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  Direct. No sugar-coating her words. Mark admired her ability to cut to the chase even as he held in a curse.

  He sighed. "Don't say I didn't warn you ..."

  Not knowing what else to say, he started with a watered-down version of the truth. "At nineteen, I petitioned the court for custody of my younger sister. Our parents were both dead. Not long after, I found out I had stage two melanoma. I had surgery, chemo, all kinds of medication. I lost my job, had no health insurance, and had to rely on my sixteen-year-old sister for virtually everything."

  "You had cancer?"

  "I got the skin grafting on the back of my neck to prove it. My sister tells me I look like a refugee from an eighties metal band, but I keep my hair long to cover the scars."

  Nicki smiled. "You look more than healthy now."

  Her smile contained enough suggestion to turn up the temperature of his blood. He'd ten times rather pursue that than this conversation, which was getting out of hand.

  "I'm definitely healthy and cancer free. I use sunscreen when I'm outdoors, get checked regularly, exercise religiously, flirt with pretty girls."

  Was it his imagination, or had she relaxed a little?

  "Yeah, you got the flirting part down. So the bastards you worked for fired you?"

  He nodded. "But once I got well, I found another job. That's when the embezzlement thing came up. Around that same time, my sister got married and moved away. I ... got out of a relationship. I realized I had nothing to tie me to Florida but bad memories. I left."

  Mark clenched his jaw and looked away. As explanations went, that was too much. Way too much. He needed to shut up. Nothing like opening his mouth and vomiting out the lowlights of his life. God, why not just tell her that he'd gone completely bald during chemo? Or that Tiffany, his ex-wife, had married him solely to ensure he went to prison for her embezzlement? Maybe he should give her the blow-by-blow of the cavity search he'd endured when entering jail. Seriously, if he was going to spill his guts, why not go for the gold? What the hell had happened to his suave idea of charming her?

  Embarrassment stung like a sharp slap to the face.

  Out of the comer of his eye, Mark saw Nicki sidle closer. She bit her bottom lip and looked at him, not with pity in her eyes, but understanding.

  "Actually, I left New York for a lot of the same reasons you don't like it. I miss the pizza. I loved watching fireworks over Lady Liberty on the Fourth of July. But the rest ... I could do without. My uncle was a nightmare. He still is. But I know about having a reputation you didn't exactly earn and wanting to leave it all behind."

  Amazing. The starch in her posture was gone, arms dropped from their guard-duty across her chest to dangle at her sides. Something he'd said reached her, rather than made her think he was a head case throwing a pity party.

  "Really?"

  Nicki shrugged, wearing a rueful smile. "I ran with a fast crowd, but could never keep up. I didn't want to. My mom had lived that life. It didn't interest me much."

  Something vulnerable shone in her eyes, and Mark had the urge to hold her. "Her life bothered you."

  "It's not as if I was some kid at home completely alone night after night. I had a great nanny. Our doorman was the grandfatherly type. I saw my mom every afternoon and spent weekends with my dad, stepmother, and half-sister. And you're changing the subject again!" She sent him a sharp stare that seemed to see right through him. "I'll bet you do that a lot."

  Mark couldn't keep the smile from creeping across his face. "Busted. It's a common complaint of my sister's."

  Laughing, Nicki faced him, her face lit up with amusement. Next to him, she was a tiny thing, small boned and not particularly tall. But her personality vibrated, filled a room. Energy pinged around her, even as her obvious intelligence grounded her. She had a lot of warmth without being syrupy. Really unlike Tiffany, who'd been a Precious Moments kind of woman.

  "Do you like Precious Moments dolls?" he blurted.

  She hesitated, staring at him as if he'd lost his mind. Given all he'd said about his past, followed by this inane question, he'd have to agree.

  "Not really. Why?"

  Mark shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just curious. Some women do."

  "I've heard that. They're too sweet for me. I'm known as Commando Bitch around here."

  As he laughed at her remark, the oddest relief slid through him. Not that a woman refusing to fall for the marketing spiels of PMC Doll Company exempted her from selfishness or greed. But maybe it was a good sign.

  Then again, it really didn't matter. The goal here was getting inside her books. Getting inside her body was a secondary goal--no matter how urgent it felt.

  Ultimately, her character was irrelevant. It wasn't like they were going to have a relationship. After all, he had really, really bad taste in women. Given the fact he liked her, he'd bet Nicki had some horrible flaw, like being an ax murderer, that he just didn't see yet. And he wouldn't until it was too late.

  "Do I look like the type who collects Precious Moments to you?" she asked, a frown settling right between her brows.

  She looked insulted that he believed she did.

  "Not really. If you collect anything, my guess is shoes." He picked up one of the strappy, sexy black sandals off the table. "Bet you got a pair of these in just about every color."

  "No, just the black there ... along with red, lime, and white."

  Mark couldn't resist laughing at that female bit of rationale as he set her sandal back on the table--and eased closer. "Bet I can guess how many pairs of shoes you have, give or take five."

  Challenge lit her eyes. "Bet you can't."

  "You're on. What do I win if I'm right?"

  "The privilege of knowing you're right." She tried to put him in his place with a dismissive gaze.

  He wasn't about to let her.

  "Let's make this interesting. I want a kiss."

  Nicki tensed. "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "Backing out?" he taunted.

  He was betting a lot here, gambling that Nicki wasn't the kind of woman to retreat from a challenge. If he was wrong ... well, she'd likely throw him out on his ass, tell him to screw himself, and hire someone else to work in her club. He held his breath, waiting.

  "I'm not backing out," she insisted. "I'm being reasonable."

  "How is one tiny peck being unreasonable?"

  Her eyes narrowed. "I get the feeling you're a give-an-inch-take-a-mile sort of guy."

  Oh, she had him pegged. "I swear, one kiss. I won't put a single finger out of line." At least not right away. "Besides, you could always win. What do you want if you do?"

  "For you to get the hell out of my office and stop shamelessly flirting."

  "You might get your way. All you've got to do is agree to play the game."

  Nicki rolled her eyes. "Men and their little contests. Fine. I'm in."

  "Excellent."

  "Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this?"

  "Are you a pessimist?"

  "I'm a realist, thank you."

  "All right, Ms. Realist, write down the number of pairs of shoes you own. Then I'll guess, and we'll compare. Sound fair?"

  Pausing, Nicki seemed to be examining his words, looking for the flaw in the plan. Finding none, she finally nodded. Mark watched her cross the room to her desk, hips swaying beneath the sexy-as-sin short skirt that had his mouth watering. With a quick flourish, she wrote on a scrap of paper, folded it in half, and handed it to him.

  "This is the truth?"

  "Why would I lie about something this insignificant?"

  "Point taken."

  "What's your guess, Mr. Gabriel?"

  Mark closed her scrap of paper in his hand and glanced at her sandals again. They had to be a bitch to walk in for long, which explained why she was holding them rather than wearing them when he entered the room. And she had them in four colors. He'd bet she had lots of these strappy-style shoes for parading around the club and painting the town
red. Naturally, she'd have a pair of sneakers, maybe two. She'd have sexy, close-toed shoes for contrast. And she'd have them in multiple colors. He'd bet she had boots, as well. She'd probably been a bridesmaid a time or two along the way and had special shoes for each of those dresses.

  "Did you count slippers?" he asked.

  "No. They don't count."

  Technically they did, since she wore them on her feet, but he wasn't going to argue.

  "Hmmm. All right. My guess is fifty-three."

  Instantly, her jaw dropped. Shock rippled across her face. And Mark knew he'd come close enough to win. He unfurled his fist and opened up the paper in his hand. Fifty-two. He'd been damned close.

  "How the hell did you know that?"

  He shrugged. "An educated guess. My sister is into shoes, too. Although she likes to look at them more than wear them."

  Nicki took a deep breath, and her posture turned starchy. Oh, a sore loser--or one out of practice. Mark sensed she didn't lose often. He'd bet she had one hell of a temper about it when she did.

  "This has to be the silliest bet I've ever made, but whatever. You won."

  "Yep, I did."

  Mark said nothing else, did nothing. Silence stretched, thick and ripe and so full of awareness, he had to resist the urge to smile. About now, she was probably bracing herself, wondering what it would be like when he kissed her, if he'd try to take advantage of her, go beyond his one promised peck. She was preparing a defense, steeling herself against feeling anything. But she was also likely confused by his lack of action.

  "Well, you won. Claim your prize. Let's get it over with."

  He grinned. "Here and now isn't the place. I'm patient. I'll wait for the right time."

  "What? The invitation doesn't get any more engraved than this. Look, you said yourself it's a peck. No big deal."

  "Yeah, but I want it to be a big deal." He winked and headed for the door, brushing his body with hers. Feeling her pebbled nipples against his shirt just about killed his good intentions, but he managed to pull it together, block out the feel of his raging erection and murmur, "I'll collect later."

  Chapter 3

  "Zack is complaining that Sean isn't ... um, equipped to be both Conan and a cowboy."

  Frowning, Nicki glanced up from the order forms swimming in her vision. Normally, she'd welcome the distraction Lucia provided from the endless columns of food items and numbers. She'd already finished this week's alcohol order, thank goodness. Her reward? Getting to buy exciting paper goods like toilet paper next. Gee, what a treat.

  The only subject that could put a damper on her enthusiasm to ignore these dull but necessary tasks? A new dancer for the club.

  "Really? Guests have always been enthusiastic about Sean's equipment."

  Lucia flushed. "I'll take your word for it. I didn't look. Just passing a message. Zack is in a bad mood."

  "Hmm. It must not have worked out between him and Pedro. He's always in a bad mood when he's between relationships."

  Nicki sighed. One more thing to deal with. First, thanks to her overbearing uncle, she had Blade, the asshole accountant she hadn't hired. Then her virginal sister had arrived to spend the summer underfoot ... in a place full of eye candy dancers, several of whom would be all too happy to give Lucia their version of a sex education. Running a fledgling business minus one buff attention getter, with a temperamental lead dancer and financial records in chaos was no walk on the beach--and they were problems she couldn't avoid much longer.

  Lucia pushed her glasses up on her nose. "I know nothing about Zack's love life. I only know he's screaming at Sean."

  "Which makes it hard for you to concentrate on your research, I'm sure." Nicki sighed and stood and stretched. "Sean just can't seem to remember to completely change out of one costume before traipsing back out onstage. Three times in two weeks. Conan peeling off his armored breast-plate to reveal a Western vest kills the fantasy."

  "So when are you going to end Zack's misery and call your Mr. Yummy to hire him?"

  "My Mr. Yummy? Who are you talking about?"

  As if she didn't know.

  Mark Gabriel had swooped through her mind a time--or ten--after she auditioned him four days ago. But when he'd stolen into her office the following night, told her about himself, then won a kiss he hadn't claimed, she hadn't been able to get him out of her mind. What would his mouth feel like on hers? Would he be demanding? Tender? Exceptional, she'd bet.

  In her business, this kind of curiosity wasn't a good thing. Lusting after one of her dancers--stupid. Taking the energy away from Girls' Night Out while its outcome was still uncertain and she owed her uncle a huge chunk of change ... that would make her a candidate for the Darwin awards.

  "You know exactly who I mean." Lucia slanted her a skeptical stare. "He's gorgeous. You said he could move. He wants to work, you need a dancer. What's the issue?"

  Other than her personal hang-ups and her fear that she'd molest him in ... oh, the first ten minutes he worked for her? None at all. Nicki sighed. Maybe she needed to invest in a new sex toy. This morning, her B.O.B. just hadn't gotten the job done. Fantasies about Mark and down-and-dirty sex against the wall had worked wonders, unfortunately.

  On the other hand, he'd likely make her a fortune. She needed every dime of it. Once she'd paid off Uncle Pietro, then she could give her glorified babysitter, Blade Bocelli, the old heave-ho.

  "It's complicated," Nicki hedged. The truth was too embarrassing. "For starters, based on some things he told me, I don't think he'd stay long."

  Lucia frowned and tilted her head so her auburn curls slid down one shoulder. "Last time I checked, you weren't offering retirement benefits. Even if he stays a couple of months, isn't that better than nothing?"

  Damn it, yes. And she'd hired several of her current dancers knowing they hadn't intended to stay long. That some had, in fact, remained for a while was merely good fortune on her part, not an expectation.

  She was running out of excuses ... beyond not being able to control herself around one beautiful, testosterone-packed man. Time to dig through her mental bag of tricks for a little self-control. Who knew, maybe her attraction was a momentary blip, a hallucination produced by her utterly neglected sex drive.

  Nicki leaned over her desk and fished around for her stack of applicants' paperwork. All she had on Mark was a name, a Social Security number, his date of birth, and his cell phone number. Well, and the grainy picture of him she'd had her security company pull from their footage of the parking lot on Monday afternoon. Even that rough still of him from a distance screamed that he was major hunk material.

  What was a girl to do?

  "Nicki?" Lucia prompted.

  She sighed. "Where is the damned phone?"

  Half-hoping he'd skipped town or decided to apply for a job at any of the local banks, Nicki called Mark. Clammy palms weren't the usual for her. Nor this odd tightening in her belly. Quit it already, she told herself. You're extending a job offer, not inviting the guy over for an evening of screaming sex and sweat-damp sheets.

  The pep talk failed utterly when, on the second ring, Mark answered.

  "Hello?"

  Dark and deep, his voice vibrated its way up her spine, resonating inside her body--all from that one little word.

  "Mr. Gabriel, this is Nicki DiStefano from Girls' Night Out."

  He paused ... just for a moment. Nicki found herself holding her breath for his response.

  "Hi."

  Again, one word was like a blow to her gut. Full of invitation and a hint of suggestion. And this was a business conversation. How potent would his tones be when he was aroused, his voice raw, redolent of sex? A telltale flush of warmth crept through her at the thought.

  Get your mind between your ears and out of your thong!

  "I was hoping you'd call," he offered.

  Nicki tried not to think about all the way she could interpret that statement.

  "Good. Um, can you come down to the club for a f
ew minutes? I'd like to see you." Realizing how that could be construed, she hastily added. "A-about the job, of course."

  The amused surprise on Lucia's face suggested she'd been less than successful in her effort to be strictly businesslike.

  Shocker.

  "I'd love that. I can be there in an hour."

  "Perfect. I'll see you then."

  "I'm looking forward to it."

  His voice was like warm honey, sliding down her skin, seeping inside her. Addictive, powerful--like she suspected the rest of him could be. She really, really hoped hiring him wouldn't be a huge mistake.

  Before she could say something utterly inappropriate and embarrass herself, Nicki slammed the phone down. She sighed as the sudden tension drained from her.

  Behind her, Lucia burst into laughter. "You've got it bad for this guy."

  "Bite me."

  "I think it's Mark Gabriel you'd rather have biting you."

  Nicki rolled her eyes. "How do you know these things?"

  "I watch movies. I read. A lot." She shrugged. "Someday, some man will realize I'm a woman, besides being a professor with a scary IQ. When I find him, I'll be ready."

  "Honey, you will find someone." Nicki hugged her sister, feeling more than a bit guilty for being so wrapped up in business and Mark Gabriel that she never stopped long enough to think that Lucia might be lonely and want a little romance in her life. "I know you will. And I'll help you if I can. Just make sure it's the right guy. Not anyone who works around here. Broken hearts are no fun."

  "I imagine not." Lucia shot her a mischievous glance. "If Mr. Yummy is on his way over, you might want to put on something else."

  Nicki stared down her denim Capri pants and red, oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt. The perfect thing to wear for taking inventory and doing paperwork. Not so perfect for this occasion.

  "Good point. I should look more professional."

  "I was going to suggest sexy."

  "I'm giving the man a job!"

  "Maybe, but you'd like to give him more."

  The smile Lucia flashed at Nicki was anything but virginal. "Okay, who's been giving you these books you're reading?"