Strip Search (7 page)

"Great. Any other questions? If not, I've got to start getting ready for tonight's show. Fridays are always busy."

Mark leaned forward a bit more, propping that intriguing square chin on one large fist. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I've spent a few days looking for a place to live, and I'm not having much luck. Any recommendations, preferably without drug dealers and king-sized roaches as neighbors? I want to live as close to the club as possible." He shrugged. "I didn't bring my car."

Immediately, Nicki thought of her vacant apartment upstairs ... the one right next door to hers.

No, bad idea. The worst idea she'd had in years. Decades, even.

"Did something occur to you?" he prompted.

Drat, the look on her face had probably given her away. "Um..."

What the heck could she say? Well; she could keep the apartment vacant. But ... she needed Mark here, ready to dance, not distracted by his living arrangements. She could charge him rent, which would help her bottom line. They wouldn't have to see each other after hours. He'd never be late for work or a rehearsal. She could keep an eye on him so that whatever he did that might need watching was ... well, watched.

"Help me out here," he cajoled. "I could really use it."

That smooth honey-rich voice, followed by dimples, was like a one-two punch to her resistance.

She sighed. When had Commando Bitch become such a freaking pushover?

"There's a vacant apartment on the third floor. You can rent it for six hundred a month, if you want. It's one bedroom, one bathroom. Kitchen, living room, and a small washer and dryer. Refrigerator is included."

"Really? That's great! Furniture?"

"A sofa, a kitchen table, and a queen-sized bed. That's about it. I'm sacrificing this for you."
Huh, and pigs will fly!

"You're great, you know?"

His smile had her feeling faint. How could he do that to her so easily? Other men in her life had been interesting or hot or fun. None had been magnetic or tied her up into more knots than Lucia when she did yoga. He just got to her.

"Can you show me?"

All the ways in which he affected her? Not a chance. "Excuse me?"

A hint of mischief sparkled in his eyes. "The apartment. I'd like to see it."

She nodded and stood. The sooner she dealt with him, the sooner she could excuse herself from his compelling presence. The sooner she could get on with her business and stop being a hormone-happy airhead.

Nicki led him through the club, to the private stairs behind the bar. As she climbed three flights, she not only heard Mark behind her, she felt him. His body heat, his warm breath on the back of her neck, his tempting scent wrapping around her.

Finally, they reached the top of the club. Nicki drew in a deep breath, glad for Mark-free air.

"Wait here just a second," she said, then hustled down the hall to her apartment.

She grabbed the vacant unit's key from the junk drawer in her little kitchen, then joined Mark, who was looking around the narrow landing.

"Is that the apartment?" he asked, nodding toward her door.

"No, this is." She pointed to the door on her right and shoved the key in the lock.

"What do these other doors lead to?"

Nicki hesitated, then realized he was going to figure it out, sooner rather than later. "These are all apartments. The door I just came through leads to mine."

His smile brightened until it could have lit up all of Las Vegas. "I like the neighborhood already."

Rolling her eyes, Nicki did her best to look unmoved by his show of interest. "No normal person I know wants to live close to their boss."

Not waiting for his reply, she opened the door. A blast of hot, stale air whooshed from the unit, into the hall. She stepped back to avoid the draft--and collided with Mr. Yummy's fabulous, hard chest. His hands fell to her waist to steady her. His killer scent surged all around her. She abruptly discovered that the cliche about a woman's knees turning weak was actually true.

"If everyone's boss had your qualities, they would," he whispered in her ear.

Pulse seesawing, Nicki stepped away and cast what she hoped was a warning glance over her shoulder. Restraining herself from jumping on Mark was hard enough. If he was going to encourage her ... hell, it was as dangerous to her agenda as someone waving a seven-layer chocolate cake in front of her on diet days.

"What?" he asked innocently. "You're smart, driven. You seem fair and easy to deal with. That always makes for good neighbors."

He was good--and quick. She'd give him that. It was on the tip of her tongue to demand he claim that kiss he'd won and get it over with, stop holding it over her head and killing her with innuendo and those lust-tinged glances. But she wasn't about to give him the upper hand, even if she had to bite her tongue.

"Thanks," she said dismissively and walked into the apartment. "Kitchen on your left. Nook and living room directly in front. The bedroom is down the hall, first door on your right. Bathroom is on your left. Washer and dryer are at the end of the hall in the closet. I'll let you look around."

With a shrug of those heavenly wide shoulders, Mark glanced around. Less than a minute later, he said, "I'll take it."

That was quick! "Really?"

"It's perfect. Close to work, low maintenance, already equipped with the basics. And," He flashed her those dimples again, "I have a great neighbor."

B
y Monday afternoon, if the devil had opened up a big hole in the floor of Girls' Night Out and offered eternal damnation to escape his current, humiliating predicament, Mark would have been sorely tempted to agree.

"A what?" he asked Zack Martin, the lead dancer/stage manager.

"A Viking."

Zack handed him a studded metal helmet with protruding horns. Mark frowned. What was the intimation here, that he was horny? Wearing phallic symbols on his head in public definitely went above and beyond the call of duty.

Next, Zack handed him a black tunic-like garment with an open V to his navel, a pair of thin black pants he'd bet were so tight the club's patrons would be able to guess his religion, and black thigh-high boots. A black cape completed the look.

"Seriously?" he asked Zack. "This looks more like a vampire with bad taste in hats."

"I'm the vampire around here. This is Viking."

"Technically, it's not," a woman called from the shadows.

Mark peered past the glaring lights overhead to see a curvaceous redhead walking his way. She was short with a pretty round face and chocolate eyes, which sparkled with mischief. As she stepped closer, out of the harsh glare of the lights, her image materialized.

She held out her hand. "Lucia DiStefano. We met briefly the day of your audition."

Yes, they had. She'd let him in the door with a smile. He'd been too damned nervous to smile back.

Zack dimmed the harsh lights overhead, and finally Mark got a good glimpse of the woman.

"Hi. Mark Gabriel." He shook her hand.

"I'm Nicki's sister," she added.

From the raising of her brows, Mark knew his surprise rippled across his face.

Lucia and her sister looked nothing alike. Nicki was all sleek and dark with uptilted blue eyes, narrow shoulders, spitfire, and challenge, along with a sculpted mouth he was dying to taste. Lucia was more lush curves, warm auburn hair, insightful eyes the color of decadent milk chocolate, and an inviting pink mouth. No doubt she was making some man who loved breasts seriously happy, since she had plenty and then some. But sisters? Lucia was ... Alyson Hannigan to Nicki's Angelina Jolie--totally different animals.

"Half-sisters," Lucia clarified. "Her mother was an exotic Euro-Asian model. Mine was an Italian housewife." A self-deprecating smile played at the comers of her lips. "And your costume is more Teutonic. A Viking tunic would have a rounded neck, a gathered sleeve, and end somewhere around the knee. And black pants that thin definitely weren't in their wardrobe."

"Only a history professor would know." Zack rolled his eyes. "We're creating a fantasy here." He dismissed her and turned to Mark. "This is how Nicki sees you onstage. I agree."

At six feet tall with cropped black hair and equally dark eyes, Zack wasn't anyone's idea of a Viking. So he would never know the humiliation of the homed helmet. For Mark, it was more than that. The thought of tearing off tight black everything in front of strangers while he was supposed to look like a Viking conqueror with lust on his mind was making him queasy.

Gritting his teeth, he asked, "What do you want me to do now?"

"In your spare time, practice with the costume. Mirrors help. Look for sexy ways to take it off."

He'd already done plenty of stripping in front of a mirror to prepare for this gig, thanks for asking. No way he planned to do more.

"I meant right now," Mark clarified.

"Oh, set it aside. We need to get you started on learning the routines."

Right, the routines ...

This assignment had seemed simple in theory. Anything to nail the bastard who had helped destroy his life. Anything to assist the money-laundering scum who'd all but escorted his ex-wife to prison find his own way behind bars. It was still important. Vital. He just hadn't expected it to be so damn embarrassing.

Stripping for Nicki had been fun--a rush, even. Watching her gaze latch on to him, interest brewing in her eyes. Seeing her cheeks flush, imagining that maybe ... just maybe, she was as affected by him as he was by her.

Somehow, he knew that stripping for a crowd wasn't going to be like that. But he could either tuck his tail between his legs and give up or stick it out and nail this asshole.

No contest.

"Where do I start?" he grumbled.

The door behind the bar slammed, and Mark looked up to see a man with short dark hair and wide shoulders emerge. He wore tailored black slacks, a white oxford under a black leather jacket, and Italian loafers that had probably cost as much as Mark's rent payment.

Blade Bocelli. The picture Mark had seen of the gangster hadn't included his whole face, but given the guy's cocky attitude, he had no doubt this was the man he'd come to bring down.

Bocelli sailed through the club, hawkish gaze seeming to take in everything, even as he gave off a definite don't-fuckwith-me air. Mark gritted this teeth, restraining the urge to jump off the stage, take the prick down, and beat him senseless. Too bad that wouldn't accomplish anything--except make him feel a whole lot better.

Suddenly, the thug stopped. He glanced from Mark to Lucia. His eyes narrowed.

"Your Uncle Pietro don't want you around those pretty boys, Lucia. Don't you have a research paper to write?"

Lucia's back turned rigid. "Don't you have anything else to worry about?"

"Right this minute? No." His ruthless glare riveted to Lucia, and he sauntered closer, until he stood at the base of the stage.

Bocelli and Zack were about the same height and build ... but the similarities ended there. Zack's slightly pissy air of authority drowned in Bocelli's heavy presence.

"Too bad," she shot back. "I'm introducing myself to Mark. Uncle Pietro can't object to that. And in case it's escaped everyone's notice, I am a grown woman."

Bocelli raked a quick dark-eyed gaze over Lucia. "You are. But I'm here to look out for the club. If the Viking over here isn't learning his routines," Bocelli said with a sneer, "then he's not doing something that's gonna earn this place some money. You're distracting him on company time."

"I'm being friendly."

"Call it what you want, but Pietro don't want you around him and his type." He gave Mark a dismissive glare then proceeded through the club and out the front door.

As the door shut behind him, the tension left Lucia's shoulders. She turned back to face Mark, her expression sheepish. "Sorry. Blade is harmless, really, but ... difficult. He likes to growl a lot."

Harmless? The good professor might know a thing or two about history. She knew squat about men.

"Growling makes him feel big and bad," Zack agreed.

Well, Mark couldn't wait to teach Bocelli otherwise. And he'd make damned sure the time came soon.

T
he only way to put an end to the insanity, Mark feared, was to hunt Nicki down and talk sense into her. He had an inkling that, in this case, Nicki's version of seeing reason was him nodding as she told him how things were going to be.

That wasn't going to happen.

Besides convincing her the Viking gig was a bad idea, he had to find some way to gain her trust, fast. The fact it had taken Nicki more than a year to trust Zack Martin to do a job he juggled almost effortlessly did not bode well. Mark didn't have a year to give to this endeavor. Even a month was stretching it. While that left his options limited, he had no objection to the one he had: pursuing the sizzling chemistry between them. It was a sure way to break down barriers and build intimacy--all while getting him very close to a woman he was dying to sample, one square inch of skin at a time.

He knew exactly where to start.

Climbing the stairs to the third floor after rehearsal, Mark entered his own temporary apartment. It wasn't his room at the Bellagio, complete with minibar and maid service, but it would do.

A quick shower and a shave later, he dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. Nicki had stared when he wore something similar, and Mark was all in favor of giving himself every advantage.

After a quick knock on Nicki's door, he waited. A long minute later, she answered, wearing black yoga pants and a bright pink tank top. What she wasn't wearing was a bra.

Hell, yeah! And it wasn't even Christmas.

"Mark?" she stared at him, her eyes straying down to his chest ... lower. "Is something wrong?"