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  "All the crotch grabbing ..." Nicki said with a shudder. "I think he liked the self-touching for an audience way too much. Put a whole new meaning to the song 'Beat It.' "

  With a hand over her mouth, Lucia stifled another laugh. "Well, maybe your second candidate will be an improvement. He's certainly very easy on the eyes."

  With that cryptic comment, Lucia disappeared. She might be a refined history professor, but that twinkle in her eye was pure mischief. Maybe her sister was being facetious.

  "Bring him on," Nicki called.

  A moment later, the stage door creaked, then slammed shut. Dang it, she really needed to buy some WD-40 for that...

  Oh. My. God.

  Through the stage door and past the black curtain, her second audition entered the room. Nicki lost her breath--and the ability not to gape like an utter idiot.

  Who was this Adonis dressed in a crisp white collared shirt and black leather pants? A glance at her list told Nicki that his name was Mark Gabriel. Such an innocuous few syllables to term the embodiment of every sexual fantasy she ever remembered having.

  The room felt warm suddenly as he stepped onto the stage, under the dimmed lights, a worn leather backpack slung over one shoulder. Lord, he was huge--very tall, broad, bursting with muscle. Blond hair an amazing golden color hung past his collar. His eyes--green? Maybe darker?--pierced her as he nodded.

  "Miss DiStefano."

  Wow, his deep, powerful voice alone was orgasm-inducing. Would he be offended if she told him she wanted to take Polaroids so she could fantasize about him the next time she spent a lonely morning with her battery-operated boyfriend? And could she get an MP3 of him saying her name, just for effect?

  "C-call me Nicki."

  Was she actually stuttering? He hadn't danced a step, and she was acting like a groupie. Most likely, he got that a lot.

  "Nicki," he returned smoothly.

  Was it her imagination, or were her panties actually turning damp?

  "And you're Mark?" she managed to say in a somewhat even tone.

  "Yes."

  Not a big talker, apparently. That was just as well. All she really wanted to do was look at him ... fantasize about touching.

  Wait! It's an audition, not a grope fest, logic screeched. Wishing that logic would keep its nose out of her thoughts, she returned her full attention to Mr. Yummy-Enough-to-Drool-on.

  "Ever done this sort of work before? I didn't get a resume from you."

  "No."

  No explanation. No offer to get her a resume. Interesting ...

  "Where are you from?"

  "Florida."

  Which explained the gorgeous golden skin. "That's a long way from Vegas."

  "Looking for a change of scenery."

  Nicki hesitated. Something in Mark's face, a certain tenseness maybe, seemed to say it was far more complicated than having grown tired of looking at palm trees and beaches. But it really wasn't any of her business. The man was here for a job. If she hired him and he did it well, then the rest, his past, whatever--it didn't matter.

  "Can you dance?"

  He shrugged one massive shoulder, even as his lips--oh, how did she miss that scrumptious mouth earlier?--curled up in a smile. "I get by."

  Lord, he gave her the tingles. Why was she interrogating him? He could stand perfectly still and make them both a small fortune. A fortune she desperately needed, if she ever wanted financial independence and freedom from the tight press of her Uncle Pietro's thumb.

  Still, it wasn't in her nature to take anything at face value, especially men, even if her hormones were doing the mambo.

  "Can you flirt?" she asked. "This job requires it."

  As if she had challenged his very manhood, Mark set down his backpack, eased off the stage, and strode toward her table. He didn't swagger--it would have been too cheesy on him. He ... prowled, as if hunting someone. Her, by the look on his face.

  And what a face it was. Square jaw, square chin, covered with a fine five o'clock shadow.

  As he edged closer, Nicki realized his eyes were neither green nor brown. They were somewhere in between, like moss growing over rich earth. They were gorgeous, and she wondered if he was aware of her awestruck stare. Lord, bury her in a hole now if he was.

  Mark sat on the edge of her table, leaned forward, and sent her an amused smile.

  Dimples. Real, live dimples creasing each side of his face. On any other man, they might have looked girlish. On him, oh no. He looked all man. She'd died and found heaven.

  "I can flirt, if I have to. I'd rather just talk to you. About you."

  It had to be a line, and she'd be stupid to be affected by it. Ignoring her speeding heartbeat, Nicki cocked her head and regarded him with what she hoped was a cool gaze. "That's laying it on a tad thick."

  He leaned in. "It's being honest. I Googled you before this meeting. You run with quite a crowd. What was it like hanging out with Paris Hilton at parties?"

  "Relatively dateless. And once she got into home movies ... well, then I really couldn't compete," she said flippantly.

  "So all the men you met in the past were stupid?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "To be more interested in a careless bimbo than you, they've got to be stupid. To run a business takes some guts, brains, and substance."

  A burst of pleasure flushed her body at his words. For years she'd wondered why men failed to see the qualities of a woman beyond her waistline, ass, or breasts. Maybe this guy did. And maybe he was blowing sunshine up her skirt. She couldn't deny, however, that he was good.

  "You have the most interesting eyes," he murmured. "They're so blue and exotic next to your beautiful olive skin."

  "My dad was both a typical Italian and a typical man. I got his skin. Everything else, I got from my mother. She was half Norwegian, half Chinese."

  "No kidding?" His smile widened. "That's a unique combination."

  "My father liked possessing unique mistresses. She was a beautiful woman."

  "So is her daughter."

  Boy, he looked at her. Right at her. With those vivid hazel eyes, he stared, taking her in. She didn't want to be affected by his praise or his gaze on her. It was stupid, unprofessional.

  You don't always get what you want, a pesky voice in her head reminded her.

  "You going to dance for me, or you going to sit here and gab all day?"

  "Whatever you want, boss." He winked and turned away.

  From his backpack, Mark extracted a CD and placed it in the portable player located stage left. Moments later, a rich, sexy techno rhythm filled the air. To the beat of the music, he strutted to the front edge of the stage, his expression mysterious, arrogant, as his gaze locked on to hers. For a man who stood about five inches over six feet, he moved with a slick grace, a smooth prowl. Generally, if a man was a good dancer, he was also good in--

  Get your mind out of the gutter, girl. He's here to audition, not light your fire!

  Nicki knew she should be more jaded. She saw this kind of stuff all the time. Every night, in fact. But something about Mark made being impervious utterly impossible. She had no idea why he affected her more than any other hottie working here. But when a bump of his hips had her catching her breath, she couldn't deny that he did.

  A large hand raking through the pale sheen of his hair as he prowled closer had her heartbeat racing. The pure sex attitude and intent stare had her lamenting every last moment of her two years of celibacy.

  But when he grabbed the edges of his shirt and ripped them wide, exposing a chest bulging with muscle and abs rippling with definition, Nicki pretty much lost her mind.

  The white shirt hung loose on his wide shoulders, stark against his golden skin. Every muscle in his sleek torso bunched as he took a deep breath. His incredible pectorals tightened as he raised his hands from his sides.

  They stopped at the waistband of his pants.

  His gaze honed in on her again, rich with promise and knowledge. This man knew a thing or t
wo about sin. His thumb glided down his fly, directly down the length of a bulge a blind woman couldn't miss.

  Nicki sucked in a breath and held it.

  A reproachful half-smile taunted her just before he yanked on his shirt, stripping it clean away from his body, exposing miles more muscle heaped on his beefy shoulders. A Celtic knot tattoo encircled one of the hard swells of his very healthy biceps. Even his thick forearms, lined with wide veins, attested to his strength and vitality. Holy cow, he looked like he could bench press her Crossfire convertible.

  He grabbed his shirt in his large fist and, with it, stroked his way down his chest, throwing his head back to expose the long, strong column of his throat.

  Lying to herself was useless. She'd love to be the one to put ecstasy on his face. And thinking that about a prospective employee was about as smart as cranking her air conditioning on and flinging her doors wide to the Vegas summer.

  Mark fastened his hot gaze on her once more. He tossed his shirt away with a snap of his wrist and strutted closer, so close she could see a rivulet of sweat sliding down his corded neck. There was no doubt this time; her panties were definitely damp.

  Wearing nothing but a naughty smile from the waist up, the Adonis look-alike gyrated his hips in a deep, lazy movement, demonstrating a sure rhythm to the music. The perfect rhythm, in fact, for--

  Stop there, she told herself. For God's sake, she was a grown woman who'd had her fair share of gorgeous men. What was her problem?

  Besides not having had a flesh-and-blood man in so long her sexual skills had moved from rusty to corroded beyond salvage?

  The notion that sex was like riding a bike seemed too easy, especially when confronted with a man who could probably win the bedroom Tour de France, blindfolded. Not that she'd ever know personally.

  Suddenly, he turned away. Nicki's eyes widened at the sight of his naked back and leather-clad ass. Views of his front and back were equally drool-inducing. No doubt, he got a woman both coming and going ... and coming again.

  Bad, bad girl.

  She drew in a deep breath. Now would be a good time to get her head on straight, rather than mooning over an auditioning man like a thirteen-year-old with her latest Teen Beat magazine. Mark Gabriel was here to serve a purpose, potentially to make her money. Business, her club's future, financial independence--those were her priorities. Period.

  But then he grabbed his leather pants at both sides and pulled. Suddenly, he wore a small black G-string that showed his taut, sculpted ass. And well ... the future seemed really far away.

  Aware that her mouth gaped open, Nicki closed it. Again, he swung his hips. The muscles in his legs and backside moved in fluid harmony. Every shift in his position showed off his rippling back to perfection.

  Where had this guy come from, Hunks R Us?

  Finally, he turned and faced her, arms swinging at his sides, as he and his taut belly undulated closer. Now she had to peer up at him, and the new angle had her wishing she had invested in a video camera. It also gave her a really up close and personal view of the fact he wasn't small anywhere.

  Resisting the urge to wipe her sweaty palms down her jeans, she sat on her hands instead, to restrain herself from the powerful temptation to touch. Her panties had gone beyond damp.

  Mark smiled, as if he could read her mind.

  He dropped to one knee in front of her on the raised stage, and they were nearly eye-level. His gaze seemed to say that he would love nothing more than to master her body, grant her every midnight fantasy. Everything below her waist wholeheartedly accepted.

  The music throbbed around them, hot and insistent. He reached out. Toward her. Closer, closer, those long fingers and that broad palm came. He held a lock of hair that framed her face between his thumb and forefinger and slowly drew it through his grasp. Then he feathered his thumb along her jaw as he stared deep into her eyes, as if she was the most fascinating creature in the world.

  Her heart all but stopped. Her skin tingled. Everything between her legs ached. She'd run out of adjectives to describe how amazing Mark Gabriel was--a first for her.

  With a wink and a dimpled smile, he stood, swung his hips once more, and struck a bodybuilder's pose that delineated every muscle of his mind-blowing body as the music stopped.

  Nicki didn't know whether to clap madly or run to the stage to attack him, ripping off her clothes as she went. Or send him away before she indulged in the latter.

  Instead, she sat stunned, mute.

  Mark uncurled from his pose. Casting her a quick glance as if to gauge her reaction, he casually gathered his clothes and music, then hopped off the stage. He stood right in front of her, glistening and gorgeous and--oh God--she could smell him now ... pine forest, a hint of sweat, and a whole lotta man.

  She exhaled and pasted on a smile. "Well done."

  The smile toying at the comers of his mouth displayed his amusement. "Thank you."

  He shifted right, directly into her line of vision, so that she was suddenly staring at his rigid six pack and ample ... attributes. Hot tamales, he was temptation on two legs. It would be so easy to indulge her craving for a little afternoon delight and put an end to the lengthy celibacy that suddenly constricted like a spiked collar. His golden skin sliding over thick muscle just brought on fantasies of the power he could bring to bed, the--

  "Nicki?"

  Great, he'd caught her staring. Well, duh! She'd been as subtle as a dog panting after a whole pile of juicy bones. She glanced again at his ... package and figured any analogy that contained the word "bone" was just a bad idea right now.

  Clearing her throat, she stood and met his gaze. "Sorry. Zoned off for a minute. Remembering some things I left unfinished in my office."

  And if you buy that, I've got a bridge to sell you ...

  "I know you're busy. Sorry if I kept you too long." He shrugged into his shirt.

  "It's fine. Um, since all I have is a name, I'm going to need some contact information. I've got a few more auditions over the next few days, but I'll call once I've made a decision."

  He gave her the number to his cell phone as he donned his pants. Thinking it was a shame to cover up such awe-inspiring scenery, she scribbled his number greedily. Gee, if she called him during a weak moment and lured him into great phone sex, would he know it was her?

  "I've got caller ID. I don't always answer the phone, but for you I will."

  Nicki bit her lip to hold in a gasp. Had he read her mind?

  No, he wants a job, you idiot. Focus!

  "Address?" she asked.

  He hesitated. "I just got into town yesterday, so I don't really have one. Once I find a job, I'll be looking for a place. For now, I'm staying at a motel."

  "No sweat. I'll just ... call."

  "I'll look forward to it." He extended his hand in her direction.

  Oh, goody, she was going to get to touch him. Even if he only offered her a handshake instead of an invitation to do the wild thing. Her belly knotting, she folded her much smaller hand in his. Lightning singed its way from her hand, up her arm, straight to her chest the instant he touched her. From the moment she'd set eyes on him, she'd known he had potent written all over him in big red letters. His handshake more than confirmed it. The knot in her stomach tightened ... just like her nipples.

  Lord, what would happen if the man kissed her, spontaneous combustion?

  "Thanks for coming out." She hoped her smile looked nice and impersonal, as if she were talking to her uncle or old Mr. Piedmont who bagged at the grocery store a few blocks away.

  "My pleasure. And hopefully yours, too." He winked. Oh, yeah. If the gods were kind, he had no idea just how much.

  Chapter 2

  Four o'clock already? Nicki sighed as she climbed the stairs to her second floor office. Dancers would start arriving in another hour. The club opened at seven. She'd wasted the afternoon on five auditions, each less inspiring than the last.

  Because you were hung up on bachelor number two, Ma
rk Gabriel?

  Shoving aside the irritating voice in her head, Nicki opened the door to her office. And stopped.

  Mr. Tall, Dark, and Unsettling was sitting in her chair.

  Blade Bocelli. Six feet of Italian machismo, with an intimidation factor of about a thousand. Blade had made it his personal crusade to watch every move she made, snoop through her files, and act like he owned the joint.

  "What are you doing in my office?"

  He turned toward her in his own good time, his cheek-bones wicked slashes down his chiseled face. His dark stare hovered somewhere between flat and challenging. "Your accounting."

  "What?" Nicki snapped. "I better not have heard you right."

  "Your ears aren't broken."

  "Damn it, no one said you could--"

  "Your uncle said I could. In fact, I think his exact words were 'Update her fucking books, because she's not.' "

  "He only owns thirty percent of this club. The rest came from the inheritance my father left me and the willpower I used to stop buying Jimmy Choo shoes. I worked my ass off doing PR for clubs in New York and saved every penny I could. I'm here every day, every night. I've dedicated my life to Girls' Night Out. It's mine!"

  "I represent your uncle's interests, and he thinks otherwise," he said, then dismissed her by turning back to the late Marcy Hamilton's computer.

  No way was she going to let some big testosterone-oozing lug tell her how to run her place. Unfortunately, talking to Uncle Pietro about Blade's overbearing presence did absolutely no good. Why was it that all old-school Italian men assumed that anyone with a vagina was automatically missing a brain?

  Feeling her blood pressure soar, Nicki reached for the phone anchored to the waistband of her shorts. "This is crap, and I'm going to put a stop to it."

  "Pietro is in Sicily. He ain't gonna answer you."

  Damn it. Reluctantly, she let go of the death grip on her phone.

  "When is he due back?"

  "Don't matter. Someone killed Marcy two months ago. You haven't done jack since," his voice rumbled. "Face it, you need help. Pietro is just making sure you get it."