Pulled Under. Kelli Ireland

up her briefcase and heading for the front door. “I will.”

      Levi had absolutely no doubt that she, at least, wasn’t hedging the truth.

       3

      HARPER COULD ONLY imagine the razzing she was going to get from the men in the office when they found out she’d gone to a show at Beaux Hommes. After all, she’d been pretty insistent she’d rather audit God than deal with muscle-bound men clad in G-strings and slathered in testosterone. Galling as it was, though, Levi had been right. The best way to see the club’s practices in action was to get inside during operating hours. So here she stood, assessing her wardrobe for clubbing attire.

      She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at irony’s sense of humor.

      Not having brought anything really appropriate for a night out, she was stuck piecing together what she could from her suitcase. One pair of low-slung skinny jeans, one pair of black platform heels and a white dress shirt with French cuffs proved the best she could do on short notice.

      She fully expected Levi to put his sensual talents to good use. The image of him pulling his shirt off and easing his pants down was seared in her brain, damn him.

      But for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Assuming Levi intended to attempt to seduce her, her reaction was hers to control. She could play a little suggestive cat and mouse with him. She’d never take it far enough to be accused of improper behavior. He wasn’t worth losing her job over. But she was willing to take things to the very edge of the gray zone in order to retain the upper hand and control the outcome—a successful closure of this case.

      For a brief moment, she wondered what her dad would think of her willingness to manipulate someone to achieve her goal. He’d be disappointed she hadn’t chosen to be a better person than the opposition. But then, that was why he was poring over pictures of bikes in magazines instead of working on them himself.

      She grabbed her keys and left her hotel room. It had been ages since she’d tried to flirt with someone. Her mouth was dry enough to be declared a federal disaster area. And one eye twitched. She pressed her fingers near the edge of her eye, trying not to mess up her makeup.

      Tonight was going to be all about sex without touching, innuendo without crossing invisible lines and suggestions without follow-through. She’d be on Levi’s turf, so she’d have to up her game, insecurities and history be damned.

      The drive passed in a blur of GPS directives, and shaking off the last of her self doubt, she pulled up to the club. The line of women waiting to get inside surprised her. Cover was twenty bucks a head. Freaking crazy. Yet within ten minutes she was in the mass of estrogen waiting her turn to get her wrist stamped and pass through security.

      Once inside, she was reluctantly impressed. The club was clean, well lit and tastefully decorated. It wasn’t as if she’d expected giant statues of Priapus to grace every square inch of free floor space, but she also hadn’t expected the fine art pieces, the comfortable seating areas or the subtle sense of wealth the interior projected. Not even close. There wasn’t anything seedy about the place. It made some of the reports she’d received more curious than ever. How could Beaux Hommes be involved in illegal business practices and still project such a sense of accomplishment? It broke every stereotypical assumption she’d had.

      “Can I get you something to drink?”

      Forcing herself to turn slowly, she wasn’t entirely surprised to find a waiter clad in tuxedo pants, a bow tie and shirt cuffs. She was surprised to find him maintaining eye contact despite the cleavage she was sporting.

      He winked at her with an air of innocent flirtation. “Maybe a margarita? Or are you more a white-wine kind of lady?”

      “I’m actually more a shot of Patrón with a beer chaser kind of woman.” The honesty of her answer surprised her. Not that she would have lied, but had she thought about it, she would have simply ordered a sparkling water and been done with it.

      “Shot of Patrón it is. What kind of beer, beautiful?”

      She smiled slowly, watching the man’s eyes soften as he stared at her mouth. “How about a Michelob Ultra in the bottle.”

      “First drink’s on me,” he murmured. “My name’s Donovan. You need anything tonight, you find me or shout out. I’m your man.”

      Uh-huh. Me and anyone else with a decent figure and a generous tipping habit. “Sure. I’ll buy my drinks, though I appreciate the offer.”

      “You want a table?”

      “Table?”

      “Near the stage.” He tucked his serving tray under his arm as he angled his head toward the front of the club. “Those are the best seats in the house. We always keep a few available for favored patrons.”

      She met his gaze, steady and confident he was doing her a favor. “I’ve never been here before.”

      “All the more reason to sit near the stage. C’mon.” He reached for her hand.

      Stepping away, she took a deep breath. “I’d prefer to just hang out here and see what’s what first.” She reached out and rubbed his arm, trying to soften her rejection. “I can always find you if I want a seat at the front, right?”

      “The offer stands, particularly for you.” He gave a little bow. “Shot of Patrón and Michelob Ultra in the bottle on the way.”

      “Thanks.” She shifted her attention to the buzz around the club, taking in the women’s excitement, the swift business the bar was doing and the orderliness with which everything ran. The first was understandable. The latter two were surprises. Given what she’d seen of the offices earlier, she hadn’t expected any sense of organization during the more chaotic regular business hours. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. Unexpected aspects of any investigation were always worth a second look, though.

      Donovan returned with her drink order. She downed the Patrón, relishing the burn even as she placed the shot glass on the serving tray. The Michelob she sipped before digging a twenty out of her pocket and dropping it on the tray. “Keep the change.”

      He grinned, placing a hand over his heart. “She looks like a goddess, drinks Patrón and tips like she’s waited tables before. You might just be the perfect woman.”

      “No woman’s perfect.” She patted his cheek. “Sweet sentiment, though.”

      “Shout if you want anything at all. I’ll check in on you in a bit.” Pocketing the twenty, he headed to the next table of women.

      It bothered her on a very fundamental level that she hadn’t been able to just take his compliment without feeling the need to dissuade him from the belief she was perfect. And that he’d mentioned her looks first really irritated her. She’d have to get over the hang-up if she hoped to win when she sparred with Levi tonight. And she always played to win.

      The lights dimmed. She leaned against the wall, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as the women in the club went wild.

      * * *

      TOWEL WRAPPED AROUND his hips, Levi stepped into the locker room. The guys were giving each other shit in typical fashion. He loved this part of the night, when his nerves were strung tight enough to make the muffled buzz from the crowd skate across his skin with a slightly abrasive touch. It thrilled him and, if he was honest, kept him nervous—scared?—enough to ensure he forced himself to seize his alter ego by the balls, get onstage and dance his ass off. Otherwise? The urge to just settle into the background and play with his day trades was almost overwhelming.

      “Levi!” Several of the men shouted greetings. Only two walked up to him and shoulder bumped him, though.

      Eric and Justin, his two best friends, were winding up their dancing careers after finding success in the nine-to-five world. Part of him was jealous, but it had nothing to do with