Private Dancer. Kimberly Dean

that the door to the Satin Club had opened and two imposing men had walked out of it. Men in suits seemed to flock to this place, but these two were different. Their clothing might be expensive and impeccably cut, but it did nothing to civilise the men wearing it. The one on the left was shorter and leaner, with the body of a fighter. And the nose, she thought as he slipped on a pair of sunglasses. For all his ruggedness, he wore an air of gentility, a hard-won polish of money and power. The other did not. Big, muscled and intense, what you saw was what you got. And the big man was unhappy.

      Sebastian Crowe and Remy Hunt, owner and operations manager of the Satin Club.

      Her sore toes began tapping nervously against the sidewalk. She knew the two men on sight and she instinctively stepped further into the shade of an elm tree. As bad as it had been before, the conflict between her church and the Satin Club had just become more real.

      And more dangerous.

      Heaven help them.

      ***

      Bas strode across the parking lot with Remy at his side, but his gaze was centred strictly on the crowd gathered across the street. Enough was enough. He’d been trying to turn the other cheek, but the assholes had upgraded from a megaphone to a speaker system. It was time to settle this.

      ‘I’m sick of these religious nuts.’ Remy cracked his knuckles, but his hands clenched right back into fists. ‘Do we stand outside their church yelling at them on Sunday mornings?’

      ‘They think they’re saving our souls.’

      ‘My soul is just fine. They’re the ones who need to “do unto others”.’

      The corners of Bas’s mouth curled. ‘The Golden Rule? Really?’

      ‘Even my grandmother would want their heads. This isn’t spreading God’s word. This is harassment.’

      It was, but there was also that tricky business about freedom of expression and the right to assemble.

      It was mid-afternoon. The Satin Club opened their doors early for those white-collar good-ole-boys who still liked to conduct business the old-fashioned way – with booze flowing and skin flashing – but Remy was right. This irritant wasn’t just a nuisance anymore. It was beginning to affect business, not only for them but for their neighbours. Hetty from the 24-hour diner next door had already called to voice her complaints. It was time to do more than sit back and take the high road.

      Besides, he and Remy had always been more comfortable on the back alleyways, anyway.

      Bas’s eyes narrowed. They’d been watching the protestors from Sunlight Epiphany Church ever since they’d shown up a week ago. Reverend Harold Wheeler was the loud-mouthed leader of the bunch. From what they’d been able to gather, the rabble-rouser had moved to town from Birmingham a few years ago after his former congregation had found him elbow-deep in the collections plate. His new followers either had forgiven that little discretion or didn’t know about it.

      The decibel level rose when the crowd saw them, and Bas’s jaw hardened. He had nothing against religion – until it was used against him. Then, he wasn’t afraid to fight back.

      And fight dirty.

      His attention moved over the angry bystanders. As always, it settled on one trim figure off to the side – a feminine figure with soft, curling brown hair and a sweet innocent face – a silent figure with a body that screamed.

      ‘What did you learn about the angel?’

      ‘Her name is Alicia Wheeler.’

      The way his operations manager drew it out, it sounded like something he’d like to taste. And savour. And lick all over again.

      Didn’t they both?

      ‘The reverend’s daughter and, as luck would have it, a dancer.’

      Bas stared at her. Sweet little Leesha was a knockout. She wore boring, prim clothes and flat shoes, but that only made her all the more tempting. His gaze traced down her body, over her full breasts and along her trim waist to nudge at the secret spot between her legs. Did she really think it was hidden by the dowdy skirt she wore?

      ‘A dancer,’ he murmured under his breath. Now wasn’t that interesting? ‘Is she any good?’ His gaze hadn’t left that private spot. He could practically feel her lush, innocent pussy opening up to him, taking him deep. She’d be tight.

      Would she be wet?

      ‘Not our type of dancing,’ Remy replied, ‘but she can move – although she seems to have given it up since moving back to work at her father’s church.’

      Bas’s mouth watered. Now wasn’t that a shame? He could see that sensual body filling out a ballerina’s leotard, her breasts stretching the fabric tight. His palms tingled, thinking of those trim hips rolling and her hair flying around her shoulders. He could hear her breaths panting as her legs flexed and her toes pointed tight.

      He’d known there had to be an outlet for her frustration, because, whether she knew it or not, that was one frustrated woman. It radiated all the way across the street and through a security feed. She looked so buttoned up and tied down. She showed up every day at her father’s side, but her expression always seemed calm and controlled. Almost distant. Was that because she was secure in her beliefs? Or was she there only because she was expected to be?

      Everyone knew that preachers’ kids could go one of two ways. They either toed the line or went a little wild. Being lashed down with rules and bound by strict expectations could drive anyone to act out, to rebel and experiment with the wrong kind.

      He wondered which way Alicia Wheeler went.

      ‘She’s clean as a whistle,’ Remy said, practically reading his mind. ‘From what I could find, she’s always been a good girl. A model of good behaviour, right down to those succulent toes.’

      Her toes weren’t what Bas wanted to suck on.

      ‘Any vices or kinks? Anything we can use?’

      Remy shook his head, but his gaze was locked onto the pretty brunette, too. He’d done the background checks on everyone in the crowd they could identify. He probably knew what kind of perfume she used, what size bra she wore and if there were any toys in her bedstand. ‘She got top grades. She volunteers. Doesn’t smoke or do drugs. She doesn’t have so much as a parking ticket on her record.’

      ‘Kind of makes you want to shake up her structured little life, doesn’t it?’

      A sound came from deep in his friend’s throat.

      ‘What about sex?’ Bas pressed.

      ‘She dates the Joe Schmo to her father’s right. I doubt he’s even found a way into her pants yet.’ Remy shook his head. ‘Makes you sad for the girl, doesn’t it? Look at that body. She needs someone who can ride her good and long, someone who could make her moan.’

      Maybe someone who could break the chains that were holding her back?

      ‘Let me take care of this,’ Remy said. ‘I could have this crowd gone by tomorrow.’

      Bas didn’t think they were quite to that stage. Yet.

      ‘I’ve got something else in mind.’

      The operations manager sent him a quick look, but then followed his gaze back across the street. Back to sexy, repressed Alicia.

      ‘Dancers need to dance,’ Bas said softly.

      He knew a weak link when he saw one.

      The Satin Club was the classiest and most exclusive gentlemen’s club in town. It was also his baby. He’d built it from the ground up, and nobody was going to tear it down, harass his clients or threaten his girls. Protecting it was his job, but he couldn’t attack a church outright. There was no winning that kind of battle.

      No, this might take a bit more finesse.

      And