No, no, no. She couldn’t do this. She would think of another way. Anything.
“What’s the problem?” Ray barked behind her. “I have two clients waiting for a show in the VIP lounge.”
Katarina laid an encouraging yet firm hand on Emma’s arm. “No problem, boss. We go now.”
Ray’s eyes ate Emma up. “Must say, you dirty up real good, Emma…” If she weren’t so worried about her sister, Ray’s mustache-twirling would have made her laugh. “Keep an eye on her,” he added to Katarina.
As he turned his back, Katerina stuck her tongue out. “Prick,” she muttered.
Tucking her hand under Emma’s elbow, Katerina led her away. Emma’s wobbly, borrowed heels pinched her little toe something awful, and with each step forward, that pinch reminded her that she was about to cross into uncharted territory.
She halted before they reached the VIP lounge, separated from the rest of the club by a three-step stairway. “Kat, I don’t think I can do this.” Panic pitched her voice in a squeak she could barely hear above the boom-boom bass of the club’s music. “I’m not what this guy wants. I can’t dance, I can’t be…sexy.” Maybe in a previous life, the one she’d tried to leave behind, but not like this. Not with a metaphorical gun to her head.
“You will be fine. Just watch how I do and you get big tip. Maybe $50?”
Every penny of which would go into Ray’s grubby little hands. Acid coated her stomach, rising in a torrent to her throat. There was no way she could pull this off. Yet she resumed her march toward the VIP lounge. Just three little steps.
Bad stripper walking.
“What if he touches me?” What if he doesn’t?
Katarina stopped, one heel on the bottom step. “You moan like his hand belong to David Hasselhoff.” At Emma’s dropped jaw, she shrugged. “We have different fantasies in Romania.” On gravity-defying heels she bounced up the stairway like a gazelle, dragging an ungraceful Emma with her. “Hello, boys. Are you ready to play?”
Emma raised her eyes and clashed gazes with Broderick Kane III.
Fuck. My. Life.
Chapter Four
For the slimmest, teetering-on-the-edge moment, Emma held her breath.
Waiting.
Praying.
That he wouldn’t recognize her. That he was wasted or clueless or completely unobservant. Side by side, Emma’s disparate identities couldn’t be less similar. The sheer ridiculousness of this situation might be her way out.
Why she looks a little like my…nah, couldn’t be. Let’s party hearty!
If only.
Mr. Kane ran a hand through his dark hair, adjusted his glasses farther up his nose, and with a flickered glance, appeared to question the drink in his hand. The man who barely looked at her in the office focused his full attention on her now. Silver-gray eyes darkened in…appreciation? No, dummy. Recognition. The hope Emma had clung to for the longest beat of her life slunk out the door with an adios, suck-ah and a flip of the bird.
Fire scalded her cheeks as his grip on the tumbler of scotch in his hand tightened.
Busted.
Yes, it’s me, your PA, now your stripper for the evening. How do you do?
Surely this was a nightmare, and she’d wake up any second now. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was working here, forced to shake her ass for nameless slobs, now she was faced with the prospect of giving her boss a lap dance. And he was with—oh God—Mr. Smythe-Osborne, who was gifting his chosen stripper Katerina a royally lascivious leer.
Thankfully, Score Property’s potentially lucrative client had followed the script and didn’t appear to recognize Emma. (Take a leaf, boss man!) Mr. Smythe-Osborne rubbed his hands together, perhaps warming them for all that silky Romanian flesh he longed to touch.
“I bring sexy friend,” Katerina said with her usual solemnity. “This is”—she looked at Emma, and a twisted smile touched her lips—“Chardonnay.”
Chardonnay? Not cool, Kat.
With a quick headshake, Mr. Kane planted his feet and went to stand. “Ms.—”
Emma placed a hand on his shoulder and arrested his progress before he could push her name past those grim lips. Hard muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, the solidity of his body registering on some deep primal level.
“Hey, handsome. Let’s not stand on formality. Just call me Chardonnay.”
Just call me Chardonnay? Was she out of her freakin’ gourd?
His eyes narrowed, hopefully in understanding. She braved a peek over his shoulder to the bar where Ray was watching, knowing that somehow it was better all-around that her prior acquaintance with this particular client did not become common knowledge.
“I can get someone else,” she said to him. Pleaded. The club’s lights, scents, aura of desperation pressed in on her. “I’m clearly not what you expected.”
Under-fucking-statement of the century.
A new song started up, something with a thumping bass beat—shocker—that segued into an ode to grinding.
“Yeah, baby,” Mr. Smythe-Osborne said, channeling Austin Powers. “Let’s get this party started.”
Katerina began her dance, a sultry, undulating wave that managed to say fuck me and fuck you simultaneously. Impressive. For a moment, Mr. Kane and Emma stared at her, curiously drawn to her weird magnetism. It had the added benefit of giving them both a moment to breathe and figure out what should happen next.
Mr. S-O beckoned Katerina. “Come here, love.” She sat on his lap, continuing her dance in the sitting position as he laid hands on her hips. On one of her arch backs to show off her pert breasts, she caught Emma’s eye and gave an unsubtle jerk in Brody’s direction.
“She dance for you. She good dancer.” Pronouncement made, Katerina returned to Nigel, who was licking his lips as he stared at her barely-cupped breasts.
Another surreptitious glance confirmed Ray was watching like a hawk. Emma locked gazes with Mr. Kane again, and…nothing. No clues in those silver-gray eyes. No indication of how this mess should be resolved. He seemed to be waiting. For her to start dancing?
No, not that. He was waiting for an explanation. For why his unflappable, trustworthy, by all accounts nice-girl personal assistant moonlighted as a stripper. She would give it to him, but not now. Not with Ray’s soulless shark’s eyes on her. Not with Daisy in danger.
The things I do for you, sister bitch.
The music changed to Bang Bang by Ariana Grande. Emma liked this song. It had a good beat and the lyrics spoke to her…body like an hourglass…booty like a Cadillac. Not especially applicable, but maybe she could channel it.
She gave a tentative sway. Mr. Kane inched back.
Not quite a recoil, but not exactly good for her self-esteem, either. He held Emma’s gaze with steel-gray eyes of—ah, there it was, at last. Disapproval. Cartoon wavy lines of condemnation radiated off him.
Bang, bang into the room…I know you want it.
She swayed with more purpose, knowing Ray watched, knowing if she didn’t do this and make it look good, she would bring on a universe of hurt for her sister. She rolled her hips from side to side and shifted her gaze from Ray to Mr. Kane.
Brody. She couldn’t continue to think of him as her boss. He was Brody, the man she’d had inappropriate fantasies about. Yay, dreams do come true. Not. It was one thing to use your boss as masturbation fodder but this was definitely crossing a line. Heat rose to her cheeks at the thought, but there was no time to worry about that. If she thought sexy, perhaps she could be sexy.
She took a few steps forward, a couple back, trying to magically conjure a rhythm. A roll of her shoulders felt vaguely like she was poppin’ and lockin’. Did people still do that? She decided that maybe people did not still do that, so she changed up to kicking her toes forward and twisting her wrists at the same time.
Going for broke.
…
Brody had entered the wardrobe and was now sledding in fucking Narnia.
Ms. Strickland was a stripper.
He silently repeated the sentence, reconfigured the elements like he would a tricky word jumble, and eliminated the chaff: Ms. Strickland. STRIPPER.
Nope. Still made no sense.
How had it come to this? He paid her well. Very well. She was worth it, ten times better than any assistant he had previously employed. Of course he was attracted to her—though fuck knew why, given how she made no effort to showcase what were clearly amazing assets. But she had this cute-sexy way of biting the end of a pencil when she was taking notes. And pushing an errant dark curl that had escaped from her scraped-back bun. That move, so innocently erotic, always sent blood pumping to his dick.
But he would never act on it. She was Ms. Strickland, the kind of girl who curled up with a cup of cocoa and her cat in the evening and watched Downton Abbey. In moderation, he would’ve bet. Emma wouldn’t binge-watch anything. She had far too much self-control.
But…this was no longer Ms. Strickland. It wasn’t even Emma. Meet Chardonnay, the stripper to make a man’s dreams come true. At least for however long this damn song lasted.
Over the thud of his heart and the permutations of his brain, Brody watched the scene playing out before him. Ms. Strickland was known for her perfect handling of any and every situation. She could juggle multiple phone calls simultaneously, whip up elaborate spreadsheets that had the analyst in him weeping with joy, and produce oolong tea out of thin air. But she had finally met her match in a dingy strip club on Chicago’s North Side.