Overexposed

If they knew just how wild her life had been for the first few years she’d been on her own, they’d have felt justified in their fears. Like any good girl kept on a tight leash, she’d taken great pleasure in breaking every rule in the book once she was free and able to make her own decisions. Especially once she had men surrounding her and money to do whatever she wanted.

It had been wild. It had also been reckless—so in the past couple of years, she’d settled down. Stopped partying, stopped hooking up, stopped blowing every dime. She now had a nice nest egg…which she hoped to use to re-establish her life in New York. She’d been approached about going back to work at Radio City, as a choreographer this time. And she knew she’d probably get the same offer from her other modern dance company.

Or she could teach. She could open her own school…she had the money to at least give it a shot. That was among the things she’d been considering doing when she got back to reality.

Her parents, however, would give anything for her to stay here and never go back to that other life, the one that didn’t include them beyond the weekly phone call and twice-yearly visit. Openly dating a local guy—a friend of the family—would raise their hopes unfairly and hurtfully. So she couldn’t do it.

Before she could say so, however, he stepped closer. Close enough to stop her heart. “You’re a mess,” he murmured. He lifted a hand, touching a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Closing his fingers over it, he slowly pulled, wiping away flour or cream or whatever had happened to be there.

The brush of his fingertips against her cheekbone almost made her cry. Almost made her whimper. Almost made her lean forward to press her mouth onto his.

“A sweet, delectable mess,” he added, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He touched her face, rubbing her skin as if he’d never felt anything so smooth, so soft.

Every muscle in her body went warm and pliant, until Izzie wondered how she could still be standing upright. As if sensing her weakness, he moved closer, sliding one foot between her legs, slipping one hand into her tangled hair to cup her head.

“I have to see how sweet you taste,” he muttered, sounding as helpless as she felt. “If only once…I have to taste you.”

Drawing her forward, he bent closer. Even knowing it was crazy and could go nowhere, Izzie prepared for a kiss she’d wanted for more than a decade. She’d cried over that mouth, had fantasized over those lips for more nights than she could count.

And she wanted it, God how she wanted it. Even if it was all she was ever going to get to have of him.

But rather than a simple kiss—the soft brush of his mouth on hers—he shocked her by immediately sampling her lips with his tongue, tasting her, as he’d said he must.

She whimpered, low and helpless.

“Oh, very sweet,” he whispered, licking at the seam of her lips again, boldly demanding entrance rather than asking for it with a more typical, closed-mouthed first kiss.

Izzie couldn’t deny him or herself. With a hungry groan, she opened to him, welcoming his tongue in a deep, sensual exchange that she felt from her head to the tips of her toes.

He’d thought she tasted sweet. She thought he tasted like irresistible sin. He was warm and spicy, his mouth just moist enough to whet her appetite. Just hot enough to send her temperature rocketing higher.

He sunk his other hand in her hair and held her close. Sagging against him, Izzie gave herself over to pleasure, wondering how it was possible for something to be as good as a dozen years of dreaming had promised it would be. It was a kiss more intimate than any she’d had even when making love. Because it was like making love. It was hot and sexy and powerful.

Their tongues found a common rhythm and tangled to it as their bodies melted together. Her nipples ached with need as they pressed against his broad chest. She arched harder against him, easing her legs apart to cup him intimately, whimpering again when she felt his huge erection.

He wanted her. Badly. As much as she wanted him.

The realization was almost enough to shock her into doing something stupid like ending the kiss. This was Nick—the guy she’d always wanted—hot and hard and hungry for her.

“Don’t say no to me, sweetheart,” he whispered as he finally—regretfully—drew his mouth from hers. He moved it to press kisses along her jaw, then down to the throbbing pulse point below her ear. “Say yes.”

Yes, say yes! a voice screamed.

Oh, he was so tempting. And she wanted him desperately—wanted him to pull off her clothes, back her up against the counter and make love to her right on top of it. It would be incredible, the culmination of all her dreams and secret fantasies. She could finally put an end to all the years of restless, hopeless wanting.

But it wouldn’t be the end. It would be the start of something, rather than the end of it. He’d make incredible love to her, make her come with a few more touches of his hands and a few more of those incredible kisses and she’d be alive and happy and completely fulfilled for the first time in her life.

But then he’d want to take her out for a pizza. Or get together with friends. And she’d be caught so deep in a quagmire of family and home that she’d never be able to get free of it.

“Say yes, Izzie,” he ordered, sucking her earlobe into his mouth and nibbling it—a tiny bite that she felt clear to the floor. “Give me your number and let’s finally get this started.”

Get this started. Get everything started.

She just couldn’t do it. Izzie had always been strong and determined and had taken what she wanted. But she couldn’t take him. Not now. It was much too late.

Yanking away, she winced as her tangled hair got caught in his fingertips. Her breathing ragged, her body crying out at the injustice, she shook her head, hard. Then she backed away, wrapping her arms around her waist in self protection. “No.”

He started to follow, his dark eyes glittering…predatory. “You don’t mean it.”

She held a hand up. “Yes. I do,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re closed and I have work to do in the kitchen.” Taking a deep breath and striving to keep her voice steady, she added, “I want you to leave.”

3

ON HIS FIRST NIGHT working at Leather and Lace, Nick showed up in a bad mood. He’d been in a bad mood for two days—since Izzie Natale had shot down his efforts to get closer to her.

The woman was unbelievable. Ten years ago, she might as well have taken out an ad in the Trib declaring her devotion to him. Now she wouldn’t throw dog drool on him if he was on fire.

Damn, she was feisty. Had she always been that way? He figured with Gloria for a sister she had been. But considering he’d never seen her as a woman—just as a cute, lovesick kid—he’d never noticed. Until now.

Oh, yeah, now he’d noticed. He’d noticed everything about her. And he was not going to give up on her yet. Not when she’d become the first thing he thought of every morning and the star of his dreams every night.

Especially since that incredible kiss they’d shared.

Who would ever have guessed that the cute, pesky girl with the obvious crush on him would prove to be the most sensual, kissable woman he’d ever known? He’d suspected he could kiss her for hours. Now he knew better. He could kiss her for ever.

After she’d ordered him out of the bakery the other evening, he’d decided to play dirty, going right to Gloria to ask her for her sister’s phone number. His sister-in-law had been glad to oblige. She’d also been more than candid about how Izzie had felt about him in the old days.

Not that Nick had needed her to tell him about it. He’d been well aware—as had everyone else.

“Not anymore,” he muttered as he parked his truck—which he’d purchased right after getting home a couple of weeks ago—behind the club. He frowned, wondering how much of a jerk it made him now to be disappointed that a girl who’d had a wild crush on him as a kid didn’t give a damn about him anymore. Probably a pretty big one. But he couldn’t help it.

Knowing little Izzie had been crazy about him had been a constant during his teenage years. A given. Just another part of his reality. Certainly nothing he’d ever taken advantage of or embarrassed her about. It had just been…kinda cute, thinking there was a girl out there doodling his name in her school notebook. Innocent. Simple.

Man, he hated that that girl wouldn’t even look at him now. Especially because he didn’t think he’d done anything to deserve her coldness. No, he hadn’t recognized her. But he also hadn’t recognized the kid who had delivered the newspaper and now ran a newsstand on the corner. Or a couple of guys he’d played basketball with at St. Raphael’s.

Mark thought he did deserve it. Not because he hadn’t recognized her, but because he’d counted on her childhood feelings to give him an edge with Izzie the adult.

Hell, maybe he was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have teased her, been so sure of her. He’d known enough women to know how they felt about being taken for granted. He should have taken her out to dinner before kissing her like he needed the air in her lungs to keep on living.

So he needed to start over with Izzie. Start slow, like he would with any other woman he’d just met.

It might not be easy. Because she already affected him more than any woman he’d ever met. He’d dreamed about her this week, thought about her, gone out of his way to walk past the bakery in the hope of bumping into her.

“Tables have definitely turned,” he muttered aloud when he walked through the private, employees entrance into the back of the club. “Which is probably just the way she wants it.”

Yeah, she could be stringing him along out of revenge. But somehow, Nick didn’t think that was the case.

She hadn’t been able to hide her feelings behind those incredibly expressive brown eyes. Though she’d sent him away after their kiss, she still wanted him. But something was preventing her from doing anything about it.

He just had to find out what.

“Nick, you’re right on time!” The club owner, a beefy, good-natured guy with a Santa Claus-like belly laugh, emerged from his office and extended his hand.

Nick shook it. “Mr. Black.”

“Call me Harry.”

“Harry, then. Thanks again for the opportunity.”

The other man waved a hand in unconcern. “Your big brother, he’s one of the few honest contractors I’ve met in this city. Did beautiful work at a fair price. And if he says you’re up to the job, I trust him completely.”

Nick had already bought his brother, Joe, a beer in thanks for setting up his interview. He wished he’d made it a pitcher.

“All the paperwork’s done, you check out exactly like Joe said you would,” Harry said as he gestured Nick toward a seat in his office. “Now, you’re clear on what I need from you?”

Nick nodded. “Have there been problems recently?”

Harry tapped his fingers on the desk and nodded. “The Rose has made a stir. Men want to see her and there have been a few incidents.”

Nick stiffened reflexively, even though he hadn’t met the woman yet. “Incidents?”

“Nothing too serious, thank God. But a couple of grabs, dressing room prowlers. A few disturbing notes.” Harry shook his head, looking disgusted. “Can’t imagine any man saying stuff that crude to any woman. But she was a sport about it, laughed it off.” Staring pointedly, he added, “That’s one reason I hired you—she tends to not take it seriously. And I want someone else to.”

“I will,” Nick replied, confident of his own words.

Harry nodded, obviously convinced. “Other than that, there’s not too much trouble on a nightly basis. A guy’d have to be drunk as a skunk or just plain stupid to think he could go after one of the girls at the risk of taking one of the bouncers on. But we don’t let anybody get drunk as a skunk in my joint.” He chuckled. “And stupid people can’t afford it.”

That wasn’t a surprise. When Nick had come in last weekend, he’d noticed the upscale feel of the club. Far from being seedy or shadowy, like most strip joints, this place was elegantly comfortable, from the earth-toned leather furniture to the framed pieces of classy-looking art on the walls. The prices reflected the ambiance; this was no after-work beer joint.

“I wanted to introduce you to the Rose, but she called and said she’s running a little late tonight. I don’t imagine there’ll be time before her first number.”

Nick stiffened, realizing he’d soon be seeing the woman behind the mask. Somehow, during the past few days when he’d been so focused on Izzie, he hadn’t let the thought of the sultry stripper drift into his mind. Now, however, knowing he was about to see her again, he couldn’t help but remember the way she’d made him feel last weekend.

Hot. Hungry. Needy.

So would any sexy, naked woman after such a long dry spell.

“She’s something else.”

“I noticed last weekend.”

Harry Black shrugged. “Yeah, she’s a looker, but there’s something special about her even when she’s not on stage. Got her head on right—a smart one. But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried about her. She could get herself in trouble.”

Nick could certainly understand that. Considering how attracted he’d been to her, he could see how a much more desperate man might react to her sultry performance.

“She’s not going to like me hiring someone to mainly look out for her,” Harry cautioned. “So we’ll leave that part between us, okay? As far as she knows, you’re just another bouncer.”

“Fine.” In fact, it was more than fine. He wanted as little interaction with the woman he was supposed to be protecting as possible. Not that he was truly worried about her effect on him—it had been a one time thing, that was all.

He’d been telling himself that for days. He’d also been ignoring the fact that none of the other strippers he’d seen that night had so much as caused his heart rate to increase its regular, lazy rhythm. Only her.

Meeting her would take care of that, he was sure of it. She wore a mask, meaning her looks were all from the neck down. She’d have muddy eyes or crooked teeth or a hooked nose. Or a voice like a truck driver. Or she’d snort when she laughed. Something would be wrong. Something would break the spell.

That would be the end of his interest. No doubt about it.

THE CRIMSON ROSE spotted the dark-haired man in black the moment she peeked through the curtains on the stage. And the moment she saw him—immediately recognizing him by his height and the power of his shadowed body—her heart began to beat harder.

He’d come back. For her.

This was the first night she’d been back to the club since last Sunday night, when she’d first seen him during her last performance on this stage. Inexplicably, she suspected this was his first night back, too. When she’d asked the other dancers about him, all had denied seeing such a man in the club during the past five nights.

She had drawn him back. Just as he—the very thought that he might be in the crowd again tonight—had worked to draw her here as well.

Not that she needed much of a draw. She loved what she did. She positively came alive while moving under a spotlight. The fact that her clothes were falling off her body as she did so was completely incidental.

She honestly didn’t care.

“He came back,” she whispered, almost bouncing on her toes, so excited she could hardly stand it.

Not just excited. Relieved.

Because though she’d only seen him from a distance, she already felt incredibly attracted to him. He’d be a marvelous distraction from the other man who’d been occupying her thoughts lately.

The one she couldn’t have.

She began to smile, feeling, for the first time in days, a little upbeat. Working at the club was her one outlet, her only escape from the life she had so wanted to avoid coming back to here in Chicago. She loved these secret, wicked weekends.

And now that she’d realized there was another man—someone else—who could cause an instant, aching sort of want deep inside her, Izzie Natale sensed those weekends simply wouldn’t come fast enough.

“You’re not the only man in Chicago, Nick Santori,” she whispered while the stage crew finished stripping the stage for her signature solo number.

When she’d first seen the ad in the paper for dancers for a Chicago gentleman’s club, Izzie had had no illusions about what the job would entail. She wasn’t some young dance ingénue who’d turned up for an audition only to be shocked at the very idea of taking off her clothes for a bunch of men.

Izzie had taken off her clothes for plenty of men. Sometimes even groups of them.

It wasn’t as if the Rockettes danced in a whole lot of clothes. And during the three months she’d performed with the Modern Dance Company of Manhattan, she’d done two nude artistic performances.

The dancing she did at Leather and Lace wasn’t exactly artistic. But, then again, she wasn’t exactly nude, either. After all, she never took off her G-string.

Yes, her audience in Chicago was after sexual titillation rather than cultural stimulation. But, honestly, judging by the way some of the modern dance aficionados had come backstage and tried to pick up the dancers, she figured the motivations were, at heart, exactly the same.

Dancing was dancing. After the dire prognosis she’d received when having her torn ACL repaired several months ago, she didn’t care where she was performing, or what she was wearing when she did it.

Honestly, now, having had a taste of it, she realized she couldn’t have chosen a better venue. Because here, hidden behind a red velvet mask, she was free to be everything Izzie Natale of the famous Taylor Street Natale’s Bakery was not.

Sexual. Uninhibited.

Free.

Before she’d even dragged her mind into readiness, she was introduced and her music had begun. Izzie moved onto the stage, dancing for herself and herself alone, as she always did, letting the petals fall where they may. She remained above everything, even oblivious to the money being tossed onto the stage—the crew would pick it up when she was finished. She also ignored the gasps and avid stares of the crowd.

Except one man’s avid stare. His, she wanted to see, though it would prove difficult with him standing in the most shadowy area of the place and her nearly blinded by the spotlight. But when the choreography moved her downstage right—closest to the bar, and him—she risked it and looked.

And nearly fell off the stage.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

She lost the beat of the song and got a little tangled on her own feet. She also had to throw down an extra couple of petals a few measures too soon to try to cover her misstep.

Because in that quick flash when the light had hit him just right, she’d recognized the face, those shoulders, that hair.

It was Nick Santori who stood near the bar. Nick was the same dark, shadowy stranger who’d had her blood pumping through her veins, throbbing between her legs both last week when she’d first seen him here and a few moments ago when she’d glimpsed him again.

The bastard. Was she never going to be free of him? Would no man ever make her feel that crazy/excited/hungry feeling she got whenever he was in the vicinity? And what in the hell was he doing here, anyway?

Worse—what was he going to do about it if he realized she, the woman who’d shot him down in the bakery two days ago, was the Crimson Rose?

Her mind awash with the ramifications of Nick’s presence, Izzie finished her number. As soon as it was over, she darted behind the curtains and stuck her arms into a short, silky robe hanging right backstage. Barely noticing the crew members, who immediately got to work re-setting the stage for the more typical dancers, she hurried down the back stairs toward her private dressing room.

Normally, all the dancers would share one and Izzie was no prima donna who required her own space. But the owner of Leather and Lace had insisted on giving her a private, coat-closet sized room because of how serious Izzie was about protecting her identity. Once he’d realized just how much the “mystery” of the Crimson Rose enhanced the club’s reputation—and brought in more customers—he’d upgraded her to one the size of a small bathroom.

Before she could duck into it, she heard his voice. “There you are! Hold up a second, I want you to meet someone.”

She was in no condition to meet anyone—especially not another one of Harry’s cousins or old fishing buddies. There was always someone ready to play on old friendships or family connection to meet the dancers.

On the positive side, Harry was as protective as a papa bear and the introductions never went further than a quick handshake or a signed autograph. Despite how much some of the men he brought around seemed to want it otherwise.

Pasting on an impersonal smile behind the mask she hadn’t yet removed, she turned around.

“This is Nick Santori. I’ve just hired him to beef up our security.”

Izzie sagged against the wall. If it hadn’t been there, she might have just fallen sideways onto the tile floor, but thankfully, her shoulder instead landed on some hard wood paneling and it kept her vertical.

More than she could say for her heart. It had gone rolling down and had landed somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, which was now churning with anxiety.

“This is…”

“Rose,” she quickly interjected, cutting Harry off before he could say her real name. She cleared her throat, seeking the sultry, husky tones she’d always used when greeting fans backstage at Radio City. The one that was quite different from the voice Nick had heard at the bakery just a couple of days before. “Nice to meet you.”

He held out his hand. She took it. Time didn’t stop or anything, and the floor didn’t buckle beneath her feet. But, damn, his touch did feel fine.

He had big hands. Strong hands. A soldier’s competent hands. They were capable of brute force. Yet equally capable, she knew, of tender care. Like when those hands had helped her pull her ugly bridesmaid dress into place, then gently lifted her back onto the dance platform and back into their waltz so many years ago.

“Nick’s brother Joey Santori sent him in. You remember him, don’t you? He did all the work upstairs. You met him last month.”

Yes, she had…and it had been a closer call than this meeting with Nick, who could see almost nothing of her face because of the mask. She’d barely had time to duck behind a changing screen before coming face to face with Nick’s older brother.

Now she had to wonder…had Joe seen her? Recognized her? And was he now playing Mr. Neighborhood Protector by sending his baby brother in to watch out for the girl up the block?

Possible.

God save her from Italian men.

One plus—he hadn’t told Tony. Because no way would her overprotective brother-in-law have let Izzie’s new job go un-discussed. He’d have come down on her with some big brother lecture about how she simply had to quit now, immediately, if not sooner. Either that or he’d have told Gloria, who would have had a shrieking meltdown over what the neighbors and her sweet, impressionable boys—wild little maniacs, in Izzie’s opinion—would think.

“Harry, help! Some CEO’s at the door saying he had reservations for ten,” a frantic voice called from the top of the stairs. The hostess who worked the front desk came clattering down three stairs and spotted him, relief evident in her face. “You need to get up here.”

Muttering under his breath, Harry offered Nick an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. Never fails. Tell you what, why don’t you talk to…Rose…get an idea of what her routine and schedule are like and then meet me upstairs in thirty minutes?”