Captivate Me. Kira Sinclair
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need to add a crazed stalker to the mix.”
Mitch’s words vaulted her out of the haze threatening to suck her back into the memory. Now was not the time. Not when her body was still on edge from her encounter with Kayne. That was a dangerous combination just begging for a spark to detonate.
“You’re hilarious,” she drawled out.
“I’m not being funny. I know you’re oblivious to it, but you’re gorgeous. Half of the single male population of New Orleans want inside your panties. And the other half just haven’t met you yet.”
It was easy for Alyssa to ignore his words. She could count on one hand the number of men she’d slept with and have a couple of fingers of left over for fun. She wasn’t the kind of woman who got hit on in bars and never had been.
Mitch had to say stuff like that, though. It was the equivalent of most mothers saying their daughters were pretty.
“Seriously. And doing something that stupid during Mardi Gras...someone could have been taking pictures or taping you. You know people cross boundaries they’d never think about approaching any other time.”
Mitch was right, but until last night she’d never been tempted to join the group of people who used Mardi Gras as an excuse to make bad behavior acceptable. She was far from a prude. Her motto tended more towards c’est la vie than repent, you sinners. It just wasn’t her thing.
Until last night. It had been rather thrilling doing something so taboo.
That was the attraction. Really. That was all it was. She’d been upset and surrounded by happy drunks without a care in the world.
“I’ll never see him again,” she promised both Mitch and herself.
“Just...be careful.”
“Aren’t I always?”
Mitch grunted, a sound that could mean just about anything.
“If he shows up again you’ll let me know? Let me make sure he isn’t an escaped felon or alcoholic or—”
“A good guy, stealing a few moments of peace during a party held on the balcony of a multimillion-dollar home in the Quarter?”
“Just ’cause he got invited to a snooty party doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous.”
“True.”
As much as she wanted to reassure Mitch, there was something about her masked stranger that sent a delicious wave of foreboding prickling along her skin.
She was afraid the man watching her last night was very dangerous. And bold. And wickedly depraved.
The problem was that didn’t bother Alyssa, although it definitely should.
* * *
BECKETT STARED OUT of the one-way window that looked over the twisting, gyrating mass of bodies below. Not even the double-paned glass could block the loud, thumping music blaring through the club.
Lights flashed, white, gold, green and blue, spinning, twirling and pulsing rhythmically.
Arms crossed over his chest, hips spread wide, he surveyed his domain. From his vantage point he could see the bar was three deep in people yelling for another round of drinks. He’d thought about scheduling another bartender, but with three working already it would have been a tight squeeze to get another person back there.
The customers didn’t seem to mind the wait. Not when there was a line of people outside chomping at the bit to get in. Waitresses in deep-red bustiers, black satin boyshorts and silk thigh highs circulated through the room. Tonight, in a nod to Mardi Gras, they wore black feathered masks and had ropes of beads draped around their necks.
The three waiters working the floor all walked around naked from the waist up. That wasn’t his requirement, but the guys quickly realized they made better tips that way. Besides, between the packed bodies and the heat generated from the dance floor, they all said it was cooler.
Beckett didn’t care, as long as it didn’t cause problems. Women were just as likely to have roaming hands as men, and sometimes when they drank they forgot their boyfriends were sitting there watching them fondle his staff.
Satisfied that everything was working smoothly tonight, Beckett’s focus shifted from the floor to the walls and rafters. It was an old warehouse he’d converted, and there was plenty of room to handle the upgrades he wanted.
V&D’s app was a twist on an interactive social media platform that dovetailed nicely with the theme of Exposed—sumptuous and gritty, in-your-face access.
Watch Me would connect to cameras set up to record and broadcast live feeds directly from each of his clubs. People anywhere could not only watch the party, but also interact.
He already had contractors ready to install huge screens that would plaster the walls and ceiling. Several of them would project other locations—the New York feed would play on screens in Chicago. Someone from Iowa or Paris could hook up the feed and play it at their own makeshift party. And then upload videos of their experience, which would play over the screens in Seattle.
It essentially made the world one big, connected party.
To take it a step further, there was in-app communication. A guy in Geneva could message the beautiful girl in New Orleans he just watched dance and even send her a drink from the bar.
Global exposure and connection.
He could see it. Technology being used to bring people together instead of separating and isolating them.
What he couldn’t understand was how Alyssa Vaughn didn’t see the potential. Or didn’t want to see it.
The memory of their meeting had conflicting emotions rolling through his body—frustration and urgency. His muscles tightened, his hands balled into fists.
The way her pale eyes had flashed at him, angry and full of disdain.
He’d thought of revealing who he was, but he didn’t think she would have appreciated that revelation in company. And by the time the meeting was finished, he’d been so irritated and aroused he’d decided to keep the secret indefinitely.
He still had no idea what he’d done to her, but it was obvious her aversion to him went deeper than a simple business decision.
And he couldn’t help but wonder how often she’d done something like that striptease last night. Was he a first? Or one in a long line of wanton experiences?
From out of nowhere, a surge of jealousy had his eyes narrowing dangerously. That line of thinking would get him nowhere.
Needing the distraction, he slipped out of his office and through the cleverly concealed door in the wall, down onto the floor. He wasn’t drunk or interested in dancing, but he had to weave through half the club to get to the bar.
On his way through, he lost count of how many times his ass was grabbed or palms slid across his chest. Someone even managed to slip fingers beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Clamping his hand around the offending wrist, he pulled the digits away from his skin. They were attached to a beautiful blonde, her body covered in a dark red dress that plunged in the front and stopped about four inches down her thighs. She smiled at him, blue eyes full of invitation.
Despite the way he used his grip on her arm to hold her away, her body undulated suggestively, as if she were plastered hard against him.
“Hi, sugar. Care to buy me a drink?” she asked, her lips smirking with promise.
It was impossible not to compare this woman to Alyssa. Blatant sexuality against bone-deep sensuality. This woman had everything she offered on display. There was no mystery. No challenge. He could have her upstairs across his desk in three minutes flat—only because it would take that long to get back to the office.
It had been a long time since Beckett had wanted easy.
Alyssa