French Kiss. Lori Wilde

the Masked Monsieur was a friend of his.

      Well, it wasn’t a total lie. He was a friend to himself. And if tricking Summer into giving him a chance was wrong, then he didn’t want to be right.

      “Psst, Joe,” Steve, the bartender, called to him from the dressing room door.

      “Yeah?” Hurriedly, he tugged black pleather pants up over his sparkly gold g-string.

      “She’s here.” Steve gave him a thumb’s up and scooted back to the bar.

      Panic punched Joe’s gut. Summer was in the club. She’d be watching him strip.

      “We want the Masked Monsieur,” the crowd of women on the other side of the curtain chanted as his theme song “You Can Leave Your Hat On” oozed from the surround sound speakers and the fog machine belched a fine white mist “We want the Masked Monsieur.”

      He almost turned and high tailed it out the back exit. Conquer your fear. Don’t blow this chance. Joe exhaled heavily, took off his glasses and set them on the dressing table. Then he reached for the black leather mask and pulled it down over his face.

      It was now or never. The time had come to strut his stuff.

      Chapter Three

      Summer’s mouth dropped. The Masked Monsieur had the most splendid butt she had ever clamped eyes on.

      He was mesmerizingly, stunningly, brain-foggingly stupendous. Bumping and grinding right in front of her, his butt encased in a pair of skin-tight, faux leather pants that molded to his body like plastic.

      And those abs! Tight and righteous.

      A hundred women were screaming and making swooning noises as if he were Elvis come back to life.

      But when the Masked Monsieur spun around to face the crowd, it was Summer’s gaze he caught and held. It was to her and her alone he gave an inscrutable smile and a rakish wink.

      In that moment, she knew she’d found her wild fling to take her mind off good ol’ Joe.

      “Pinch me,” she murmured under her breath, convinced she was having one heck of a bang-up sex dream.

      Strobe flashed, bathing his body in a freeze frame of shifting colored lights. He was large, his shoulders broad, his muscled biceps as thick as her thighs. He gyrated seductively to the Tom Jones song, slowly removing the scarlet tie fastened around his bare neck, all without ever breaking eye contact with her.

      “You can leave your mask on,” the audience shouted and waved dollar bills at him.

      He tossed the tie to Summer.

      A shier, sweeter woman would have let someone else snag the tie. But Summer was no longer sweet and shy. She’d given that up two years ago when she’d vowed to live each and every day to the fullest. She was bold now. Brazen even. And she was feeling revved up and randy. Besides, no one knew her here. If she acted like a slut puppy, no big hairy deal, right?

      With one hand she snatched the tie in mid-toss and draped it over her neck. Then she lifted the tip of it to her nose. The silky material smelled of pure masculine essence, raw and powerful. Her knees wobbled and her breath left her body but she never once took her gaze from the Masked Monsieur’s compelling dark eyes.

      He unbuckled his belt.

      “You can leave your mask on.”

      The belt flew through the air straight toward her. A leggy brunette on her right made a grab for it, but Summer was quicker. She cinched the belt around her waist, a coveted prize.

      The Masked Monsieur’s smile widened. Then he ripped off the faux leather pants that had been held together by Velcro. They made a sharp tearing sound as the Velcro separated. He dropped them onto the stage.

      The women went nuts.

      Good God, but the man was extremely well-endowed and Summer couldn’t stop looking at it. Er… at him. She splayed a hand against her throat, felt her pulse galloping wildly out of control.

      This magnificent hunk was a friend of Joe Everhart’s? Unbelievable. The two men had absolutely nothing in common.

      Then the Masked Monsieur reached out his hand to her, his gaze still pinning her to the spot. His dark eyes cloaked enigmatically behind the mask. He motioned her up onto the stage.

      She pointed at her chest, lifted an eyebrow and sent him the silent question. Me?

      He nodded, cupped his hand, pulling his fingers toward him in a come hither gesture.

      She shook her head. She was brave, but Summer wasn’t sure she was that brave.

      No more holding back, remember? Life’s short.Do it.

      He kept motioning for her, coaxing. Her face flushed. His rich lips formed a single word.

      “Come.”

      Chapter Four

      She came.

      Right up on stage with him, lithe as a cat.

      He held out his hand. Summer took it. Her soft fingers curling into his. He walked her backward, twitching his hips to the beat. She followed, matching him move for move.

      It occurred to him that she wouldn’t have taken Joe Everhart’s hand so willingly. That thought rankled. If she only knew the truth. He was nothing more than a nerd in hunk’s clothing, just an archeologist doing what he had to do in order to make money to fund his passion. She had bought into the Masked Monsieur fantasy hook, line and sinker and while he was glad for it, he was also oddly disappointed in her.

      But for now, he held Summer spellbound. She was his. Their gazes connected.

      The rest of the club disappeared. In Joe’s head it was just the two of them, dancing together.

      His eyes ate her up.

      She wore a simple spaghetti strap tank top. The taut poke of her perky nipples straining against her cotton top told him that she wasn’t wearing a bra. His stomach pitched. If they’d been back at their apartment complex, if he wasn’t wearing the mask, he wouldn’t have possessed the courage to stare at her so blatantly. But the Masked Monsieur could do things Joe could not. Women went wild for his alter ego. He stroked a finger over her palm. She shuddered and her tremulous response sent an inferno of feral need burning straight through his groin.

      He performed a cha-cha-cha step and she mimicked his footwork, her curvy little butt bouncing enticingly. She had goddess legs, enhanced by the flirty blue and white skirt she wore that barely covered her firm, slender thighs. Her calves were shapely. Her ankles perfectly proportioned. And he loved the way her pearly pink toenails peeked from beneath the straps of her sandals.

      “Hi,” she said breathlessly. He could barely hear her over the music. “I’m Summer.”

      He did not answer. He was afraid she might recognize his voice and then his whole crazy deception would unravel before it ever got going.

      Joe nodded, wrapped an arm around her waist and dipped her so low that her loose, flowing hair grazed the stage floor. How often he’d thought about holding her in his arms like this! It felt three times as great as he’d imagined. She smelled so damned good. Her face was flushed and she was breathing hard and fast, her breasts rising and falling against his chest, her head hanging below his.

      Within kissing distance.

      Her navy-blue eyes widened until they seemed to encompass her entire face. And when she slipped out a tongue to moisten her rich, crimson lips, he almost groaned aloud. He was that far gone.

      “Joe told me all about you,” he murmured huskily into her ear as he righted her, disguising his voice with a bad French accent.

      “He did?”

      “He says you are a woman who regrets nothing.”

      “That’s