birthday party. She was used to being the center of attention and their ogling stares didn’t ruffle her fur in the least.
But Greg De Costa was another story.
One look at the man had her hyperventilating—not a good thing in a costume held together with duct tape.
He was handsome in a Tom Cruise sort of way—he had the look of a cocky Boston business exec, all charm and smooth talk and control. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into navy-blue trousers with burgundy-striped suspenders. A matching wine-colored tie hung around his neck, but he’d loosened the knot at his throat and unbuttoned the collar.
Jackie had to admire the way his suntanned skin and dark-brown hair contrasted with that pristine white shirt. He probably summered on Martha’s Vineyard and wintered at Vale. She knew the type well. Heck, she’d grown up surrounded by overprivileged men and couldn’t find all that much to recommend them.
But those guys hadn’t possessed Greg De Costa’s penetrating brown eyes.
The charismatic birthday boy didn’t look at her with the standard I-know-what-you-look-like-underneath-that-cat-costume stare. His frank gaze was at once more respectful and more intimate. He peered at her like he knew she’d rather be at home writing stanzas.
And like he’d rather be there with her.
The notion unsettled her far more than any obvious, meaningless ogling from the other twenty-some guys in Flanagan’s.
She needed to shake Greg’s mesmerizing stare, sing her song, and flee the bar before she did something stupid like wrap herself around him and start purring.
“I’m ready,” she announced, taking the situation in hand. She’d already spent too long soaking up the heated vibes of attraction zipping between her and Greg. “Shall I set up over here?” She walked to a small dance floor in the corner of Flanagan’s back room.
She could perform most anywhere, but she’d learned to take charge of her environment in this business. She liked a wall behind her, her audience in front of her. Besides, she felt more in control when she named her parameters.
The throng of men attending the party moved as one into the back room, dutifully situating themselves right where she wanted them.
She could do this. They really were as well behaved as the six-year-olds she usually performed for, even if they had greeted her with wolf whistles. At least they hadn’t tried pulling her tail.
Greg was the last man to fall in line. He prowled the perimeter of the crowd, his eyes never leaving her.
“Do you need us to set up some music?” he called over the heads of his friends as they seated themselves at cocktail tables all around her.
“I’m the music,” she announced, allowing her artistic pride to get the best of her for a moment.
She was no lip-synching performer, after all. Jackie wasn’t here to dance around in a cat costume. She was here to sing.
No room full of overgrown boys was going to make her forget it. Though heaven knew, Greg De Costa was doing a damnably good job of trying.
She closed her eyes for a moment, willing away the sensual magnetism of Greg’s eyes. She took a deep breath and quickly regretted it as the duct tape along her seam shifted under the pressure of expanding lungs.
Panic welled up in her at the thought of flashing a room full of men. She hadn’t even been able to stuff a bra underneath her too-tight costume. If the duct tape gave, her audience would be in for an eyeful.
Jackie hummed out a middle “C,” allowing the pure musical note to center her.
Three minutes and she’d be out of here. She could make it another three minutes without bursting out of her costume.
The musical note grew, reverberating through her. She relaxed and breathed, nearly forgetting about the duct tape, but not quite forgetting about Greg De Costa.
“Happy birthday to you…” Jackie launched into her song, a slightly revamped version of the birthday classic.
Was it her imagination, or did the room still once her voice hit the airwaves? Her audience grew less leering, more attentive as she belted out her song in perfect pitch.
Nothing like a good performance to soothe her nerves.
She vocalized her way into the last refrain, more confident with every note that she was going to make it out of Flanagan’s back room with kitty costume and her dignity intact.
Then her eyes collided with Greg’s.
His warm-coffee gaze wasn’t offering up heated glances anymore. Unless you could call his intense, enraptured stare heated.
He liked her voice.
She knew it as surely as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Her vocal chords were her one and only vanity, the lone genetic gift from her prodigy parents.
Men—being such visual creatures—rarely recognized her single outstanding quality. But Greg De Costa knew it, heard it, admired it.
Her heart started pounding in a way that threatened her furry shrink-wrap. Blood pulsed through her, flushing every last inch of her body with liquid heat.
Oh no.
Desire swamped her along with the closing notes of her birthday song.
“Happy birthday, dear Gregory…” Dear God, had she just called him Gregory again? She’d meant to sing it as Greg.
Nervous embarrassment joined the swirl of musical notes and sensual hunger building in her veins.
“Happy birthday to…” Her chest hammered against fuzzy black fur as her song reached its final crescendo. The duct tape strained and stretched to hold the material of her costume together.
If she had any sense she would have risked singing off-key to save her outfit.
Damn her musical pride.
“…you!” Arms flung wide, she belted out the last note like a certified opera diva.
And froze in horror as her kitty costume slid all the way to her knees.
2
GREG HAD BLOWN OUT LOTS of candles in his day, but he’d never had a birthday wish come true so fast as tonight.
Sure, he’d wanted to see Jackie naked, but he’d been so hypnotized by her phenomenal voice, it took him a minute to realize she’d ditched her whole outfit in a bolder move than he’d ever seen any stripper attempt. No one else sang their way out of their outfit, of that much he was certain.
She’d stunned the crowd so much the guys around him forgot to whistle for one long moment. Hell, Greg forgot there was even anyone else in the room as he took in her completely bared breasts. Taut pink nipples tipped slightly upward, free from any bra or those little tasseled cups some strippers wore.
The only
