Stripped Down. Kelli Ireland

had been a financial whiz and good friend in college. Eric had recruited him fourteen months ago, spending a pretty penny to make sure Dan came on board. The guy could nearly project markets, could wring out the last cent from every investment and generally make a dollar go further than anyone else Eric knew. Beside himself.

      Dan sat behind a beat-up desk, hammering away at his computer. He looked up as Eric came in and closed the door.

      “Payroll. When will we be able to afford it?”

      Dan swiveled back and forth, his old office chair groaning in protest as he rocked. “We’re pushing the financial envelope, Eric. The line of credit won’t support another payroll unless we supplement it with some kind of cash influx. The investors won’t come up with the cash until the deal is done, and we still don’t have a clear picture of how much Preservations’ plan is going to cost. If it’s too much, the board is going to balk. I have to have twenty grand just to make this week’s payroll, so if they postpone their decision, we’re screwed. Bottom line? We need your other source of income.” Dan spun a pencil between his fingers. “What is it that you do, anyway?”

      Eric leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Whatever I have to.”

      Or, to be more specific, whatever his alter ego, Dalton Chase, headline stripper for Beaux Hommes, had to do.

       2

      ANXIETY RODE THE hollow of Eric’s spine like a roller coaster, climbing to the top of his neck and crashing to his tailbone before climbing again. The club take had been dismal.

      As he pulled up in front of the Harbormaster apartment building, he gave himself a mental shake. He still had the private party. Either get in the game and make this pay off, or come up with another strategy. The bachelorette party should be in full swing, and happy women were spenders. This was his chance to turn the night around. Reaching behind him, he grabbed his briefcase. The hostess had requested a businessman. Lucky him. It was the closest he ever came to mixing his day job with this one. In truth, it made him uncomfortable. He sold day and night. The only difference was the commodity on the table.

      The valet looked over his age-scarred Honda with barely concealed disdain.

      Eric’s free hand tightened into a fist. “Problem?”

      “No.” Then the valet took in his tailored suit. “Sir.”

      He tossed the guy his key and stalked away. One hour, Eric. Shut your shit down for one hour.

      The apartment lobby was immaculate, with a combination of marble floors and patterned blue carpet. He headed straight for the elevator bank, catching a car as a couple of guys exited. The elevator began its smooth ascension. When the car stopped and the doors opened again, Eric pasted on a smile and adjusted his tie.

      Time to find out if luck really is a lady.

      * * *

      THE KNOCK AT the door sent Cass’s heart into her throat. Oh, crap. Crap, crap, crap. It can’t be ten o’clock. But it was. And that meant the evening’s entertainment was here. There was normally something to be said for a man who valued punctuality, but at the moment? It was the last thing Cass wanted. No doubt there were going to be questions from the guests, and she hadn’t drunk enough to answer them without blushing. Hell, there might not be enough alcohol in the building to save her face from going up in flames.

      Grabbing Gwen’s hand, Cass wove through the crowd to the front door.

      Gwen tugged on Cass’s grip. “What’s going on?”

      “Someone knocked.”

      Steeling herself, Cass yanked the door open. And stopped breathing. Completely.

      Tall, probably six-three or six-four, with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the man wore a well-fitted business suit of dark gray with subtle pinstriping, complete with a solid, darker vest. A purple paisley tie and matching pocket square rounded out the look. His dark brown hair was damp and, cut in an executive’s cut, needed a trim. One broad hand smoothed his jacket. “Gwen Sivern?” he asked her. His voice was as fluid as hot caramel.

      Cass pointed at Gwen. “Her.” She swallowed hard. “I’m Cass. Wheeler. Cass Wheeler.”

      A dark, seductive grin revealed dimples.

      She’d never had an opinion on dimples. Suddenly she loved them. Craved them. Thought every man should have them.

      Shifting his pale green gaze to Gwen, he held out a hand. “Dalton Chase. I’m here to discuss your prenuptial agreement.”

      Gwen glanced from him to Cass, who shrugged. “I don’t have a prenuptial agreement.”

      “That’s...interesting.” Dalton flipped open the lower button on his jacket and slipped one hand in his pocket. He focused on Cass. “May I come in?”

      Cass moved aside, inadvertently yanking Gwen with her.

      Dalton’s eyes slipped to their cuffed wrists. His lips twitched. “I see I got here just in time for the fun.”

      Dreaded heat flooded Cass’s cheeks. “I lost the key,” she said on a sigh at the same time Gwen squeaked, “It’s not what it looks like, I swear.”

      He stepped into the foyer, closing the door behind him, grinning. “My lucky night. Considering you’re cuffed to her, I’m going to take it as a two-for-one special.”

      Gwen turned in near slow motion and gaped first at Cass and then at Dalton. “You’re a stripper.”

      Cass darted a glance at Dalton. His smile never faltered, but his face seemed to tighten.

      “Cass,” Gwen all but shouted as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Tell me you hired me a stripper.”

      Dalton chuckled. “Well, Gwen, I’m not here to sell you life insurance.” He started through the apartment. “Sounds like the fun’s centered in here.”

      Temporary silence fell over the crowd of women when he walked into the large living room, Cass and Gwen right behind him.

      He glanced over his shoulder. “I was told you’d have a stereo.”

      “I, uh, do.” What is wrong with me? She’d seen attractive men and had even dated a couple of exceptionally gorgeous specimens, but there was something about this man that was different. She tipped her head toward the entertainment center. “It’s on the shelf below the TV.”

      “Excellent.” He nodded toward the women who were watching him with open fascination. “Ladies.”

      “You’re Dalton Chase,” breathed one of Gwen’s distant cousins whose name Cass couldn’t remember.

      He smiled at her. “I am.”

      “Please, Lord, tell me that man is going to take his clothes off. Someone please tell me he’s going to take his clothes off,” Tyra, Cass’s assistant, said in a stage whisper.

      “Oh, he’s going to,” the bridesmaid-cousin said, reaching for her purse and digging out her wallet with shaking hands.

      Cass tried not to smile and failed as the women scrambled to retrieve their handbags.

      She’d gone to extremes to keep the evening’s entertainment private, asking the club to go so far as to keep her name off the invoice. Hiring a stripper wasn’t really a big deal, but the double standards of behavior for men versus women were alive and well in the business world. And she had to face Sovereign’s board of directors next week, a board that was notoriously conservative. Plus, she didn’t doubt there would be competitors who would try to use the information to paint her as a young, irresponsible wild child and snag the contract out from under her. Too much work had gone into this project to lose it to some small-minded, misogynistic asshat.

      Despite all that, she watched Dalton