What You Need(26)

When she looked over her shoulder—her tattooed shoulder—my jaw nearly hit the floor.

The hot-bodied blonde with the skimpy clothes, body art and killer dancing skills was none other than Lennox Greene.

I about swallowed my tongue.

The music started. I skirted the crowd and moved to the end of the bar. Now I had a better view of those long legs encased in leather, her halter top that billowed out in the front, providing a teasing glimpse of the curve of her breast.

So much for my idea that she was too buttoned up.

When she raised her arms above her head, her shirt rode up, revealing the piercing in her belly button. Jesus. I wanted to wrap my lips around that hoop and tug on it with my teeth.

Lennox appeared to be as mesmerized by the music as I was mesmerized by her.

No way was I leaving now.

As far as signs went? This was a damn good one.





Chapter Seven




Lennox

‡


I was having a great time.

Maybe too good a time, I realized when I looked down and saw dollar bills littering the bar top I was dancing on.

Shasta bent at the waist and wiggled her ass as she scooped up the bills.

I let her have them all. For me, dancing on the bar wasn’t about shaking my ass for a little cash, but a reminder I didn’t have to. This was fun. I didn’t have to worry about scoring extra tips so I could make my rent this month.

There was considerable freedom in that.

The musical selections on the jukebox weren’t the bump-and-grind sexy tunes played in nightclubs—no Timberlake or Timbaland—so we had to make do with “Mustang Sally” or “American Woman.” When “Sweet Emotion” started, Shasta and I looked at each other and grinned. At one time we’d had an actual routine worked up for this song. Just for kicks, I tried to remember the moves as the regulars shouted, “Do it, do it!”

Shasta was game and jumped right in. We slowly twisted our bodies down to the bar top during the long “sweet” chorus, and then we rolled back up during the equally long “emotion” portion of the chorus, ending with a hair flip, a full spin and a foot stomp when the guitar part started.

An even bigger crowd gathered, and Shasta and I let their catcalls and wolf whistles pump us up even more.

By the time we reached the last section of the song, I was sweating and that last shot of tequila hit me. I made it through the shimmy down fine. I made it through the roll up fine. I made it through the hair flip fine. But when I started to spin, I over-rotated and lost my balance. I had a split second to decide whether to save face and fall behind the bar, or take my chances, fall forward and hope someone caught me.

I hit a warm body with a loud “Uhf.”

Patrons cheered.

Even beneath my hair, which had come loose and masked most of my face, I could see male hands patting the back of my savior. I was jostled as we moved through the crowd.

Then my rescuer, who had an amazingly hard chest and incredibly muscled arms—I guessed that part since he was lugging me around like a sack of grain—lowered me onto a bench seat.

I brushed my hair from my face and got my first good look at the man who’d caught me.

No.

No, no, no, no, no. This wasn’t happening to me! “Mr. Lund?”

“Given the circumstances of my lifesaving heroic action, don’t you think you should call me Brady?”

I knew my mouth hung open and I probably started drooling because Brady Lund—aka Mr. Perfect—looked even better than usual, dressed down in jeans and a tight black shirt that molded to his upper body. His hair was slightly mussed and I had the urge to sift my fingers through it and mess it up even more.

That last shot of tequila? Bad idea.

But Brady—Call him Mr. Lund, dumbass, to keep this professional!—was far too busy looking me over to notice me doing the same thing to him. He reached out and traced the tattoo on my right biceps with one rough fingertip.

That gentle touch sobered me up faster than a punch to the arm.

“This is cool, Lennox,” he said huskily, not taking his eyes off my ink. “Why didn’t I know you had a tattoo?”

“Because I cover all of them up at work.”

Brady’s gaze snapped to mine. “You have more than one?”

I nodded.

“Show me.” He gave me a slow, wicked grin. “Unless they’re on a place on your body that requires you to strip down.”

“Mr. Lund—”

“Brady,” he corrected.

“Fine. Brady. I don’t want to talk about my tattoos—that’s why I keep them hidden beneath my clothes during working hours.”

“Why?”

“Because three companies declined to hire me prior to getting the job offer at Lund Industries,” I said testily.