I see it the instant understanding dawns. Her eyes widen again and, even in the low light, I see her cheeks turn red.
She looks back to me and frowns.
“If he’s the stripper, then who are you?”
“I’m Cash Davenport. I own the club.”
CHAPTER THREE- Olivia
I can’t help but stare, openmouthed, at the owner. I fight the urge to look for a table to crawl under. I’ve never been more mortified in all my life.
I hear the girls clucking over Jason, but it barely penetrates my mind, my focus. Every other piece of gray matter is concentrated squarely on the guy standing in front of me.
And then I get angry.
“Why did you let me do that? Why didn’t you say something or introduce yourself?”
He smiles. Smiles, dammit! It registers for a second that it’s a stunning smile, but then my humiliation returns and overshadows it completely.
“Why would I do that, when letting you undress me was so much more fun?”
“Um, because it’s completely unprofessional for one thing.”
“How is that? You ladies ordered a stripper. Does it matter who I send?”
“That’s not the point. You were being purposely deceptive.”
He chuckles. Chuckles, dammit! The nerve. “I don’t remember agreeing to send you an honest stripper. Just a willing one.”
I clamp my lips shut. He’s infuriating.
Nonchalantly, as though he’s not standing in front of me with no shirt on, he crosses his arms over his chest. The action draws my attention to his perfectly rounded pecs and the tattoo that covers one whole side. I can’t make out exactly what it is, but part of it even reaches out and spreads over his left shoulder, like long, jagged fingers.
He clears his throat and my eyes fly to his face. He’s smiling even wider now and I feel my scowl roll into place. I can’t think straight with him standing here like this. He’s far too disconcerting with his shirt off.
“Don’t you think you should at least get dressed?”
“Don’t you think you should at least give me my shirt then?”
I look down and sure enough, clutched tightly in my fisted hand, is his black t-shirt. Angrily, I toss it at him. And he catches it.
Dammit!
The strange thing is, even as I seethe, I’m not sure why I’m so mad. I just know that I am.
“You sure are full of fire! Maybe I should’ve taken your shirt off instead,” he says as he pulls his tee over his head.
“What difference would that have made?”
Other than it would have been about ten times more embarrassing.
He stops and grins at me, a cocky sexy grin that I don’t want to be affected by, but can’t seem to help myself. “If I had, you sure as hell wouldn’t be mad right now.”
My mouth goes bone dry as a mental image of that scene flickers in and out of my mind—him easing my shirt over my head, his hands on my skin, his body pressed to mine, his lips so close I can almost taste them. That’s all it takes to make me forget my anger.
I’m staring at him with my mouth open—again—as he tucks his shirt back in. When he’s finished, he takes a step closer to me. I stand perfectly still. His grin dies into a seductive curve of his lips that makes my knees feel funny. I’m completely spellbound and embarrassingly turned on when he bends to whisper in my ear.
“You’d better close those lips before I’m tempted to kiss them and really give you something to be all hot and bothered about.”
I suck in a breath. I’m shocked. But not by his statement. By the fact that I really want him to do exactly that, by the fact that it makes my stomach tighten just thinking about it.
He leans back and looks down at me. I’m not sure why, but I snap my lips shut.
And he notices.
Dammit!
I see disappointment flicker across his face. And, perversely, that pleases me.
“Maybe next time then,” he says with a wink. Clearing his throat, he steps back and looks to his left. “Ladies,” he says, nodding to the other girls, girls who are paying him zero attention as they watch Jason tease Shawna with his now-bare upper body. He looks back at me and, in a decidedly Southern way, says, “Ma’am.”
He nods once then turns, opens the door and walks out, closing it quietly behind him.
Never before have I been so tempted to chase someone.
********
I crack open my lids a tiny bit, fully expecting to feel knives stabbing me in the head. But the bright, early-September light pouring through the window isn’t painful at all. It’s the strange case of the hangover that never was. And I’m grateful.
What is painful, however, is remembering the humiliation of the night before. It comes back to me in a rush, as does the image of the gorgeous club owner, Cash. I roll over and bury my face in the pillow as the details drift through my mind—tall, strong body and perfect, handsome face. A smile to die for.