It was on the tip of his tongue to ask Javier yet again if he could help S.I. Industries recover, but he already knew the answer. Being so rejected by his brother at every turn shouldn’t hurt so much, but hell . . . he was only human, too.
The more he tried to help Javier, the more his brother pushed him away. He was damn tired of it, mostly because he didn’t know what else to do.
“You want me to fuck off and throw in the towel? Leave you to drown in work and good vodka and pretend that I don’t give a damn? What kind of brother would I be?”
Javier sent him a cold glare. “The kind who abandoned me when I needed him most and allowed Francesca to die. I asked for your help then. I don’t need it now.”
Javier was so shut down. He would rather crash and burn than feel or change. Xander suppressed a curse. He’d thought a few weeks away from the distractions of the big city and the introduction into a caring circle of friends, a focus back on work, would all help him. But Javier was just sinking deeper.
“I’m not to blame. I didn’t wrap a rope around Fran’s throat and squeeze. Instead of playing the blame game with me, why don’t you try to find your wife’s killer, put the mess to rest that way. I’ll help you.”
“Like you ‘helped’ before? No thanks. I’ve got that covered. I’ve hired a P.I. who’s in Aruba now. Nick is the best. He’ll learn the bastard’s identity. Then I’ll hunt him to the ends of the Earth to put him down myself if I have to.”
Xander was glad to hear it. Closure might bring Javier peace. “You can’t go vigilante on me. Think. Let the police—”
“Goddamn it, get your nose out of my business and fuck off.”
With a sigh, Xander stared at his brother. He didn’t want to give up or admit defeat. But Javier . . . well, he couldn’t force his brother to let go of his guilt or see reason. “I’ve done everything I can think of to help you, and you still insist on pushing me away. You know what? Fine. If you want me to fuck off, you’ve got it.” He turned and made for the door, pausing as he pushed it open. “I’ll leave you the hell alone until your six weeks are up. You can have the house to yourself. I’ll crash elsewhere. If you keep up your end of the bargain, I’ll keep my mouth shut and stay out of your hair.”
“Good. I didn’t ask for your shit anyway. And take your whores with you. They were loud last night while I was trying to sleep.”
Gritting his teeth, he repressed the urge to plow his fist into the wall of glass beside him. “You got it. And one more thing, Javier.”
“What?”
“Fuck off. For good.”
He charged out the door, slamming it behind him and prowling to his Audi. He needed a good drink and an even better fuck. And he knew exactly where to go.
AFTER walking to Sexy Sirens alone, London let herself in with her cousin Alyssa’s key and disabled the alarm. She didn’t reset it behind her or lock the door, since the other woman should be only minutes behind her and the club’s sign still indicated the place was closed.
The interior looked dormant, but a sense of anticipation hung in the air. The lights were dark, the bar dry, the speakers silent, but within hours all of that would change. Men would file in, and raucous music would fill the air with its raunchy, insistent beat. The booze would flow. The whistles and catcalls would start. Women would strut out wearing next to nothing and entice every man in the place.
Not that she wanted to be an exotic dancer, exactly. But she’d love to tempt any man at this point. Hell, she was beyond grateful to just be moving without wheelchairs or walkers. She was making friends beyond her nurses and physical therapists. She’d even been on a few dates with a nice guy, and he’d kissed her once or twice . . . but Brian had been on the hospital staff. Of course once he’d seen the terrible roadmap of red scars on her lower back, he’d been repulsed and mumbled an excuse about being too busy to date anymore. Embarrassed and deflated, she’d let him go without fuss. Letting anyone see her back wasn’t a mistake she planned on making again. But here she could pretend that none of that existed.
After nearly ten years of recovery and rehab, she’d fled her mother’s nest and flown halfway across the country to visit her cousin for a while. Alyssa and Luc had been so kind and offered to take her in. She wished she could pay rent or babysit their beautiful little girl in return—something. But that was impossible, at least for now. Someday . . .
Squelching the guilt and sadness, she made her way through the empty club, her sensible sandals clicking as she meandered up on the stage, fingers grazing the shining metal pole in the middle. What would it be like to have the confidence and the body to strip in front of a roomful of men? To hear their appreciative whistles and suggestive comments? To know they felt lust when they looked at her, not pity?
She’d never know, but she could pretend here and now.
With a grin, she clambered off the stage and darted to the dressing room, finding a pair of her cousin’s sexiest stilettos. Tottering in on them, she flipped on the lights and the music, as Alyssa had shown her the first time she’d come to Sexy Sirens. It might be a place where men could escape a bad work or home life, hang and relax, but right now it would be her place to fantasize that she was sexy, that she knew exactly how to make a man’s tongue hang from his mouth and beg for her. She chose a sexy tune with a grinding beat by Rihanna. Her sensual voice flowed over her confession that it felt so good being bad.
London closed her eyes and let her hips sway as she made her way back to the stage. The heat from the intense overhead lights sizzled across her skin. She bobbed her head from side to side with the beat of the music, then speared a hand through her pale hair, winding the long strands between her ample breasts. She turned slowly, balanced on the sexy shoes, gripping her hips, arching her back, and sticking out her ass, just like Alyssa had taught her.
The lessons in strip aerobics her cousin had been giving her had become the highlight of her time in Lafayette. Her sexy-as-sin cousin used to take off her clothes for a living until she’d turned her hand to owning this club and a nearby gourmet restaurant with her famous chef husband. To Alyssa, exotic dancing had once been necessary to keep food in her belly and a roof over her head. But she’d proposed it to London so that she could work on her strength, flexibility, weight loss, and self-confidence. On the first two, she’d made a great deal of progress with every sort of doctor and therapist known to man. The third she’d been trying on her own and had taken off thirty pounds . . . but still had thirty to go. But none of that made her feel like the cheerleader and straight-A student she’d once been, just like a recovering invalid.
Shoving the morose thought aside, she prowled toward the pole and rolled her body against it, starting with the valley between her breasts, down her abdomen, then between her legs, where she lingered for a moment, pressing, before she tossed back her head with a shiver.
Curling one calf around the pole, London clutched it with one hand and arched her back. She lifted one of her hands to her neck, gripping lightly before she caressed her way down her collarbones, over the swells of her breasts. Then she turned her fingers toward the stage and palmed her way down her abdomen before pressing into the top of her mons. In her mind, gorgeous men cheered for her, pounded the stage, demanded more. And she gave it to them, fingering the buttons on her delicate floral blouse.
She toyed with the little plastic discs, imagining the chants for her to show her breasts, the lust swirling in the room. Opening her eyes, London took a quick peek around Sexy Sirens. Still as empty as the moment she walked in. No one would see her scars. No one would know except maybe Alyssa, and she wouldn’t care or judge.
Biting her lip, she let the first button free from its hole, exposing a hint of the white lace of her bra. Heat flushed all through her body.
More.
She loosened the second button and tugged the edges of the loose blouse under her breasts. Grabbing the pole with one hand, she bent back, head falling as if to look at the audience upside down. She imagined dozens of stares on her, intent, wanting her. Wriggling one shoulder, she let the blouse slide off one shoulder.
Slowly, she arched up, rolling her body flush against the pole in an undulating wave. Mouth falling open, she swung her hips as she tore through the rest of the buttons on her shirt until it hung open. With a roll of her other shoulder, the flimsy material slid off and down her arms, then fluttered to the stage. Now only the band of her lacy underwire bra and her long hair covered her back. She felt a slight chill—and more than a bit self-conscious—being so exposed. But she also felt damn free for once in her life.
Thank God no one was here.
She smiled, indulging the daydream a bit longer. Yes, she might black out. She might even fall off the stage and hurt herself. But she was enjoying her precious moments of independence and fantasy too much to stop now.
Biting her lip and sending her imaginary audience a come-hither glance, she closed her eyes in not altogether feigned ecstasy, then reached for the snap of her capri pants. It came undone with a quick flick of her fingers. London rubbed her flushed cheek against the pole, the metal cool against her feverish face. Then she opened her eyes, imagining someone dark and handsome in one of the empty seats in the front row. He’d stare at her with scorching lust and reach out for her, knowing he could only look, but never touch. The ache between her legs grew hotter, and she squirmed, rocking her hips to ease the ache. It only made her throbbing pick up tempo.
The music paused. She inserted her own heavy breathing, her breasts lifting and falling to the silent beat. When the loud, sexy music crashed in again, she grabbed the waistband of her pants and wriggled them lower. But that man in the front row . . . he needed to be teased more.
With a grin, she spun around and made sure that her hair tossed down her back. She gripped her thighs and stuck out her ass in a slow circle. Then, finally, she swung her hips from side to side, easing her cargo capris down, over her backside, down her thighs at a teasing pace, exposing the new white lace thong she’d recently bought with her bra because she’d been desperate to feel sexy, like a female who could capture attention from a sigh-worthy guy—like her imaginary hottie in the front row.
When the pants pooled around her ankles, she stepped out of them, wearing only her delicate bra, barely there underwear, and strappy fuck-me stilettos in sinful red designed to win a man’s attention and have his tongue hanging down to his knees.
London strutted away from the pole toward the front of the stage, swaying her hips as she pressed her palms up her hips, over her heavy breasts, then filtered them through her loose hair as she tossed her head back as if wracked by desire. The long strands caressed the small of her back, the curls she’d fought half her life flowing freely over her skin in a tease that made her gasp.
The song geared up for its big ending, and a heavy drumbeat pounded over the speakers. She undulated her hips in tight circles, then bent at the waist, over her leg, feeling her way up her thigh, fingers grazing her moistening folds and pressing in for a hot, secret moment before she turned again and sashayed for the pole, flipping her hair over her hated back. London grabbed the shiny pole, swung herself around it, wrapped her calf along the bottom, then dipped back to regard her imaginary audience as the music came to a breathless halt.
In the sudden silence, she smiled, feeling both a bit silly, but totally, wonderfully free.
Until she heard clapping . . . and an unmistakably male wolf whistle.
Panic spiked through her bloodstream, and she gasped, eyes wide with horror. She slapped one arm across her breasts. As they spilled over her arm, she shoved the other over her hips to shield her sex, barely concealed by the stupid little thong that had made her feel so sexy minutes ago. Now, she wondered if it would make her a rape victim. For more than one reason, she didn’t dare turn her back on whomever lurked just beyond the circle of light so she could find her clothes. Instead, she backed away slowly, watching as the man emerged from the shadows.
As he stepped into the bright light, London stared in shock. It was as if this man had been plucked from her imagination. Dark hair, olive complexion, square jaw and strong chin, eyes glittering with mischief that reflected in his faint grin. Tall, well-dressed, beautiful—and not taking his gaze off of her for an instant.
Her heart thumped even harder. “W-we’re closed.”
He shrugged and stepped closer to the stage. “The door was open.”
“Well, Sirens won’t be open until four. Come back then.”
The guy wasn’t deterred in the least. He sauntered closer. “I’m sorry if I startled you. Your dance was so sweetly seductive, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to express my appreciation. In fact, I’d like to appreciate you even more. What’s your name, belleza?”
In case he was a rapist, she didn’t feel the need to be polite. “You need to leave.”
