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  “Well…” Dave scratches his head. “You can’t get on the dance list until Joshua gives his approval.”

  “What!?” Now I look at him like he’s crazy.

  “New rules—a whole fucking list of them.”

  I take a deep breath; I knew it. First my boyfriend cheats, now I’m flung into some kind of alternative universe. And I know Dave doesn’t want the tedious task of filling me in on everything. “In the office?”

  “Yep.” He waves his hand. “Make sure you knock first.”

  I roll my eyes. “Where’s Darren?”

  “Mexico.”

  “He’s okay with this?”

  “Hell.” Dave blows out a breath. “Told the asshole to do whatever he wants.”

  I’ve heard enough; maybe I should take another week off and recover from my messy life before I try to make nice with the guy sitting at Henry’s old desk. Nope. Face on, baby. I march to the office and knock. At first no one answers, so I pound on the door again.

  “Come in,” I hear.

  I prance inside, ready to work some magic. Only he’s not what I expected. In fact, I’m near speechless. I know clothes, including men’s fashion. That’s a charcoal tonal-stripe, two-piece Brioni suit hugging the broadest set of shoulders I’ve ever seen. I clear my throat, quickly reconsidering my approach.

  He doesn’t even bother looking up. “Never seen a man in a suit before, Ms. Taylor?”

  How did he know my name and what I was thinking? Arrogant bastard. “Not behind Henry’s desk,” I answer, completely disarmed.

  My gaze shoots around the familiar space. The old saloon artwork has been replaced with inspirational sport prints. I’m drawn to one in particular that features a football player sprinting with a ball in his hands. I snicker at the caption: STRIVE—RESPECT CANNOT BE LEARNED, PURCHASED OR ACQUIRED—IT CAN ONLY BE EARNED.

  “Do you find something humorous?” He finally looks up from his paperwork.

  His emerald gaze is piercing. And I’m already crushing on this Jensen Ackles look-alike with a mane of unruly blond curls. “Yeah,” I snap. “Your ridiculous policies.” I instantly regret what I said. But talk about an icy welcome, he didn’t even say hello. Neither did you, I remind myself.

  He studies me, making my insides squirm. “I’m fully aware of the problems most of the women have with the new rules.” He gestures to the guest chair nearest me. “Please, sit.”

  I do.

  “I’m also acquainted with your history, Ms. Taylor.” He thumbs through a stack of files, then pulls one from the pile, dropping it on top of his desk. “I’ve read your personnel file cover to cover.”

  I’m not surprised. It’s pretty thick—like a paperback, really. “And?”

  He gives me a lopsided grin. “Are you familiar with the term charismatic leadership?”

  I tap my chin. Is that what he thinks I am? “Many of history’s most effective leaders have been charismatic—”

  “Yes,” he cuts me off. “I believe Charles Manson falls under the same category.”

  What the hell? “Not that kind of killa,” I assure him, leaning forward. “And I’m not comfortable with what you’re insinuating.”

  “And what’s that?” He places his elbows on the desk, then folds his hands.

  “Didn’t they teach you any manners at that state school?” I ask, knowing full well he’s Ivy League. I hurriedly scan the wall behind him, sure his grad degree will be hanging there in a sterling silver or pewter frame. I know his type too well. “You look corn-fed. Iowa State University?”

  He chuckles. “Now I’m the one who doesn’t know whether I should be offended or flattered.” He reclines in his chair. “I’m a Cornell graduate, Ms. Taylor.”

  “Impressive,” I say. “How does that correlate with running off half the girls from the hottest club in Corpus?”

  He ignores my question and instead extends his hand. “Joshua Camden.”

  Having just shed one pedigreed asshole, I’m in no hurry to meet another. But I take his hand anyway. “Charmed.”

  The first thing I notice are the calluses, then the sheer size of his hand. Ivy Leaguers get manicures and spend more time in front of mirrors than I do. Metrosexuals. That’s not the impression I get from this man. Not at all. When I try to withdraw, he squeezes my fingers.

  “Can I have my hand back?”

  “Sure.” He lets go.

  “I’ve done my duty, Mr. Camden. Can I have a hall pass so I can get on the dance list now?”

  “No.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He opens a drawer, then pulls out a booklet. “The new employee handbook.” He offers it to me.

  I stare at the cover. There’s a photograph of a group of smiling girls I’ve never seen before wearing Devil’s Den T-shirts standing next to a swimming pool. “Really?”

  “Indeed.” He tosses it across the desk.

  I stare at it, then up at him. “This is a joke, right?”

  “If you open up to chapter seven, you’ll find a new safety protocol has been initiated.”

  “Safety protocol? This is a topless bar, not a manufacturing plant.” Too bad he hit every branch on the way down the stupid tree.

  “For example,” he says, opening his copy. “ ‘Once the handrails are installed on all the stages, in order to prevent accidents, please maintain three points of contact at all times.’ ” He gazes up at me again.

  He’s a certifiable nutcase. “I suggest you get your head out of your third point of contact.”

  “Pardon?” He doesn’t understand.

  I hold up my left foot. “Two feet and your…”

  His face twists with disapproval. “Ms. Taylor.”

  “Yes, Mr. Camden?”

  “Get out of my office.”

  Chapter 3

  I’m not interested in catering to the needs of Macey Taylor. But the minute she walked into my office wearing one of my favorite fragrances, I knew I was in trouble. Of course, telling me to pull my head out of my ass didn’t help, at all. The owner filled me in on which girls I needed to handle with kid gloves. Though he praised Macey, he also warned me how resistant she is to change.

  Her personality profile suggests she’s well adjusted and popular. The photograph on file does her little justice—she’s incredible. Tall and slim, and her long, dark hair glistened under the soft lighting. And those legs—I bite my fist, trying to forget. Only I can’t. When I saw those hypnotic blue eyes for the first time, I had to look away. Head to toe, she’s the hottest girl in the club. One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. And her body screams sex. Whether she stands or sits, smiles or frowns, that’s all I could think about, fucking.

  She’s also exceptionally rude.

  My father adhered to an antiquated Texas tradition—women and children should be seen, not heard. And my mother placated him all his life. Even now, three years after his death, she still doesn’t speak much. I make all the financial decisions and manage her life in place of her husband. I shake my head; talk about polar opposites. I’ve just met my mother’s nemesis. That’s why I need to convince Ms. Taylor to embrace my new policies. If I can, the other dancers will follow her lead.

  The Devil’s Den has been open for twenty-five years. Though I respect Henry and the staff here, they’ve gathered as much dust as the outdated furniture. I’ve completed in-depth market analyses on the top gentlemen’s clubs in Texas and across the United States. I’ve honed in on what attracts the best clientele. I’m not interested in preserving the past, but providing the highest quality gentlemen’s entertainment this town has ever seen.

  Someone knocks on the door.

  “Enter,” I call. It’s Dave. “What’s up?”

  “Is Macey cleared for stage?”

  I rub my chin. “I’m sure Ms. Taylor relayed how well our meeting went.”

  “No.” He smiles. “But I’m pretty sure I can guess.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “She called
you a pompous asshole, then told me you look like a cross between Ron Perlman and Gollum.”

  “Is she always that observant?”

  Dave fidgets with his fingers. “Only if she likes you.”

  “Well then,” I say. “I can hardly deny the lady what she wants.”

  After the door closes, I gaze in the mirror on the wall across the room. Gollum? From prom king to swamp dweller. It’s a long and painful descent. I shrug and take off my jacket, then glance at my watch. Ten—time to make rounds. I shake hands with several customers playing pool in the back. I gradually make my way to the security room near the front bar. Victor is manning the monitors.

  “Any glitches in the new system?” I ask.

  “No, the microphones are working loud and clear.” He taps on one of the screens.

  I take a closer look; it’s labeled DRESSING ROOM 2. “If you feel like you’re eavesdropping,” I offer, “turn the volume down. I don’t expect you to listen in on their conversations all night.”

  “If you only knew the kind of crap I’ve heard already.”

  “The microphones aren’t meant to infringe on their privacy,” I add. “Merely another layer of legal protection—in case something happens. Most of the girls aren’t even aware I upgraded the security system yet.”

  “Something always happens in the dressing room.”

  I’m fully aware. “Take a break.”

  He springs out of his chair. “Thanks, bro.”

  I sit and put on the headset, testing the volume quality in several areas of the club. I end up on the same screen Victor had been staring at, then I notice Macey. She’s sitting at a table with Callie. I should ignore her completely, but I can’t.

  “I’d like to pull that corncob out of his ass,” Macey says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “He’s not a country boy,” Callie snorts. “I can’t believe you told him he looks corn-fed.”

  “I pegged him in ten seconds,” she brags. “Knew exactly where he came from. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction—smug asshole.”

  Macey digs in her purse, then pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She lights one. I smile—that’s a violation. She takes a long drag, forcing the smoke out of her mouth.

  “I know you miss Henry,” Callie says. “But look on the bright side…”

  Macey scrunches her face.

  “He’s easy on the eyes.”

  “Mr. Camden?” She extinguishes her half-smoked cigarette in a plastic cup. “I couldn’t see past that Ivy League ego.”

  Callie smacks her hand. “The only time I’ve ever seen you this worked up over a guy…”

  “Wesley?” Her shoulders sag. “He’s gone.” She stands, and my gaze follows her as she paces back and forth. “Guess what I came home to?”

  “Champagne and an engagement ring?”

  “Do I look hitched?” Macey holds up her left hand. “He met another girl…”

  Taking my own advice, I switch the monitor off. There’s a reasonable expectation of privacy where the dressing room is concerned. Cameras and microphones don’t give anyone the right to abuse the privilege. I already crossed the line, motivated by purely selfish reasons. I’m helplessly intrigued. And completely shocked that any man would cheat on Macey.

  After surviving my own personal hell, breaking up with my fiancée after she banged some asshole she met at a party, I’m completely empathetic. My ex can’t hold a candle to Macey. There’s just something about her. I stare at the screen again, admiring her head to toe, trying to find the words. It’s hopeless. Beauty and brains? Chemistry? Maybe it’s because she defied me from the moment she stepped into my office. Or perhaps it’s her determination to move on after her heart’s been fucking stomped on. I’ve been there; I’m probably still there. I shrug. Why question it? And those goddamned eyes…I can’t forget those beautiful blue eyes. I suck in a breath.

  Anything concerning Macey Taylor outside of the club is none of your business, Camden.

  Although there are no anti-fraternization rules here, something Darren told me not to change, I’m not sure how I feel about employees dating each other. At first glance, it seems completely natural. But after spending a couple of weeks here and observing several couples working together, I’ve noted the high stress and jealousy, and have overheard several arguments. I’m afraid if I’m in need of female companionship I’ll have to look elsewhere.

  I entered the adult entertainment industry to learn how to run a nightclub before I invest in my own. However, I’m not against enjoying the scenery. And no matter what I keep telling myself, staring at Macey Taylor just might become one of my favorite pastimes.

  —

  Finally, we’re closed. I meet Dave and a couple of the girls outside. “Coffee?”

  “Burgers.” Dave rubs his flat stomach.

  “Salad,” I say. “And half a bottle of Jack.”

  “Where are we going?” Callie asks.

  “I invited a couple other people to meet us at IHOP,” Dave says.

  “Ewww,” Tina complains. “Trans fats and preservatives. Animal by-products.”

  I eyeball her nearly anorexic body. “There’s PETA-approved food at IHOP.”

  “Really?”

  She’s so gullible. “We can split a salad.”

  I ride with Dave. The restaurant is packed, but we find an extra-large booth in the back. I order coffee and orange juice, in desperate need of vitamin C.

  “How’d you do tonight?” he asks, counting his own wad of bills.

  “Considering the way my shift started—pretty well.” Seven hundred, to be exact. My regular customers missed me.

  He stares at me. “What’s up, darlin’?”

  “That obvious?”

  “Let’s just say you’re off-kilter.”

  “I broke up with Wesley.”

  His eyebrows furrow. “You gave up the jock, voluntarily?”

  Tears bubble in the corners of my eyes. I can’t stand the way I feel inside—all hollow and empty. “He cheated on me.”

  His lips twitch. “Want me to kick his ass?”

  I feign a smile. Dave might be slim, but he holds Six Sigma Black Belt certification and teaches on the weekends. I shake my head. “Thanks for offering, baby.”

  “Anytime,” he says, cradling my hand. “When’s the next party?”

  I haven’t even considered it yet. I’m a five-star hostess—known for my elaborate celebrations. “Let me check the calendar. I think Monday is bubble-wrap appreciation day.”

  “Where do you come up with this shit?” He laughs.

  “Daysoftheyear.com.” I show him my iPhone screen. “Let’s have a bubble-wrap costume party.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “I’ll allow some cotton.”

  “Dave, Macey…”

  I look up—Joshua Camden is standing at our table. My blood nearly boils as I look at Dave.

  “You showed up, bro.” He slides over so Joshua can sit next to him.

  “Thanks.” Joshua holds up his hand. “I prefer this side.” Without asking, he jams himself onto my bench, nudging me over with his hip. “I like watching who’s coming and going.”

  “Paranoid?” I ask.

  “Careful,” he retorts.

  Half an hour later, Callie and Tina still haven’t showed up. “I’m hungry,” I complain, yawning.

  “Tired?” Joshua asks.

  “I spent twelve hours on an international flight Thursday.”

  Then Dave’s cellphone vibrates; he checks his messages. “Callie has a flat tire—I need to go.” He swallows the last of his coffee. “I can drop you off at the club on my way out.”

  “That would be great,” I say, sliding closer to my uninvited bench mate. “Mind if I get up?”

  “Sure do,” Joshua answers, looking at Dave. “I’ll take Ms. Taylor to her car after we eat breakfast.”

  “Sure thing. Bye, Macey.” He doesn’t even bother asking me if I want to stay—he just leaves.

 
; Thanks, Dave, I’m stranded. Stuck with a guy who smells divine and wears six-thousand-dollar Italian suits. “You’re calculating, Mr. Camden.”

  He turns sideways so he can see me, wearing a look of complete innocence. “I just thought this would be the perfect opportunity to continue with our conversation.”

  “Conversation?” I repeat. “You ejected me from your office.”

  “After you told me to pull my head out of my ass.”

  A smile forms on my lips. “You deserved it.”

  “Maybe,” he concedes. “But you’ll have to adjust to the new rules, accept my authority.”

  I nearly spit out the water I just swallowed. “Accept your authority? What kind of talk is that?”

  His eyes sparkle. “The truth.”

  I wait to respond until after the waitress takes our order. “Let me guess, you’re a control freak?”

  “Amongst other things,” he says. When he reaches for his water, his sleeve hikes up, revealing a gold Rolex. “Aren’t you?”

  He’s testing me. “Actually,” I say, “I’m quite flexible.”

  “I noticed.” His gaze drifts over me, and his fingers tickle the top of my hand.

  Oh. My. God. Did he watch me dance tonight? He’s flirting and there’s nothing subtle about it. I’m glad I’m wearing a padded bra; my nipples are raging hard. I inch away, wishing there were somewhere to hide, but my side hits the wall, reminding me how trapped I really am.

  “Am I making you uncomfortable, Ms. Taylor?”

  “No,” I lie. Oh yeah, uncomfortable on so many levels.

  “I just want to talk with you.”

  Then talk, Ivy Leaguer, don’t touch. “If this is about that safety protocol crap, save your breath. Three points of contact onstage? We’re lucky if we maintain two, the way we have to beat customers off us.”

  We trade looks. His eyes have suddenly lost their luster. “There’s absolutely no touching allowed.” His shoulders go rigid. He drifts toward me again, his left hand sliding across the table. “If anyone violates that rule, find me.” Then his boyish grin returns. “Paris?” He changes the subject.

  “Six weeks—wishing it were eight.”

  “First time?”

  “No,” I say, proud of my travel portfolio. “Third trip in five years. I spent three months in Greece last year.”