Stripped

To Ray—forever and ever and a day more than that.

Special thanks to Laura Bradford because she always believes in me. That means more than I can say. It's kind of mushy and all, but it's pretty cool to have your agent be your friend, as well. I'm fortunate to be able to say so quite honestly.

Susan Swinwood—who has a fabulous sense of style and made me laugh a lot at the
RT
conference. Thank you for buying this story, for your editing suggestions and for dealing with all my pestering with patience.

No list of thanks would be complete without Megan Hart and Anya Bast—both such lovely friends and great sources of advice and information. A more fabulous set of crit partners a girl could not ask for. Dahlia and Nash's story is far better for your critical eye (or rather, eyes). You read so many incarnations of this story and you never complained. Thank you also for petting me when I got low and kicking my butt when I got whiny.

Mom and Dad—who never censored what I read, who cheered every success, who raised me to believe anything I wanted to do was possible if I worked for it. You raised me to love words and to believe in myself. Those things come in pretty handy. I love you both.

My beta readers: Tracy and Renee—you both rock my socks. Thank you for dropping everything to read for me. Your advice and feedback are invaluable, as is your friendship.

My readers, because without you reading my books, well, I'd be writing this note to myself pretending I had a book deal.

There's a scene in
The Matrix
where Trinity is being chased by agents. She's at the bottom of a set of stairs, pointing her weapons, frozen in fear. She says, “Get up, Trinity. Get up,” because she knows to be frozen by fear is to never make it to where she needs to be. There have been times when I was there, frozen by fear, and an old friend reminded me of that scene. Thank you, Luahiwa.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

T
he low, sensual beat brought her onto the stage like a siren. One gloved arm wove through the slit in the curtain, parting the fabric as she stood, framing her for a long moment. Her dark hair was piled up on her head artfully. Long, fake lashes framed big brown eyes. A deep blue satin dress hugged every curve lovingly. Her breasts pushed up and out of the scooped neckline and as she walked, the slit on each side of the dress showed glimpses of her legs to the upper thigh.

She let the music grab her senses and her rhythm as she slowly sauntered out onto the narrow stage. Dancer's heels, still very high, led her through the beginning of her routine as she carefully maneuvered the long feather boa to keep from tripping.

Caught in the music, Dahlia's muscles burned as she did a high kick leading into a round kick, swiveling her body away from the audience—all in a seamless set of movements.

A feather from the boa stuck to the sweat on her neck as she slowly rotated her hips in time with the horns in the jazz band. Her hands rose, slowly winding the boa around her body. Down it went until she finally stepped over it, kicking it to the side.

Giving her back to the audience, she raised one hand into the air as she turned her head, winking over her shoulder.

Rocking her hips from side to side to the smoky jazz beat, she brought the tips of her gloved fingers to her mouth to bite the material and pull it off slowly.

The first glove went over her shoulder, into the bar pit the stage encircled. As she stood in front of the trumpet player, she peeled off the second glove, winding it playfully.

With a bump and grind she circled the band and lay down on the side of the stage near where the bottle service tables were. Kicking a foot into the air, she gave the audience a lot of leg to look at as the folds of her dress slid open. Rolling up onto her knees, she unzipped the front of the dress and shimmied out of it. Then she turned, coyly giving them her back and a view of her boy-short bottoms with a winking kitty on the ass.

The dress dropped as her forearms came up to cover her breasts and she bent, looking at them all upside down through the V of her legs.

The cheers and applause bolstered her confidence. Onstage she was beautiful and desired and that was okay. More than okay. It felt marvelous.

Still facing the band she reached out quickly, grabbing the hat off Timmy's head. The trumpet player widened his eyes in a choreographed move and she spun, clutching the prop hat just so to cover herself.

Sensual smoke and mirrors. Dahlia didn't show the audience any more than she'd show at the beach. They wouldn't see her nipples, and her panties would stay right on her booty with the fishnets below that.

Still playing coy, she waved with one hand, pretending to almost drop the hat as she took the first step back up to the dressing room. And another step and two more. Once her body was in the doorway she turned and tossed the hat back to Timmy. With a hand over her mouth stifling a pretend giggle, she kicked up her leg and was gone behind the curtain.

Her robe hung just inside the doorway and she grabbed it, putting it on as she made her way back to her dressing area. She smiled as the music started for Roseanne, the dancer who shared the 10:00 p.m. time slot.

Tapping her foot to the notes of “Viva Las Vegas,” Dahlia took off her makeup and got changed. She usually tried to hang out at the club twice a week or so to watch her friends dance and also have a few drinks. She'd met a lot of interesting people and oddly enough, gained a following of sorts.

The Dollhouse was a burlesque lounge. The dancers did not strip totally nude, and Dahlia thought of the show as an elaborate celebration of women's sensuality. The women there always reminded Dahlia of the Elvgren pinup-girl art her grandpa used to have in his garage. Dahlia loved the coy sex kitten she embodied onstage. She often felt as though Dahlia was her other half, the part of her she could release only up there for those minutes she was performing. The half she put away when she turned back into a pumpkin. Or, more precisely, a graduate student.

The club had only been open for six months and already had a hip, young following with lines outside every night. The lounge itself was small and intimate; it didn't hold more than seventy-five people. The interior was subtly sexy with lush fabrics and deep-colored leather. A nice place to hang out and have a drink with her friends, a place she'd never have been able to afford were it not for the fact she worked there.

Emerging from the back of the club and walking into the lounge area, she searched for her friends. Catching sight of them, she also noticed her boss at his usual table. William Emery was a very sexy man. High-powered, charismatic and extraordinarily successful. He'd broken ground on the first retro-style burlesque club in Vegas, and now others copied him. He seemed to constantly be in motion, working twelve- to fifteen-hour days. She admired that, even if he did come off like a cold asshole sometimes.

He certainly liked a wide variety of women. Although she'd give it to him that he seemed to keep a professional wall between himself and his dancers. He flirted, but he didn't prey on them. He paid her well and didn't hit on her and she was down with that. Smiling, she sent him a wave and a wink as she made her way past.

* * *

Nash Emery sat with his brother William, the owner of The Dollhouse, and a bevy of beautiful women at one of the VIP tables. He'd been sipping a very fine Scotch when he caught sight of the statuesque dancer who'd just been onstage.

The smoky taste smoldered on his tongue as his heart sped at her saucy, sexy wink. He drank in every detail of her face and body—as much as he could anyway, in the low light of the club. Her black hair was drawn up into a chic, fifties-style ponytail, and bright red lipstick painted her carnal lips.

The captivating sway of her walk and the jiggle of her breasts in that dress mesmerized him. Her legs were miles long and she was all curves and valleys—the kind of woman a man wanted to sink himself into for days without coming up for air.

The kind of woman they didn't make anymore. Coy and smoking hot all at once. Suddenly, he felt a little less jaded and a lot more interested.

He leaned into his brother. “Who is that?”

William's eyes quickly raked over the woman before turning back to Nash. “That's Dahlia. No shit, that's her real name. From some hick town, grad student. She's one of the favorites here. Not too often you see a package like that, even here in Vegas. Hot, isn't she?”

“
Hot
isn't a word that does her justice,” Nash murmured as he extricated himself from the knot of people at the table and moved to intercept her.

She hadn't been paying attention and ended up bumping into him, her hand moving to his chest to keep from falling. That small touch sent electric warmth through him.

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't see you there.” Big brown eyes met his, and damned if his cock didn't jump. Her voice, like smoke and whiskey, low and sexy, stroked over his skin.

The scent of her perfume just beneath the smell of cigarettes, alcohol and sweat in the club tickled his senses. Reaching out, he put his hand at her waist. The abundance of her body and the incredible beauty of her face knocked him out. Damn, he couldn't recall being so excited by and interested in a woman in a very long time.

“No need to apologize, honey. I'm Nash. Why don't you come and join us?”

One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose slowly. Imperiously. She took a step back, out of his grasp. “That's all right. I have friends waiting.”

He reached and took her forearm, caught sight of the cherries on her dress, the red fingernails and toenails through the open toes of her very high heels. The woman was a fucking sex bomb, and he wanted to detonate her right then and there.

“Wait. Can I give you a call? I've got a very nice penthouse here on the Strip. What do you say we go there? Drink some champagne while I scrub your back in the bathtub. You can show me what was under the hat. You know, be my private dancer.” He laughed, teasing her.

Her lip curled in a sneer as she pulled out of his grip. “Private dancer? Like a whore? Oh, sure. Give me your number and I'll just show up, blow you and be on my merry way. Because that's what all showgirls do, right?”

He put his hands up in defense. “I…uh, I didn't mean to offend you.”

Her fisted hands rested on her hips like an angry Amazon. “What the hell else would I be? You don't know me from Adam and you're propositioning me thirty seconds after you bump into me? Didn't your mother raise you with any manners?”

Holy shit, was this going badly. He'd really fucked this one up. It'd been a long damned time since a woman had turned him down, about as long as it'd been since he'd misjudged one so severely.

“You're right. I apologize. It was rude of me. In my defense, you're so beautiful I sort of lost my mind. I do hope you won't hold my terrible behavior against me in the future.” He bowed. “Can we start over? I'm Nash Emery and I really was raised with manners, I swear to you.”

“You're going to have to do better than that. That was the fakest apology I've heard since, well, since the last rich asshole hit on me.”

Nash might have been offended but he couldn't help but like her fire. And he
had
been an asshole. Cocky was a fallback position for him. Women usually dug it. Not this one. A smile crept back onto his face.

“You're a hard woman. I'm sorry. I was a jerk. But I meant it when I said you were beautiful. And you do knock me out. Can we start over?”

He held out a hand. Cocking her head and hesitating a moment, she took it. “Emery, huh? I suppose you're the playboy brother I've heard all about. Although frankly, I'd expect some more original lines from someone with your reputation. ‘Private dancer,' gee, I've never heard that one before. I'm Dahlia Baker and I am not a round-heeled tart. I'm getting my MBA at UNLV.”

He laughed, chagrined. Okay, okay, so he'd made some snap judgments. He'd taken one look at the eye-popping body and face, added it to the fact that she danced in a burlesque show and made some assumptions.

“I don't know if I'd say I was a playboy, and I'd love to know what you've heard about me. Can I buy you a drink, Dahlia? I promise to be on my best behavior.” He sent her his most charming smile.

“I bet you would.” One dimple at the right corner of her mouth showed as she fought a smile. Nash wanted to lean in and lick it. Until she continued speaking. “No, thank you, Nash. I don't have drinks with patrons, and my friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh. Well, all right. Have a nice night, Dahlia. Again, I apologize for offending you.” He wanted to argue he wasn't a patron but he'd done enough damage for one night. Dahlia Baker tickled his fancy, and Nash Emery wasn't a quitter. He'd be back to wear her down until she went out with him. He just needed to come at it better.

She shrugged and turned on her heel. “Just behave yourself.”

* * *

“What the hell was that all about?” Roseanne demanded, looking over her shoulder at the table where William and Nash sat.

Dahlia had been heading to her friends' table, knowing Roseanne was in the back changing and would be out to join them soon. Then she'd run into a very hard, hot and fragrant wall of man.

And oh, my, what a man! She'd looked up into a pair of sexy, half-lidded green eyes and melted a little bit. His face was handsome with an edge of pretty. High cheekbones and a strong chin covered in one of those beards that would look disheveled on most men but it just made her think about spending the weekend in bed. All his features had a bit of sloppy about them—mussed-up, tumbled-out-of-bed sexy—but it worked. He looked elegant, but the hint of rakish good looks only made him more attractive. The kind of man that set off her bad-boy alarm and made her simultaneously want to wrap herself around him and run for the hills.

His cologne was just right. Not the kind that strangled you and held you down as you gasped for air, but the sexy hint of masculine with a bit of spice. Nicely dressed. The feel of the fabric under the palm she'd laid on his chest when she'd bumped into him said money. Even with her stilettos on he stood a good three inches taller than she was. All in all, a very winning package.

She'd been close to just leaning in and taking a whiff of him when he'd thrown cold water all over her naughty, naked fantasies. Teach her to get all gooey over a man before he opened up his damn mouth and proved himself to be the ass he truly was. It wasn't a novel experience, getting hit on by the moneyed jerks who hung out at the club. But Nash Emery had hit buttons she usually ruthlessly ignored when others made their play.

Dahlia avoided the question until she could take a swig or two of her drink. That little interlude had left her off balance. Ass or not, there'd been no small amount of sparks between them. It'd been a while since a man had lit her fuse that way.

“Is that who I think it is? The lady-killer brother?” Roseanne went in for another pass, and Dahlia knew she'd never stop until she had an answer.

“Yes, that's Nash Emery.”