forward to slick murderous red over her lips. “I don’t think so.”
“You in trouble?”
She shot the cuffs of the tailored white shirt she wore under the jacket. “No.”
“If he gives you any, just signal to Karl. He’ll show him out.” Marcella nodded. “The Irishman’s at the bar. You won’t miss him.”
Cleo slipped into the spike-heeled black pumps that completed her costume. “Thanks. I can handle him.”
“I think this is so.” Marcella laid a hand on her shoulder briefly, then moved on to break up an argument between two of the dancers over a red-spangled bra.
If she was concerned someone had come in and asked for her by name, Cleo didn’t show it. She was, after all, a professional. Whether dancing Swan Lake or peeling it off for Euro-trash, there were professional standards for a performer.
I don’t know any Irishmen, she thought as she clipped out to wait for her cue. And she certainly didn’t buy that anyone remotely connected to her family would trouble themselves to ask about her. Even if they’d tripped over her bleeding body in the street.
Probably just some asshole, she decided, who’d gotten her name from another customer and thought he might wrangle a cheap boink from an American stripper.
He was going to go home disappointed.
As her music came up, she pushed all thoughts but her routine out of her head. She counted the beats, and when the lights flashed on, Cleo erupted onto the stage.
At the bar, Gideon’s hand froze in the act of lifting his beer.
She was dressed like a man. Though no one would mistake her for one, he admitted. Not if you were blind and on the back of a galloping horse. But there was something primitively erotic about the way she moved inside that traditional pin-striped suit.
The music was hot, edgy American rock, and her lighting a steamy and smoky blue. He found it clever and ironic that she’d select Bruce Springsteen’s “Cover Me” to strip to.
She knew what she was about, he realized as she tugged the tailored jacket off her shoulders, moving, always moving, pulled it off.
While the others on the stage had been spinning or sliding, shaking or shimmying, this one was dancing. Sharp, complicated moves that demonstrated genuine style and talent.
Though when, with one of those sharp moves, she ripped the breakaway trousers aside, he lost track of the style for a moment.
Christ, she had legs, didn’t she?
She used the poles as well, doing three fast circles with those long legs cocked up. Her hair tumbled free, past her shoulders in a straight rainfall of rich brown. He didn’t see how she opened the shirt, but it was flying around her now, revealing a scrap of black lace over high, firm breasts.
He tried to tell himself they were likely manufactured, and either way they had nothing to do with him. But he found saliva pooling in his mouth when she stripped off the shirt.
To clear his throat, he sipped his beer, and watched her.
She’d made him from her first turn. She couldn’t see him clearly, and wasn’t concerned enough to worry about it. But she knew he was there, and that his attention was on her.
That was fine. That’s what she got paid for.
With her back to the audience, she slid a hand down her back, flicked open the catch of her bra. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she spun back. There was a light dew of sweat on her skin now, and a small grin—ice cold—on her lips as she made eye contact with the men in the audience she’d deemed most likely to part with folded money.
She tossed her hair back and, wearing nothing but the heels and a black G-string, lowered to a crouch so they could see what they were paying for.
She ignored the fingers sliding over her hips and registered the money tucked under the G-string.
She eased back when one overenthusiastic patron reached for her. In a move that could have been mistaken for playful, she wagged a finger at him. And thought, Asshole.
She came up in a one-armed backbend,
“You in trouble?”
She shot the cuffs of the tailored white shirt she wore under the jacket. “No.”
“If he gives you any, just signal to Karl. He’ll show him out.” Marcella nodded. “The Irishman’s at the bar. You won’t miss him.”
Cleo slipped into the spike-heeled black pumps that completed her costume. “Thanks. I can handle him.”
“I think this is so.” Marcella laid a hand on her shoulder briefly, then moved on to break up an argument between two of the dancers over a red-spangled bra.
If she was concerned someone had come in and asked for her by name, Cleo didn’t show it. She was, after all, a professional. Whether dancing Swan Lake or peeling it off for Euro-trash, there were professional standards for a performer.
I don’t know any Irishmen, she thought as she clipped out to wait for her cue. And she certainly didn’t buy that anyone remotely connected to her family would trouble themselves to ask about her. Even if they’d tripped over her bleeding body in the street.
Probably just some asshole, she decided, who’d gotten her name from another customer and thought he might wrangle a cheap boink from an American stripper.
He was going to go home disappointed.
As her music came up, she pushed all thoughts but her routine out of her head. She counted the beats, and when the lights flashed on, Cleo erupted onto the stage.
At the bar, Gideon’s hand froze in the act of lifting his beer.
She was dressed like a man. Though no one would mistake her for one, he admitted. Not if you were blind and on the back of a galloping horse. But there was something primitively erotic about the way she moved inside that traditional pin-striped suit.
The music was hot, edgy American rock, and her lighting a steamy and smoky blue. He found it clever and ironic that she’d select Bruce Springsteen’s “Cover Me” to strip to.
She knew what she was about, he realized as she tugged the tailored jacket off her shoulders, moving, always moving, pulled it off.
While the others on the stage had been spinning or sliding, shaking or shimmying, this one was dancing. Sharp, complicated moves that demonstrated genuine style and talent.
Though when, with one of those sharp moves, she ripped the breakaway trousers aside, he lost track of the style for a moment.
Christ, she had legs, didn’t she?
She used the poles as well, doing three fast circles with those long legs cocked up. Her hair tumbled free, past her shoulders in a straight rainfall of rich brown. He didn’t see how she opened the shirt, but it was flying around her now, revealing a scrap of black lace over high, firm breasts.
He tried to tell himself they were likely manufactured, and either way they had nothing to do with him. But he found saliva pooling in his mouth when she stripped off the shirt.
To clear his throat, he sipped his beer, and watched her.
She’d made him from her first turn. She couldn’t see him clearly, and wasn’t concerned enough to worry about it. But she knew he was there, and that his attention was on her.
That was fine. That’s what she got paid for.
With her back to the audience, she slid a hand down her back, flicked open the catch of her bra. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she spun back. There was a light dew of sweat on her skin now, and a small grin—ice cold—on her lips as she made eye contact with the men in the audience she’d deemed most likely to part with folded money.
She tossed her hair back and, wearing nothing but the heels and a black G-string, lowered to a crouch so they could see what they were paying for.
She ignored the fingers sliding over her hips and registered the money tucked under the G-string.
She eased back when one overenthusiastic patron reached for her. In a move that could have been mistaken for playful, she wagged a finger at him. And thought, Asshole.
She came up in a one-armed backbend,
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