leather billfold fat with euros. Very, very fat. He didn’t so much as glance at it, he simply peeled a purple note from inside and slapped it on the table. Then another. And another.
“You appear to be suggesting I’m motivated by five-hundred euro notes,” Brittany said. Through her teeth. “Surely not.”
Cairo didn’t say a word. He merely added another note to the pile. Then another. One after the next.
“I’m sure I’m mistaken,” she bit out, as the pile continued to grow. “You can’t possibly be calling me a prostitute, can you?”
He didn’t quite laugh. Not quite.
“Of course not,” he replied, in a scrupulously innocent voice that made the lie of it feel like a slap. “Your prices are much higher and you require legal vows, if your matrimonial history is any guide. Hardly a rendezvous in a back alley, is it?”
“True,” Brittany replied, her voice a different sort of slap that her palms itched to replicate against that dark-shadowed jaw of his. “But I have no intention or interest in making vows of any kind with you.”
That sharp smile of his edged over into something feral.
“So you say.” He threw another few bills onto the tabletop, carelessly and insultingly. Deliberately so, she imagined. “Then a lap dance it is.”
Brittany jerked her attention away from him for a moment to see the club owner over by the bar, furiously gesturing for her to sit down. To stop blocking access to the stage, she realized, now that the next act had started. And it was simple, of course. She should merely walk away from Cairo again the way she’d done once already. She should pretend she’d never met him. She wanted nothing more than to do exactly that.
So she had no idea why instead, she settled herself on the arm of his chair and gazed down into his face as if she really was the hardened stripper she’d played on TV instead of the innocent sometimes even she forgot she really was.
“I don’t give lap dances,” she told him loftily, pretending she hadn’t surrendered something critical in sitting down like this. As if that blaze in his caramel gaze didn’t show sheer male victory and something edgier besides. As if she didn’t recognize she’d lost what little ground she’d gained by denying him in Monaco. “Though I’m happy to take your money, of course. You appear to have far too much of it.”
Cairo shrugged as if it was nothing to him, the thousands of euros in a purple pile on the table. What were mere thousands to a man who had untold billions in property alone?
“All I want is a dance,” he told her, and he was so much closer now than he had been in Monaco. Too close.
The arms of the seats were made deliberately wide and comfortable, all the better for the girls to perch upon, so she wasn’t touching him—because Brittany didn’t do touching. Especially not with men. And she told herself she didn’t recognize that craving in her for what it was, elemental and obvious, so close to that magnificent body of his as he lounged there that she could feel the heat he generated in the space between them.
Then he made everything that much more mad and wild when he reached over and started to trace a lazy little pattern against the skin of the thigh nearest him, right at the top of her stocking and below the ruffled red-and-black underwear she wore.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
She wanted to leap up. She wanted to slap his hand away. She wanted to slap him like the offended virgin she actually was, but she didn’t dare give herself away like that. And the more she sat there and let Cairo touch her, the more she seemed to forget why allowing this to happen was such a terrible idea.
They both watched his idle finger for a while. Maybe entire years—decades—while inside, everything Brittany had ever been and everything she knew about herself crumbled into dust and shivered away until there was nothing left of her but that pulsing heat between her legs.
Her worst fear come true.
But she still didn’t move.
“Or perhaps you prefer a private room after all,” Cairo said, the low rumble of his insinuating voice adding to the spell he cast with that impossibly elegant finger against her thigh rather than breaking it. “Is this how you upsell the punters, Ms. Hollis?”
Brittany jerked her attention away from that mesmerizing, addictive pattern he kept drawing against her flesh, and told herself it was the insult of what he’d said—not that he’d reverted back to Ms. Hollis. But his gaze was worse than his touch. Too bright, too hot.
And the last thing in the world she wanted was to be locked away in some private room with this man. She knew she couldn’t trust him, of course. He’d made the fact he couldn’t be trusted something that practically required a celebration. But she was suddenly so much more afraid she couldn’t trust herself.
“I think not,” she managed to say, but she didn’t sound like herself. She sounded as thrown as she felt.
Something flashed over his famous, beautiful face. She felt it echo inside of her like a roll of thunder and then, suddenly, he wasn’t lounging there idly any longer. She hardly saw him move. All she knew was that one moment she sat there on the arm of his chair, barely clinging to the pretense of some civility and everything she’d ever known about herself, and the next she was sprawled across his lap.
She wanted to scream. To fight. She wanted that more than anything—so she had no idea why she simply melted against him, as if she’d lost all control of the body that had done her bidding the whole of her life.
She had never been tempted, by anyone. She had never melted, ever.
Cairo was hard beneath her, hot and perfect, his legs so strong they marked his studied laziness as yet another lie. His arms closed around her, holding her against his sculpted chest and she couldn’t seem to breathe. She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t speak and she had no idea why she was letting any of this happen.
Especially when he bent and brought his face so close to hers.
So. Damned. Close.
“You’d better brace yourself,” she managed to tell him, though she sounded far more thrown by this than she would have liked. And still it was nowhere near as thrown as she felt. “The security guards take a dim view of unauthorized touching in the main room.”
“When will you learn that the rules do not apply to me?” Cairo’s mouth was a breath away from hers, and the thick, glossy fall of his shaggy hair brushed her cheek as he bent over her, his dark eyes gleaming. “And that sooner or later, all mere mortals do exactly as I ask?”
“I’m not giving you a lap dance,” she told him, though her heart was drumming at her again, so hard she was glad she wore that lace choker so there was no chance he could see it there in the hollow of her throat. “And I’m not marrying you, either. I don’t even like you.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Cairo muttered, sounding less like a king and more like a man than she’d heard him yet. “This has nothing to do with like.”
And then he yanked her mouth to his.
* * *
He never should have tasted
