Revealed. Joanne Rock
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had them.
The sea of men approached Greg and Flanagan’s back room wearing interchangeable goofy grins. Greg had the feeling from their expressions that he was going to get his money’s worth for tonight’s performance. The stripper must be pretty hot to inspire such fawning before she’d wriggled out of her dress.
Mike reached Greg first. He clapped his brother on the shoulder and winked, then reached into the crowd. “Here’s Gregory, honey. He’s the man responsible for the party. I think he’s ready for the show.”
Mike pulled a female from the crowd. Men parted to make room for her and her…tail?
Greg took a quick inventory of the performer he’d ordered to please tonight’s bachelor party crowd. Weathered black kitty ears nestled into the woman’s silky, cinnamon-colored hair. Bright green eyes peered back at him over long black whiskers that were slightly askew. A pink triangle artfully painted over the woman’s nose completed the feline aspect.
She might have looked like she’d danced straight off the Barney set if she hadn’t been wearing an R-rated cat costume that hugged every curvy nuance of her body.
Greg swallowed as he took in the exposed tops of her breasts, thrust up high by an outfit that had to be too small for this generously endowed creature. The only place she seemed to have any breathing room was around her waist, a tiny curve that nipped in substantially from her rounded hips.
Who knew how long his eyes lingered over those hips. Why was it the furry black getup looked sexier than any showy combination of lace and satin?
Maybe it was the tail that wound around one hip and settled along her thigh, all the way down to her…tennis shoes. Hell, he saw Nike stock in his future. The long rope of black fur seemed to stroke and caress her leg with every breath the woman took.
Meow.
Perhaps he’d taken too long admiring her…outfit. Before he could introduce himself, the cat woman stuck out her hand.
“Hi.” She squeezed his fingers in a cool, professional grip. “I’m Jackie, the entertainment. This is your party?”
Her voice slithered over him, reminding him of smoky blues cafés and sultry jazz singers.
He nodded. He’d hired her after all. “I’m Greg.” Technically, it was Mike’s party. But her bill no doubt had Greg’s name on it. Besides, he wasn’t quite ready to turn her over to Mike’s friends just yet.
There was something compelling about Jackie the cat woman-stripper. Some classy, complex edge that her whiskers and kitty ears couldn’t diminish.
She frowned for a moment. “I see. Zing-O-Gram has been a bit overloaded this week. Sorry about the confusion.”
“Not a problem,” Greg assured her, honestly. Her late arrival hadn’t thrown off his schedule too much. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters. Can I get you a drink or anything else before you get started?”
Why did he find himself wanting to delay her show? Sure he was wildly curious about the body she was hiding underneath that kitten costume. But the notion of her being so completely revealed in a bar with all of Mike’s horny friends looking on suddenly disturbed him.
He’d heard of college students earning money for their tuition this way. Is that what had convinced Jackie to don the cat suit?
Jackie licked her lips, a gesture that seemed to suit her feline garb.
Greg tracked the progress of that small, pink tongue and found his own mouth had gone dry as dust.
“I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.” She glanced longingly at the bar.
Twenty guys shouted to the bartender for water.
Jackie shuffled on her tennis shoes as if nervous. Her tail seemed to twitch in response, drawing his attention unerringly to her long legs.
If Greg didn’t know better, he’d swear he was drunk. Since when did a stripper in a two-bit cat costume turn him on to this extreme? He was twisted in knots before she’d shed so much as a glove.
He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to work out one of those knots. Maybe he’d just been working too hard lately. He hadn’t been out on a date since his disastrous break up with the lady meteorologist…three months ago?
Obviously he was sex-starved. He just hadn’t realized it until Jackie had strutted her way into his life.
But he had no intention of acting on an impulsive attraction to a seductive pussycat.
Poor choice of images.
He tried in vain to staunch the blatantly sexual thoughts bombarding his senses. He needed to give Jackie her water and then allow her free rein to do her show.
Surely once she launched into her practiced routine of seduction, Greg would lose interest. Then he could get his mind off her…tail, and back on business.
JACKIE TUCKED HER TAIL closer to her body and gulped down her water gratefully.
The cat costume had never felt blatantly erotic until Greg De Costa had looked at her in it.
The man had her overheating, inside and out, and the soaring temperature didn’t have anything to do with being embarrassed at her birthday party snafu.
No. Jackie didn’t care that a bunch of overgrown boys had hired her to sing at their friend’s 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