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Overexposed
Leslie Kelly
He appeared black-haired and black-eyed and black-clothed.
She could make out none of his features, just that tall, dark presence – broad of shoulder, slim-hipped. He might be dangerous, given his size and the shadowy darkness swallowing him from her view – but now, at this moment, she felt lured by him. Entranced. Captivated.
Their eyes locked. He knew he had her attention. And in that moment, she desperately wanted to walk off the stage, across the room, close enough to see if his face was as handsome as his shadowy form hinted. Then closer – to see what truths lay in the mysterious depths of those inky black eyes.
LESLIE KELLY
A two-time RITA® Award nominee, eight-time Romantic Times BOOKreviews Award nominee and 2006 RomanticTimes BOOKreviews Award winner, Leslie Kelly has become known for her delightful characters, sparkling dialogue and outrageous humour.
Honoured with numerous other awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award, Leslie writes sexy novels for Mills & Boon® Blaze®, and single-title contemporary books. Keep up with her latest releases by visiting her website: www.lesliekelly. com, or her blog, www.plotmonkeys.com.
Dear Reader,
It’s been a couple of years since I first worked with Julie Elizabeth Leto and Tori Carrington on THE BAD GIRLS CLUB series. So when Blaze® invited us to bring the mini-series over, I jumped at the chance, and was thrilled that Tori and Julie did, too!
Obviously, if you read all three of THE BAD GIRLS CLUB books, you will see a “shared” scene that appears in each. That was so much fun to write, and I have to tip my hat to Julie for creating it and including my heroine, even before I’d started on my own book!
Happy reading!
Leslie Kelly
OVEREXPOSED
By
LESLIE KELLY
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To a couple of my favourite “bad girls”–
Julie and Lori. And to one fun bad boy, Tony!
Let’s be bad together again sometime!
Prologue
THEY CALLED HER the Crimson Rose.
As her name was announced in sultry, almost reverent tones at Leather and Lace, an exclusive men’s club, an awed quiet began to slither through the crowd. The room stilled, noisy conversation giving way to quiet expectation.
Businessmen in open-collared shirts stopped their whispered flirtations with waitresses wearing tiny black skirts and skimpy tops. Attendees of an entire bachelor party returned to their table, elbowing the groom to watch and weep. Single men who came every week just to see her sat back in plush leather chairs and stared rapt at the stage through hooded eyes. The ice tinkling against their glasses was soon the only sound in the lushly appointed room, even the servers knew better than to interrupt the clientele when the Rose was on stage.
She danced only twice a week—on Saturdays and Sundays—and since the night she’d started, the Crimson Rose had become one of the hottest attractions in the Chicago club scene. Because while the jaded city had long been used to hard-looking dancers taking off their clothes and gyrating to the heavy beat of sexual music, they simply hadn’t seen anything like her.
She wasn’t hard-looking, she was elegant. Her delicate features and natural curves made every man who saw her wonder what it would feel like to touch her creamy skin.
She didn’t strip…she undressed. Slowly. Seductively. As if she had all the time in the world to give a man pleasure.
She didn’t gyrate, she swayed, moving with fluid grace. Every gesture, every turn an invitation to gaze at her.
Her sound wasn’t sexual, it was sensual, erotic and soulful enough to make a man close his eyes and appreciate it. Though, of course, when she was onstage none ever would.
While her job might have diminished some women in the eyes of those around her, the Rose owned it, embraced it, lifted it up to a level of art rather than pure sexual titillation.
She liked what she did. And they liked watching her.
The low, sultry thrum of a smoky number began, but the stage remained dark as the workers put final placement on a portable red satin curtain, used only by her. It had been a recent addition by the management, who’d realized that the high-class, stage performer feel was part of the Crimson Rose’s appeal. As was the mystery.
While most of the other dancers at the club performed under bright overhead light and full exposure, the Rose danced in shadow and pools of illumination provided by precisely timed spotlights. Her red velvet mask never came off. Most figured the management was playing upon the popularity of the aura of secrecy surrounding the Rose.
Finally the music grew louder, the gelled spotlights, ranging in color from soft pink to bloodred, illuminated the stage, dancing back and forth, each briefly touching on one spot: the seam of the closed satin curtain.
“Now, for your viewing delight,” said a smooth male from the sound system, “Chicago’s perfect bloom, the Crimson Rose.”
No one clapped or whispered. No one moved. All eyes were on the center of the curtain, where a hand began to emerge.
It was pale. Delicate, with long fingers and slender wrists. A colorful design—painted-on body art—began at the tip of one finger, with a tiny leaf. It connected to a vine, which wound up her hand, around her wrist. As her arm emerged, more of the leafy vine, complete with sharp thorns, was revealed. It glittered, sensuous and wicked, alluring and dangerous.
Sinuous, slow, unhurried, she emerged from the drape, until she was fully revealed. But her head remained down, her long reddish-brown hair concealing her face.
The tempo throbbed. The dancer stayed still, as if completely oblivious to the crowd. Finally, the spotlights changed color, the vibrant reds giving way to a soft, morning yellow. And, as if she were a tightly wound blossom being awakened by a gentle dawn, the Rose began to move.
Her head slowly lifted, the delicate beauty of her pale throat emphasized by more body art. Her hair fell back as she turned toward the light, as if welcoming the morning.
Her full lips—red and wet—were parted, sending vivid images and erotic fantasies into the minds of every man close enough to see their glisteny sheen…. This was a woman made for the art of kissing. And sensual pleasure.
There the view of her face stopped. A soft red-velvet mask covered the rest. The mask glittered with green jewels like those in the vine, leaving her audience certain that the temptress’s eyes must be a pure, vivid emerald. Most already knowing the mystery of her face would not be revealed, her admirers refocused their attention to the rest of her.
She wore layers of soft fabric, cut in petal shapes. Still like the flower being awakened by the sun, she began to indulge in the spotlight’s warmth. Swaying, she stretched lazily like a cat in a puddle of light. Her movements were unhurried, revealing a length of thigh, a glimmer of hip.
Then the tempo picked up. So did her pace. She arched and swayed across the stage with feminine grace. But to most, she appeared lonely—removed from her surroundings—revealing a sensual want that begged for fulfillment that would never come.
Anyone in the audience would have fulfilled it for her.
Anyone.
Every move she made set the billowing layers of her costume in motion, until the petals nearly danced around her on their own. They parted to reveal her slender legs, providing a peek here and a glimpse there.
And then they started to disappear.
Every man in the place leaned forward. Wherever she turned, another bit of fabric hit the floor. Her hands moved so effortlessly that the layers seemed to fall by themselves. The light pinks and puffy outer veil went first, followed by the heavier satin pieces. Soon her long, perfectly toned legs were revealed up to the thigh. A drape of satin covering her stomach fell next, torn away from the strings of a bikini top.
She continued her siren’s dance as the fabric fell away, the tempo pushing harder, her hips thrusting in response. Finally, when she wore nothing but a sparkly red G-string and two tiny, delicate pink petals on the tips of her breasts, she glanced at the audience, deigning to give them her attention. Normally, at this point, she would offer a saucy smile, pluck the petals off her nipples, then duck behind her curtains. She’d give them a glimpse—quick, heart-stoppingly sexy—then disappear into the dark recesses of the club until her second performance of the night. But tonight…tonight, she hesitated. No. Tonight, she froze.
Because as she cast a final glance at her audience, seeing a number of familiar faces in the crowd, her attention was captured by a shadowy figure standing in the back of the room, beside the bar. Ignoring the expectant hush from those familiar with her performance, all of whom were waiting for the payoff moment they’d come to see, she focused all her attention on him.
She couldn’t see much at that distance, both because of the mask she wore and the spotlights still shining in her face. But she saw enough to send her heart—already beating frantically due to her performance—into hyperdrive.
From here, he appeared black-haired and black-eyed and black-clothed. She could make out none of his features, just that tall, dark presence—broad of shoulder, slim-hipped. He might be dangerous, given his size and the shadowy darkness swallowing him from her view—but now, at this moment, she felt lured by him. Entranced. Captivated.
Their eyes locked. He knew he had her attention. And in that moment, she desperately wanted to walk off the stage, across the room, close enough to see if his face was as handsome as his shadowy form hinted. Then closer—to see what truths lay in the mysterious depths of those inky black eyes.
But suddenly someone whistled…someone else catcalled. She realized she’d lost track of the music and the dance and the audience and her reasons for being here.
Titillation. Seduction. Those were her reasons for being here. Which made it that much more strange that, right now, the Rose was the one who felt seduced.
Enough. Time to finish.
Sweeping her gaze across the crowd, she gave them all a wickedly sexy look, as if her pause had been entirely purposeful. And entirely for their personal delight. In it, she invited them to imagine just who had her breathing hard—licking her lips in anticipation. Who had her skin flushed and her sex damp and her nipples rock hard.
She only wished she knew the answer.
With one more sidelong glance through half-lowered lashes, she reached for the tiny petals—pink, to match the tender skin of her taut nipples—and plucked them off.
The crowd was roaring as she disappeared behind the curtain. They cheered for several long minutes during which she regained her breath and tried to force her pulse to return to its normal, measured beat.
When it did, she took a chance and peeked through the curtain, her stare zoning in on that dark place by the bar.
But the shadowy stranger was gone.
1
FOR THE FIRST TWO WEEKS after he’d returned from the Middle East, Nick Santori genuinely didn’t mind the way his family fussed over him. There were big welcome home barbecues in the tiny backyard of the row house where he’d been raised. There were even bigger dinners at the family-owned pizzeria that had been his second home growing up.
He’d been dragged to family weddings by his mother and into the kitchen of the restaurant by his father. He’d had wet, sticky babies plopped in his lap by his sisters-in-law, and had been plied with beer by his brothers, who wanted details on everything he’d seen and done overseas. And he’d had rounds of drinks raised in his honor by near-strangers who, having suitably praised him as a patriot, wanted to go further and argue the politics of the whole mess.
That was where he drew the line. He didn’t want to talk about it. After twelve years in the Corps, several of them on active duty in Iraq, he’d had enough. He didn’t want to relive battles or wounds or glory days with even his brothers and he sure as hell wouldn’t justify his choice to join the military to people he’d never even met.
At age eighteen, fresh out of high school with no interest in college and even less in the family business, entering the Marines had seemed like a kick-ass way to spend a few years.
What a dumb punk he’d been. Stupid. Unprepared. Green.
He’d quickly learned…and he’d grown up. And while he didn’t regret the years he’d spent serving his country, he sometimes wished he could go back in time to smack that eighteen year old around and wake him up to the realities he’d be facing.
Realities like this one: coming home to a world he didn’t recognize. To a family that had long since moved on without him.
“So you hanging in?” asked his twin, Mark, who sat across from him in a booth nursing a beer. His brothers had all gotten into the habit of stopping by the family-owned restaurant after work a few times a week.
“I’m doing okay.”
“Feeling that marinara running through your veins again?”
Nick chuckled. “Do you think Pop has ever even realized there’s any other kind of food?”
Mark shook his head. Reaching into a basket, he helped himself to a breadstick. “Do you think Mama has ever even tried to cook him any?”
“Good point.” Their parents were well matched in their certainty that any food other than Italian was unfit to eat.
“Is she still griping because you wouldn’t move back home?”
Nodding, Nick grabbed a breadstick of his own. For all his grumbling, he wouldn’t trade his Pop’s cooking for anything… especially not the never-ending MRE’s he’d had to endure in the military. “She seems to think I’d be happy living in our old room with the Demi Moore Indecent Proposal poster on the wall. It’s like walking into a frigging time warp.”
“You always did prefer G.I. Jane.”
Nick just sighed. Mark seldom took anything seriously. In that respect, he hadn’t changed. But everything else sure had.
During the years he’d been gone, the infrequent visits home hadn’t allowed Nick to mentally keep up with his loved ones. In his mind, when he’d lain on a cot wondering if there would ever come a day when sand wouldn’t infiltrate every surface of his clothes again, the Santoris were the same big, loud bunch he’d grown up with: two hard-working parents and a brood of kids.
They weren’t kids anymore, though. And Mama and Pop had slowed down greatly over the years. His father had turned over the day-to-day management of Santori’s to Nick’s oldest brother, Tony, and stayed in the kitchen drinking chianti and cooking.
One of his brothers was a prosecutor. Another a successful contractor. Their only sister was a newlywed. And, most shocking of all to Nick, Mark, his twin, was about to become a father.
Married, domesticated and reproducing…that described the happy lives of the five other Santori kids. And every single one of them seemed to think he should do exactly the same thing.
Nick agreed with them. At least, he had agreed with them when living day-to-day in a place where nothing was guaranteed, not even his own life. It had seemed perfect. A dream he could strive for at the end of his service. Now it was within reach.
He just wasn’t sure he still wanted it.
He didn’t doubt his siblings were happy. Their conversations were full of banter and houses and SUVs and baby talk that they all seemed to love but Nick just didn’t get. And wasn’t sure he ever would…despite how much he knew he should.
I will.
At least, he hoped he would.
The fact that he was bored out of his mind helping out at Santori’s and hadn’t yet met a single appropriate woman who made his heart beat faster—much less one he wanted to pick out baby names with—was merely a product of his own re-adjustment to civilian life. He’d come around. Soon. No doubt about it.
As long as he avoided going after the one woman he’d seen recently who not only made his heart beat fast but had also given him a near-sexual experience from across a crowded room. Because she was in no way appropriate. She was a stripper. One he’d be working with very soon now that he’d agreed to take a job doing security at a club called Leather and Lace.
Forcibly thrusting the vision of the sultry dancer out of his brain, he focused on the type of normal woman he’d someday meet who might inspire a similar reaction.
He’d have help locating her. Everyone, it seemed, wanted him to find the “perfect” woman and they all just happened to know her. The next one of his sisters-in-law who asked him to come over for dinner and coincidentally asked her single best friend to come, too, would be staring at Nick’s empty chair.
“Do you know how glad I am that your wife’s knocked up?”
“Yeah, me too,” Mark replied, wearing the same sappy look he’d had on his face since he’d started telling everyone Noelle was expecting. “But do I want to know why you’re so happy?”
“Because it means she doesn’t have time to try to set me up with her latest single friend/hair stylist/next-door-neighbor or just the next breathing woman who walks by.”
Mark had the audacity to grin.
“It’s not funny.”
“Yeah, it is. I’ve seen the ones they’ve thrown at you.”
“You seen me throw them back, too, then.”
