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  "I'm a smart girl who knows her way around the library."

  Then she walked out the door, leaving Nicki all alone with her impure thoughts.

  Trudging her way up to her apartment on the third floor, she reconsidered. Did she really want to hire Mark Gabriel? Wave temptation under her nose every night? It wasn't too late to back out ... Besides, the attraction might be totally unreciprocated. Not only could he flirt, but he could also seem so genuine, like the woman he looked at was the only woman who truly mattered. Nicki snorted. No doubt, that got him laid a lot.

  Even if the attraction wasn't one-sided, Nicki didn't see a lot of options. She needed money, and Mark would definitely make it for her.

  Nicki arrived on the club's top floor, which had been divided into four apartments by the building's original owners. She hadn't seen any reason to change that. In fact, living above the club was incredibly convenient.

  On her way to her own unit, she passed the other three. Thanks to her uncle's insistence, Pain-in-her-ass Bocelli lived in the first unit on the left. Lucia was crashing this summer in the apartment down the hall from him. Nicki enjoyed having the place farthest back, since it was the biggest and offered the most privacy.

  The unit on the right, just before hers, sat empty. Too bad she couldn't rent the silly thing out, not even to another employee. Not for lack of trying. But who wanted to live above a male strip club, other than people who worked there? All of the guys at the club either had wives or partners or live-ins or, like Zack, took care of his ailing grandfather. Despite multiple ads in local papers, the apartment remained vacant Which sucked. The extra money might have freed up some of her cash to hire an accountant.

  Nicki let herself into her place, sailed past the bits of clutter in her old world European living room and headed straight for her bedroom. The sight awaiting her in the full-length mirror nearly made her scream. What had happened to the well-ordered French braid she'd yanked her hair into this morning? And the outfit ... She looked like a kindergarten teacher on the edge.

  Not a sight that would inspire authority and project professionalism.

  After a quick ten minutes with her cosmetics bag and another five with a hairbrush, Nicki stepped into her closet. Professional. Yes, that's what she needed.

  Biting her lip, she looked through her wardrobe. Being a nightclub owner meant she didn't have much that passed for the Brooks Brothers look. Too bad she and Lucia weren't the same size, or she'd borrow one of those cute tailored shirts ... But Nicki and her healthy B cups had no hope of filling out a shirt her sister's D cups normally occupied.

  She sifted through her clothes with a critical eye. Too short. Too low cut. Too last season. Ugh!

  Nicki sighed. She had to stop agonizing about what to wear. Mark Gabriel was just a guy she planned to offer a job, not Brad Pitt. Not the Pope.

  Finally, she pulled out a khaki skirt that reached mid-thigh, a simple black silk shirt, along with some medium-heeled black sandals from her fifty-two pairs of shoes and donned them. Then immediately resisted the urge to change.

  A spangled bracelet and a flirty anklet later, Nicki was out the door.

  By the time she made it downstairs, Mark was waiting for her in the darkened foyer of the club.

  Naturally, he looked completely edible in a body-hugging blue T-shirt, jeans faded in some really intriguing places, and casual loafers. Knowing what he looked like under most of those clothes wasn't helping her pulse rate.

  "Glad you could make it," she greeted.

  Mark extended his hand. Damn it, the electrical outburst she'd experienced the last time they'd engaged in this ritual was dangerous, not smart to repeat before she'd had a chance to find something about the man she loathed and fortify herself with it. But she didn't want to appear rude, either.

  Steeling herself, Nicki slipped her hand in his. Oh, hell yes--just like before. A jolt, the tingles, fire spreading up her arm. If a mere handshake thrilled her this much, what would he feel like deep inside her, pounding hard with long, sure strokes?

  Do not go there, she told herself. Deep breath. She could do this.

  A quick shake later, she hastily released his hand.

  "I'm glad to be here," he murmured.

  Those killer hazel eyes of his latched on to her. They shimmered with heat and mischief--and blatant interest.

  For the sake of her business, her future, and her sanity, she pretended not to notice.

  "Let's sit at one of the tables and talk."

  He followed her inside the club, down the shallow bank of stairs. Nicki made sure she chose a well-lit table dead in the middle. No cozy comers that would give either one of them more ideas.

  As she sat, he folded his long, hard body in the chair directly across from hers. She'd imagined that having a cocktail table between them would give her some level of comfort. It didn't. Mark was closer than ever, his woodsy, musky male scent teasing her.

  She cleared her throat. "If you still want the work, I'm offering you the job. You'll be on four nights a week. Zack, the lead dancer and stage manager, will help you with your schedule. You'll be here by six. You're usually out by two-thirty. Rehearsal is every Monday, the day we're closed, from two to four. Naturally, you keep tips. Trips to the V.I.P. room with a guest for a private dance earns you thirty dollars each time. If you elect to serve drinks when you're not on stage, you'll get a cut from the bar, besides your hourly wage. Any questions so far?"

  "It seems straightforward. Anything else I can figure out as I go."

  "So you accept?"

  "Sure. I'll do my best to make you feel good about the choice."

  Nicki didn't even ask what he meant by that. Her imagination didn't need the stimulation. "This is the part of the spiel where I warn you to keep some of your money back to pay taxes. If you don't, I won't have to cut off your balls. The IRS will do it for you."

  A faint smile curled his mouth as he flashed those landmark dimples. "I certainly wouldn't want to incite you to anything that extreme. Besides, I already spent time in jail and know how unpleasant it is, so I'm the last person you have to worry about breaking the law."

  Nicki nodded, conceding the point. "Zack and the other guys will fill you in on specifics. Be here an hour early for rehearsals next Monday so Zack can work with you one-on-one. You'll have a routine or two of your own to work out. Group numbers with all the dancers are at the beginning and end of the evening. You'll need to learn those before we turn you loose on stage. Zack will know when you're ready."

  Mark nodded. "Zack sounds like he knows what he's doing."

  "He's been with me since I opened the doors."

  "So he has a lot of experience."

  "Dancing, yes. He's only been my stage manager for a few months. But he understands my vision, and I've learned to trust him to make it happen."

  "Then I'll be sure to stay on his good side."

  "Not too good." Nicki paused as a terrible thought occurred to her. Had she completely misjudged him? "Well, unless ... I'm not against employees dating each other, so if you're same sex-oriented--"

  "No." He didn't even let her finish the sentence. "Definitely not."

  Why did that come as a relief? It shouldn't. It didn't. Hell, he could be into barnyard animals for all it should concern her. Mark Gabriel's sex life was absolutely none of her business.

  Her libido protested vociferously.

  "Um, I think we're about done here. I'll need a glossy head shot and a full body pose of you in the next week or so. If you don't have one, I'll refer you to a photographer."

  Mark leaned in, those warm greenish eyes drilling her, making her next breath difficult to take. Nicki tried to ease back in her chair, but short of standing she had nowhere to go. And putting space between them would only tell him how much he affected her.

  "I'm not much for cameras. Maybe you could take the pictures."

  Oh, sure. Her, a camera and a mostly naked Mark Gabriel. There was a recipe for her immediate downfall
.

  "I'm terrible with cameras. If you're uncomfortable with a photographer, Zack can probably take the stills."

  The grin lifting the comers of his firm, wide mouth seemed to confess that he'd been outsmarted. "I'll figure it out and get you the pictures soon."

  "Great. Any other questions? If not, I've got to start getting ready for tonight's show. Fridays are always busy."

  Mark leaned forward a bit more, propping that intriguing square chin on one large fist. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me. I've spent a few days looking for a place to live, and I'm not having much luck. Any recommendations, preferably without drug dealers and king-sized roaches as neighbors? I want to live as close to the club as possible." He shrugged. "I didn't bring my car."

  Immediately, Nicki thought of her vacant apartment upstairs ... the one right next door to hers.

  No, bad idea. The worst idea she'd had in years. Decades, even.

  "Did something occur to you?" he prompted.

  Drat, the look on her face had probably given her away. "Um..."

  What the heck could she say? Well; she could keep the apartment vacant. But ... she needed Mark here, ready to dance, not distracted by his living arrangements. She could charge him rent, which would help her bottom line. They wouldn't have to see each other after hours. He'd never be late for work or a rehearsal. She could keep an eye on him so that whatever he did that might need watching was ... well, watched.

  "Help me out here," he cajoled. "I could really use it."

  That smooth honey-rich voice, followed by dimples, was like a one-two punch to her resistance.

  She sighed. When had Commando Bitch become such a freaking pushover?

  "There's a vacant apartment on the third floor. You can rent it for six hundred a month, if you want. It's one bedroom, one bathroom. Kitchen, living room, and a small washer and dryer. Refrigerator is included."

  "Really? That's great! Furniture?"

  "A sofa, a kitchen table, and a queen-sized bed. That's about it. I'm sacrificing this for you." Huh, and pigs will fly!

  "You're great, you know?"

  His smile had her feeling faint. How could he do that to her so easily? Other men in her life had been interesting or hot or fun. None had been magnetic or tied her up into more knots than Lucia when she did yoga. He just got to her.

  "Can you show me?"

  All the ways in which he affected her? Not a chance. "Excuse me?"

  A hint of mischief sparkled in his eyes. "The apartment. I'd like to see it."

  She nodded and stood. The sooner she dealt with him, the sooner she could excuse herself from his compelling presence. The sooner she could get on with her business and stop being a hormone-happy airhead.

  Nicki led him through the club, to the private stairs behind the bar. As she climbed three flights, she not only heard Mark behind her, she felt him. His body heat, his warm breath on the back of her neck, his tempting scent wrapping around her.

  Finally, they reached the top of the club. Nicki drew in a deep breath, glad for Mark-free air.

  "Wait here just a second," she said, then hustled down the hall to her apartment.

  She grabbed the vacant unit's key from the junk drawer in her little kitchen, then joined Mark, who was looking around the narrow landing.

  "Is that the apartment?" he asked, nodding toward her door.

  "No, this is." She pointed to the door on her right and shoved the key in the lock.

  "What do these other doors lead to?"

  Nicki hesitated, then realized he was going to figure it out, sooner rather than later. "These are all apartments. The door I just came through leads to mine."

  His smile brightened until it could have lit up all of Las Vegas. "I like the neighborhood already."

  Rolling her eyes, Nicki did her best to look unmoved by his show of interest. "No normal person I know wants to live close to their boss."

  Not waiting for his reply, she opened the door. A blast of hot, stale air whooshed from the unit, into the hall. She stepped back to avoid the draft--and collided with Mr. Yummy's fabulous, hard chest. His hands fell to her waist to steady her. His killer scent surged all around her. She abruptly discovered that the cliche about a woman's knees turning weak was actually true.

  "If everyone's boss had your qualities, they would," he whispered in her ear.

  Pulse seesawing, Nicki stepped away and cast what she hoped was a warning glance over her shoulder. Restraining herself from jumping on Mark was hard enough. If he was going to encourage her ... hell, it was as dangerous to her agenda as someone waving a seven-layer chocolate cake in front of her on diet days.

  "What?" he asked innocently. "You're smart, driven. You seem fair and easy to deal with. That always makes for good neighbors."

  He was good--and quick. She'd give him that. It was on the tip of her tongue to demand he claim that kiss he'd won and get it over with, stop holding it over her head and killing her with innuendo and those lust-tinged glances. But she wasn't about to give him the upper hand, even if she had to bite her tongue.

  "Thanks," she said dismissively and walked into the apartment. "Kitchen on your left. Nook and living room directly in front. The bedroom is down the hall, first door on your right. Bathroom is on your left. Washer and dryer are at the end of the hall in the closet. I'll let you look around."

  With a shrug of those heavenly wide shoulders, Mark glanced around. Less than a minute later, he said, "I'll take it."

  That was quick! "Really?"

  "It's perfect. Close to work, low maintenance, already equipped with the basics. And," He flashed her those dimples again, "I have a great neighbor."

  By Monday afternoon, if the devil had opened up a big hole in the floor of Girls' Night Out and offered eternal damnation to escape his current, humiliating predicament, Mark would have been sorely tempted to agree.

  "A what?" he asked Zack Martin, the lead dancer/stage manager.

  "A Viking."

  Zack handed him a studded metal helmet with protruding horns. Mark frowned. What was the intimation here, that he was horny? Wearing phallic symbols on his head in public definitely went above and beyond the call of duty.

  Next, Zack handed him a black tunic-like garment with an open V to his navel, a pair of thin black pants he'd bet were so tight the club's patrons would be able to guess his religion, and black thigh-high boots. A black cape completed the look.

  "Seriously?" he asked Zack. "This looks more like a vampire with bad taste in hats."

  "I'm the vampire around here. This is Viking."

  "Technically, it's not," a woman called from the shadows.

  Mark peered past the glaring lights overhead to see a curvaceous redhead walking his way. She was short with a pretty round face and chocolate eyes, which sparkled with mischief. As she stepped closer, out of the harsh glare of the lights, her image materialized.

  She held out her hand. "Lucia DiStefano. We met briefly the day of your audition."

  Yes, they had. She'd let him in the door with a smile. He'd been too damned nervous to smile back.

  Zack dimmed the harsh lights overhead, and finally Mark got a good glimpse of the woman.

  "Hi. Mark Gabriel." He shook her hand.

  "I'm Nicki's sister," she added.

  From the raising of her brows, Mark knew his surprise rippled across his face.

  Lucia and her sister looked nothing alike. Nicki was all sleek and dark with uptilted blue eyes, narrow shoulders, spitfire, and challenge, along with a sculpted mouth he was dying to taste. Lucia was more lush curves, warm auburn hair, insightful eyes the color of decadent milk chocolate, and an inviting pink mouth. No doubt she was making some man who loved breasts seriously happy, since she had plenty and then some. But sisters? Lucia was ... Alyson Hannigan to Nicki's Angelina Jolie--totally different animals.

  "Half-sisters," Lucia clarified. "Her mother was an exotic Euro-Asian model. Mine was an Italian housewife." A self-deprecating smile played at the come
rs of her lips. "And your costume is more Teutonic. A Viking tunic would have a rounded neck, a gathered sleeve, and end somewhere around the knee. And black pants that thin definitely weren't in their wardrobe."

  "Only a history professor would know." Zack rolled his eyes. "We're creating a fantasy here." He dismissed her and turned to Mark. "This is how Nicki sees you onstage. I agree."

  At six feet tall with cropped black hair and equally dark eyes, Zack wasn't anyone's idea of a Viking. So he would never know the humiliation of the homed helmet. For Mark, it was more than that. The thought of tearing off tight black everything in front of strangers while he was supposed to look like a Viking conqueror with lust on his mind was making him queasy.

  Gritting his teeth, he asked, "What do you want me to do now?"

  "In your spare time, practice with the costume. Mirrors help. Look for sexy ways to take it off."

  He'd already done plenty of stripping in front of a mirror to prepare for this gig, thanks for asking. No way he planned to do more.

  "I meant right now," Mark clarified.

  "Oh, set it aside. We need to get you started on learning the routines."

  Right, the routines ...

  This assignment had seemed simple in theory. Anything to nail the bastard who had helped destroy his life. Anything to assist the money-laundering scum who'd all but escorted his ex-wife to prison find his own way behind bars. It was still important. Vital. He just hadn't expected it to be so damn embarrassing.

  Stripping for Nicki had been fun--a rush, even. Watching her gaze latch on to him, interest brewing in her eyes. Seeing her cheeks flush, imagining that maybe ... just maybe, she was as affected by him as he was by her.

  Somehow, he knew that stripping for a crowd wasn't going to be like that. But he could either tuck his tail between his legs and give up or stick it out and nail this asshole.

  No contest.

  "Where do I start?" he grumbled.

  The door behind the bar slammed, and Mark looked up to see a man with short dark hair and wide shoulders emerge. He wore tailored black slacks, a white oxford under a black leather jacket, and Italian loafers that had probably cost as much as Mark's rent payment.