Overexposed. Leslie Kelly
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man in the place leaned forward. Wherever she turned, another bit of fabric hit the floor. Her hands moved so effortlessly that the layers seemed to fall by themselves. The light pinks and puffy outer veil went first, followed by the heavier satin pieces. Soon her long, perfectly toned legs were revealed up to the thigh. A drape of satin covering her stomach fell next, torn away from the strings of a bikini top.
She continued her siren’s dance as the fabric fell away, the tempo pushing harder, her hips thrusting in response. Finally, when she wore nothing but a sparkly red G-string and two tiny, delicate pink petals on the tips of her breasts, she glanced at the audience, deigning to give them her attention. Normally, at this point, she would offer a saucy smile, pluck the petals off her nipples, then duck behind her curtains. She’d give them a glimpse—quick, heart-stoppingly sexy—then disappear into the dark recesses of the club until her second performance of the night. But tonight…tonight, she hesitated. No. Tonight, she froze.
Because as she cast a final glance at her audience, seeing a number of familiar faces in the crowd, her attention was captured by a shadowy figure standing in the back of the room, beside the bar. Ignoring the expectant hush from those familiar with her performance, all of whom were waiting for the payoff moment they’d come to see, she focused all her attention on him.
She couldn’t see much at that distance, both because of the mask she wore and the spotlights still shining in her face. But she saw enough to send her heart—already beating frantically due to her performance—into hyperdrive.
From here, he appeared black-haired and black-eyed and black-clothed. She could make out none of his features, just that tall, dark presence—broad of shoulder, slim-hipped. He might be dangerous, given his size and the shadowy darkness swallowing him from her view—but now, at this moment, she felt lured by him. Entranced. Captivated.
Their eyes locked. He knew he had her attention. And in that moment, she desperately wanted to walk off the stage, across the room, close enough to see if his face was as handsome as his shadowy form hinted. Then closer—to see what truths lay in the mysterious depths of those inky black eyes.
But suddenly someone whistled…someone else catcalled. She realized she’d lost track of the music and the dance and the audience and her reasons for being here.
Titillation. Seduction. Those were her reasons for being here. Which made it that much more strange that, right now, the Rose was the one who felt seduced.
Enough. Time to finish.
Sweeping her gaze across the crowd, she gave them all a wickedly sexy look, as if her pause had been entirely purposeful. And entirely for their personal delight. In it, she invited them to imagine just who had her breathing hard—licking her lips in anticipation. Who had her skin flushed and her sex damp and her nipples rock hard.
She only wished she knew the answer.
With one more sidelong glance through half-lowered lashes, she reached for the tiny petals—pink, to match the tender skin of her taut nipples—and plucked them off.
The crowd was roaring as she disappeared behind the curtain. They cheered for several long minutes during which she regained her breath and tried to force her pulse to return to its normal, measured beat.
When it did, she took a chance and peeked through the curtain, her stare zoning in on that dark place by the bar.
But the shadowy stranger was gone.
1
FOR THE FIRST TWO WEEKS after he’d returned from the Middle East, Nick Santori genuinely didn’t mind the way his family fussed over him. There were big welcome home barbecues in the tiny backyard of the row house where he’d been raised. There were even bigger dinners at the family-owned pizzeria that had been his second home growing up.
He’d been dragged to family weddings by his mother and into the kitchen of the restaurant by his father. He’d had wet, sticky babies plopped in his lap by his sisters-in-law, and had been plied with beer by his brothers, who wanted details on everything he’d seen and done overseas. And he’d had rounds of drinks raised in his honor by near-strangers who, having suitably praised him as a patriot, wanted to go further and argue the politics of the whole mess.
That was where he drew the line. He didn’t want to talk about it. After twelve years in the Corps, several of them on active duty in Iraq, he’d had enough. He didn’t want to relive battles or wounds or glory days with even his brothers and he sure as hell wouldn’t justify his choice to join the military to people he’d never even met.
At age eighteen, fresh out of high school with no interest in college and even less in the family business, entering the Marines had seemed like a kick-ass way to spend a few years.
What a dumb punk he’d been. Stupid. Unprepared. Green.
He’d quickly learned…and he’d grown up. And while he didn’t regret the years he’d spent serving his country, he sometimes wished he could go back in time to smack that eighteen year old around and wake him up to the realities he’d be facing.
Realities like this one: coming home to a world he didn’t recognize. To a family that had long since moved on without him.
“So you hanging in?” asked his twin, Mark, who sat across from him in a booth nursing a beer. His brothers had all gotten into the habit of stopping by the family-owned restaurant after work a few times a week.
“I’m doing okay.”
“Feeling that marinara running through your veins again?”
Nick chuckled. “Do you think Pop has ever even realized there’s any other kind of food?”
Mark shook his head. Reaching into a basket, he helped himself to a breadstick. “Do you think Mama has ever even tried to cook him any?”
“Good point.” Their parents were well matched in their certainty that any food other than Italian was unfit to eat.
“Is she still griping because you wouldn’t move back home?”
Nodding, Nick grabbed a breadstick of his own. For all his grumbling, he wouldn’t trade his Pop’s cooking for anything… especially not the never-ending MRE’s he’d had to endure in the military. “She seems to think I’d be happy living in our old room with the Demi Moore Indecent Proposal poster on the wall. It’s like walking into a frigging time warp.”
“You always did prefer G.I. Jane.”
Nick just sighed. Mark seldom took anything seriously. In that respect, he hadn’t changed. But everything else sure had.
During the years he’d been gone, the infrequent visits home hadn’t allowed Nick to mentally keep up with his loved ones. In his mind, when he’d lain on a cot wondering if there would ever come a day when sand wouldn’t infiltrate every surface of his clothes again, the Santoris were the same big, loud bunch he’d grown up with: two hard-working parents and a brood of kids.
They weren’t kids anymore, though. And Mama and Pop had slowed down greatly over the years. His father had turned over the day-to-day management of Santori’s to Nick’s oldest brother, Tony, and stayed in the kitchen drinking chianti and cooking.
One of his brothers was a prosecutor. Another a successful contractor. Their only sister was a newlywed. And, most shocking of all to Nick, Mark, his twin, was about to become a father.
Married, domesticated and reproducing…that described the happy lives of the five other Santori kids. And every single one of them seemed to think he should do exactly the same thing.
Nick agreed with them. At least, he had agreed with them when living day-to-day in a place where nothing was guaranteed, not even his own life. It had seemed perfect. A dream he could strive for at the end of his service. Now it was within reach.
He just wasn’t sure he still wanted it.
He didn’t doubt his siblings were happy. Their conversations