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Overexposed
Leslie Kelly






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.


LESLIE KELLY

A two-time RITA® Award nominee, eight-time Romantic Times BOOKreviews Award nominee and 2006 RomanticTimes BOOKreviews Award winner, Leslie Kelly has become known for her delightful characters, sparkling dialogue and outrageous humour.

Honoured with numerous other awards, including a National Readers’ Choice Award, Leslie writes sexy novels for Mills & Boon® Blaze®, and single-title contemporary books. Keep up with her latest releases by visiting her website: www.lesliekelly. com, or her blog, www.plotmonkeys.com.



Dear Reader,

It’s been a couple of years since I first worked with Julie Elizabeth Leto and Tori Carrington on THE BAD GIRLS CLUB series. So when Blaze® invited us to bring the mini-series over, I jumped at the chance, and was thrilled that Tori and Julie did, too!

Obviously, if you read all three of THE BAD GIRLS CLUB books, you will see a “shared” scene that appears in each. That was so much fun to write, and I have to tip my hat to Julie for creating it and including my heroine, even before I’d started on my own book!

Happy reading!

Leslie Kelly




OVEREXPOSED


By

LESLIE KELLY




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To a couple of my favourite “bad girls”–

Julie and Lori. And to one fun bad boy, Tony!

Let’s be bad together again sometime!




Prologue


THEY CALLED HER the Crimson Rose.

As her name was announced in sultry, almost reverent tones at Leather and Lace, an exclusive men’s club, an awed quiet began to slither through the crowd. The room stilled, noisy conversation giving way to quiet expectation.

Businessmen in open-collared shirts stopped their whispered flirtations with waitresses wearing tiny black skirts and skimpy tops. Attendees of an entire bachelor party returned to their table, elbowing the groom to watch and weep. Single men who came every week just to see her sat back in plush leather chairs and stared rapt at the stage through hooded eyes. The ice tinkling against their glasses was soon the only sound in the lushly appointed room, even the servers knew better than to interrupt the clientele when the Rose was on stage.

She danced only twice a week—on Saturdays and Sundays—and since the night she’d started, the Crimson Rose had become one of the hottest attractions in the Chicago club scene. Because while the jaded city had long been used to hard-looking dancers taking off their clothes and gyrating to the heavy beat of sexual music, they simply hadn’t seen anything like her.

She wasn’t hard-looking, she was elegant. Her delicate features and natural curves made every man who saw her wonder what it would feel like to touch her creamy skin.

She didn’t strip…she undressed. Slowly. Seductively. As if she had all the time in the world to give a man pleasure.

She didn’t gyrate, she swayed, moving with fluid grace. Every gesture, every turn an invitation to gaze at her.

Her sound wasn’t sexual, it was sensual, erotic and soulful enough to make a man close his eyes and appreciate it. Though, of course, when she was onstage none ever would.

While her job might have diminished some women in the eyes of those around her, the Rose owned it, embraced it, lifted it up to a level of art rather than pure sexual titillation.

She liked what she did. And they liked watching her.

The low, sultry thrum of a smoky number began, but the stage remained dark as the workers put final placement on a portable red satin curtain, used only by her. It had been a recent addition by the management, who’d realized that the high-class, stage performer feel was part of the Crimson Rose’s appeal. As was the mystery.

While most of the other dancers at the club performed under bright overhead light and full exposure, the Rose danced in shadow and pools of illumination provided by precisely timed spotlights. Her red velvet mask never came off. Most figured the management was playing upon the popularity of the aura of secrecy surrounding the Rose.

Finally the music grew louder, the gelled spotlights, ranging in color from soft pink to bloodred, illuminated the stage, dancing back and forth, each briefly touching on one spot: the seam of the closed satin curtain.

“Now, for your viewing delight,” said a smooth male from the sound system, “Chicago’s perfect bloom, the Crimson Rose.”

No one clapped or whispered. No one moved. All eyes were on the center of the curtain, where a hand began to emerge.

It was pale. Delicate, with long fingers and slender wrists. A colorful design—painted-on body art—began at the tip of one finger, with a tiny leaf. It connected to a vine, which wound up her hand, around her wrist. As her arm emerged, more of the leafy vine, complete with sharp thorns, was revealed. It glittered, sensuous and wicked, alluring and dangerous.

Sinuous, slow, unhurried, she emerged from the drape, until she was fully revealed. But her head remained down, her long reddish-brown hair concealing her face.

The tempo throbbed. The dancer stayed still, as if completely oblivious to the crowd. Finally, the spotlights changed color, the vibrant reds giving way to a soft, morning yellow. And, as if she were a tightly wound blossom being awakened by a gentle dawn, the Rose began to move.

Her head slowly lifted, the delicate beauty of her pale throat emphasized by more body art. Her hair fell back as she turned toward the light, as if welcoming the morning.

Her full lips—red and wet—were parted, sending vivid images and erotic fantasies into the minds of every man close enough to see their glisteny sheen…. This was a woman made for the art of kissing. And sensual pleasure.

There the view of her face stopped. A soft red-velvet mask covered the rest. The mask glittered with green jewels like those in the vine, leaving her audience certain that the temptress’s eyes must be a pure, vivid emerald. Most already knowing the mystery of her face would not be revealed, her admirers refocused their attention to the rest of her.

She wore layers of soft fabric, cut in petal shapes. Still like the flower being awakened by the sun, she began to indulge in the spotlight’s warmth. Swaying, she stretched lazily like a cat in a puddle of light. Her movements were unhurried, revealing a length of thigh, a glimmer of hip.

Then the tempo picked up. So did her pace. She arched and swayed across the stage with feminine grace. But to most, she appeared lonely—removed from her surroundings—revealing a sensual want that begged for fulfillment that would never come.

Anyone in the audience would have fulfilled it for her.

Anyone.

Every move she made set the billowing layers of her costume in motion, until the petals nearly danced around her on their own. They parted to reveal her slender legs, providing a peek here and a glimpse there.

And then they started to disappear.

Every 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 were full of banter and houses and SUVs and baby talk that they all seemed to love but Nick just didn’t get. And wasn’t sure he ever would…despite how much he knew he should.

I will.

At least, he hoped he would.

The fact that he was bored out of his mind helping out at Santori’s and hadn’t yet met a single appropriate woman who made his heart beat faster—much less one he wanted to pick out baby names with—was merely a product of his own re-adjustment to civilian life. He’d come around. Soon. No doubt about it.

As long as he avoided going after the one woman he’d seen recently who not only made his heart beat fast but had also given him a near-sexual experience from across a crowded room. Because she was in no way appropriate. She was a stripper. One he’d be working with very soon now that he’d agreed to take a job doing security at a club called Leather and Lace.

Forcibly thrusting the vision of the sultry dancer out of his brain, he focused on the type of normal woman he’d someday meet who might inspire a similar reaction.

He’d have help locating her. Everyone, it seemed, wanted him to find the “perfect” woman and they all just happened to know her. The next one of his sisters-in-law who asked him to come over for dinner and coincidentally asked her single best friend to come, too, would be staring at Nick’s empty chair.

“Do you know how glad I am that your wife’s knocked up?”

“Yeah, me too,” Mark replied, wearing the same sappy look he’d had on his face since he’d started telling everyone Noelle was expecting. “But do I want to know why you’re so happy?”

“Because it means she doesn’t have time to try to set me up with her latest single friend/hair stylist/next-door-neighbor or just the next breathing woman who walks by.”

Mark had the audacity to grin.

“It’s not funny.”

“Yeah, it is. I’ve seen the ones they’ve thrown at you.”

“You seen me throw them back, too, then.”

Nodding, Mark sipped his beer.

“Doesn’t matter if she’s a blonde, brunette, redhead or bald. Any single woman with a pulse gets shoved at me.”

“And Catholic,” Mark pointed out.

“Mama’s picks, yeah. But none of them are my type.”

Deadpan, his brother asked, “Women?”

“F-you,” he replied. “I mean, I do have a few preferences.”

“Big—”

“Beyond that,” Nick snapped.

Mark relented. “Okay, I’m kidding. What do you want?”

That was the question of the hour, wasn’t it? Nick had no idea what he wanted. It was supposed to be someone who’d make him want this. This sedate, small-town-in-a-big-city lifestyle.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for what all of you have.”

When Mark’s brow rose, Nick added, “I wasn’t criticizing. You all seem happy. The couples in this family don’t seem as…”

“Boring?”

“I guess.”

“Thanks,” his brother replied dryly.

“No offense. But you’re all the exception, not the rule.”

Mark murmured, “That’s a lot of exceptions.”

It was. Which meant Nick was out of luck. How many great, happy marriages could one family contain?

But damned if he wasn’t going to give it a try. He’d been telling himself for the last three years of his active enlistment that once he was free—once he was home—he was going to have the kind of life the rest of his family had. The dreams of that normal, happy lifestyle had sustained him through some of the wickedest fighting he’d ever seen. He would not give them up now. Not even if they suddenly seemed a little sedate.

“Face it, they won’t rest until you’re ‘settled down.’”

“Like you?” he asked, raising a brow. His twin was a hard-ass Chicago detective who could hardly be described as “settled down.” The man was as tough as they came, despite his occasionally goofy sense of humor.

“Yeah. Like me.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “You are in no way settled down.” He glanced at the cuts on his twin’s knuckles.

Mark smiled, a twinkle in his eyes. “Guy resisted.”

“Does Noelle know?”

The smile faded. “No, and if you tell her I’ll pound you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms across his chest, Mark nodded. “I guess you might be able to hold your own now that the Marines toughened you up and filled you out.”

It had long been a friendly argument between them that Nick had inherited their mother’s lean, tall build like Luke and Joe. Mark and Tony resembled their barrel-chested father. But after many tough, physical years in the military, Nick was no longer anybody’s “little” brother. “I think I could take you on.”

“I think you could take anybody on. So why don’t you come down to the station and talk to my lieutenant?”

“Not interested in your job, bro. I’ve had enough of rules and regulations for a while.” They’d talked about the possibility a few times since Nick had returned home, but he wasn’t about to relent on that issue. He’d done his time on the battlefields of Iraq, he didn’t want to add to them in Chicago.

“Yeah, okay,” Mark said, glancing around the crowded restaurant. “I can see why this is so much more up your alley.”

Nick followed his glance and smothered a sigh. Because Mark was right. Helping at the pizzeria was no problem in the short term, heck he’d helped run the place when he was in high school, putting in more time than any of his siblings. But did he really want to become a partner in the business with his brother Tony, as he used to talk about…and as the family was hoping?

Seemed impossible. But Mark was the only one who would understand that. “I’m getting into protection,” he admitted.

“You gonna mass-produce rubbers?” Mark sounded completely innocent, though his eyes sparkled with his usual good humor.

“I can’t wait to tell your kid what a juvenile delinquent you were. Like when you put the Playboy magazine in Father Michael’s desk drawer in sixth grade.”

“Believe me, my kid will know Dad’s on the job from the time he’s old enough to even think about swiping candy bars. Now, what’s with this protection business?”

“I’m going to work part-time as a bodyguard.”

“No kidding?” Mark said, sounding surprised.

“Joe did some renovation work on a nightclub uptown and got friendly with the owner. Turns out they need extra security, so he set up a meeting. I went in Sunday night to talk to them.”

“Bet Meg loved big brother Joe working in a nightclub.”

Like the rest, their older brother Joe was happily married. Nick knew he’d never even look at another woman.

“So,” Mark asked, “why does a club need a bodyguard?”

Nick knew exactly why this club needed a bodyguard after watching the erotic performance by a dancer called the Crimson Rose. The sultry stranger had inhabited his dreams and more than a few of his fantasies ever since he’d seen her on stage, revealing her incredible body while still remaining, somehow, so above it all. He imagined men with less control might try to do more than fantasize about the woman.

“The performers attract a lot of unwanted attention,” he said, not wanting to get into details. Not because he was embarrassed about his job, but because he didn’t want to start talking about the rose-draped dancer and her effect on him.

Nick didn’t need that kind of distraction in his life. A hot stripper definitely did not fit in with the nice Santori lifestyle he kept telling himself he wanted. Not one bit. Which meant working with her was going to be a trick.

But he’d handled bigger challenges. Besides, meeting her—talking to her—would take the bloom off that rose. Intense fantasies were meant for women who were untouchable, mysterious, unknown. It was, he’d come to believe while living in the Middle East, part of the allure of veiled women living in that culture. The unknown always built high expectations.

The Crimson Rose soon would not be an unknown. He’d see the face that had been hidden behind the mask and her secrets would be revealed. Which would make her much less intriguing.

Wanting his mind off her until it had to be when he started work, he changed the subject. “This place is hopping.”

“So why aren’t you out there taking orders from women who’d like to order a side of you with their thick crust?”

“Even the help gets an occasional night off.”

He cast a bored glance around the room. A line of patrons stood near the counter, waiting for carry-out orders. Every table was full. Waitresses buzzed around in constant motion, all of them overseen by Mama. Nothing caught his attention… until he spotted her. And then he couldn’t look away.

She stopped his heart, the way the dancer had, though the women couldn’t be more dissimilar.

The stranger stood near the door, leaning against the wall. Looking at no one, her eyes remained focused on some spot outside the windows. Her posture spoke of weary disinterest, as if she’d zoned out on the chattering of customers all around her. She was separate, alone, lost in her own world of thought.

Not fitting in.

That, as much as her appearance, kept Nick’s attention focused directly on her. Because he, too, knew what it was like to not fit in among this loud world of family and friends and neighbors who’d known one another for years.

She was solitary, self-contained, which interested him.

And her looks simply stole his breath.

From where he sat, he had a perfect view of her profile. Her thick, dark brown hair hung from a haphazard ponytail, emphasizing her high cheekbones and delicate jaw. Her face appeared soft, her skin creamy and smooth. Though her lips were parted, she didn’t appear to be smiling. He suspected she was sighing from her open mouth every once in a while, though out of unhappiness or of boredom, he couldn’t say.

Dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, she also wore a large baker’s type apron over her clothes. That made it impossible to check out her figure. But judging by the length of those legs, shrunk-wrapped in tight, faded denim, he imagined it was spectacular. With a lightweight backpack slung over one shoulder, she looked like she’d stopped off to grab a pizza on her way home from work, like everyone else in line.

Only, she was so incredibly sexy in her aloof indifference, she didn’t look like any other person in line.

Across from him, Mark said something, but Nick paid no attention. He continued to stare, wishing she’d turn toward him so he could make out the color of her eyes. Finally, as though she’d read his mental order, the brunette shifted, tilted her head in a delicate stretch that emphasized her slender neck, and turned. Sweeping a lazy gaze across the room, she breathed a nearly audible sigh that confirmed she was bored.

Then her eyes met his…and there they stopped.

Hers were brown, as dark as his. As their stares locked, he noted the flash of heated awareness in her stare. She made no effort to look away, watching him watch her. As if she knew he’d been checking her out, she returned the favor, looking him over, from his face down, her stare lingering a little long on his shoulders, and even longer on his chest. Nick shifted in his seat, his worn jeans growing tight across his groin, where heat slid and pulsed with seam-splitting intensity.

Though he was seated and there was no way she could see her effect on him, the stranger began to smile. One corner of her mouth tilted up, revealing a tiny dimple in her cheek. But it wasn’t a cute, flirty one…nothing about this woman was cute and flirty, she was aggressive and seductive.

Needing to know her—now—he pushed his beer away and slid to the end of the bench seat without a word.

“Nick?” his brother asked, obviously startled.

“I have to meet her.”

“Who?”

Nick didn’t answer, he simply rose to his feet, never taking his eyes off the stranger.

Mark turned around. “Her?” his brother asked, sounding so surprised Nick wondered if marriage had made him entirely immune to the appeal of a hot, sexy stranger. “You have to meet her?”

Already walking away, Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he strode across the restaurant, determined to not let her get away. He had to meet the first real woman—not a fantasy dressed in rose petals—who’d made his heart start beating hard again since the day he’d gotten home from the war.

IZZIE NATALE HAD A SECRET.

Well, she had many secrets. But the secret she was trying to disguise right now was one that would get her thrown out of the windy city for life.

She preferred New York style pizza to Chicago deep dish.

Shocking, but true. In the years she’d been living in New York during her dancing career, she’d fallen in love with everything there, including the food. But she’d be taking her life in her hands if she admitted it. Because, man, they took their pizza very seriously here. Her grandfather would turn over in his grave if he found out she’d gone to the dark—thin-crust—side. Her father, at whose request she’d made this stop at Santori’s, would disown her. And her sister, whose husband ran this place, would never speak to her again.

Hmm. That might be a blessing. Considering her sister Gloria never had mastered the art of shutting up when the occasion demanded it, Izzie felt tempted to tell her that not only did she like her crust thin, but she also preferred the Mets over the Cubbies. That would get her stoned in the street.

How am I going to get through this?

It wasn’t the first time she’d wondered that in the two months she’d been home, taking care of her family-owned bakery while her father recovered from his stroke. If her friends in Manhattan could see her—covered in flour, wearing an apron, working behind a counter—they’d think she’d been kidnapped.

This could not be Izzie Natale, the former long-legged Rockette who’d had men at her fingertips. Nor could it be the Izzie who’d gone on to land a spot with one of the premiere modern dance companies in New York, short-lived though that spot may have been after her ACL injury had required major surgery seven months ago.

But it was. She was. And it was driving her mad.

It wasn’t that she didn’t love her family. But oh, did she wish one of them could run the bakery. Because she was not happy being once again under the microscope, living in this big-geographically, but small-town-at-heart area of Little Italy.

Before she could groan about it, however, something caught her eye in the crowded pizzeria. Make that someone caught her eye. As she cast another bored look around, half-wishing she’d see someone she’d recognize from her other life here in Chicago—the one nobody else knew about—she spotted him.

A dark-haired, dark-eyed man was staring at her from across the place. Even from twenty feet away she felt the heat rolling off him. An answering sultry, hungry fire curled from the tips of her curly dark hair down to the bottoms of her feet.

God, the man was hot. Fiery hot. Global warming hot.

His jet black hair was cut short, spiky. Amilitary man.

His dark eyes matched the hair. They were deep set, heavily lashed…bedroom eyes, she’d have to say. His lean face was more rugged than handsome. The strong jaw jutted out the tiniest bit, and his unsmiling mouth was tightly set, as if intentionally trying to disguise the fullness of a pair of amazing male lips.

His shoulders were Mack-truck wide and his chest was football-field broad. And his attitude was all, one-hundred-percent Santori male.

Because Izzie knew it was Nick Santori who’d met her stare from across the room. Nick Santori who’d risen from his seat and was winding his way across the room toward her. Nick Santori who was making the earth shake a little under her feet, just as he always had when she was a teenager.

She told herself to breathe and not let him get under her skin. He sure had once…like at Gloria and Tony’s wedding, when she’d been a bridesmaid of fourteen and Nick had been a groomsman. He’d had to escort her down the aisle, and his big, bad, going-into-the-Marines-eighteen-year-old self hadn’t liked it. And that day was one she would never live down.

Somehow, though, that memory didn’t steady the floor. Nor did it cool her off as he came closer. Those dark eyes of his were locked on her face as he effortlessly cleared his way through the crowd with a look here or glance there. Everyone made way for him. The men out of respect. The women… well, the women looked like Izzie imagined she did: dumbstruck. All because of the simmering sensuality of this one sexy man.

The one she’d wanted since the first time she’d felt heat between her legs and understood what it meant.

“Hi,” he said when he finally reached her.

“Hey.” She felt almost triumphant at having achieved that note of casual aloofness. She even managed to keep slouching against the wall, probably because she needed the support. She might have learned to handle men but she’d never gotten over feeling like Izzie-the-geek around this one.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Oh, yeah. She could think of several somethings. Starting with her getting some payback for him ignoring her when she was a chubby, lovesick kid. And ending with him naked in her bed.

But getting naked in bed with Nick Santori would involve serious complications. Her sister was married to his brother. The families were old friends. If she so much as looked at the guy with interest the neighborhood would have them married off with her popping out brown-haired Italian babies within a year.

Uh-uh. No thanks. Not for Izzie. Sex with Nick would be delightful. But it came with way too many strings.

“I don’t think so,” she finally answered.

He didn’t back off. “I’m sure there’s something.”

“What, are you a waiter now?” she asked, amused at the thought of him waiting tables. Especially since that chest of his could probably double as one.

Nick had, like all the Santori kids, worked in the restaurant in high school. Just as Izzie had worked in the bakery—often eating her paycheck to sweeten her teenage angst.

But he’d been in the Marines for years. She didn’t see him slinging pizzas now that he was back in Chicago. Not after he’d been slinging Uzis or whatever those macho soldier guys carried.

“Maybe. Why don’t you tell me what you want and I’ll let you know if I can get it for you?”

Thin and cheesy New York style pizza was the first thing that came to mind, but Izzie didn’t want to get strung up at the corner of Taylor and Racine. “I already placed my order.”

He smiled slightly. “I wasn’t just talking about pizza.”

God, was that…it was. There was a flirtatious twinkle in those blackish-brown eyes of his. He’d been throwing some subtle innuendo at her and it had gone clear over her head.

“Oh,” was all she could manage.

Cake flour must have clogged her femme-fatale genes in the past two months. It was the only way someone with her experience with men could have missed his double meaning.

“Want to sit while you wait for your order?” he asked, gesturing toward a few chairs in the waiting area.

“No, thanks.” She fell silent. If she opened her mouth again, she might do something stupid like throw out a dumb, “Wow, what I wouldn’t have given for you to look at me like that when I was a teenager,” line, which she so didn’t want to do.

She zipped her lips. She’d be Izzie the uninterested mute. Which was better than Izzie the lovesick mutant.

“How about at a table?”

“At a table…what?”

He smiled again, that sexy, self-confident smile that had probably had woman on five continents dropping their panties within sixty seconds of meeting him. “We can sit at a table while you wait for your order.”

God, she was an idiot. “No, I’m fine here, thank you.”

She had to give herself a break for being so slow. After all, Nick Santori had been scrambling her brains since she was ten—right around the time her sister Gloria had started dating his brother Tony. And though he’d always had a way with females, he’d never looked twice at her that way.

Especially not since Gloria and Tony’s wedding. The one where she’d tripped on her ugly puce gown—which hugged her tubby hips and butt—while they were dancing the obligatory wedding party waltz. She, the kid who’d been in dance lessons since the age of three, had tripped.

Maybe it wasn’t so shocking. She’d been worried about what he’d think of her sweaty palms. She’d been terrified that her makeup was smearing off her face and revealing that she’d had the mother of all break-outs that morning.

Nervous plus terrified times the pitter-patter of her heart and the achy tingle in her small breasts from where they brushed against the lapels of Nick’s tux had left her dizzy. So dizzy she’d stepped off the edge of the slightly raised dance floor and crashed both of them onto a table full of cookies and pastries made especially by her parents for the wedding.

It hadn’t been pretty.

Colorful candy-covered almonds had flown in all directions. Her butt had landed on a platter of cream puffs, her elbows in two stacks of pizelles. Her dress had flown up to her waist to reveal the panty girdle she’d worn in an effort to hide her after-school-cookie-binging bulge.

The icing on the five-tiered Italian cream wedding cake—which she’d somehow managed to not destroy—had been Nick. He’d gotten tangled up in her dress, and had landed on top of her, sprawled across her chest.

And right between her legs.

It was the first—and last—time she’d figured Nick Santori would be between her legs, which both broke her heart and fueled some intense fantasies throughout her high-school years. Shocked by the unexpectedness and the pleasure of it, she’d been slow to part those legs and let him up. Slow enough for the moment to go from embarrassingly long to indecently shocking.

She’d thought her mother was going to kill her afterward.

But that wasn’t all. Because Izzie had the luck of someone who broke mirrors for a living, the incident had also been the money shot of the whole day. The videographer caught the whole thing on film, creating a masterpiece that would taunt her throughout eternity.

She’d been a laughingstock. Everyone in the crowd had whooped and clapped and teased her about it for months afterward. She might as well have worn a banner proclaiming herself, “Lovesick pubescent girl who crushed the cookies and dry-humped the groomsman at the Santori-Natale wedding.”

“I haven’t seen you in here before,” he said, finally breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“I come here a couple of times a week,” she replied.

He shrugged. “I’ve been gone a long time.”

“In the military.”

“Right. Things have definitely changed around here in the past twelve years.”

“Maybe in some ways,” she said. Then she glanced around and saw a minimum of five people she knew—all watching intently as she talked to Nick. Frowning, she muttered, “In some ways it’s still the same small town hell it always was.”

She surprised a laugh out of him. “I somehow think we have a lot in common.”

His laughter softened his tanned face, bringing out tiny lines beside his eyes. It also made him utterly irresistible, as several women sitting nearby undoubtedly noticed.

Nick had been incredibly hot as a teenager. Lean and wiry, dark and intense. As a thirty-year-old-man he was absolutely drool-worthy. Not that he’d changed a lot—he’d just matured. Where he’d been a sexy guy, he was now a tough, heartstopping male, big and broad, powerful and intimidating.

She didn’t suspect he’d changed on the inside, though. Once a Santori male, always a Santori male. The men of that family had always been good-hearted.

Honestly, looking back, if Nick had been a jerk about what had happened at the wedding, she might have gotten over her crush a lot sooner and this moment might be a lot simpler. She could tell him to f-off, remind him he’d once laughed at her and added to her humiliation. Only…he hadn’t. Curse the man.

He’d been very sweet, carefully helping her up—once she’d released her thunder-thigh death grip from around his hips. He’d gently wiped powdered sugar and cream off her cheek. He’d helped her pull her dress back down into place without making one crack about her chubby thighs or her panty girdle. He’d pretended she hadn’t practically assaulted him. And he’d helped her back up onto the dance floor and continued their dance. Absolutely the only annoying thing he’d done was to start calling her Cookie.

As her mother often said, he’d been raised right. Just like his brothers. He was every bit a gentleman—a protector—and he’d never given her a sideways glance that hadn’t been merely friendly. In his eyes, she’d always been Gloria’s baby sister—the chubby ballerina who looked like a little stuffed sausage in her pink tutu and tights and he’d treated her with nothing but big-brotherly kindness.

Until now.

Fortunately, though, she wasn’t sweet Izzie the cookie-gobbling machine anymore. He hadn’t seen her for almost a decade…she no longer blushed and stammered when a hot guy teased her. And she no longer even tried to imagine she could have been a ballerina with her less-than-willowy figure.

Once she’d stopped eating pastries and hit brick-shithouse stature at age eighteen, she’d known her future as a dancer would come from another direction than the ballet.

She’d also learned how to handle men.

Now, she was in the driver’s seat when it came to seduction. She’d been running the show with men for years. And it was high time to let Nick Santori know it.

“So, when you offered to serve me…what were you talking about?” she asked, swiping her tongue across her lips. It was a move she’d perfected in her Rockettes dressing room. Men used to come backstage, trying to pick up the dancers and they all went for the lip-licking. God, males were so predictable. She held her breath, hoping for more from this one.

And she got it.

“I’m talking about me serving you with a line and you tipping me with your number. But since it’s crowded and I’m rusty at that stuff, why don’t you just give me the number?”

Izzie had to laugh. If he’d come back with a smooth line, the laugh would have been at his expense—because she doubted there was one he hadn’t heard. But Nick had been completely honest, which she found incredibly attractive.

She also laughed to hide the nervous thrill she’d gotten when she realized Nick Santori really did want her number. That he really was trying to pick her up.

Her…the girl he’d once complained about having to dance with at a wedding. What were the odds?

“I think I’ve got your number.” She’d had it for years.

He didn’t give up. “Use it. Please.”

He meant it. He wasn’t teasing, wasn’t trying to make her blush, wasn’t treating her the way he treated his kid sister, Lottie, who’d been one of her classmates.

Nick Santori was trying to pick her up. Which shouldn’t have been a big deal, but, for some reason, had her heart fluttering around in her chest like a bird trapped in a cage.

“My name’s Nick, by the way.”

No duh. She was about to say that, then she saw the look in his eyes—that serious, intense look. He wasn’t kidding. He wasn’t pretending they were just meeting.

She sagged back against the wall, not sure whether to laugh or punch him in the face.

Because the rotten son of a bitch had no idea who she was.


2

THE WOMAN HAD FLOUR in her hair. She smelled like almonds. Her apron was smeared with icing and whipped cream. Food coloring stained the tips of two of her fingers.

And she was utterly delicious.

The hints of flavor wafting off her couldn’t compete with the innate, warm feminine scent of her body, which assaulted Nick’s senses the way no full frontal attack ever had. Though they were in a crowded restaurant, surrounded by customers and members of his own family, hers was the only presence he felt. He’d been drawn to her, captured in an intimate world they’d created the moment their eyes had locked.

“You’re name’s Nick,” she said, as if making sure. Her voice was a little hard, her dark eyes narrowing.

Worried she had an ex with the same name, he replied, “I’ll answer to anything you want to call me.”

“Anything?”

He nodded, unable to take his attention from that bit of flour in her hair. He wanted to lift his hand and brush it away. Then sink his fingers in that thick, brown hair of hers, tugging it free of its ponytail to fall in a loose curtain around her shoulders. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides with the need to tangle those thick tresses in his hands and tug her face toward his for a brain-zapping kiss.

She had the kind of mouth that begged for kissing. One that promised pleasure. God, it had been a long time since he’d really kissed a woman the way he liked to kiss a woman. Slowly. Deeply. With a thorough exploration of every curve and crevice.

Recently, his sex life had been limited by proximity and his active status. He hadn’t had any kind of relationship in years. And the sex he had was usually of the quick, one-night variety, where slow, indulgent kissing wasn’t on the agenda.

He could kiss this woman’s mouth for hours.

Nick didn’t understand why he was so drawn to her. All he knew was that he was attracted to her in a way he hadn’t been attracted to anyone for a long time. Not just because she was beautiful under the apron and that messy ponytail. But because of the wistful, lonely look she’d worn earlier that said she didn’t quite belong here and she knew it. Just like the one he’d had on his face lately.

“You’re single?” he asked, wanting that confirmed.

She nodded, the movement setting her ponytail swinging. It caught the reflection of a candle on the closest table, the strands glimmering in a veil of browns and golds that made his heart clang against his lungs.

“What’s your name?” he finally asked.

She arched one fine eyebrow. “We haven’t settled on what we’re going to call you yet.”

He turned, edging closer to her as a group came into the restaurant. The brunette slid along the wall, farther away from anyone else. Nick followed, irresistibly drawn by her scent and the mystery in her eyes. “I guess you have a Nick in your past?”

“Uh-huh.”

“It didn’t go well?”

“I’d have to say that’s a no.”

“Bad breakup?”

“No. We never even dated.” One side of her mouth tilted up in a half-smile. It held no happiness, merely jaded amuse ment. “He barely even noticed my existence.”

“Then he was an idiot.”

The other side of her mouth came up; this time her genuine amusement shone clearly. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

“He didn’t deserve you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re better off without him.”

“Nobody knows that better than me.” She sounded more amused now, as if her guard was coming down.

“Enough about him,” Nick said. “If you don’t like my first name, call me by my last one. It’s Santori.”

He watched for a flare of surprise, a darting of the eyes to the sign in the window, proclaiming the name of the place.

Strangely, she didn’t react at all. “I think we’ve already determined what I should call you. You said it yourself.”

Puzzled, Nick just waited.

“Idiot,” she said, tapping the tip of her finger on her cheek, as if thinking about it. “Though, honestly, it doesn’t quite capture you now. It might have sufficed years ago, but for today, I think we’ll have to go with…complete shithead.”

Nick’s jaw fell open. But the sexy brunette wasn’t finished. “By the way, that number you wanted? Here it is, you might want to write it down…1-800-nevergonnahappen.”

And without another word, she shoved at his chest, pushing him out of the way, then strode out the door. Leaving Nick standing there, staring after her in complete shock.

“I’d say that didn’t go well.” Mark stood right behind him, watching—as was Nick—as the brunette marched off down the street like she’d just kicked somebody’s ass.

Well, she had. Namely his. He just didn’t know why.

“No kidding.”

“I see you haven’t lost your touch with women.”

“Shut up.” Shaking his head in bemusement, he lifted a hand and rubbed his jaw. “I don’t know how I blew that so badly.”

“But you sure managed to do it.”

Hearing his twin chuckle, Nick glared. “At least I’m not wearing a ring. I can still try to pick up a hot stranger.”

Mark just laughed harder. Which made Nick consider punching him. Only, Mama was standing behind the counter, glancing curiously at them as she waited on the customers. If Nick went after his twin, she’d come around and whack them both in the heads with a soup ladle.

“Hot stranger…oh, man, you are going to hate yourself when you figure out what you just did.”

His eyes narrowing, Nick waited for his twin to continue.

“You really didn’t recognize her, did you?”

Oh, hell. He should have recognized her? He knew her?

“Still not getting it?”

“Tell me how much trouble I’m in,” he muttered, praying he hadn’t just come on to a cousin he hadn’t seen in years. If they were related—and he couldn’t have her—that would be a crime worthy of a military tribunal. So he prayed even harder that she’d been some girl he’d known in high school.

“Pretty big trouble.”

He waited, knowing Mark was enjoying watching him sweat.

“She is family, you know.”

Damn. All the blood in his body fell to his feet out of embarrassment… and disappointment. “Why didn’t you stop me?”

“You shot out of the booth like your ass was on fire.”

Rubbing a hand over his eyes and shaking his head, Nick mumbled, “Who is she? Mama’s side or Pop’s? Please tell me she’s not one of Great Uncle Vincenza’s thirty granddaughters. Otherwise I just might have to re-up and hide from him and his mafia buddies for the next decade.”

Mark’s eyes glittered in amusement. The guy was enjoying this. “Not Great Uncle Vincenza. Think closer.”

Closer. Christ. “There’s no way she’s a first cousin….”

“Not a cousin.”

Oh, thank heaven. “So who?”

“I’ll give you a hint. Did you happen to notice the icing and flour all over her apron?”

Had he ever. He didn’t know if he’d ever smelled anything as good as all that messy, sugary stuff combined with the brunette’s earthy essence. “Yeah. So?”

“You’re not usually this dense.”

“You’re not usually this close to death.”

“Think…the bakery….”

“Natale’s? Gloria’s folks?” And suddenly it hit him. “No.”

“Oh, yes.”

No. Impossible. It was out of the question. “Not Gloria’s baby sister. Tell me that wasn’t chubby little Cookie.”

“She ain’t chubby and I think if you called her Cookie to her face she’d slug you.” Mark threw a consoling arm across Nick’s shoulders, his chest shaking with laughter. “To answer your question, yes, my brother, that was Isabella Natale.”

Nick couldn’t speak. He was too stunned, thinking of how she’d changed. It had been at least nine—ten years, perhaps—since he’d seen her. She’d still been in high school and he’d run into her at a Christmas party at Gloria and Tony’s when he was home on leave. She’d still blushed and stammered around him. And she’d still been girlishly round—pretty but with such a baby-face he’d never taken her crush on him seriously.

Oh, he knew about the crush. Everybody knew about the crush. His brother Tony had threatened to break his legs if he so much as looked at her the wrong way at the wedding.

Huh. He hadn’t looked at her the wrong way. He’d just landed on top of her in a pile of cookies. And had been unable to get up because she’d wrapped her limbs around him like she was drowning and he was a lifeguard trying to save her.

He started to smile. “Izzie.”

“Izzie. Formerly chubby sister of our sister-in-law, turned sexy-as-hell woman, now back in town working at the bakery.”

“Her parents’ bakery up the block?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is she here for good?” he asked, already wondering how things could have turned out this perfectly.

“I don’t know. She’s been home for a couple of months, since Gloria’s father had a stroke. With the new baby, Gloria couldn’t help much, and the middle sister’s a lawyer.”

“So the youngest one came home to take over.” Not surprising. The Natales were much like the Santoris—family meant everything.

It almost seemed too good to be true. He’d finally come across someone who not only made his nerves spark and his jeans grow a size too tight, but who also came with a pre-made stamp of approval from the neighborhood. She was gorgeous. She was feisty. Her smile nearly stopped his heart. She’d had a crush on him forever—and was obviously still affected by him, judging by the way she’d taken off in a huff.

And she was not a faceless stripper behind a mask.

Enough of that. The Crimson Rose was every other man’s fantasy. At this point in his life, Nick wanted reality. He was ready for what his brothers and sister had. And he had just stumbled across a real woman who he sensed could both drive him absolutely wild with want and be someone he could truly like.

“I think I’m feeling a need for some fresh cannoli,” he murmured, smiling as he looked out the window at the sky, streaked orange by the setting sun. Izzie was no longer in sight…she obviously wasn’t too desperate for pizza.

Maybe he’d deliver it to her.

“Judging by the way she bolted, you’d better think again.”

Nick shrugged. He wasn’t worried. After all, Izzie had had a thing for him once upon a time…she had practically chased him down. He just needed to remind her of that.

And to let her know he was ready to let her catch him.

“I SWEAR, BRIDGET, you should have seen his expression. It was as if it was the first time in his life a woman has ever turned him down,” Izzie didn’t even look at her cousin as she spoke. She was too busy punching into a huge ball of dough, picturing Nick Santori’s face while she did it.

Though it had been nearly twenty-four hours since she’d run into him, she hadn’t stopped thinking about him. Drat the man for invading her brain again, when she’d managed to forget him over the past several years. Ever since she skipped out of Chicago to follow her dancing dreams, she’d been convincing herself her crush on him had been a silly, girlish thing.

Seeing him had reminded her of the truth: she’d wanted Nick before she’d even understood what it was she wanted. Now that she knew what the tingle between her legs and the heaviness in her breasts meant, the want was almost painful.

“Didn’t Nana always say the secret to a flaky crust was not to overwork it?” her cousin said, sounding quietly amused.

Izzie shot her cousin—who sat on the other side of the bakery kitchen—a glare. “You want to do this?”

Bridget, who was pretty and soft-looking, slid a strand of long, light-brown hair behind her ear. “You’re the baker. I’m the bookkeeper.” She sipped from her huge coffee mug. “So why did you walk away? You’ve wanted him forever.”

“Maybe. But I don’t want forever in general,” she reminded her cousin as she floured the countertop and began to work the dough with a rolling pin. “You know I don’t want this for any longer than I’m forced to have it.” She glanced around the kitchen, where she was working alone to finish up the dessert orders for their restaurant clients. Including Santori’s.

Not that she’d be the one delivering their order…no way. Her delivery guy would be in to take on that task shortly.

“I know. You’ll be gone again once Uncle Gus is well enough to come back to work.” Bridget didn’t sound too happy about that, which Izzie understood. Her sweet, gentle-natured cousin was an only child, and she’d practically been adopted by Izzie and her own sisters. They’d been very close growing up.

Izzie missed her too. But not enough to stay here. As soon as her father recovered, and her mother no longer had to nurse him at home full time, Izzie would be out of here for good. Whether she’d go back to New York and try to reclaim some kind of dancing career she didn’t yet know. But her future did not include a long-term stint as the Flour Girl of Taylor Street.

It also didn’t include becoming the lover of any guy who her parents would see as the perfect reason for Izzie to stick around and pop out babies. Even a lover as tempting as Nick.

“So how’s your life going?” she asked her cousin, wanting the subject changed. “How’s the job?”

Bridget leaned forward, dropping her elbows onto the counter. “I guess I’m not very good. My boss obviously doesn’t trust me, there are some files he won’t even let me look at.”

“Weren’t you hired to keep the books at that place?”

Bridget, who’d gone to work three months ago for a local used car dealership right here in the neighborhood, nodded. “They’re a mess. But every time I ask him for access to older records, he practically pats me on the head and sends me back to my desk like a good little girl.”

Izzie assumed her cousin meant her boss figuratively patted her on the head. Because, though Bridget was in no way a fireball like Izzie and her two sisters—she wasn’t a pushover, either. It might take her awhile to get her steam up, but Izzie had seen glimpses of temper in her sweet-as-sugar Irish-Italian cousin. That boss of hers obviously hadn’t gotten to know the real Bridget yet. Because she was about the most quietly stubborn person Izzie had ever met…as anyone who’d ever tried to beat her in a game of Monopoly could attest.

“Why don’t you quit?”

Her cousin lifted her mug, leaning her head over it so that her long bangs fell over her pretty amber eyes. She looked as if she had something to hide. And if Izzie wasn’t mistaken, that was a blush rising in her cheeks.

A blush. Cripes, Izzie didn’t even know if she remembered how to blush. The last time her cheeks had been pinkened by anything other than makeup was when she’d burned herself while lying out too long on the deck of a cruise ship a year ago.

Trying to hide a smile, she murmured, “Who is he?”

Her cousin almost dropped the mug. “Huh?”

“Oh, come on, I know there’s a guy.”

“Um…well…”

“For heaven’s sake, you’re looking at a woman who used to schedule two dates a night, just come out with it.”

Chuckling, her cousin did. “There’s this new salesman.”

“A used car salesman?” Izzie asked skeptically.

Frowning, Bridget asked, “Do you want to hear this or not?”

Izzie made a “lips-zipped” motion over her mouth.

“His name’s Dean,” Bridget continued. “Dean Willis. And Marty hired him about a month ago. He’s got cute, shaggy blond hair and big blue eyes—well, I assume they’re big. They could look bigger because of the thick glasses he wears.”

She watched Izzie, as if waiting for a comment. Izzie somehow managed to refrain from making one.

“He’s sold more cars than anyone else because he’s just so…quiet. Easy to talk to. Unassuming.” Sighing a little, Bridget added, “And he has the nicest smile.”

Izzie had never heard her cousin go on like this about a man. Must be serious. “So, have you gone out with him?”

Bridget shook her head and sighed again—only, much louder. “He’s never even noticed I’m alive.”

Snorting, Izzie replied, “I doubt that. You’re adorable.”

Bridget’s bottom lip came out in a tiny pout. “Fluffy teddy bears are adorable. I want to be…something else.”

Sexy. It was obviously what Bridget had in mind. Izzie eyed her cousin, considering making her over. Bridget had the basics—she just needed to bring them out a little. But she didn’t think Bridget needed much. She was so quietly pretty, so gentle and feminine…any guy would be an idiot to want to change her.

Then again, she’d known a ton of guys, few of whom were Einstein material. “So ask him out. Make him notice you.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Just for a cup of coffee.”

Her cousin snagged her lip between her teeth.

“What?”

“Well, he did ask me to go for coffee once, but I was so flustered and nervous, I told him I didn’t drink it.”

Raising a brow and staring pointedly at the industrial-sized mug in front of her cousin’s face, Izzie grunted.

“But it wasn’t a date,” Bridget added. “At least, I don’t think so.” Sounding frustrated, she added, “Maybe I should get a collagen injection. I’ve heard men like big lips.”

Ridiculous. Bridget’s beauty was the natural kind that needed no false crap like the stuff Izzie had seen other dancers do to themselves. But before she could say that—or threaten to lob a handful of ricotta cheesecake filling at Bridget if she did something so dumb—she heard the bell over the front door.

Glancing at the clock, she bit back a curse. It was nearly five—an hour after closing time. She must have forgotten to lock the door after her part-time lunch workers had left for the day and some customer had wandered in for a snack.

She doubted there was much left to serve. Mornings were their busiest time, with regulars and passers-by coming in for pastries and muffins. During the lunch hour, when Natale’s served light sandwiches and salads along with decadent deserts, they were busy, too. Since Izzie had come up with the idea to offer free wireless Internet access to anyone with a laptop, some customers parked themselves at one of the small, café tables and remained there until closing time. They drank a lot of coffee…and ate a lot of sweets. By 4:00 p. m., Natale’s display counter was generally wiped out, as this late customer would soon discover.

“Hello?” a voice called.

Grabbing a towel, Izzie wiped her hands on it and tossed it over her shoulder. “Be right back,” she told her cousin as she walked down the short hallway to the café. “Sorry, we’re closed for the….” The words died on her lips when she saw who stood on the other side of the glass display case, looking so hot she almost shielded her eyes from the glory of him.

“I know.” He shrugged slightly. “But the door was unlocked, so I thought I’d take a chance and see if you were here.”

Nick stood inside the shadowy café, illuminated by the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the front window. The light reflected in his dark eyes, lending them a golden glow that seemed to radiate warmth. She felt it from here.

“You found me,” she murmured.

“You didn’t exactly need to leave a trail of crumbs, Cookie…this place has been here forever.”

“Don’t call me Cookie,” she snapped.

He held up his hands, palms out. “Sorry.”

Ordering her heart to continue beating normally, Izzie tossed the towel onto the counter, then crossed her arms over her chest to stare at him. “Are you trying to tell me you knew I’d be here because you knew who I was? Try again.”

Nick cleared his throat, averting his gaze. Wincing in a cutely sheepish way, he said, “No, I didn’t know you at first.”

So, he’d recognized her after she had left?

“Mark told me who you were.”

The jerk.

“I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”

Not long enough to erase him from her mind, that was for sure. She’d recognize Nick Santori if she bumped into him blindfolded during a blackout. Because his scent was imprinted in her brain. And her body reacted in one instinctive way whenever he was near—a way it didn’t react with anyone else, even men with whom she’d been intimate.

He made her shaky and achy and weak and ravenous all at the same time. Always had, for some unknown reason.

“Yeah. A long time,” she mumbled, walking over to wash her hands in the small sink behind the counter.

Damn, she hated that he flustered her. She had known more handsome men. She’d been to bed with more handsome men. Maybe none who were as rugged and masculine, or so sensual. But she had dated drop-dead gorgeous actors and millionaires who wanted to notch their bedposts with a professional dancer who could kick her leg straight up above her head. None of them had ever affected her the way this one—who she’d never even kissed—did.

“I have to run, Izzie,” a voice said. “I don’t want to be…in the way.”

Izzie had almost forgotten Bridget was in the kitchen. Seeing the grin on her cousin’s face, she blew out a deep, frustrated breath. She’d intended to use Bridget as an excuse—or at the very least as a five-foot-five chastity belt, to keep Izzie from doing something stupid. Like smearing rich cheesecake filling all over Nick’s body, then slowly licking it off.

But her cousin was bailing on her, already heading toward the exit. “Nice to see you, Nick,” she said.

“How’s your family?”

They fell into a brief, easy conversation, like most people who’d grown up in the neighborhood usually did. Except Izzie—who hadn’t yet rediscovered that easy camaraderie with all the people she’d grown up with. While the two of them chatted, Izzie tried to regain her cool, forcing herself to look at this guy like she looked at every other guy. As nothing special.

Fat chance. She couldn’t do it. He was special.

It had to be because he was the first man she’d ever wanted. Never having had him made the intensity of her attraction build. With no culmination—no explosion when she finally had him and got him out of her system—she’d remained on a slow, roiling boil of want for Nick for years.

So take him and get it out of your system.

Oh, the thought was tempting. Very tempting. Part of her desperately wanted to ask him to go with her to the nearest hotel and do her until she couldn’t even bring her legs together. If she thought he would, and that he’d then forget about it, never expecting a repeat and never—ever—breathing a word about it to anyone, she’d seriously consider it.

But he wouldn’t. Not in a million years. She knew that just as surely as she knew he’d never have even kissed her when she was underage, not even if she’d leapt on him and held him captive. Which, to be fair, she had…at the wedding.

He was a Santori. With everything that went with the name. His upbringing, his family, his own moral code meant he would never have a meaningless sexual encounter with his sister-in-law’s younger sister. The daughter of his father’s friend. The girl up the block. No way in hell.

He was the kind of guy who would have to date a woman he slept with. Dating—neighborhood style—as in hand-holding and miniature golf and pizza at his family’s place and cannolis at her family’s place. The whole deal. Gag.

Not that he’d actually asked her on a date. If he did? Well… that might have thrilled her once—years ago when she had actually thought the bakery and her family and Little Italy were all the world she’d ever need. Now, however, it just made her sad, because as she’d already realized, dating Nick equaled strings. Strings could very well choke her.

“Well, see you tomorrow,” Bridget said as she walked out.

Izzie hadn’t even noticed Bridget and Nick were finished talking. Cursing her cousin for bailing on her, Izzie cleared her throat, about to tell him she had to get back to work.

He spoke first. “So, do you forgive me?”

“Yeah, sure, no big deal,” she replied, forcing a shrug.

A tiny smile tugged at those amazing lips of his and the dark eyes glowed. “No big deal? You seemed pretty mad.”

Damn. He’d noticed.

“I wasn’t mad. More…amused.”

“Sure. That’s why my chest is bruised where you shoved me.”

Her jaw dropped and she immediately began sputtering denials. Then she saw his wide grin. “You’re an ass.”

“And a shithead,” he replied, his grin fading though the twinkle remained in his eye. “I really mean it, Iz, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.” Stepping around the counter to see her better, he cast a slow, leisurely look at her. From bottom to top. Then down again. “But you have to give me a little bit of a break. You don’t look much like you did.”

“I’m not addicted to Twinkies anymore,” she snapped.

“You weren’t chubby.”

“I was the Michelin Man in pink tights.”

He shook his head. “You were just baby-faced the last time I saw you. A kid. Now you’re…not.”

“Damn right.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, still watching her as he leaned against the counter. The pose tugged his gray T-shirt tight against his shoulders and chest, emphasizing the man’s size. Lord, he was broad. But still so trim at the waist and lean at the hips. It was the hips that caught her attention—the way his faded, unbelted jeans hung low on them, the soft fabric hugging the angles and planes of his body.

It really wasn’t fair for a man to be so perfect.

“So…about our conversation last night.”

When staring at him—overwhelmed by his heat—she could barely remember her own name. Much less any conversation. “Huh?”

“What do you say? Will you give me your number?”

Oh, what she wouldn’t have given to hear those words from him ten years ago. Or hell, even two months ago—if she’d happened to run into him in Times Square and he’d proposed a sexy one-night-stand for old time’s sake. One nobody in Chicago would ever have to know about. She would have leapt on the offer like a gambler on a free lottery ticket.

“I don’t think so.”

“Come on, you know you can trust me. I’m not some stranger stalking you. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

Well, he’d known her since she was a kid. From the time she’d met him, Izzie had only ever seen the glorious, hot, sexy man. Even if he had been no more than fourteen.

“Just a night out for old time’s sake?”

He was so tempting. Because the only old times she recalled were the heated ones of her fantasies. And the incident at the wedding. He’d ended up between her legs during both. “Well….”

He moved again, coming closer, as if realizing she was wavering. Dropping his hand onto the counter near hers, he murmured, “No pressure. We could just go grab a pizza.”

She stiffened, any potential wavering done with. The last thing she would consider doing is having a public meal with Nick Santori at his own family’s restaurant. Not when her sister would hear about it and tell their parents, who’d then get their hopes up about Izzie remaining safely in the nest, as they’d so desperately wanted her to do when she was eighteen.

Leaving home after high school had been a struggle. She’d been an adult, legally free, but she’d still had to practically run away in order to pursue her dream of dancing professionally. Especially because she was the only one of the Natale daughters who’d inherited their father’s gift in the kitchen.

Probably because she loved food so much. As evidenced by every one of her porky-faced school pictures from kindergarten through tenth grade.

Her father had been crushed that she didn’t want to work with him. But she had known she had to escape—had to take her shot while she could or risk regretting it the rest of her life.

So she’d gone. She’d hopped a train, determined to stay away until she’d given her dream of being a professional dancer everything she had to give.

Making it at Radio City hadn’t eased her parents fears of her being “out there all alone.” It had actually increased them once they’d realized she was unlikely now to ever come back.

If they knew just how wild her life had been for the first few years she’d been on her own, they’d have felt justified in their fears. Like any good girl kept on a tight leash, she’d taken great pleasure in breaking every rule in the book once she was free and able to make her own decisions. Especially once she had men surrounding her and money to do whatever she wanted.

It had been wild. It had also been reckless—so in the past couple of years, she’d settled down. Stopped partying, stopped hooking up, stopped blowing every dime. She now had a nice nest egg…which she hoped to use to re-establish her life in New York. She’d been approached about going back to work at Radio City, as a choreographer this time. And she knew she’d probably get the same offer from her other modern dance company.

Or she could teach. She could open her own school…she had the money to at least give it a shot. That was among the things she’d been considering doing when she got back to reality.

Her parents, however, would give anything for her to stay here and never go back to that other life, the one that didn’t include them beyond the weekly phone call and twice-yearly visit. Openly dating a local guy—a friend of the family—would raise their hopes unfairly and hurtfully. So she couldn’t do it.

Before she could say so, however, he stepped closer. Close enough to stop her heart. “You’re a mess,” he murmured. He lifted a hand, touching a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek. Closing his fingers over it, he slowly pulled, wiping away flour or cream or whatever had happened to be there.

The brush of his fingertips against her cheekbone almost made her cry. Almost made her whimper. Almost made her lean forward to press her mouth onto his.

“A sweet, delectable mess,” he added, his fingers still tangled in her hair. He touched her face, rubbing her skin as if he’d never felt anything so smooth, so soft.

Every muscle in her body went warm and pliant, until Izzie wondered how she could still be standing upright. As if sensing her weakness, he moved closer, sliding one foot between her legs, slipping one hand into her tangled hair to cup her head.

“I have to see how sweet you taste,” he muttered, sounding as helpless as she felt. “If only once…I have to taste you.”

Drawing her forward, he bent closer. Even knowing it was crazy and could go nowhere, Izzie prepared for a kiss she’d wanted for more than a decade. She’d cried over that mouth, had fantasized over those lips for more nights than she could count.

And she wanted it, God how she wanted it. Even if it was all she was ever going to get to have of him.

But rather than a simple kiss—the soft brush of his mouth on hers—he shocked her by immediately sampling her lips with his tongue, tasting her, as he’d said he must.

She whimpered, low and helpless.

“Oh, very sweet,” he whispered, licking at the seam of her lips again, boldly demanding entrance rather than asking for it with a more typical, closed-mouthed first kiss.

Izzie couldn’t deny him or herself. With a hungry groan, she opened to him, welcoming his tongue in a deep, sensual exchange that she felt from her head to the tips of her toes.

He’d thought she tasted sweet. She thought he tasted like irresistible sin. He was warm and spicy, his mouth just moist enough to whet her appetite. Just hot enough to send her temperature rocketing higher.

He sunk his other hand in her hair and held her close. Sagging against him, Izzie gave herself over to pleasure, wondering how it was possible for something to be as good as a dozen years of dreaming had promised it would be. It was a kiss more intimate than any she’d had even when making love. Because it was like making love. It was hot and sexy and powerful.

Their tongues found a common rhythm and tangled to it as their bodies melted together. Her nipples ached with need as they pressed against his broad chest. She arched harder against him, easing her legs apart to cup him intimately, whimpering again when she felt his huge erection.

He wanted her. Badly. As much as she wanted him.

The realization was almost enough to shock her into doing something stupid like ending the kiss. This was Nick—the guy she’d always wanted—hot and hard and hungry for her.

“Don’t say no to me, sweetheart,” he whispered as he finally—regretfully—drew his mouth from hers. He moved it to press kisses along her jaw, then down to the throbbing pulse point below her ear. “Say yes.”

Yes, say yes! a voice screamed.

Oh, he was so tempting. And she wanted him desperately—wanted him to pull off her clothes, back her up against the counter and make love to her right on top of it. It would be incredible, the culmination of all her dreams and secret fantasies. She could finally put an end to all the years of restless, hopeless wanting.

But it wouldn’t be the end. It would be the start of something, rather than the end of it. He’d make incredible love to her, make her come with a few more touches of his hands and a few more of those incredible kisses and she’d be alive and happy and completely fulfilled for the first time in her life.

But then he’d want to take her out for a pizza. Or get together with friends. And she’d be caught so deep in a quagmire of family and home that she’d never be able to get free of it.

“Say yes, Izzie,” he ordered, sucking her earlobe into his mouth and nibbling it—a tiny bite that she felt clear to the floor. “Give me your number and let’s finally get this started.”

Get this started. Get everything started.

She just couldn’t do it. Izzie had always been strong and determined and had taken what she wanted. But she couldn’t take him. Not now. It was much too late.

Yanking away, she winced as her tangled hair got caught in his fingertips. Her breathing ragged, her body crying out at the injustice, she shook her head, hard. Then she backed away, wrapping her arms around her waist in self protection. “No.”

He started to follow, his dark eyes glittering…predatory. “You don’t mean it.”

She held a hand up. “Yes. I do,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, we’re closed and I have work to do in the kitchen.” Taking a deep breath and striving to keep her voice steady, she added, “I want you to leave.”


3

ON HIS FIRST NIGHT working at Leather and Lace, Nick showed up in a bad mood. He’d been in a bad mood for two days—since Izzie Natale had shot down his efforts to get closer to her.

The woman was unbelievable. Ten years ago, she might as well have taken out an ad in the Trib declaring her devotion to him. Now she wouldn’t throw dog drool on him if he was on fire.

Damn, she was feisty. Had she always been that way? He figured with Gloria for a sister she had been. But considering he’d never seen her as a woman—just as a cute, lovesick kid—he’d never noticed. Until now.

Oh, yeah, now he’d noticed. He’d noticed everything about her. And he was not going to give up on her yet. Not when she’d become the first thing he thought of every morning and the star of his dreams every night.

Especially since that incredible kiss they’d shared.

Who would ever have guessed that the cute, pesky girl with the obvious crush on him would prove to be the most sensual, kissable woman he’d ever known? He’d suspected he could kiss her for hours. Now he knew better. He could kiss her for ever.

After she’d ordered him out of the bakery the other evening, he’d decided to play dirty, going right to Gloria to ask her for her sister’s phone number. His sister-in-law had been glad to oblige. She’d also been more than candid about how Izzie had felt about him in the old days.

Not that Nick had needed her to tell him about it. He’d been well aware—as had everyone else.

“Not anymore,” he muttered as he parked his truck—which he’d purchased right after getting home a couple of weeks ago—behind the club. He frowned, wondering how much of a jerk it made him now to be disappointed that a girl who’d had a wild crush on him as a kid didn’t give a damn about him anymore. Probably a pretty big one. But he couldn’t help it.

Knowing little Izzie had been crazy about him had been a constant during his teenage years. A given. Just another part of his reality. Certainly nothing he’d ever taken advantage of or embarrassed her about. It had just been…kinda cute, thinking there was a girl out there doodling his name in her school notebook. Innocent. Simple.

Man, he hated that that girl wouldn’t even look at him now. Especially because he didn’t think he’d done anything to deserve her coldness. No, he hadn’t recognized her. But he also hadn’t recognized the kid who had delivered the newspaper and now ran a newsstand on the corner. Or a couple of guys he’d played basketball with at St. Raphael’s.

Mark thought he did deserve it. Not because he hadn’t recognized her, but because he’d counted on her childhood feelings to give him an edge with Izzie the adult.

Hell, maybe he was right. Maybe he shouldn’t have teased her, been so sure of her. He’d known enough women to know how they felt about being taken for granted. He should have taken her out to dinner before kissing her like he needed the air in her lungs to keep on living.

So he needed to start over with Izzie. Start slow, like he would with any other woman he’d just met.

It might not be easy. Because she already affected him more than any woman he’d ever met. He’d dreamed about her this week, thought about her, gone out of his way to walk past the bakery in the hope of bumping into her.

“Tables have definitely turned,” he muttered aloud when he walked through the private, employees entrance into the back of the club. “Which is probably just the way she wants it.”

Yeah, she could be stringing him along out of revenge. But somehow, Nick didn’t think that was the case.

She hadn’t been able to hide her feelings behind those incredibly expressive brown eyes. Though she’d sent him away after their kiss, she still wanted him. But something was preventing her from doing anything about it.

He just had to find out what.

“Nick, you’re right on time!” The club owner, a beefy, good-natured guy with a Santa Claus-like belly laugh, emerged from his office and extended his hand.

Nick shook it. “Mr. Black.”

“Call me Harry.”

“Harry, then. Thanks again for the opportunity.”

The other man waved a hand in unconcern. “Your big brother, he’s one of the few honest contractors I’ve met in this city. Did beautiful work at a fair price. And if he says you’re up to the job, I trust him completely.”

Nick had already bought his brother, Joe, a beer in thanks for setting up his interview. He wished he’d made it a pitcher.

“All the paperwork’s done, you check out exactly like Joe said you would,” Harry said as he gestured Nick toward a seat in his office. “Now, you’re clear on what I need from you?”

Nick nodded. “Have there been problems recently?”

Harry tapped his fingers on the desk and nodded. “The Rose has made a stir. Men want to see her and there have been a few incidents.”

Nick stiffened reflexively, even though he hadn’t met the woman yet. “Incidents?”

“Nothing too serious, thank God. But a couple of grabs, dressing room prowlers. A few disturbing notes.” Harry shook his head, looking disgusted. “Can’t imagine any man saying stuff that crude to any woman. But she was a sport about it, laughed it off.” Staring pointedly, he added, “That’s one reason I hired you—she tends to not take it seriously. And I want someone else to.”

“I will,” Nick replied, confident of his own words.

Harry nodded, obviously convinced. “Other than that, there’s not too much trouble on a nightly basis. A guy’d have to be drunk as a skunk or just plain stupid to think he could go after one of the girls at the risk of taking one of the bouncers on. But we don’t let anybody get drunk as a skunk in my joint.” He chuckled. “And stupid people can’t afford it.”

That wasn’t a surprise. When Nick had come in last weekend, he’d noticed the upscale feel of the club. Far from being seedy or shadowy, like most strip joints, this place was elegantly comfortable, from the earth-toned leather furniture to the framed pieces of classy-looking art on the walls. The prices reflected the ambiance; this was no after-work beer joint.

“I wanted to introduce you to the Rose, but she called and said she’s running a little late tonight. I don’t imagine there’ll be time before her first number.”

Nick stiffened, realizing he’d soon be seeing the woman behind the mask. Somehow, during the past few days when he’d been so focused on Izzie, he hadn’t let the thought of the sultry stripper drift into his mind. Now, however, knowing he was about to see her again, he couldn’t help but remember the way she’d made him feel last weekend.

Hot. Hungry. Needy.

So would any sexy, naked woman after such a long dry spell.

“She’s something else.”

“I noticed last weekend.”

Harry Black shrugged. “Yeah, she’s a looker, but there’s something special about her even when she’s not on stage. Got her head on right—a smart one. But that doesn’t mean I’m not worried about her. She could get herself in trouble.”

Nick could certainly understand that. Considering how attracted he’d been to her, he could see how a much more desperate man might react to her sultry performance.

“She’s not going to like me hiring someone to mainly look out for her,” Harry cautioned. “So we’ll leave that part between us, okay? As far as she knows, you’re just another bouncer.”

“Fine.” In fact, it was more than fine. He wanted as little interaction with the woman he was supposed to be protecting as possible. Not that he was truly worried about her effect on him—it had been a one time thing, that was all.

He’d been telling himself that for days. He’d also been ignoring the fact that none of the other strippers he’d seen that night had so much as caused his heart rate to increase its regular, lazy rhythm. Only her.

Meeting her would take care of that, he was sure of it. She wore a mask, meaning her looks were all from the neck down. She’d have muddy eyes or crooked teeth or a hooked nose. Or a voice like a truck driver. Or she’d snort when she laughed. Something would be wrong. Something would break the spell.

That would be the end of his interest. No doubt about it.

THE CRIMSON ROSE spotted the dark-haired man in black the moment she peeked through the curtains on the stage. And the moment she saw him—immediately recognizing him by his height and the power of his shadowed body—her heart began to beat harder.

He’d come back. For her.

This was the first night she’d been back to the club since last Sunday night, when she’d first seen him during her last performance on this stage. Inexplicably, she suspected this was his first night back, too. When she’d asked the other dancers about him, all had denied seeing such a man in the club during the past five nights.

She had drawn him back. Just as he—the very thought that he might be in the crowd again tonight—had worked to draw her here as well.

Not that she needed much of a draw. She loved what she did. She positively came alive while moving under a spotlight. The fact that her clothes were falling off her body as she did so was completely incidental.

She honestly didn’t care.

“He came back,” she whispered, almost bouncing on her toes, so excited she could hardly stand it.

Not just excited. Relieved.

Because though she’d only seen him from a distance, she already felt incredibly attracted to him. He’d be a marvelous distraction from the other man who’d been occupying her thoughts lately.

The one she couldn’t have.

She began to smile, feeling, for the first time in days, a little upbeat. Working at the club was her one outlet, her only escape from the life she had so wanted to avoid coming back to here in Chicago. She loved these secret, wicked weekends.

And now that she’d realized there was another man—someone else—who could cause an instant, aching sort of want deep inside her, Izzie Natale sensed those weekends simply wouldn’t come fast enough.

“You’re not the only man in Chicago, Nick Santori,” she whispered while the stage crew finished stripping the stage for her signature solo number.

When she’d first seen the ad in the paper for dancers for a Chicago gentleman’s club, Izzie had had no illusions about what the job would entail. She wasn’t some young dance ingénue who’d turned up for an audition only to be shocked at the very idea of taking off her clothes for a bunch of men.

Izzie had taken off her clothes for plenty of men. Sometimes even groups of them.

It wasn’t as if the Rockettes danced in a whole lot of clothes. And during the three months she’d performed with the Modern Dance Company of Manhattan, she’d done two nude artistic performances.

The dancing she did at Leather and Lace wasn’t exactly artistic. But, then again, she wasn’t exactly nude, either. After all, she never took off her G-string.

Yes, her audience in Chicago was after sexual titillation rather than cultural stimulation. But, honestly, judging by the way some of the modern dance aficionados had come backstage and tried to pick up the dancers, she figured the motivations were, at heart, exactly the same.

Dancing was dancing. After the dire prognosis she’d received when having her torn ACL repaired several months ago, she didn’t care where she was performing, or what she was wearing when she did it.

Honestly, now, having had a taste of it, she realized she couldn’t have chosen a better venue. Because here, hidden behind a red velvet mask, she was free to be everything Izzie Natale of the famous Taylor Street Natale’s Bakery was not.

Sexual. Uninhibited.

Free.

Before she’d even dragged her mind into readiness, she was introduced and her music had begun. Izzie moved onto the stage, dancing for herself and herself alone, as she always did, letting the petals fall where they may. She remained above everything, even oblivious to the money being tossed onto the stage—the crew would pick it up when she was finished. She also ignored the gasps and avid stares of the crowd.

Except one man’s avid stare. His, she wanted to see, though it would prove difficult with him standing in the most shadowy area of the place and her nearly blinded by the spotlight. But when the choreography moved her downstage right—closest to the bar, and him—she risked it and looked.

And nearly fell off the stage.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

She lost the beat of the song and got a little tangled on her own feet. She also had to throw down an extra couple of petals a few measures too soon to try to cover her misstep.

Because in that quick flash when the light had hit him just right, she’d recognized the face, those shoulders, that hair.

It was Nick Santori who stood near the bar. Nick was the same dark, shadowy stranger who’d had her blood pumping through her veins, throbbing between her legs both last week when she’d first seen him here and a few moments ago when she’d glimpsed him again.

The bastard. Was she never going to be free of him? Would no man ever make her feel that crazy/excited/hungry feeling she got whenever he was in the vicinity? And what in the hell was he doing here, anyway?

Worse—what was he going to do about it if he realized she, the woman who’d shot him down in the bakery two days ago, was the Crimson Rose?

Her mind awash with the ramifications of Nick’s presence, Izzie finished her number. As soon as it was over, she darted behind the curtains and stuck her arms into a short, silky robe hanging right backstage. Barely noticing the crew members, who immediately got to work re-setting the stage for the more typical dancers, she hurried down the back stairs toward her private dressing room.

Normally, all the dancers would share one and Izzie was no prima donna who required her own space. But the owner of Leather and Lace had insisted on giving her a private, coat-closet sized room because of how serious Izzie was about protecting her identity. Once he’d realized just how much the “mystery” of the Crimson Rose enhanced the club’s reputation—and brought in more customers—he’d upgraded her to one the size of a small bathroom.

Before she could duck into it, she heard his voice. “There you are! Hold up a second, I want you to meet someone.”

She was in no condition to meet anyone—especially not another one of Harry’s cousins or old fishing buddies. There was always someone ready to play on old friendships or family connection to meet the dancers.

On the positive side, Harry was as protective as a papa bear and the introductions never went further than a quick handshake or a signed autograph. Despite how much some of the men he brought around seemed to want it otherwise.

Pasting on an impersonal smile behind the mask she hadn’t yet removed, she turned around.

“This is Nick Santori. I’ve just hired him to beef up our security.”

Izzie sagged against the wall. If it hadn’t been there, she might have just fallen sideways onto the tile floor, but thankfully, her shoulder instead landed on some hard wood paneling and it kept her vertical.

More than she could say for her heart. It had gone rolling down and had landed somewhere in the vicinity of her stomach, which was now churning with anxiety.

“This is…”

“Rose,” she quickly interjected, cutting Harry off before he could say her real name. She cleared her throat, seeking the sultry, husky tones she’d always used when greeting fans backstage at Radio City. The one that was quite different from the voice Nick had heard at the bakery just a couple of days before. “Nice to meet you.”

He held out his hand. She took it. Time didn’t stop or anything, and the floor didn’t buckle beneath her feet. But, damn, his touch did feel fine.

He had big hands. Strong hands. A soldier’s competent hands. They were capable of brute force. Yet equally capable, she knew, of tender care. Like when those hands had helped her pull her ugly bridesmaid dress into place, then gently lifted her back onto the dance platform and back into their waltz so many years ago.

“Nick’s brother Joey Santori sent him in. You remember him, don’t you? He did all the work upstairs. You met him last month.”

Yes, she had…and it had been a closer call than this meeting with Nick, who could see almost nothing of her face because of the mask. She’d barely had time to duck behind a changing screen before coming face to face with Nick’s older brother.

Now she had to wonder…had Joe seen her? Recognized her? And was he now playing Mr. Neighborhood Protector by sending his baby brother in to watch out for the girl up the block?

Possible.

God save her from Italian men.

One plus—he hadn’t told Tony. Because no way would her overprotective brother-in-law have let Izzie’s new job go un-discussed. He’d have come down on her with some big brother lecture about how she simply had to quit now, immediately, if not sooner. Either that or he’d have told Gloria, who would have had a shrieking meltdown over what the neighbors and her sweet, impressionable boys—wild little maniacs, in Izzie’s opinion—would think.

“Harry, help! Some CEO’s at the door saying he had reservations for ten,” a frantic voice called from the top of the stairs. The hostess who worked the front desk came clattering down three stairs and spotted him, relief evident in her face. “You need to get up here.”

Muttering under his breath, Harry offered Nick an apologetic shrug. “Sorry. Never fails. Tell you what, why don’t you talk to…Rose…get an idea of what her routine and schedule are like and then meet me upstairs in thirty minutes?”

Nick nodded and they both watched Harry walk away. Well, Nick watched Harry. Izzie watched Nick.

She hadn’t noticed at first—she’d been too frazzled herself—but Nick appeared tense. The muscles in his neck were rock hard, his jaw jutted out stiffly. Beneath his wickedly tight black T-shirt, his broad shoulders were squared in his military posture and his hands were fisted at his sides.

Interesting.

If she had to guess, she’d say he wasn’t particularly happy to meet her. It was as if he actively disliked her…which didn’t make much sense.

The only reason he could have for already disliking her was that he had somehow recognized her. That he’d looked into her eyes, revealed behind the mask, and seen something familiar. Or heard a note in her voice that he’d heard before. He certainly hadn’t seemed very happy with Izzie-the-baker when she’d practically pushed him out of the bakery the other evening and imagined he’d convinced himself she was at best a pain in the ass and at worst a complete tease.




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