Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

“Sorry?”

“My name is Trevor.”

Alrighty, then. She braced her weight on one leg, swung the other over his head, then straddled his lap again, this time facing away from him. Hips low, she arched her back and insinuated her body over his in time to the music.

From the corner of her eye, she watched his attention drift to her butt, then scorch a trail of heat along her spine, across her shoulders, and surprisingly, to her face.

“Very limber.”

“Glad you’re enjoying the show, Trevor.”

“Absolutely. In fact, you need to lift up a little or…ah…”

Too late. She felt some of the “incidental contact” Stacy had warned of, and jerked away, almost losing her balance in the process. To cover the flub, she untied the bow at the back of her bikini, spun around, and flashed him. She settled above his lap again, giving him even more room this time, and crossed her arms over her breasts. Her eyes sought his.

“Nice save,” was all he said, but those intense eyes seemed to see right into her mind.

She gripped the chair with one hand, leaned back, and tossed her hair away from her face. When she came up, she fixed her smile firmly in place and stared resolutely at his chin. “Happens all the time.”

Her nonchalance fell short of convincing. “How long have you been dancing here?”

Two hours. “Two years.”

“Really?” He frowned, and she noticed an almost invisible, incongruously vulnerable white scar etched along the corner of his upper lip. “That surprises me. And not much surprises me.”

Now it was her turn to frown. “Don’t you like my dancing?”

“I love your dancing. I love it so much you better lift those amazing hips a little bit more.”

She complied. “We want to keep it legal.”

That earned her an odd look. “Always.”

Thankfully, the song ended, so she didn’t have to come up with a reply. She slowly drew away from him, keeping an arm over her breasts.

“Thank you for the dance.”

“I think that’s my line,” he replied, smiling at her, or himself, or the absurdity of having a barely clothed stranger shake her hips in the general vicinity of his lap.

The waitress arrived with another round for the other table. Kylie used the moment to retie her bikini and reinforce her wall of detachment. When the waitress moved away, the blond man lifted a fresh bottle of champagne and waved Kylie over. “Join us for a drink, gorgeous?”

Her eyes drifted back to Trevor. Inconceivably, part of her wanted to say yes, just so she could stay nearby. Which proved the sooner she got away from him, the better. “No, thank you. I don’t drink while I’m working.”

“Probably a good policy,” Trevor replied. He pressed a folded bill into her palm, and added, “Don’t work too hard, Stacy.”

No chance. Stacy isn’t working at all, she thought irritably. Outwardly, she brightened her smile and extended it to the adjoining table. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”

C’mon boots, start walkin’.

Two table dances, one stage performance, and another lap dance later, she practically cried with relief to be done with those boots. Screaming arches and numb toes made walking to her car a challenge, even in her thick-soled flip-flops. She might have crawled if not for the witness.

One of the club’s bouncers accompanied her. Benny reminded Kylie of a big, blond tank—low forehead, lantern jaw, no discernible neck separating his head from the mountain of muscle comprising his body.

“You were real good tonight, Stacy.”

Benny’s IQ rivaled his biceps’ circumference, according to Stacy. It was an impressive number, for biceps. But he knew his job, followed instructions, and kept his hands to himself, so most of the girls liked him.

“Thanks, Benny. Busy night, huh?”