Hidden Agendas (4 page)

She was supposed to be a prim and proper little social miss. The daughter of a United States senator. A kindergarten teacher.

She was a provocative little hellion who knew how to get nasty. She was making him crazy.

He shifted in his seat, trying to make room for the hard ridge of his cock as it swelled to fill the confines of his jeans and demanded more room. If it could howl, it would have brought the building down with the sound of its hunger.

His teeth clenched as he forced himself to sit still, to appear relaxed. He was anything but relaxed.

The second button came free and his mouth watered. Her fingers played with the third, and just when he thought he would see the tantalizing flesh beneath she turned her back to him, leaned against the pole and undulated. From her ankles to her shoulders she moved against the pole and his abdomen tightened.

Shit. He was going to come in his jeans.

She turned, and the button was free. Beneath, he glimpsed the sinfully red lace of a bra.

Take it off, sweet darlin'. Come on, give us just a taste.

She played with the next button, released it as she braced her legs apart, and let her hand slide past the edges of the shirt as she gripped the bar behind her and arched her back for him.

Oh mercy, just a bit more, eh?

The last button slipped free, but the little tease turned again, shimmied around the pole, and sweat popped out on his forehead as her fingers went to the button at the side of the skirt.

He forced himself to leave the dark glasses on. Not to lean forward. Not to open his pants and show her just how appreciative he was as she began to unwrap every birthday and Christmas present he could have ever lusted for.

This was his greatest fantasy. Innocent, proper, eyes gleaming back at him with certain hunger, face flushed with damp desire, and he'd bet her pussy was wet. He'd bet his last dollar on it. Her nipples were sure as hell hard.

"Have mercy ..." he breathed as the skirt fell slowly down her curvy thighs, leaving her dressed in French-cut lace and a bra that was more thought than actual covering.

And her nipples were hard. Spike hard. They made his tongue ache to lick them; his mouth watered at the thought of sucking them.

She leaned into the pole again, her arms reaching, her legs braced apart, her rear rubbing against metal while something just as hard pounded in his jeans. Oh yeah, she could rub against him anytime.

Then she was moving again, a sensuous slide of flesh, a roll of her hips, her hands moving over her head as she swayed and came slowly down the steps that led to the raised stage.

Toward him.

Drawing closer.

The opened blouse slid over her shoulders, caressing flesh he longed to touch, touching her, easing over her arms until it dropped, forgotten behind her.

His arms tightened over his chest as he fought the urge to jump up, throw her over his shoulder, and rush her the hell out of there.

"Touch her, dude, and I'll make you hurt."

Behind his shoulder the monster bouncer David murmured threateningly. Kell's lips parted in amusement though his eyes never strayed from the bounty coming toward him.

Lap dance.

Timbo had been firm when he realized Kell was taking Tiny's place. He had to play the part or he was out of there. The girl had paid to learn to dance, and evidently, she had paid quite a bit.

He was her audience. And being her audience was worth paying for. Men would line up in droves for this. They would pack the house, tear onto the stage and demand a touch. Just one soft touch against that damp silk she called skin.

As she came closer he saw the pure lust lighting her eyes and had to grit his teeth to sit still. Fuck, hard nipples, and sweet mercy, that little shadow at the junction of her thighs had to be dampness. Her sweet pussy was creaming and his mouth wasn't even there to taste it.

He licked his lips.

Her eyes flickered to his lips, held there, and the dance became a gliding temptation, a slow, aching swing of hips, of full breasts, of rosy flesh.

She turned her back on him, pulling a chair gracefully in front of her as she bent, filling his vision with the most delectable little ass he had ever laid his eyes on.

The red lace of her thong separated the cheeks of her ass, curved and luscious, as her thighs clenched, her hips rotated, and her ass flexed before him.

He fisted his hands, more uncertain of his control than he had ever been. He watched her move as she turned, his gaze lifting to her face, seeing the sultry promise and erotic innocence that battled in her fierce blue eyes.

He sat back in his chair, forcing control over his muscles when he wanted nothing more than to touch, taste, devour.

Especially when she came closer, when those soft legs straddled his knees, and the soft, sweet scent of peaches and cream assaulted his senses. And beneath it... Ahhh God, he was man enough to know the scent beneath it. The heady heat of arousal, of a woman's need wetting the lace covering an obviously bare pussy. There wasn't a single soft curl to be glimpsed under those panties.

Her breasts were at his face, hard nipples pressing against fragile red lace. A rivulet of moisture eased over the lightly tanned mounds not covered by the lace, caught on the material, disappeared.

Her thighs scraped against his jeans, then she lifted, came to her full height, which wasn't that tall to begin with, and the scent of arousal nearly had him coming in his jeans.

He could smell her. He could almost taste her. He was dying for her.

As the music began to reach its crescendo she gripped the back of the chair she had placed at his side, a slender leg lifted high, a black heel moving to brace on the back of his chair, and the soft flesh of her pussy was so close he could have tasted it. Could have licked over fine soft lace and silk beneath. And he would have tasted her. Would have tasted the essence of her hunger on the damp material of her panties.

Instead, he breathed out roughly, his breath aimed at the tempting, almost hidden folds.

And only by sheer will did he hold back his release, because she lost hers. He watched her thighs tighten, heard her exclamation, and before his wondering eyes, the dampness on those panties darkened.

His eyes jerked to hers.

She came? Emily came?

Her leg jerked back as she stumbled, her face paling, eyes growing wide as her lips parted in shock.

She came?

Then she turned and, before he could move, she kicked off the high heels and ran.

"Shit." He came out of his chair, meaning to go after her. His cock ached like an open wound and only God knew what would happen if he got his hands on her.

Instead, hamlike paws settled on his shoulders, likely with no more intent than to push him back into his chair. Before he could think, Kell gripped a wrist, twisted and jerked the deadly blade he carried at the side of his boot.

"Back off, dude," Kell rasped, the knife's edge resting on the bulging vein at his neck. "Don't make me cut you."

"Chill." The bouncer's eyes widened. "I can't let you have her, man."

Kell's eyes narrowed.

"She's a friend of my Cherry's. I can't let you have her."

Steely determination filled the dark eyes staring back at him. The bear of a man would clearly die for the woman who had most likely already escaped through the back door.

"Who is she?" Did they know who she was?

"She didn't say, I didn't ask." The thick neck lifted as though to escape the feel of steel against his jugular.

"She paid Timbo but my girl said to watch after her. I do what my girl says."

The sound of a gun's hammer clicking had him turning enough to see the slender form of the girl Timbo called Cherry, holding a wicked .45 from enough distance that she could fire before he could disable her.

"Back off, asshole," she snarled. "You hurt him and I empty this gun in your hide."

Fuck.

He lowered the knife, his gaze connecting with the giant's and expecting no less than a fist for his efforts.

Instead, a smile tugged at heavy lips.

"Timbo says you know Reno and Clint," he grunted. "I shouldn't have grabbed you. But the girl wanted to go."

Kell turned his head slowly back to the woman. The gun was steady; the hammer stayed pulled back, the snap in her eyes assuring him she wasn't as trusting.

"The girl is gone." He inclined his head slowly. "If you don't mind . . ." He waved his hand at the woman.

"Let him go, Cherry angel," David said and sighed. "Reno and Clint know him. And Timbo's right scared of him. I don't think he can catch her now anyway."

The gun lowered. Reluctantly.

"Do you know her?" he asked the girl then.

"She didn't offer a name, I didn't ask," the woman snapped.

"What was she doing here?"

She shrugged as though answering him didn't matter. "She called it research. She paid to learn to dance and I taught her. Money talks, and I don't question it."

Money didn't buy loyalty, and it was clear that the stripper felt loyal to the dynamite who had just escaped him.

"She was never here," he said softly. "You never saw her. You never taught her shit. And if Timbo even acts like he's thinking of remembering her presence, tell him I'll kill him."

Her eyes widened.

Sheathing the knife, he stalked to the exit and left the strip joint with a slam of his hand against the door.

The sound of tires screaming from the back lot assured him Miss Emily Stanton and her inept, useless, dead-man-walking bodyguard were definitely escaping. But that was okay, because he knew exactly where to find her.

OH. MY. GOD. What had she done? That had never happened. Ever. As slight as her climax had been, hell, she could do better on her own. Maybe. But despite the strength of the orgasm, she still had orgasmed from nothing but a breath of air.

"What the hell happened back there?" Her bodyguard, Dyson, was suspicious. Of course, why wouldn't he be? She had run out of the back of the club in nothing but a long coat and her undies and dived into the Trailblazer like the hounds of hell were after her ass.

They may as well have been. The minute Dyson had jumped into the passenger seat she had been out of there in a scream of tires and a jerk of the back end of the Trailblazer that would have done a high-speed car chase proud.

She'd lost her mind.

That was exactly what had happened. She'd lost her mind. For one impossibly long second, she had been certifiably insane.

"I knew better than this." Dyson was snarling again, his brown eyes furious. "Were you attacked?"

Only by her own lust.

Emily lifted a shaking hand to her flushed cheek as she breathed in roughly and fought to keep her foot from lying too heavy on the gas. She wanted to be home. Now. But she didn't need a ticket. God, if she were pulled over she would likely be arrested.

"I wasn't attacked."

"Then why are you running like a scared chicken with nothing over your underwear but a frickin' long coat? I've been with you for four weeks and I've never seen you run."

He was too familiar. Two months in her house seemed to be the lucky time limit for her bodyguards. This one was getting more frustrated by the day.

"I'm not running."

Of course she was running. Like hell. Like an endangered dinosaur fighting for survival.

She could still feel her body flaming, the heat moving from her thighs, up her abdomen to her breasts and her face, even as she listened to Dyson bitching and moaning. She felt as though she were on fire, as though nerve endings she had never known she possessed were suddenly coming to full-fledged life.

She had orgasmed.

Shamefully. Without warning. Without control. She had orgasmed in a stranger's face.

And what a face it had been. The closer she had moved to him, the more starkly sensual it had become.

That was a man who made a woman want to get down and dirty. Made her want to show the hidden slut hiding inside.

She almost cringed at the thought. Okay, so for the right man, maybe Cherry was right, she could get down and nasty.

For that man.

Oh man ... He had been so righteously hot and hard. His abs had rippled beneath his snug T-shirt. His jaw had flexed as she straddled his lap. His expression had gone slack in amazement when he realized what she had done.

Oh God. She had come right there, right in front of his face.

She fanned her own face.

Of course, he hadn't appeared in the least offended. He had looked ... hungry. Very hungry. Very stark.

Very eatably male. Undeniably male. Getting-ready-to-grab-her-and-do-her male.

He was a one-night stand waiting to happen, because that was not a "happily forever after" type of stud.

She breathed out roughly. It had to have been his resemblance to Kell, that was all there was to it. She hadn't seen him in years. Her father had sworn he had been part of the group that had rescued her from the Fuentes compound nearly two years before, but she hadn't seen him. All she had seen were the black masks that covered her rescuers' faces.

She hadn't recognized Kell in any of them.

But this man, she could have imagined Kell's hard jaw-line. His sharp blade of a nose. Kell's nose hadn't been broken that she remembered, but this stranger's had been.

There was a scar on the stranger's neck; Kell hadn't had one. That she remembered. God, it had been so long since she had seen him. Years. Years since she had even thought about him.

Until now.

She shivered.

She should have been shuddering in revulsion. What kind of man went to a strip joint to get his jollies anyway? Only the lowest sort. The sort that couldn't get a woman any other way perhaps?

But that man could easily get a woman. Hell, he could have almost had her.

She barely held back her moan of mortification, aware that Dyson was already watching her with an edge of violence in his expression.

And here she had taken such pride in the fact that unlike her friends, she was not ruled by her hormones.