of throbbing music made the little back room vibrate, despite the doors closing them off
from the club’s main stage. It was hard to miss the heavy suggestion of the song, some
1980s tune about naughty girls needing love, too.
They stepped inside and Deke shut the door behind him. “It’s my favorite pole
dancer. How the hell are you?”
Alyssa tossed back a curtain of platinum hair and regarded Deke with disdain.
“Smart enough to avoid you and your tagteaming cousin. The last woman the two of you
finished with didn’t walk for a week.”
“You’re in no danger. We’re looking for a lady.”
The former stripper stiffened. “Fuck you.”
Deke gave an easy shrug. “I would, but you’re not Luc’s type. Thanks, anyway.”
“I wasn’t offering,” she spit out. “Next time you feel the need to be here, send your
cousin instead. He’s got charm.”
Meaning Deke didn’t. What was the problem with these two? Morgan watched their
byplay with a frown. Alyssa and Deke disliked each other. Intensely.
“I hate to interrupt,” Morgan blurted, lying through her teeth, “but can I get my
purse, Alyssa?”
The woman looked at her. “Morgan? Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you with
red hair and… What the hell are you wearing?”
“Jack’s sweatpants and He-Man’s sweatshirt.”
Alyssa’s expression turned ripe with X-rated questions.
Morgan flushed with both embarrassment and anger. “It’s not what you’re thinking,
but don’t ask. I just want to get my purse and get out of here.”
“Did Jack find your stalker and put him out of his misery?”
“No, but we think he’s gone to California looking for me since he set fire to my house
there yesterday.”
Alyssa grabbed her hand. “I’m not so sure, hon. Come with me. You, too, steroid
boy.”
Morgan followed her into a narrow hallway that bloomed into an office. Deke trailed
behind, grumbling that he’d never used steroids. She barely paid attention. Alyssa knew
something about her stalker that she didn’t?
The woman shut the door to the small, cubiclelike office. Ah, soundproofed. Very
nice.
Hustling behind her desk in a surprisingly long, confident stride, despite her
staggeringly high stilettos, Alyssa produced a big envelope. A familiar manila-style
envelope. One without postage marks.
Morgan’s heart took a nosedive.
“These arrived this morning. Apparently, some homeless woman said a man paid her
to deliver it by hand. I would have called Jack to tell him, but I was in New Orleans
today. I just got back and found them.”
With shaking hands, Morgan opened the envelope and extracted the pictures. There
were only two, both taken near Sexy Siren’s main stage the day Jack had brought her here
to transform and hide her. Had that been a mere three days ago? So much had happened
since then, it felt like a lifetime.
The first picture showed Jack in disguise, his fingers curled around her hip, his palm
resting on the curve of her ass. His mouth hovered above her ear. Morgan shivered as she
remembered his hypnotic voice and five o’clock shadow rasping against her senses.
She swallowed down a tangle of grief and yearning as she flipped to the next picture.
This one knocked the breath from her body.
Jack seizing her, holding her still for the onslaught of his mouth. Eyes closed, he
devoured her. The still picture captured aggression, possession in the clutch of his
fingers on her neck, the thrust of his shoulders, as if he was determined to get as close as
possible. His wide mouth utterly devoured hers. Morgan couldn’t avoid looking at the
picture, her arms around Jack’s neck, her breasts pressed against him, her lips parted in
eager readiness to taste every bit of his kiss. Not just accepting, but craving it. She
tingled just looking at it.
Deke whistled. “That’s one hell of a kiss.”
“Yep, I’ve never known Jack to be so intent on anything that didn’t involve
handcuffs,” Alyssa commented baldly.
Morgan cut a pained glance at her. Of course Alyssa had slept with Jack. Probably
more than once. What red-blooded woman wouldn’t, given the opportunity? Still,
looking at the exotic creature in black leather with a waterfall of platinum hair wrapped
in easy sexuality, Morgan felt like the ugly duckling—all baggy clothes, freckles, and
repression.
God, she had to get far away from here. If she stayed long enough to watch Jack touch
this woman or any other…the sight would crush her. No question. She’d trusted him,
opened up to reveal herself to Jack in a way she never had with any man. She cared. More