the panties, she couldn’t have looked any less like a stripper. She had curves in all the right places, but they probably weren’t as generous as most women in her profession. Every inch of her creamy skin was perfect, without a beauty mark or false eyelash anywhere to detract from it.
But most unstripper-like of all—she appeared absolutely mortified to be on display in front of thirty salivating men.
One lone wolf whistle pierced through the crowd and shattered the silence along with Greg’s greedy catalog of her every feature.
The sound seemed to jar the mostly naked cat woman as much as it startled Greg. Jackie folded her arms over herself to shield her body from her audience, giving Greg all the proof he needed that she didn’t want to go through with her striptease.
Screw the audience approval ratings.
Ignoring the rapidly multiplying catcalls and whistles, Greg yanked a fresh tablecloth off of a nearby busboy’s cart, disrupting at least ten glasses of champagne. With the flick of his wrist, he unfurled the white linen and cloaked Jackie’s body in a crisp blanket.
A chorus of boos echoed through the crowd of Mike’s half-baked friends.
Jackie turned grateful eyes toward Greg, cinching the makeshift cape around herself with slightly fumbling hands.
Some moron shouted from the back of the private room. “Take it off!”
An even bolder moron pushed his way to the front of the group, crunching broken glass under his feet from the disrupted bus boy’s cart. “What the hell kind of striptease was that?”
“Show’s over.” Greg kept his body between Jackie and the inebriated masses, wishing like hell he had the option of just cutting to a commercial.
He reached for Jackie, figuring the best thing to do would be to whisk her out the back entrance.
“That was not a striptease,” Jackie announced, standing on her toes to look over Greg’s shoulder at her accuser. She was obviously recovering from her bout of stage fright. “ That was an accident.”
The vehemence in her voice seemed to catch the guy off guard as much as Greg.
“I’ll say it was an accident.” The guy turned his bleary-eyed attention toward Greg, lucky for his sorry butt. “You’re trying to tell me that’s all we get from the stripper?”
“I am not a stripper.” Tennis shoes squeaked in a flurry of restless movement as Jackie fairly bristled right out of her tablecloth.
An unwelcome sense of relief washed over Greg. Why should he care whether she was or wasn’t a stripper?
“Who are you?” Greg prompted, wondering what woman in her right mind would walk into a bachelor party clad as a cat.
She drew her compact self up to her full height. Her kitty ears just reached his nose but she packed a powerful glare with intense green eyes.
“I am the Zing-O-Gram.” She enunciated every word with slow precision.
Greg bit his tongue to staunch the automatic laughter rising in his throat. He doubted anyone could make a Zing-O-Gram sound like a force to be reckoned with, but Jackie was doing a damn good job.
Even the drunken guy looked cowed before he stalked off toward the pool table, muttering under his breath until they couldn’t hear him anymore.
The rest of the crowd had failed to disperse however, and Greg didn’t like the rumblings of discontent. He needed to get Jackie out of here, fast.
“Are you okay?”
“I think so.” She hitched at the tablecloth around her shoulders, the black leggings of her costume still visible from her knee down. Apparently she had knotted the rest of the fallen outfit around her waist somehow. “Thanks to you.”
Could he help it that her words made him stand taller? “You’re really not a stripper?”
“I think I’m a few alphabets short of the right cup size to be an exotic dancer.”
His natural inclination was to allow his gaze to wander over the breasts that had received more than a passing grade from him, but that didn’t seem in keeping with his attempt to rescue her from a room full of horny bachelors. Greg closed his eyes instead, willing away memories of Jackie’s perfect body.
He was surprised when he sensed her lean closer. Soft strands of her hair slid across his shoulder. A clean, sexy perfume teased his nose.
“That means no,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m not a stripper.”
A very happy circumstance, in Greg’s book. Not that he hadn’t dated a stripper—make that exotic dancer—or two in his day. He just had a difficult time reconciling Jackie to that kind of lifestyle.
Besides, he rather liked knowing she hadn’t shared that perfect body with innumerable bachelor parties.
Greg peered around Flanagan’s until he found an exit door in the back. He nodded toward the potential escape route.
“I vote we blow this joint. Do you mind if I walk you to your car to make sure you get there safely?”
“I’m with you.” She squeezed the tablecloth to her body with determined fingers and squeaked her way across the polished wooden floor in her tennis shoes, head held high.
Greg followed in her wake glaring back at Mike’s disgruntled friends as they grumbled over losing their entertainment.
Jackie’s exit proved to be as memorable as her entrance. The cat woman might not be a stripper, but her sense of showmanship could give a seasoned stage veteran a run for the money as she sailed out the door, linen cape flying.
Greg noticed her ramrod straight posture deflated a bit once they’d made it through the exit and into a cramped stairwell, however. The slump lasted all of five seconds before Jackie turned on him and flashed him a sunny grin.
“I can handle it from here, Greg.” She offered her hand as if to seal a bargain. “Thanks for helping me out of an awkward situation.”
The strength of her citrusy perfume kicked up a notch in the small, dim space. Or maybe Greg was only more aware of her.
“I’d like to walk you to your car, if you don’t mind.” He wasn’t just saying it because he was attracted to her and her mile-long legs. No woman should navigate the streets of Boston in a shredded cat costume and a tablecloth.
“That’s okay. If you could just point me in the direction of the ladies’ room I’ll try to make some repairs to my outfit.” Her whiskers twitched as she spoke.
Greg fought the urge to smooth his fingers over them, to trace them from their tips to their source at the top of her full upper lip.
“I don’t think your costume is in any shape to be repaired.”
“Well, I can’t exactly ride the metro in a tablecloth.” Her crooked grin set the whiskers at a jaunty angle. “Besides, I need to retreat somewhere to check in with the Zing-O-Gram
