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  She danced to a slow rhythm that really had nothing to do with the music, a beat that only she could

  hear. It made a man long to be the only one she was dancing for. Made him long to have her wrap her

  beautiful body around his, have her look in his eyes, seeing him, no one else but him, as he stroked into

  her hot, creaming pussy, until she cried out his name.

  Blindly Mac reached inside his jacket and pulled out his money clip, his eyes never leaving the stage.

  At the end of what felt like an eternity, but was only the five-minute length of the song, Mac felt as

  though he were coming out of a fog.

  Sinful glanced around once the song ended³as though she

  shared the same dim fog of unawareness

  with Mac as the music faded away, blending into the next song³and then slowly stood.

  In that sexy backhanded way of hers, she casually scooped up the pile of bills scattered on the stage.

  She was hunched down,

  gathering the money, when her gaze connected with Mac·s.

  Mac·s heart loudly thumped, audible to his ears, his nostrils flaring as she came close to him. One

  slender arm reached out, palm outstretched, and he looked down at his own hand, a twenty-dollar bill held

  between his fingers.

  He hadn·t been aware he·d taken the money out. When she came close, he inhaled deeply, picking up

  on her scent, despite the cloying perfume and smoke in the club, and closed his eyes briefly. He opened

  them when her fingertips

  touched his, and an electrical current passed from her to him.

  He glanced at her face. In the dim light, he saw the red flush darken her smooth brown skin, her eyes

  widen in awareness.

  Her small pink tongue darted out and laved the lower, full rim of her lips as they stared at one another.

  When she noticed the new

  dancer on the stage ready to perform, she was the first to look away. With

  one final, hesitant look his way, she gracefully left the stage.

  Mac felt inexplicably shaken, wondering what the hell had just happened between them. He shook his

  head, as though to clear it, and turned to see his partner, Kyle, staring at him, mouth slightly open, his

  expression puzzled.

  ´What the fuck was that all about?µ

  With a noncommittal shrug, Mac pretended nonchalance, picked up his shot glass, ignored the way his

  hand shook, and took a healthy swallow.

  The fiery burn of the whisky easing down his throat didn·t do a damn thing to ease the painful throb

  in his pants. Or erase the memory of the dancer·s hot body working the pole the way he wanted her to

  work him. Nor did it erase the electric charge they had

  generated when her soft hand touched his.

  Impatient and irritated, he glanced around the floor once again for a glimpse of Damian Marks or

  Carlos Medeiros.

  Ĺet·s get the hell out of here.

  They·re not showing tonight.µ

  As Mac stood to go, throwing down several bills to cover their tab, he noticed Marks enter the club.

  Mac slowly sat back down.

  Ĺooks like one of them decided to make an appearance,µ Kyle said, and sat down as well.

  Mac watched as Marks strolled through the club, stopping every so often to speak to a customer, before he walked closer,

  approaching a table to Mac·s far left, where a group of four men dressed in

  business attire sat.

  Mac signaled for a waitress to come and ordered a Coke.

  Ńo more alcohol tonight,µ he told Kyle when he raised a brow at his choice of drink. Í need to keep

  my wits together.µ

  ´Yeah, I think they all flew south after that last dancer.µ Kyle laughed.

  ´Go to hell,µ Mac mumbled, his attention on Marks. Before, when he walked through the crowded

  club, stopping occasionally to speak, he·d had his normal swagger, arrogance clinging to his thin frame like

  the cheap suit he wore.

  With this group, he was all smiles, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat as he spoke to the men, Mac

  thought. He didn·t sit at the table with them, although there was an open seat. After several minutes, one

  of the men said something that wiped the smile off Marks·s face.

  ´Damn, I wish I could hear what they were saying,µ Kyle said, watching the exchange as well.

  ´Whatever it was, it knocked that stupid-ass grin off Marks·s face,µ Mac said, grunting.

  ´Think they·re connected with Medeiros?µ

  ´Probably. We·ll follow them when they leave, get a make on their transportation and run a check.µ

  Í gather we·re not going home very soon, after all.µ

  Ńo. I think we·ll be sticking around for a while. We just may come up with something more interesting than returning a runaway.µ

  ´Man, we ain·t making no money hanging around here,µ Kyle groused, but Mac ignored him.

  The image of the dancer·s sensual glides against the pole flashed in Mac·s mind. Marks wasn·t the only

  reason he wanted to stick around the Sweet Kitty for a few days more.

  4

  ´W hat do you mean you·re ready to quit? Who told you that was your choice, bitch?µ Damian Marks

  walked closer to Sienna,

  crowding her, shoving her until her back touched the back of the door.

  Sienna was so afraid she felt close to peeing on herself, but she knew if she backed down now, the

  asshole would never let her go.

  She swallowed her fear and tried to shove at his chest.

  ´Back up off me, Damian! What the hell is wrong with you? I·ve paid you the money I owe you, then

  some! And I·m done with this life! I want out. I finished school and I·m ready to take care of my brother

  now!µ

  A sharp crack split the air, forcing her head back and away when his hand connected with the side of

  her face.

  ´Take care of your brother? That retarded mother³µ

  ´Don·t! Don·t you fucking say it!

  Don·t you say anything about my brother!µ Sienna cried, biting back

  the tears that sprang to her eyes. She raised her hand to hit Damian, and he caught her raised fist in a

  punishing grasp.

  ´Don·t. Don·t make the mistake of hitting me, Sin. I would hate to see something happen to Jacob.µ

  Sienna·s eyes widened in alarm and her heartbeat slammed against her chest. The flat expression in

  his soulless eyes scared her to death, and promised sure

  retribution if she hit him.

  She could handle his retribution against her. That didn·t scare her.

  What made her back down was the knowledge that he·d carry out his ugly threat and hurt her helpless brother.

  Ńow get your ass out there and make me some money,µ he said.

  She held his gaze for long moments, refusing to look away.

  He broke first, turning away from her. The breath she·d been holding rushed out of her. She·d opened

  the door to leave, until his next words halted her in her tracks.

  ´Tonight I want you working the floor.µ

  ´What? You know I don·t³µ

  ´Tonight, and any other night I want you to, you will do what the hell I tell you to do. Now get your

  ass out of here, and get to work,µ he said, and turned away from her in cold dismissal. Ánd Sin?µ

  Sienna half-turned to face him.

  ´What?µ she asked in a low voice.

  Íf I were you, I·d be careful.

  Very careful. You owe me, and when I say the debt is collected, then

  the debt is collected. Don·t make me have to remind you who·s in control around here, again, bitch.µ The

  threa
t, along with the deadpan expression across his thin, pale face, sent chills racing down Sienna·s spine.

  Í think I have trouble.µ

  ´What trouble, Damian?µ the low, deep voice asked, his tone calm, casual, conversational.

  Immediately Damian raised his thumb to his mouth and began to chew nervously on his nail.

  He

  paced the length of his office. In disgust, he yanked his fingers out of his mouth, forcing himself to resist

  the urge to bite his nails to the skin.

  A weakness he tried his

  damndest to overcome, but whenever he talked to Carlos³

  even on the

  phone³the old habit reared its ugly head.

  Óne of the dancers wants to quit.µ

  Ánd?µ the man drawled in his smooth, barely accented voice.

  Ít·s Sienna,µ he said abruptly, and waited.

  There was a heartbeat of

  silence.

  As he waited for the response, the nerves in Damian·s gut clenched to the point that he felt like

  hurling.

  ´What have you done?µ The voice that was once smooth took on a sharper tone, the accent became

  thicker.

  Damian nervously grabbed the expensive bottle of Glenfiddich single malt and poured it into one of

  the Waterford Crystal shot glasses set on the bar in his office.

  Í have every confidence that you will do whatever it takes to make sure this doesn·t happen, sí,

  Damian?µ

  Úh, no. I mean, yes. She·s not going anywhere. I·ll make sure of it. You can count on me, sir.µ

  ´Good, Damian. That is good.

  Because I would hate for

  something unfortunate to

  happen, were she

  to leave. I·ve so enjoyed our association.µ

  The dial tone on the other end signaled the end of the call.

  Damian hung up the phone and sat down listlessly in his chair; fear and the consequences of what

  Carlos would do to him if Sienna left churned a hot path through his gut.

  He looked around at the

  elegance of his office, at all the rare, expensive prints carefully hung on the

  wall, the expensive leather furniture, the wine rack with an assortment of high-priced wine³all of it

  represented how far he·d come from the poor snot-nosed kid from the wrong side of town who ran away.

  He was no longer the picked-on street kid who was trying to make enough money to make rent

  because his strung-out whore of a mother was too fucked-up most times to give a damn if he ate, and

  mostly forgot he existed, nine times out of ten.

  Not only did he own one of the most profitable strip clubs in downtown DC, but he was an associate

  of one of the most powerful men in the city. Even if the man didn·t acknowledge him in public, had to keep

  a certain ´distance,µ Damian knew that if he played his cards right, he·d score big.

  And all those motherfuckers who made fun of his drunk-ass mother, and laughed at him for wearing

  torn-up clothes, begging for food when he was hungry, they would have to recognize.

  Recognize that he had arrived.

  He was the damn man! If

  anybody felt the slightest urge to try

  anything stupid with him now, he had someone in his corner that none of them would dick with.

  He poured another glass and tossed the drink down his throat, wiping his mouth with the back of his

  hand.

  Now, to make sure the stupid cunt Sienna didn·t fuck up his plans.

  5

  S ienna took a deep breath and slowly released the pent-up air in a small puff.

  Damn.

  She hadn·t had to do a lap dance in a long time, but since Damian wanted to prove a point, that she

  was totally under his

  dominance, she had to swallow what little pride she had and do what she had to do.

  She·d do anything to keep her brother safe. She was all he had.

  Her eyes searched the crowd for Damian, but she didn·t see him.

  But she knew his eyes were on her,

  somewhere.

  No doubt he was watching her across the room behind one of his śpecialµ two-way mirrors, getting

  his laugh on, knowing how much she hated this.

  She surveyed the crowded

  throng of men and slowly

  threaded her way through the club. She heard

  the murmurings from some of the club·s regulars, surprised to see she was on the floor. She hadn·t had to

  work it, hadn·t had to do any lap dances for a long time.

  She also caught the surprised³

  and mocking³glances of

  several of the dancers in response to her

  arrival on the floor. She stiffened her back, plastered a purposeful half smile on her face, and lazily

  surveyed the men.

  Ćome on over here, baby doll, and come sit on Daddy·s lap.µ

  Sienna glanced down and kept her face casually disinterested, careful not to show her disgust at the

  groping man·s hands roaming her ass.

  Í don·t need a daddy, sugar.

  Been there, done that. Now, if you want my time, the money·s gotta be

  right,µ she purred, trying, unsuccessfully, to pluck his meaty hands away from her ass.

  Óh, I got the dollars, baby, you better believe that. Now come on over here and sit that fine ass

  down on my lap. Be a good girl and give Daddy a dance.µ

  He grabbed her, circling her wrist with one beefy hand.

  Caught off-balance on her stilettos, Sienna

  landed, hard, in his lap.

  Í didn·t think I·d ever get this chance. To think I almost let my wife nag me into staying home with

  her instead.µ He breathed the comment alongside her neck; his hot whisky-and-cigarette breath nearly

  singeing the fine hairs alongside the nape of her neck, beneath her wig.

  She tried hard not to cringe at the way he slurred his words, asking her to sit in his lap³his dick

  already hard and pointing straight at her³along with his creepy reference that he was her daddy.

  God, Damian knew just what to do to humiliate her, Sienna thought. He knew she hated this part of

  stripping more than anything.

  She swallowed and closed her eyes, allowing her body to take over and forcing her mind away from

  what she was doing. What she had to do.

  She was starting to bounce on his lap when she felt a hand cover her hand, calmly removing the

  drunk·s beefy hand from around her wrist.

  Startled, she felt her eyes fly open.

  Í believe the lady promised this dance to me,µ a deep baritone voice intoned with little inflection.

  Sienna glanced up swiftly. Her gaze slowly traveled up a long, hard body, settling on a stern face she·d

  come to look for in the crowd over the last week.

  Her heartbeat quickened. It was him. The man she hadn·t been able to get out of her mind, the one

  she·d been dancing for³him and him alone³over the last

  week«hoping she·d see him again, yet praying

  he wouldn·t come back.

  Ignoring the drunk·s protest with a hard look, the man calmly lifted Sienna off his lap, tucked her

  under his arm, and led her away to a darker, more secluded area of the club.

  Quiet, unnerved by not only his presence but his overall

  masculinity, Sienna allowed him to lead her.

  He sat down and held out a hand. Hesitantly she placed her hand in his and looked into his deep, light gray

  eyes. Although she knew he was asking her to dance for him, it seemed as though he wanted something

  more.

  By taking his hand, she was agreeing to give him what he wanted.

 
Í·m sure one of the other girls would be much better at this than me. It·s been a while for me,µ

  Sienna whispered, her eyes trained on the sensual full curve of his hard mouth.

  Her gaze traveled over his angular face, taking in his deep-set gray eyes, framed by short, thick

  lashes, before traveling down his aquiline nose, sensual, hard full mouth, ending at his squared chin, which

  held the faintest hint of a cleft.

  His thick sable-brown hair was cut close to his finely shaped head, tapering to almost skin past his

  ears. If not for the slightly longer length on top, he could be a poster boy for the U.S. Marine Corps.

  ´This isn·t something you do often?µ he asked, sitting farther back in his seat, settling her on his lap.

  Ńo, I don·t. At least not in a while. I dance on the stage, occasionally do the smaller stages, but that·s

  it.µ

  She forced the words out of her mouth, straddling his hard thighs, trying her best to concentrate on

  dancing for him, and not get caught up in the erotic fantasies she·d had going on about him over the last

  week.

  ´What·s your name?µ he

  murmured, catching her off-guard with the question.

  Śinful Feathers. Sin.µ

  Ńo. Your real name.µ

  She began to dance, slowly gyrating her hips, rolling her buttocks along his jeans-covered, hard

  thighs.

  Sienna never gave her real name to anyone at the club. It was such an intimate thing³as crazy as it

  sounded, considering she

  regularly shed her clothes for scores of men.

  ´Mine·s Garrett. Garrett

  McAllister. Friends call me Mac.µ He gave his name,

  although she hadn·t

  asked.

  Just as she used a spin on her real name to give her emotional distance, she·d never wanted to know

  the names of the men she

  danced for. She needed the space, and with this man, she definitely hadn·t

  wanted to know his name. She didn·t want to feel as though this were anything more than it was. A dancer