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  "It's my business; I'll deal with it."

  "When?" Blade's gaze, sharp as his name, cut her with demand. "Receipts need to be tallied, expenses logged. You were running on a shoestring and a prayer when you opened. The club may be crowded more often than not, but these books still need watching."

  He was right. As much as Nicki hated it, she'd been avoiding the math portion of the business ever since her accountant, Marcy, had been gunned down in the parking lot one night after her shift. Putting off her bookkeeping wasn't an Einsteinian move. It had to be done.

  "And I'm telling you to stay the hell out of my books. I'll hire someone to take care of it."

  "Do you have that much extra cash? Once I finish, I can tell you for sure."

  "You won't finish a damn thing," she insisted through gritted teeth. "I said I'll do it."

  His terse laugh grated across her nerves. "You can't balance your checkbook."

  "I could if I really tried," she blurted.

  Instantly, she wished she could take it back. Her comeback sounded as mature as a six-year-old. My sandbox is better than yours.

  He shot her a skeptical stare. "The fact you don't try only proves you're no accountant."

  "Neither are you!"

  "I manage."

  With a lightning bolt dangling from one pierced ear, a gun holstered inside his leather jacket, and shoulders as wide as a bus, he looked like he managed to do a lot of things, none of them very legal.

  "Look, who else you got to do this?" he challenged. Nicki paused, thinking. Zack Martin, her lead dancer and stage manager, had his hands full. Besides, she wanted him focused on making money, not crunching numbers--assuming he even knew how. None of her employees had any accounting in their backgrounds that she knew of. Some hadn't even finished high school. Still, she wasn't helpless.

  "Lucia. She can do it for me."

  He hesitated, but his poker face gave nothing away. "Yeah, I guess your books are more important than that research paper she's writing. It's just her full, tenured professorship on the line."

  She resisted the urge to wince. Lucia had come to her for the summer, begging for a change of scenery and the chance to write for a very important publication with a minimum amount of interruption. Nicki knew her books were so off balance, it would probably take even a whiz like her sister several weeks to sort it all out.

  And that left her with no one. Except Blade.

  "Listen to me." She wagged a finger at him. "This is temporary. The minute I have the money, I'm going to find someone else to keep these books." Someone I trust.

  He shrugged as if he couldn't give a shit. "I'm just doing what the boss asked me. You hire someone else who makes him happy and you can afford it, I'm done."

  The day couldn't come soon enough for her.

  "Anyone call while I was taking auditions?"

  "I'll keep your books. I'm not a fucking receptionist."

  The man made her grit her teeth. "Do you have to be an asshole all the time?"

  Blade shot her a tight, dangerous smile. "Just doing my job."

  If someone had asked him before tonight what his definition of a good time wasn't, Mark could have come up with a fairly healthy list: root canals, being in jail, speaking publicly. But after tonight, he knew that watching oiled-up pretty boys take off their clothes ranked up there, too.

  Tossing back the last of his third beer in as many hours, Mark scanned the club again. Hordes of women of all ages, whose behavior ranged from horrified to on the prowl, filled the club's dim, mirrored interior. A few of the male dancers strutted their stuff around the perimeter of the two stages, flirting, smiling. One guy grinned as a woman old enough to be his mother shoved a ten in his G-string. In response, the dancer bent her over his arm and gave her a kiss Mark was fairly sure included tongue. That part of the job was paradise, though, when compared with dancing on stage, actually stripping under the harsh lights, to pounding music, urged on by catcalling strangers.

  He really hoped he didn't have to do this job for long. Provided he even got the job. Learning to rip off Velcro-seamed clothes and prance around in a G-string had been humiliating enough in the privacy of a dance studio with just his instructor as a witness. In a club full of bachelorettes, birthday babes, and party girls, taking it off and gyrating for the crowd was bound to be sheer torture.

  Yet doing it for Nicki, watching her stare and flush, seeing her ogle him like a chocoholic about to fall off the wagon, had been a sublime pleasure.

  Why had something he'd dreaded for weeks been so much fun to do for his sexy audience of one? His enjoyment consisted of more than knowing he'd succeeded in learning the skill necessary to complete this assignment, more than realizing a beautiful woman desired him. Mark couldn't put his finger on it. He only knew it had something to do with Nicki.

  "Where is she?" he muttered to himself.

  No one noticed. Oh, his presence had raised a few brows among the bachelorette party occupying the table nearest his, but they shrugged him off. Probably assumed he was gay.

  Not a comforting thought. "Want another beer?" a waiter paused near his table to ask.

  "No, thanks. Is Nicki DiStefano around?"

  Instantly, the waiter's face closed up. "Nicki doesn't talk to strange men."

  "I'm not strange."

  The waiter's look pointed out that he was the lone man watching a show of mostly naked men. "Whatever you say, dude."

  Mark held in an impatient sigh. "I mean that I'm not a stranger. I auditioned for her yesterday, to replace one of the dancers. She suggested I come by and check out the act," he lied. "I had a few questions."

  "Oh. Nicki doesn't circulate the floor until most of the acts have finished. She usually watches from her office."

  The waiter tossed his head up, motioning to a location above the bar. Mark glanced that way, saw a panel of smoky glass amid a row of solid black chrome. His gaze traced the slim outline of a woman's silhouette.

  Nicki. Just the thought of her, the suggestion of her curves through the obscured glass, had his cock rising.

  Mark handed the waiter a twenty. "How do I get up there?"

  Empty tray in hand, he hesitated, looking undecided as he pushed his long, dark hair from his face. "I don't know, man. I could get fired."

  Without pause, Mark slid another twenty across the table. "How? I've never seen you before."

  Cutting his eyes toward Nicki's box, then the stage, and apparently relieved by what he saw, the waiter snapped up the second twenty dollar bill. "See the door behind the bar? It leads upstairs. Leon will take a break soon. Jeff, the other bartender, will be too busy trying to get laid to notice you."

  At a glance, Mark had no trouble discerning who was who. Leon mixed drinks with grim efficiency near the door that led up to Nicki's office. Jeff leaned in and smiled at a pretty brunette as he served a glass of wine farther down the bar.

  "Thanks," Mark said.

  He was talking to air. The waiter had long since gone.

  Impatience riding him, Mark stood and eased toward the center of the room. A handful of minutes later, Leon tapped Jeff on the shoulder and stepped out from behind the bar.

  Once assured of the fact Jeff was shaking a blonde's martini and trying to charm her out of her panties, Mark ducked behind the bar and quickly eased the mirrored door open. He shut it with a quiet click. No one followed.

  First hurdle down. Now for the bigger one: gaining Nicki's trust. Today, he had to keep his thoughts on disarming her enough to persuade her to hire him, not wondering what she smelled like when she was aroused. Not visualizing what she'd look like when he held her against a wall and impaled her on his cock. Not imagining her voice as she cried out his name while she came.

  Soon, though, all bets were off. Somehow, someway, he'd make sure he had the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity--and more.

  He crept up the stairs, marveling at how quiet it was above the chaos, then paused at the top of the landing. Here, the music was
just a dull throb in the otherwise silent room.

  Mark stared down the terra-cotta tiled hall at the lone closed door. She was down there, in a darkened room, probably all alone. Just the way he wanted her. He crept down the hall, heart pounding, heat rising off of him like an inferno.

  Nicki made him hot. Denying it was as pointless as trying to stop a semi with a butterfly net. Her reaction to him during his audition made it clear she reciprocated. Hopefully, that would help him. If not, he'd find another way to earn her trust so he could persuade her to help him catch Blade Bocelli. He wouldn't give up until he had fucked up the gangster's life, much the way Bocelli had nearly ruined his. If using Nicki's desire turned out to be the most expedient means to achieve his goal, it was ugly ... but so be it. He'd just turn on the charm, persuade her to hire him, then be helpful, polite, sexy, caring, a bad boy ... whatever she needed in order to feel comfortable with him in her life, in her books--and in her bed.

  As Mark pushed the door open to her office and saw her standing in a shimmering black halter dress, most of her slender back bare, and dangling a pair of killer stilettos from her fingers, he acknowledged that the likelihood of him keeping his hands off Nicki was about the same as Eminem recording a gospel CD.

  "Knock, knock," he murmured, drinking in the sight of her in black silk.

  She whirled to face him, and the view sucker-punched him in the gut. Her halter top dipped low, displaying the soft valley between her breasts and a hint of the lush swells on either side. The fly of his jeans couldn't expand fast enough to comfortably encase his pike-hard cock. The woman was like a livewire to his libido. Would she object too loudly if he told her that he wanted to lift her sinfully short skirt, lay her across her cluttered desk and ride her until she screamed?

  Damn it, he needed to focus on business here.

  "Mark Gabriel?" she frowned, trying to peer through the dark. "How did you get in here?"

  Clearly, the short-term answer to his X-rated question was that she would mind. Sighing, he wrenched his thoughts away from her body and the things he'd like to do to it. Time to refocus on the job.

  "I came to see the show, take in the vibe of the club, and saw your silhouette through the glass."

  "This is a private area of the club, for employees only."

  "I hope to be one of those soon." He smiled without apology. "None of your waitstaff would ask you to come down to see me, so I hoped you wouldn't mind me coming up. Do you have a few minutes? I'd like to talk to you."

  Her eyes narrowed in her suspicious expression. "About what?"

  "Look, I'm not trying to creep you out. I just ... wanted to ask you to give me a fair shake. I can do this job."

  Nicki tilted her head, sleek dark hair caressing her bare shoulders. "You seemed very capable. I'm just not done evaluating all the auditions."

  "I understand."

  Mark studied Nicki. She moistened her lush lips with the tip of her tongue in seeming invitation, but crossed her arms over her chest. She tossed her hair, so he got a peek at the velvet curve of her neck, but she lowered her gaze. Even in the near darkness of the room, he saw her interest. But he couldn't miss her hesitation, too. What was she looking for, just an employee? A friend? A lover?

  He really hoped to hell she wasn't looking for a big brother.

  Mark studied her face, fastened his gaze deep in her blue eyes, trying to discern the fastest way to her trust. She looked a bit tired and lonely, and more than a bit wary. While he didn't know her well, he'd start with the premise that she wanted someone in her life and see where it took him.

  He sighed and paced closer ... until she tensed. Then he stopped. He had to tread carefully here. Smooth, but not too smooth.

  "It must be hard to keep this place running mostly on your own." He thrust his hands into the pocket of his jeans and ducked his head. "I can't imagine how many hours you work, so I didn't expect that you'd have your mind made up yet."

  "I keep busy, yes. Mostly because I do a lot of things around the club myself so it stays true to my vision."

  "You must have done a lot of things right. It looks pretty crowded for a Tuesday night."

  "Vegas never sleeps." She smiled tightly.

  "Do you take care of the business side all day, then patrol the place at night?"

  "Usually. Why?" Her wariness returned.

  Mark intentionally relaxed his stance more. "Just admiring the fact you work hard. I'd be lying if I said I didn't wonder when you might make a decision, but I'm sure picking a replacement dancer is probably the least of your worries."

  "No, it's very important. I try to pick only the best-looking men for the show."

  She hesitated and stared as if pondering him. Mark let the silence stretch between them. Whatever was going on in that pretty head of hers was more likely to come out if he didn't fill the awkward pause. It would eventually wear on her, and she'd say something.

  "And actually, you're one of the reasons my job is so hard this time," she offered.

  "Me? If I don't have what you want for the show--"

  "On the outside, you do. But it's not just looks. I try to pick interesting men, too. Conversation goes on here, you know. It's one thing to know how to flirt. But some women want to connect, relate. You can't spend a lot of time with any one woman, but part of the experience for her is in knowing that you really got her, even if just for a moment."

  "You're not sure I can connect?"

  "Oh, you had the charm part down. It was practiced and polished until it gleamed like my grandmother's silver tea service on Easter Sunday. But some women see through that." She paced closer, stepping to his side and glancing his way. "Some women find that insulting. Sure, they want you to undress them with your eyes, but they want you to talk to them, as well."

  Mark returned her stare, getting her hesitation. "I insulted you."

  Her eyes narrowed, and he could see the intelligence gleaming in her gaze. Thoughts seemed to bounce off her; energy sparked. Besides being a good businesswoman, he'd bet she was rarely anyone's fool. Kinky home movies aside, probably another reason a lot of the losers she'd known in the past had picked Paris over her. Some guys just couldn't handle a woman with brains. After Tiffany's airhead act, Nicki's sharp mind turned him on.

  Except this wasn't about him. It was about earning her trust. He really needed to keep his mind on the conversation ... and out of her panties.

  "You didn't insult me, but I knew your charm was an act. I didn't try to get you to connect with me, true. But you side-stepped every one of my questions a bit too well."

  Mark rubbed his chin and smiled. "I hoped you hadn't noticed."

  Nicki snorted. "In this business, I've dealt with every charmer, loser, playboy, mama's boy--you name it. Believe me, I've learned to notice when my questions are being avoided."

  "Sorry I didn't answer you. It's ... complicated."

  "Try me," she challenged.

  Now what? Making up a background was too risky. Best to stay close to the truth.

  "I'm here because I need a new start. I had to get away from my old life. Las Vegas is the most different place I could think of, compared to the Florida gulf coast. Exotic dancing is the farthest occupation from working in a bank that I could dream up."

  Hopefully, that would satisfy Nicki's curiosity--at least about his past. Now if she was interested in knowing exactly how he'd like to kiss her, rake his tongue through her wet slit, and make her beg ...

  "A bank?" Surprise lit her features. "I visit my bank a lot, and I've never seen anyone like you work there."

  "I was a branch manager, the expert in deposits and withdrawals." He winked.

  Nicki rolled her eyes. "So you worked at a bank. What happened?"

  "I quit, drifted to Manhattan. My sister and her husband live there." He shrugged. "But it didn't fit me. The place feels too dirty and rude. My thin Florida blood can't take the winters. Rent that amounts annually to a Third World country's GNP made me choke every time I wrote
a check to my landlord. I loathed the subway, thought the Rockettes were overrated. And I got so damn tired of hearing about the Yankees."

  He was one of the few who didn't love New York, but had never shared that with a soul. Mark frowned, wondering why he'd told her.

  "As a native New Yorker, I have to say, I think that's harsh."

  "Yeah? If you love it so much, why aren't you still there?"

  "My uncle. I had to get away before he started trying to dress me every morning and cut my food into little bites. The man thinks he needs to control every part of my life, like he does his five-year-old grandson. At least two thousand miles away, it's a little harder for him."

  "You miss New York?"

  Nicki grimaced. "Not as much as I should. But this isn't about me, and you're trying to change the subject. No more crap. If I hire you, what makes you think you'll like Vegas any better than the Big Apple? It's loud and chaotic here, too."

  "Yeah, but there's excitement, too. I like the hot desert wind. You can feel Lady Luck hovering in the air. Frankly, I could use a little of her magic."

  Nicki hesitated. "Why? What was so bad about your life in Florida?"

  "You don't want all the gory details."

  After placing her shoes on the table beside her, Nicki turned back to him and anchored a hand on her hip. "I've asked twice, so obviously I do."

  He sighed, mentally editing all the shit that had happened in his life in the last few years. "One of my ... coworkers at the bank, who was embezzling money, framed me. Finally, my sister and brother-in-law helped prove the claims false, while I formed an intimate acquaintance with the county jail."

  "That sucks. But if everyone eventually realized that you were innocent, why not stay?"

  "It just wasn't the same, working with people who had believed me guilty once."

  "Smart people don't leave good jobs because of a little wounded pride. There are holes in your story, Mark Gabriel." Her savvy gaze raked him. "I don't have time for this. If you came to say something, say it. Otherwise, I have a business downstairs that needs attention."