Dance With Me, My Lovely

Other books by Jaye Roycraft

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Rainscape

Crimson Rain

Image Series

Double Image

Afterimage

Shadow Image

Immortal Image

Hell Series

Half Past Hell

Hell’s Warrior

Dance With Me, My Lovely

by

Jaye Roycraft

ImaJinn Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

ImaJinn Books

PO BOX 300921

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Ebook ISBN: 978-1-933417-34-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-29-5

ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright ©2007 by Jeanette Roycraft writing as Jaye Roycraft

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.

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Cover design: Deborah Smith

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Woman hugging man© Konradbak | Dreamstime.com

:Amdm:01:

One

THE LIGHTS DIMMED, with only the spark of anticipation charging the room. Feedback grated from a microphone, and an echo of female squeals immediately followed.

Ladies, the Pony Express is proud to bring you the finest adult entertainment on the North Shore. And now, to close our show tonight, back by popular demand, we are excited to present Chicago’s own Italian Stallion, Lucius Santangelo!

The announcer mispronounced his name again, no doubt on purpose—Luscious instead of Loo-shus—not to mention how he butchered Santangelo, but it didn’t matter. The name meant nothing more to him than it meant to the women in the crowd. They wanted only one thing tonight, and that was to indulge in fantasies they kept hidden like guilty secrets. He lifted a corner of his mouth. Who understood guilty secrets better than he did?

Screams drowned out his name just as the spotlight hit his eyes. Lucius hated this first moment as much as the crowd loved it. The trite character name Italian Stallion made him want to wince, and the intensity of the spotlight burned his eyes. The annoyance and discomfort were brief, though, and he let none of it show in his expression, for this is what he lived for.

The seductive music started slowly, and the shrieks died to a collective hush of expectation. He took a moment to inhale a long, slow breath through his nostrils, held it, then exhaled through his mouth. There was no sweeter fragrance in the world than a room full of women all baying after him like hounds on the hunt. It was a warm, ripe smell—a bouquet of perfume, heated flesh, and the musk of desire. These were no teenaged girls in the audience, but women in their prime—well developed and in full bloom. He would not disappoint them, and neither would they disappoint him.

He allowed a smile to grow slowly, like foreplay. In time to the music, he rotated his hips hesitantly, like a motor begging to be started. The screams rose again, as if their volume could fire up his engine. He let the sound crest and wash over him, soaking him with all the heat and fervor of the bodies giving voice to those impassioned entreaties. He loved this moment. It was one precious beating heart magnified a hundredfold, life at its fullest, and it was all for him.

But he halted the gyrations and instead paced the length of the stage, teasing with his smile as much as his walk. The noise ebbed again in anticipation, and in its absence he felt the weight of the crowd’s collective stare. He gazed back at the dozens of eyes following his every move, not feeling like an animal on display, but like a king before his subjects.

The music quickened, and his moves kept pace, though he heard only the ancient, elemental beat that pulsed through his brain, not the forgettable notes that blared from the speakers. His body was on automatic pilot now, grinding like a well-oiled machine. He ran his hands up his thighs and higher, just missing his crotch, to the buttons on his suit coat. He popped them slowly, as if he were uncorking champagne for a beautiful guest, each opening a grand event to be celebrated unhurriedly. He slid his hands over his shirt to his throat and ran his fingertips over the silk of the collar to just beneath his ears. A pause, two beats of music, then his fingers traced the edge of silk down to the points of the collar. He stroked the stiff points with the pads of his thumbs as if he were playing with a woman’s nipples, and when he unknotted his raw silk tie, it was with the same mouth-watering patience and precision that he would use later this night in rolling down some woman’s panties. He closed his eyes, and his vision turned inward for a moment. As he dangled the tie from the crook of one finger, his mind’s eye saw panties and a bra drifting to a bedroom floor. The full image of tonight’s conquest, naked and shimmering with desire, filled his mind and hardened his cock.

He opened his eyes to a hooded slit. They were adjusted to the light now, and his acute vision allowed him to see beyond the barrier of light into the haven of darkness sheltering the crowd. Many women would be only too happy to share the stage with him in the spotlight, but many more, he knew, preferred to do their fantasizing in the anonymity of the shadows. He understood how those who favored the shadows felt, but for his purposes tonight, those who were less cautious were the easiest to seduce.

Few were truly beautiful. Some were pretty, but most were average—middle-aged, middle-income single women out for a good time. Collectively, though, they gave him what he needed—passion to feed his senses. Later, he would single one out to feed the wolf, for the beast was lickerish and not so appeased by scent and sound alone.

But that was for later. He let the tie fall. The women cheered, but their voices faded into the same oblivion as the pop music had. His shifting gaze landed on a front row table as he shrugged out of his suit coat and caught the sleeves with his fingertips just before the coat fell to the stage. The eager ones who were on their feet and crowding the stage almost blocked his view, but he spotted a thirty-ish woman who sat stiffly at the table, her gaze locked with his as securely as her unmoving body was locked in her chair.

He let the coat slip from his fingertips.

The woman was pretty in an unspoiled way, with auburn hair that, even in the darkness, glowed like a dying fire. Her skin was smooth and darker than fair, but it looked natural, not squeezed out of a bottle or helped along by the sun. She held his gaze, and in that moment of fleeting connection, he felt her awkwardness and introversion. He tried to catch her individual scent, but in the ambrosial stew of smoke-filled air, he couldn’t. Still, he imagined her tang—pure and clean—and wondered if she was a virgin. She was trying to move in her seat in time to the music, but she held her body stiffly, like she was sitting for a job interview, not watching a man strip.

Still, there was something more liberated in her gaze than in her body. He unbuttoned his shirt from the top down, but instead of spinning around, as he usually did at that point in the performance, he remained facing the audience.

The woman had pale eyes, a strange contrast to her honey-gold complexion. Come on, love, dance with me. Talk to me with those eyes of light.

His fingers reached his waist, and he unfastened his belt, pulling it from his waistband as his hips rocked back and forth in time to the beat of the music. Loop by loop the belt slid to freedom. Come on, love, it’s just you and me in this room. Tell me what you’re thinking. He dangled the freed belt and let it drop.

And he felt it. Desire. No, it was more like longing—longing and a strength that was at odds with her slight frame and rigid posture. He smiled at her, just for her, but she didn’t smile back. Instead, he felt her touch, her mind to his, so quick and powerful it was like a slap. It was gone as rapidly as it had come, yet she stared at him still, and he gazed back. Everything had changed in that brief connection, for he knew she knew at least one of his guilty secrets.

He bid her a silent farewell. The redhead was danger, and that wasn’t what he needed tonight. He needed prey that was quick, predictable, and uncomplicated. It was all his faltering control could handle. But that was for later tonight. For now, the dance—and the hunt—were still his to enjoy.

CATE GREENBUSH had almost missed the show. Her friend Merri had been badgering her for months to go, but Cate had been just as adamant about refusing.

The Pony Express will be fun! Merri had wheedled. And it’s men. You’re always talking about the lack of men in your life.

She wanted a man in her life desperately, that was true enough, but not like this. The word express didn’t have a place in the description of any man Cate wanted. Express relationship. Express sex. Ugh.

I am not going to find marriage material at a dance club, especially not one with male exotic dancers. She’d spit the words out like they’d been pieces of forbidden fruit, and pieces none too tasty at that.

But Merri was not a friend to back down. Maybe not, but you’re not going to find a man sitting at home every night with your drums and crystals. You think the catch of a lifetime is just going to come knocking at your door? You need to get out!

Cate had tried very hard not to take offense at her friend’s ignorance of what it was she did for a living. Merri was her best friend, yet she understood very little about Cate’s job. Cate had tried to explain to Merri that what she did was real, not some carnival act or worse, a deliberate con, but Merri had never gotten past the eye-rolling stage. Still, Merri accepted her, and that was more than most people did. In the end, Cate had relented and agreed to come to tonight’s show. It wouldn’t find her a man, but it would be a harmless night of fun. And it would get Merri off her back for a week or two.

In fact, the more Cate had thought about tonight, the more excited she’d become. She did talk to Merri about men. She talked about them, thought about them, and dreamed about them. Other people would call what she did fantasizing, but she preferred to call them dreams. Fantasies were nothing more than make-believe and illusion. Dreams and visions, on the other hand, could come true. They were meant to come true. She knew from her work that there was nothing more powerful than a dream. Not that she expected to find the man of her dreams here, of course. But she could indulge herself and immerse herself in sights, sounds, and feelings that would fuel her future dreams.

So they’d gone out, and Cate had done her honest best to have a good time. The room was warm and smoky, and she regretted dressing for the chilly November weather instead of a room full of hot men and heated women. Still, she’d smiled at the more outrageous costumes and cheered when the silly garments hit the floor. But when the dancers had invited women from the other front tables to approach the stage, Cate had scrunched down in her seat and tried to look more inconspicuous than she knew she already was. The thought alone of stuffing a bill into some sweaty guy’s G-string was enough to make her cringe. Not that the dancers weren’t easy on the eyes. They were all young and attractive, with great bodies and dazzling smiles. They were talented performers, with no lack of charm. But it was the kind of charm she imagined would ensure them a different woman in their bed every night, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be prey to that particular brand of charisma.

So all in all, she was glad when the lights dimmed and the headliner, the Italian Stallion, was announced.

Cheers went up all around her as he was announced, but Cate sank even lower in her seat and groaned. Visions of Rocky Balboa in a G-string swam before her. But when the spotlight shone on Mr. Stallion, she straightened up. He was hardly what she’d expected, and for a moment she wondered if there was some kind of mistake. This man couldn’t be the grand finale. He looked older than the other dancers by about ten years, and instead of a costume he wore a very expensive looking ivory suit with a matching tie and black shirt.

As soon as he started dancing, Cate knew why he danced last. There was a fluidity and confidence to his movements that didn’t look learned or practiced but a natural part of him. Cate herself had always felt out of sync with her body, a result, she supposed, of being such a spiritual being. Not so this man. He looked more comfortable in his skin than anyone she’d ever seen. It wasn’t that his moves were wildly original or flamboyant, but they were performed with an ease and grace that completely awed her. And a sexiness, she had to admit. The other dancers had done high-energy routines, but the unhurried control that Mr. Stallion exhibited brought visions of slow-motion, all-night sex to her man-starved mind. On top of all that, he was just as striking in his appearance as in his outfit. He