Tucking her hand under Emma’s elbow, Katerina led her away. Emma’s wobbly, borrowed heels pinched her little toe something awful, and with each step forward, that pinch reminded her that she was about to cross into uncharted territory.
She halted before they reached the VIP lounge, separated from the rest of the club by a three-step stairway. “Kat, I don’t think I can do this.” Panic pitched her voice in a squeak she could barely hear above the boom-boom bass of the club’s music. “I’m not what this guy wants. I can’t dance, I can’t be…sexy.” Maybe in a previous life, the one she’d tried to leave behind, but not like this. Not with a metaphorical gun to her head.
“You will be fine. Just watch how I do and you get big tip. Maybe $50?”
Every penny of which would go into Ray’s grubby little hands. Acid coated her stomach, rising in a torrent to her throat. There was no way she could pull this off. Yet she resumed her march toward the VIP lounge. Just three little steps.
Bad stripper walking.
“What if he touches me?” What if he doesn’t?
Katarina stopped, one heel on the bottom step. “You moan like his hand belong to David Hasselhoff.” At Emma’s dropped jaw, she shrugged. “We have different fantasies in Romania.” On gravity-defying heels she bounced up the stairway like a gazelle, dragging an ungraceful Emma with her. “Hello, boys. Are you ready to play?”
Emma raised her eyes and clashed gazes with Broderick Kane III.
f*ck
. My. Life.
Chapter Four
For the slimmest, teetering-on-the-edge moment, Emma held her breath.
Waiting.
Praying.
That he wouldn’t recognize her. That he was wasted or clueless or completely unobservant. Side by side, Emma’s disparate identities couldn’t be less similar. The sheer ridiculousness of this situation might be her way out.
Why she looks a little like my…nah, couldn’t be. Let’s party hearty!
If only.
Mr. Kane ran a hand through his dark hair, adjusted his glasses farther up his nose, and with a flickered glance, appeared to question the drink in his hand. The man who barely looked at her in the office focused his full attention on her now. Silver-gray eyes darkened in…appreciation? No, dummy. Recognition. The hope Emma had clung to for the longest beat of her life slunk out the door with an adios, suck-ah and a flip of the bird.
Fire scalded her cheeks as his grip on the tumbler of scotch in his hand tightened.
Busted.
Yes, it’s me, your PA, now your stripper for the evening. How do you do?
Surely this was a nightmare, and she’d wake up any second now. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was working here, forced to shake her ass for nameless slobs, now she was faced with the prospect of giving her boss a lap dance. And he was with—oh God—Mr. Smythe-Osborne, who was gifting his chosen stripper Katerina a royally lascivious leer.
Thankfully, Score Property’s potentially lucrative client had followed the script and didn’t appear to recognize Emma. (Take a leaf, boss man!) Mr. Smythe-Osborne rubbed his hands together, perhaps warming them for all that silky Romanian flesh he longed to touch.
“I bring sexy friend,” Katerina said with her usual solemnity. “This is”—she looked at Emma, and a twisted smile touched her lips—“Chardonnay.”
Chardonnay? Not cool, Kat.
With a quick headshake, Mr. Kane planted his feet and went to stand. “Ms.—”
Emma placed a hand on his shoulder and arrested his progress before he could push her name past those grim lips. Hard muscles flexed beneath her fingertips, the solidity of his body registering on some deep primal level.
“Hey, handsome. Let’s not stand on formality. Just call me Chardonnay.”
Just call me Chardonnay? Was she out of her freakin’ gourd?
His eyes narrowed, hopefully in understanding. She braved a peek over his shoulder to the bar where Ray was watching, knowing that somehow it was better all-around that her prior acquaintance with this particular client did not become common knowledge.
“I can get someone else,” she said to him. Pleaded. The club’s lights, scents, aura of desperation pressed in on her. “I’m clearly not what you expected.”
Under-f*ck
ing-statement of the century.
A new song started up, something with a thumping bass beat—shocker—that segued into an ode to grinding.
“Yeah, baby,” Mr. Smythe-Osborne said, channeling Austin Powers. “Let’s get this party started.”
Katerina began her dance, a sultry, undulating wave that managed to say f*ck
me and f*ck
you simultaneously. Impressive. For a moment, Mr. Kane and Emma stared at her, curiously drawn to her weird magnetism. It had the added benefit of giving them both a moment to breathe and figure out what should happen next.
Mr. S-O beckoned Katerina. “Come here, love.” She sat on his lap, continuing her dance in the sitting position as he laid hands on her hips. On one of her arch backs to show off her pert breasts, she caught Emma’s eye and gave an unsubtle jerk in Brody’s direction.