tugged down her denim mini and turned to take some crowd shots. The club was packed. Most of the women and some of the guys wore bright, fun clothing, and the lighting should make for interesting effects. Beyond the superficial, though, she hoped she was a skilled enough photographer to convey the throb of sexual energy in the air, the buzz of excited conversation, the musk of sweat and hundreds of different perfumes, colognes and assorted toiletries.

Young women had turned out in droves, but there were lots of men, too. Funny to see the trendily dressed West End gays shoulder to shoulder with burly dudes who could only be firefighters, come to cheer—or jeer—the competitors.

Music started up and she slipped back into her seat. Ooh, this was different. Same old, same old on the music, but this competitor had on a Zorro mask as well as the standard helmet.

A little shorter than most of the guys—a couple of inches under six feet?—and slender, this man sauntered slowly to center stage and then began to move to the bump-and-grind music in a mesmerizing, hip-swaying motion. Hands went up, the helmet came off.

A head shake, and—

“Oh, my God!” Jenny shrieked. “It’s a woman!”

Long, gleaming red hair tossed every which way.

“Woohoo!” the crowd shrieked, with the women yelling variations of “Go, sister!” and the guys—the straight guys—beginning to chant, “Take it off!”

The woman on stage gave a wide, sultry smile as she made a sexy production of slipping off her turnout coat. Like the silver-haired guy, she was wearing a tank, but hers was hot pink, almost the same shade as the crop top Jenny was wearing.

“Wow,” Rina said admiringly, “she’s sure toned.”

“Of course she is,” Ann said. “Firefighters have to be strong, to drag people out of burning buildings. I love it, that women do that job.”

“Gotta envy those boobs,” Suze said. She, like Jenny, was barely a B in a good bra.

The performer, her nipples erect under the skintight top, was definitely a braless C.

Jenny clicked away, knowing one of these shots would make it into the Georgia Straight for sure. The woman peeled off her giant boots and baggy turnout pants to reveal black tights, slung low on her hip bones.

As she did, two men in navy firefighter uniforms toted something onto the stage and then disappeared behind the curtain.

It was a pole, mounted on a platform.

“A fire pole,” Jenny yelled. “Now, that beats an axe or a hose.”

The audience howled approvingly, drowning her out.

The volume increased as the masked woman twisted and twined her way around the pole. Man, that looked sexy.

Hmm. Hadn’t Jenny heard that pole-dancing lessons were a new craze for bachelorette parties?

Cool. Another story idea, and the research would be a blast.

The woman finished her act and the audience was on its feet, cheering, stomping the floor, wolf-whistling loud enough to burst eardrums.

“Good for her!” Ann yelled, clapping furiously. “She’s definitely going to win a slot on the calendar. Gotta love how she busted the all-male stereotype.”

The crowd was still applauding when the lights went off and the woman on stage was gone. Gradually the noise died down but the place was buzzing, even more energized than before.

“A tough act to follow,” Suze commented.

“Yeah. Pity the next guy,” Jenny said.

The stage remained dark.

“He chickened out,” Rina said.

Music started up, but it wasn’t the kind they’d been listening to all evening, with a pounding, fast-driving beat. Instead it was a single instrument, its voice somehow combining husky and pure. Was that a—

“Saxophone.” Rina didn’t have to yell, the room had gone so quiet even her whisper carried. “Also known as sultry, sensual, seductive.” A musician herself, she knew all about instruments.

“Sexy,” Suzanne sighed on a slow breath of air.

“You can say that again,” Jenny agreed as the music threaded through the still air. Familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

“Summertime,” Rina said. “Gershwin. And a beautiful rendition. I think it might—”

She broke off as, after the first couple of bars, a light came on. Rather than the floodlights used in the previous acts, this was one blue spotlight, and the stage was…smoking. Wisps of smoke twined through the air, the same way the music did.

“Dry ice?” Ann murmured. “Effective.”

Into the smoky blue spot walked a man clad in turnout gear. No hose, no axe, no props at all. He stood quietly, lifting his head as if the music were seeping through him. Then, with minimal movements, he removed his helmet, turnout coat, boots and then finally his pants.

The audience sighed and murmured.

No in-your-face undies on this guy, but his costume was even more appealing for being subtle.

He wore slim-fitting tuxedo pants, a black tux vest and a black bow tie. No shirt, just tanned arms with exactly the right amount of musculature.

“Take a picture!” Ann ordered.

Damn, Jenny’d been so caught up in watching, she hadn’t taken a single shot. Hurriedly she lifted her camera and took a few full-body shots, then zoomed in on his face. Strong planes, vivid blue eyes, light brown hair with blond streaks that caught the light. Serious, not smiling or flirting with the audience as the others had done.

In fact, it was almost as if he were unaware of the audience. As if he were alone, listening to that sultry music as wisps of smoke curled up around him.

The saxophone climbed high, intense, and the man’s head moved a little. Then his upper body, in time with the music. Then, finally, he stepped forward and began to dance.

To tap dance.

She’d never seen anything like it. His shoes were tap shoes, but this was no slick Gene Kelly, An American in Paris–type of tap, nor was it the Celtic Riverdance style. It was slow, almost shuffly, bluesy. And very, very sexy.

She squeezed her thighs together. Way sexier than the silver-haired guy.

The man on stage would take a scuffing step, hip thrusting forward and out, then do a kind of muffled drumroll of taps, heel to toe. His posture was perfect, but graceful and fluid rather than stiff, and his arms moved sensually in opposition to his legs. He made Jenny think of a tango dancer with an imaginary partner.

Tap, tango, blues…whatever you called it, this was the sexiest dance ever invented.

“Is it hot in here?” she gasped, torn between staring, mesmerized, and taking pictures. Awesome pictures, what with the smoke, the blue light and the man.

“That’s amazing.” Rina sighed. “Don’t you just want to take him home?”

Take him home for her own private dancer. Oh, yeah. No question about it.

Well, okay, not home, where she lived with her old-school family. But somewhere, anywhere where she could be alone with him and jump those beautiful bones.

A minute or two into the number, he slipped off the tux vest and tossed it casually on the pile of firefighter clothes.

There was only one word for his torso. No, two. Holy shit!

It was perfect. Firm pecs, a drift of damp hair plastered to his body, arrowing down a lean abdomen. Her fingers itched to touch him.

The tux pants shifted and, growing damp with sweat, clung as he moved. Jenny zoomed in with her camera. Wow. He was getting turned on, too.

Had she said beautiful bones? Try beautiful boner!

It wasn’t just her fingers itching now.

She licked her lips. “Nothing dysfunctional about that guy’s package,” she told her friends.

She zoomed up to his face. His expression was intense, focused. Focused on the saxophone or on his own arousal? Definitely not on the audience. It was as if he didn’t see the hundreds of people whose attention he’d captured so completely. The crowd was silent now, but for an occasional whisper, the rustle of clothing, the clink of ice cubes.

It was as if none of them mattered to him.

Somehow this man’s bearing, his distance from his audience, was far more arousing than the in-your-face lewdness of the other guys who’d performed.

Arousing.

Her black silk thong was soaked and her pussy was throbbing with need.

“Mr. February,” she announced to her friends. No question, the bluesy tap dancer, the smoky saxophone guy, would win the most coveted slot.

“There’s still six more to go,” Suzanne murmured.

“Not relevant.” Didn’t Suze get it? No one could top this man.

The music ended and the blue spotlight shut off, making the audience gasp. The dancer was gone.

But then the spot came back on and he was standing quietly, hands clasped in front of him. Hiding his erection? For the first time he made eye contact with the audience, and they were yelling the roof off. He smiled—kinda cocky. Kinda…relieved? Definitely sexy.

Damn, he was hot.

She was trapped inside a body that was burning up with lust, and she knew just the firefighter who could rescue her.

Yeah, she wanted this guy. She wanted those hot, sweaty muscles, she wanted that supremely functional dick. She wanted him to concentrate as intensely on her as he had on the music, to be even more turned on, to move inside her the way he’d moved to that saxophone.

The thought of him inside her made her squirm with need.

This was so unlike her. Sure, she’d hooked up with her fair share of guys—and there was nothing shy about her when it came to sex!—but she’d never felt like flinging herself on top of a total stranger.

“Take it off!” a woman screamed, her high voice piercing the roar of the crowd.

“Woohoo!” Jenny cheered.

The man’s grin widened. His hands went to the waistband of his pants and fiddled with the button, and now more women—and the gay guys—were chanting, “Take it off!”

It seemed as if his eyes were searching the crowd and Jenny felt their sparkling blueness pass over her, Ann, Suzanne and Rina. His hands left his waist and went to his neck. He peeled off the bow tie and tossed it—directly toward their foursome.

“Suze, grab it!” Rina ordered.

Suzanne—the tallest of their group—reached up. Another eager girl jostled her and they both stumbled. The bow tie fell neatly into Jenny’s hands.

Laughing, Jenny raised her hands as high as they could go, flaunting her trophy. For a moment her eyes met those of the man on stage and he winked. Then the spotlight went off and this time he was gone for good.

He’d winked. Had he actually thrown the bow tie to her? Jenny’s heart was racing. Had he seen her in the crowd, singled her out? Was the bow tie a sign he wanted her, too?

Nah, that was crazy. She’d done nothing to make him want, much less even notice, her. But maybe, if she interviewed him later…

“Jen, sit down.” Ann was tugging her hand. “The next guy’s coming on.”

More? Shouldn’t the night end with the best?

She sank into her chair, realizing her legs were wobbly. “It’s gonna be downhill from here,” she told the others as she looped the bow tie around her neck. Mmm. It was damp and smelled all musky and male.

And her thong, the inside of her thighs, couldn’t get any wetter.

The next firefighter was a bust, which was a relief because her body could settle down a bit. The guy was Chinese-Canadian, about the same size as the pole-dancing woman. Good-looking, but he couldn’t dance worth a damn.

“Hate to criticize my own kind,” Jenny told her friends, “but Asian men should stick to martial arts. When it comes to dance, they’re pretty wimpy.” She cast a sly glance at Suzanne. “And while I’m stereotyping, got any comment on Jaxon?” Her friend was long-distance dating—and phone- and cyber-sexing—an African-American man who lived in San Francisco.

Suzanne gave a self-satisfied smile. “Oh, yeah, Jaxon has an amazing sense of rhythm.” She winked. “Even on the dance floor.”

“Go ahead, rub it in,” Ann said. “You’re the only one of us who’s had good sex in ages.”

“You have to actually go out with a guy to have good sex,” Suzanne pointed out. “You’re always working.”

“Jen and I go out,” Rina said. “Just not with as much success as you.”

“Your day will come,” Suzanne said blithely.

“I’d like to come sooner rather than later, please,” Jenny said. Preferably tonight, and with saxophone guy, not her vibrator. Somehow, though she’d never even spoken to him, her body knew him. Knew he was the one man in the room tonight who could give her what she needed. If she ever got her hands on that guy, she’d finally have sex tales to rival Suze’s.

Nice fantasy, Jen, she thought as she turned her attention back to the stage. Like you’d ever have the guts to try to seduce a man like that.

Damn, she was always talking a big story, and managed to persuade her friends she was “out there” and in charge. Why couldn’t she persuade herself?

She always egged on the other girls to be bolder, more free and easy about their sexuality. Time to listen to her own advice. It wasn’t like she bought into the traditional values her family was always pushing on her.

If she wanted a guy, she could fucking well go after him.

A white guy who had a dangerous job. He was everything her family would disapprove of. But when had that ever stopped her? It wasn’t like her folks would find out. Though she might think they were nuts, she’d never hurt them. At home she was the dutiful, respectful daughter.

But did she really want this guy? He was eye candy, with no depth.

No, he was primo eye candy with a very impressive package that would do an excellent job of probing her own depths.

Perfect for one night of her life when her body was already so hot it was ready to explode.

Seize the night, girl! Better still, seize the guy.

The last few performances went by in a blur.

Would she, wouldn’t she? Could she really be that gutsy and outrageous? And even if she did make a move on him, why would he choose her? She was pretty enough, but so were lots of other women in this room. And maybe he liked blondes or redheads. Tall, busty women.

The last number ended, the applause died away and the audience waited expectantly. The emcee, a C-cup woman herself in that black leather corset, came on stage. “Give us five minutes, folks, then we’ll announce the results.”

“It’s supposed to be based on the loudness and length of applause, right?” Rina asked.

“Yeah, they say they have some kind of applause meter,” Jenny told her. “Obviously the top twelve get the calendar slots, and the overall winner gets February.”

“Not the cover?” Ann asked.

Jenny shook her head. “They’ll pick the cover from the pictures taken at the photo shoot.”

Suzanne elbowed her. “Attending that photo shoot, Jen?”

Jenny chuckled. “You read my mind. I’d already figured pitching that for a follow-up story.”

Rina sighed. “Oh, God, can we come along, too?” Then she glanced around the table. “So, what’s your vote? Who’s going to win February?”

Jenny touched the bow tie at her neck. “No question.”

“He was great,” Ann said, “but I also liked the silver-haired guy. There was some quality about him….”

“Age,” Jenny said promptly.

“Experience,” Ann snapped back. “I bet he’s the best lover in the group.”

“No way. My guy is.”

“Your guy?” Ann raised an eyebrow.

Jenny grinned. She wasn’t about to share her plans in case she didn’t succeed. But if luck was on her side tonight, at their next Monday dinner she’d usurp Suzanne as queen of the sexy tales.

“Suze?” Rina asked. “Who do you pick?”

“As a lover, none of them could possibly measure up to Jaxon.”

She said it as if there weren’t the slightest doubt in the world, and Jenny felt a pang of envy. Suze wasn’t talking just about sex, but love. Every girl’s dream—and a dream Jenny had never come even close to experiencing.

“Yeah, sure,” Jenny said brusquely, “but who should win the competition?”

“I’d vote for the woman,” Suzanne said. “She has more balls than all those guys put together. How about you, Rina?”

“I’m torn. Ann’s man has class, and, Suze, you’re right about that gal’s nerve. And I really liked Jenny’s guy’s music and style, not to mention those amazing blue eyes. But I also liked the young guy with the curly dark hair. Didn’t you just want to eat him up?”

“And no calories either,” Jenny said. Rina, who had a body-image problem, was obsessive about what she ate.

“Mmm.” Rina ran her tongue around her lips, and then said, “On second thought, I’d rather he ate me up.”

They were still laughing when there was a drumroll and the emcee said, “The moment we’ve all been waiting for!”

The crowd turned, en masse, toward the stage.

“Our twelve winners are…”

She called the first name, and Rina’s curly-haired guy sauntered on stage to cheers—and catcalls that had to come from men in rival fire halls.

“Definitely edible,” Ann said to Rina.

The emcee called a few more names, and then…“Told you!” Suzanne said when the pole-dancing woman strode triumphantly on stage.

“And I told you,” Ann crowed when the silver fox took his place alongside the others.

Jenny was getting nervous. Not because there was any question in her mind who’d win, but because her moment was approaching. Could she seduce him? A hottie firefighter like him must have women throwing themselves at him every day. And especially tonight.

Then she tossed back her hair. Hell, she was a tiny Asian girl with a shitload of attitude and a secret weapon. She’d stand out. Besides, she’d caught his bow tie and he’d winked at her.

When ten men and one woman stood in a line on the stage, the emcee said, “And now, the grand winner, the hottest of the hot, Vancouver’s own Mr. February, Scott Jackman from Fire Hall Eleven!”

The sax guy had tossed the tux vest back on but left it unbuttoned and he was grinning, looking pumped about his win.

The audience was jumping up and down, cheering, whistling, clapping. Down at the front, near the stage, it was a sea of women and Jenny was swallowed up.

But when the winners started to leave the stage, the crowd began to stretch, sigh, get ready to head out.

“I need to go,” Ann said. “I have to get up early and head into the office.”

“Of course you do,” Suzanne said. “It’s Saturday. What else would you do?”

“I know, I have no life. You don’t have to remind me.” Ann’s hazel eyes darkened momentarily. Then her expression lightened. “At least I’ll have sexy dreams tonight.”

“We all will,” Rina said.

Jenny, nervously hoping for sex in more than just her dreams, said, “I have to find my way backstage and do some interviews.”

“A tough job but someone has to do it,” Suzanne teased.

“Need an assistant?” Rina asked hopefully.

“There are some things a girl has to do on her own,” Jenny said. Like conduct the perfect seduction.

Minutes later she was weaving her way through the milling horde. She ducked into a ladies’ room to freshen up and check her cell, which she’d turned off before the show began.

She was in luck. No messages. She’d told her family she was working and would be home late, and no one had called to check up on her.

When she made it backstage, her heart sank. A dozen women surrounded Scott Jackman and one, an extremely cute and curvy blonde, was wrapped around him, babbling about how fabulous he’d been.

If that was the type he went for, Jenny was S.O.L.

She stopped near the door, where she could watch and listen and not easily be seen. Casually she raised her camera, focused on the couple and the surrounding groupies and clicked.

Mr. February was actually looking embarrassed, which was kind of cute and endearing.

“Yeah, Lizzie,” he said, “it went okay and I owe you big-time.”

Damn. She must be his girlfriend, and she’d inspired his performance. Crap, crap, crap. It looked like Jenny’d be relying on her vibrator after all.

“And you will so pay up,” the blonde said cheerfully. Then, to Jenny’s surprise, she gave him a casual wave and headed for the exit.

Was the girl insane, leaving her boyfriend with this pack of adoring—no, make that starving—bitches, slavering all over him?

“See ya next week,” he called after her.

Hmm. Jenny would’ve sworn, from the bulge in the guy’s pants up on stage, that he’d have been dying to get it on just like she was. So was he really going to wait until next week, or did he figure on heading home with one of his drooling fans?

The latter, from the way he was ogling the tall, peroxided woman in front of him. Did Scott Jackman have a thing about blondes?

Not if he really had tossed his bow tie to her.

Even if he hadn’t, could he be persuaded away from blondes long enough to give Jenny what she needed so badly?

Was it immoral to try if he already had a girlfriend?

Whoa! She was assuming way too much. Lizzie could be a friend, maybe even a relative. She hadn’t seemed worried about leaving, and Scott obviously was getting ready to proposition the dye-job.

If he was going to screw someone tonight, why the hell shouldn’t it be her? A modern Western woman went after what she wanted. Right?

Muttering, “I can do this,” under her breath, she thrust out every single centimeter of her small breasts. Then, standing as tall as she could on one-inch heels, she strode toward Scott, scattering blondes, brunettes and redheads as she forged through them.

She planted herself squarely in front of him and stared up, way up, to hook his blue gaze. “Jenny Yuen, Georgia Straight.” She waved her camera at him. “I’m doing a feature on the calendar competition, and you, Mr. Jackman, are my cover.”

“Good choice,” one of the groupies said, and the others giggled.

“I need an interview,” Jenny told him.

A tiny girl had to either go for “cute” or be damned authoritative, and Jenny had both tricks in her arsenal. With the female flock, cute wasn’t going to cut it, so she scowled at the other women. “Now, and alone, if you don’t mind, ladies.”

They gazed at her uncertainly and then glanced at Scott to see how he’d respond.

He was staring down at Jenny, looking bemused.

Okay, bemused was better than pissed off. She’d try her secret weapon. Even if he did prefer blondes, it was a rare guy who didn’t respond to her hair.

Asian women tended to have great hair, but Jenny knew hers was, hands down, the best. That’s why she never colored or messed with it, just let it do its own thing. Which was to grow almost to her waist and gleam and shimmer whenever she moved her head.

She stowed her camera in her rose-colored backpack as she summoned her inner seductress.

Scott frowned down at the woman who was trying to ruin his evening. He’d been damned sure the Scandinavian type with the white-blond hair and those luscious boobs busting out of her top was ready and willing to rumble.

And now some pint-size chick who’d caught his bow tie wanted to interview him? Where the hell did she get off?

Funny thing was, she was about half his size yet didn’t look the slightest bit intimidated. She was standing there, cute and cocky as all get out, hands planted at her waist. Not his type. He went for tall, curvy blondes. Still, there was something about her.

He gazed down and began a lazy inventory. Her feet made him grin. Had to be about a size three, toenails painted pink, sandals decorated with all sorts of glittery stuff. Shapely feet, though, attached to pretty ankles and damn fine legs that were on display to midthigh, where they disappeared beneath a denim skirt about the size of a handkerchief.

What was she wearing under that skirt?

Why would he care? She wasn’t even his type.

Except, his cock was swelling. It had stirred a little through his teasing exchange with Scandinavia and her pals, but now it was definitely awake and interested.

Even more so as his gaze hit the band of smooth flesh between the low-slung skirt and the cut-off pink top. God, she had gorgeous skin. And—oh, fuck, he was dead meat—her navel sported a sparkly pink gem.

His fascinated gaze moved up over delicate curves, more of that incredible skin, the bow tie that made her look like a miniature Playboy bunny.

Fuckable. Definitely fuckable. At least that’s what his cock was telling him.

When his gaze reached her face, he encountered a raised eyebrow.

“Interview?” she said.

Interview? The word took a moment to sink in. Right. She wasn’t a bunny, she was a journalist.

“Jenny Yuen?” she said. “Georgia Straight?”

The other women who’d rushed backstage had made it clear they wanted to tease and flirt and probably go home with him. This one wanted to put him on the cover of the community paper, which would be embarrassing as hell.

But it was this one he wanted.

Her lips twitched and then she let her head drop and a waterfall of shiny black hair swung forward over one shoulder. In slow-mo. It shimmered under the artificial light, fanned out in the air, then gently settled, to drape one breast. Time stopped.

Then she flicked her head sideways and back, and the hair, a mesmerizing curtain, fanned out again and slowly slipped back into place.

Who’d ever known hair could be so sexy?

Scott realized he was panting, his heart was racing, he wanted to bury his hands, his face, his cock in all that incredible hair.

“Yes?” she said.

“Fuck, yeah.”

Her brown eyes widened and he realized what he’d said. “Sorry. I mean, yeah, I’ll do the interview.” Anything to spend more time with her.

“But, Scott…” The whine came from Scandinavia, the one he’d planned to take home to practice a little international body language, but now he couldn’t spare her a glance. China had won out, hands down.

“See ya around,” he said.

With nasty looks and mutters, she and her friends stalked away, leaving him with Jenny Yuen.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Scott Jackman.”

Her eyebrow tilted again. “I know that, Mr. February.”

“Oh. Yeah.” God, he was coming off like a goofball.

He was trying to figure out something witty to say, when a battering ram hit his shoulder, catching him off balance. He heard the words, “Hey, way to go, pisser!” as he lurched forward into Jenny.

He wrapped her in a bear hug, desperately fighting to regain his balance. He’d crush the girl if he fell on her.

A meaty hand grabbed his shoulder, steadying him, but he didn’t let go of Jenny. She was so small, her bones so delicate. Yet she didn’t feel fragile. He had a sense of strength, vitality, like there was a force inside her that was way bigger than the body that housed it.

She felt damned good, with her face buried against his chest, that long, silky hair cascading over his bare arms.

Oh, crap, he was sweating all over her. She’d think he was a pig.

“Softy, you gonna stop manhandling the girl?” It was the lieutenant, Bulldog Spievak, and damn him, he had to use that stupid nickname.

Reluctantly Scott released Jenny, who took a small step back. He was wondering if he should introduce her to the lieutenant and was waiting for another crude comment, when Jenny spoke.

“Softy?” she asked, raising both eyebrows this time. She glanced down, below his belt.

Crap. She thought he couldn’t get it up. “I’m a probationer at the fire hall,” he said grimly, “so they had to give me a shitty nickname. Remember that old tissue ad, Scotty’s little softy?”

Her lips curved. “Softens the…blow,” she said, her voice husky. Somehow the words the guys had used to rib him now took on a sexy connotation.

Blow. Blow job. That pretty mouth wrapped around him, her soft hair every which way on his belly.

She moved forward and stretched up as tall as she could reach, hands gripping his shoulders for balance, breasts grazing him. Her eyes flashed with something smokin’ hot that said sex to him.

He wanted to grab her, throw her to the ground, rip off her clothes. Instead he leaned down to catch her whisper as she said, “Definitely not soft now.”

Jesus, he had a boner, and it was growing. And her nipples were hard buds pressing into him—saying sex, too, in an unmistakable way.

“Lieutenant?” He sent a pleading look in the direction of the guy whose stubbornness had given him his nickname. Hoping he’d for once cut him a break.

“Guys were gonna buy you a beer.” Spievak was laughing as he turned away. “Prob’ly the last time you’ll get that offer, but then I guess you got yourself a better one anyhow, pisser.”

Jenny, still hanging on to Scott’s shoulders, gave a quick grin. Then, as the lieutenant stomped off, she eased away and took a step back. “Pisser?” she asked. “Another nickname?”

“It’s what they call the probies. The probationers.”

She nodded, eyes twinkling now, but beneath the twinkle there was still a banked fire.

“Sorry,” he muttered cautiously. Was this girl coming on to him or not? “I should’ve told him it was an interview.”

“Is that what this is?”

“Uh, well, you said…”

“Yes, I’m doing a story, and, yes, I need an interview.” She stood back, studying him, her eyes narrowed. “I want to ask you something.”

Too bad. Looked like she wanted to get down to business. “Okay.”

She fingered the bow tie at her throat. “Did you throw this to me?”

If he’d known there’d be this kind of spark between them, he sure as hell would have.

He didn’t believe in lying, not even to get a woman into bed. “I’m glad you’re the one who got it, but, nah. I was aiming for the tall blonde with all the wavy hair.”

“Suzanne. She’s taken.” She paused. “You like blondes, don’t you?”

“I guess.” He shrugged. “Hell, I’m a guy, I like women. Pretty women. Tall, short. Blond, brunet, redhead.”

“And I’m a woman. So is that boner for me specifically, or will any woman do?”

Oh, crap, how was he supposed to answer? Maybe it was time to second-think that no-lies policy.

No. Even if it cost him sex. “Okay, that boner’s for you, and your pink toenails, that pretty belly button, that hair.” He closed his eyes, imagined a swirl of glossy, silken hair against his naked body, and his cock twitched. “Man, that hair. But, truth is, tonight maybe any woman would’ve done.”

“You were already turned on from dancing on stage to that music.”

Jesus, she didn’t miss a thing. He could feel himself flush. “Sax music makes me think of sex. I got into the music, and…it happened. I thought…I mean, I’m wearing dark pants.” Though sweat had pretty much glued them to his body. “Was it obvious?” Had everyone in the whole fucking theater seen?

She shook her head. “I was in the front row, I’ve got a zoom on my camera and…I was looking.”

“Oh.” She’d been looking. At his groin. Damn, there was hope for him yet!

“It turned me on, too,” she said, that simmering heat back in her gaze. “The music, the dance. You getting aroused.” She tilted her head. “You. You turned me on.” She reached up a hand and ran it through her hair slowly and sensuously so it fanned out again and shimmered. “It made me wet.”

Wet. Under that little mini, she’d been wet for him. Maybe still was.

“You got hard,” she said, her gaze a hot touch glancing across his fly. She ran her tongue around those soft pink lips and her eyes glowed. “And I got wet.”

The way her lips shaped the word “wet” was about the sexiest thing he’d ever seen.

“Hard and wet go together,” she said in a breathy whisper. “Don’t you think?”

Think? Like he could think, when his cock was ready to bust out of his pants? When her nipples were beaded under her shirt and her eyes were saying, Sex, now.

Scott grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the exit.