I’d come to Destiny armed with a plan, and now I was one of six other women who’d taken the stage during the club’s Saturday night Amateur Hour. Initially, I’d been nervous that the girl at the front desk would recognize me, or that Tyler would be monitoring the feed and wouldn’t let me on the stage.

Now I was nervous that he wasn’t even there, and that all this would be for nothing.

When the lights had first gone up—when the first strains of music had pulsed out—my blood had beat so loudly in my ears I was certain that all the men around my stage could hear it. I’d moved slowly at first. Tentative, maybe even a little fearful. Now, I had to admit I was getting into it.

I’d been in and out of enough strip joints to know that as gentleman’s clubs go, Destiny was pretty damn upscale. It had a casino-style feel, with a huge main room, a long bar, and comfy tables surrounding a number of performance stages, each with their very own pole.

There were also darker areas, where a customer could take a dancer to a comfortable chair for a lap dance or, if he was really unusual, a bit of conversation.

The overall look was classy, but at the end of the day, Destiny was like any other gentleman’s club. The dancers ended up completely bare. Well, completely with the exception of a tiny G-string that served only as a repository for tips, not as any sort of attempt at modesty.

Still, unlike some clubs, the dancers didn’t start out that way. At Destiny, it really was a tease. A process. A seduction.

The end result, however, was the same. And I’d begun the evening feeling more than a little twitchy.

Sapphire, one of Destiny’s regular dancers who was in charge of wrangling the six of us who’d entered the amateur night contest, had given us a pre-performance pep talk. “If you’re nervous, just draw out the seduction. You’ll want to take it all off eventually—at least if you want a shot at the prize. But you can take your time with the stripping until you find your rhythm. Just keep it hot and sexy.”

Good advice, and though it had taken some time—as in, the entire length of The Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself”—I’d finally managed to kick it up.

I might have started out wanting to forget that those men were there, but as I saw the way they looked at me, I couldn’t deny that I was getting into it.

I remembered the heat I’d seen in Tyler’s eyes when I’d stripped for him. The tightness in his jaw as he’d fought for control.

I drew on the memory of how much he’d wanted me—of how much I’d wanted him, of how much being on display for him, of slowly stripping off my dress, my panties, had turned me on, so that I wanted each movement to be as sensual as possible. So that each glance was filled with heat and promise.

And I remembered the way he’d touched me in front of the window. Does it excite you, knowing that someone might be looking in? Might be across the street looking out the window?

It had—oh, dear god, yes, it had. And I couldn’t deny the thrill I got doing the same in a roomful of men. The heat and the rush of knowing they could look, but not touch. That even though I would end up naked on that stage, I was the one with the power.

It was a different kind of power than I had as a cop. Different and personal because it came from me and not from the badge and the gun.

But though there was a thrill and a power that came from knowing that these men desired me, their interest didn’t have the same impact on me. I wasn’t dancing for them. It wasn’t these men who made me want to put on a show.

For that, I had to imagine Tyler.

Tyler, sitting in the dark.

Tyler, watching me as I slowly peeled my clothes off, and getting harder and hotter as each garment was removed.

He wasn’t really there—not yet. I knew, because every few minutes I let my gaze sweep the place. And with each look, I grew more disappointed. I wanted him to see me up here. Wanted him to know that I was doing this for him as much as for the job.

So help me, the man had truly gotten to me. He’d gotten under my skin, and this was as much punishment as it was tease. Except he wasn’t there to see any of it.

It frustrated me that I cared—that I wanted. That all I had to do was think of him to feel my body flush. Tyler Sharp was like a flame that heated me all the way through, making me weak. Making me melt.

I was a fool to toy with that man. He was dangerous. Distracting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who put up with distractions. Tempting me, when I wasn’t the kind of woman who was tempted.

He was everything I shouldn’t want and couldn’t have, and yet right then there was no denying that he was exactly what I needed. Tyler Sharp in my head, in my memories, in my imagination.

I clung tight to that fantasy, using it to fuel my moves, because I had to prove that I could do this. Had to convince him I could dance in a club like Destiny. That I could make it look real.

I’d spent the afternoon shopping, trying to imagine what Candy would say to every item I picked out. In the end, I settled on a naughty executive look, all stiff and proper, but sexy underneath. I’d come on stage in a tailored white blouse, a stern gray jacket, and a pencil skirt with a hip-high slit the only indication that there was something saucy about this button-ed up executive.

Underneath it all, I wore a red lace bra, stockings held up by a garter belt, and a pair of flirty skirt-style panties, which probably have some formal lingerie name, but since my traditional undies run to Jockey hipsters or Maidenform lace thongs, I wasn’t tuned in with the underwear vocabulary.

I’d started slow and edgy, my moves jerky. But it wasn’t long before I understood the pull of the music, of the lights. They were hypnotic, taking me away to a place where there were no men staring up at me. No scantily clad waitresses serving drinks to guys who were lusting for a lap dance. No bartenders. No other dancers. Just me and the music … and the man in my mind.

I’d already tossed the jacket aside, and now I moved with a rise in the music, sliding my hands up my body, stroking my breasts, remembering the way his mouth had teased my nipples. The way his kisses had covered every inch of my body.

“Oh, yeah, baby!” an anonymous male voice yelled when I grabbed the shirt and pulled the halves apart, sending buttons flying. I shimmied out of the sleeves, then bent down to tease that voice with my lace and silk-clad breasts. I let the shirt I still held fall on his head, then leaned in closer so he could tuck a twenty dollar bill into my cleavage.

Not bad for a day’s work, I thought as I straightened and strutted once around the stage and then returned to my pole.

I glanced toward the next stage, curious as to how much my neighbor had stripped so far. She was down to her G-string, and I realized that I was moving far too slow.

Time to step it up a notch.

The idea sent a flutter of butterflies twirling in my stomach, but the nerves were edged with excitement—and that excitement kicked up exponentially when my eyes scanned the room and I finally caught sight of Tyler.

He wore jeans and a simple black T-shirt under a gray sports coat, and even dressed so casually he put every other man to shame. He held a folio, the pages of which he peered at through dark-rimmed glasses that complemented his face and somehow made him even sexier.

He passed some sheets to Greg the bartender, then walked the length of the bar in long, arrogant strides that made it clear that he belonged there. More, that he belonged anywhere he deigned to go.

He hadn’t even looked at me yet, but it didn’t matter. Just his proximity fired my senses, and I felt that electricity, that spark. Twisted up, I thought. He’s completely twisted me up. And, yeah, I wanted to finish this dance. For better or for worse, I wanted to finish it for him.