I continued to move with the music—continued my show for the men—but I kept my attention on Tyler. He greeted customers, chatted with the waitresses, then took a seat. The bartender slid two drinks in front of him, and I frowned when I realized the second one was for a stunning brunette who sat next to Tyler.

She smiled, all casual familiarity, as tight threads of jealousy twisted in my stomach. He leaned closer, said something in her ear. And when she laughed, then leaned forward to press her hand against his arm, I had to fight back the overwhelming urge to leap off the stage and toss the bitch back.

As if he heard my thoughts, his attention shifted, passing over the brunette and zeroing straight in on me. I was doing a shimmy with the pole, one hand provocatively stroking the steel as I slid down it, the other hand unzipping my skirt.

I saw the heat in his eyes—and even in the dim light of the club, I saw the way his body stiffened as I let the skirt fall over my hips, leaving me clad only in my silky panties, my stockings, and the racy push-up bra.

And, of course, my four-inch black fuck-me stilettos. That were, frankly, a bitch to dance in.

I saw him stand. Saw his expression tighten. Saw him reach up to pull off his glasses and toss them carelessly on the bar.

And as I reached back and unclasped my bra, I saw him start to walk toward me.

I turned away, not wanting him to see the victory in my smile, and disguised the maneuver by doing a quick tour around the stage, strutting my stuff and making sure all those men got a nice look at what they couldn’t touch. Then, with a flourish, I tossed the bra to a balding man who looked ready to drool.

Stockings next, I thought, as I slipped out of the shoes. I kicked up, resting my calf against the pole. Then I stroked my fingers up my own leg, unclipped the garter, and tugged the stocking off.

The men in the audience were holding out bills and, not being stupid, I took a little time to make a circuit around the stage and collect my tips before moving on to the next stocking.

I tried to keep my eyes on the men. To keep that eye contact that I knew dancers used to make sure the tips were stellar. But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t care about these men or their money. All I wanted was Tyler, but he’d disappeared. No matter where I looked, I couldn’t find him or the brunette, and something hard and tight knotted in my belly.

I felt a little sick, but I kept on, moving in time to some song I didn’t recognize.

I kicked up my other leg, getting ready to start the same show with the other, but as soon as I did, there he was.

I froze as a psych book full of emotions pummeled me. Relief, excitement, desire—and irritation.

“What are you doing?” I asked, as he stepped up onto the stage, to the hoots and catcalls and general grumbling of the men below.

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. He tossed his jacket over my shoulders, grabbed me around the waist, and hauled me bodily offstage. I didn’t shout and didn’t fight back—I was too damn shocked. And from the silence that had settled around my stage, I think the customers felt exactly the same.

“Go,” Tyler said, and it took me only a second to realize he was talking to another girl that I recognized as one of the waitresses. Her eyes were wide, and I had a feeling that she was getting an unexpected promotion. But she scurried up the stairs and wrapped her body around the pole.

The men who’d been looking shocked in my direction turned to her, and I was all but forgotten.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I asked, as he held my arm in a vise grip and led me toward the back. Across the room, I saw Evan standing beside Cole, their expressions unreadable.

I drew in a breath, and hoped to hell this had worked.

I relaxed just slightly as he led me into the employees only area. Tyler said nothing as he dragged me down the hall to his office. He shoved the door open. “In,” he said, that single syllable managing to convey a whole menagerie of emotions.

I complied.

“I’m sorry,” I said, when he shut the door and stalked toward me. “I wanted—”

I didn’t get to finish. His hands fisted around the lapel of his jacket, and he yanked me toward him, then crushed his mouth over mine, effectively silencing me. Not to mention making me forget what the hell I was trying to say anyway.

He twirled me around, then slammed us both up against the wall in a violent, wild claiming.

The kiss burned frantic and hot and had my head spinning and my body humming, although that might have had more to do with the fact that he’d spread the jacket wide and his hands were over my breasts, touching and stroking as if he couldn’t get enough of me.

I knew damn well I couldn’t get enough of him.

I closed my eyes, my body melting beneath him, as my mouth claimed him, as our tongues tasted each other, teased each other.

He robbed me of thought, of reason. And as I stood there, trapped between him and the wall, I could barely remember my name, much less why I’d come to Destiny. In that moment, he was my entire world, and even as something in my mind screamed for me to get a grip, to remember that he’d conned me—that he was a criminal—all I wanted to do was lose myself forever in this moment.

And then he pulled back, leaving me gasping and, dammit, very turned on.

“I already said no,” he said. “So why exactly are you dancing on one of my stages?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak quite yet, so I concentrated on buttoning his jacket before lifting my head. “I came to negotiate,” I said. “But a negotiation is only as good as the information on the table.”

He moved to the small sofa where he’d fucked me, then sat down, his arm stretched along the back. “This isn’t a negotiation,” he said.

“Everything’s a negotiation. You’re a businessman.”

“And you’re a cop.”

“I negotiate all the time. Plea bargains. Immunity deals.” I smiled prettily as I settled myself behind his desk. “You know all about immunity deals.”

He chuckled. “And there’s the cop,” he said. “Control. Confidence. Determination. It was always there, but now it’s in context. So tell me, are you good at what you do, Detective Watson?”

“Yes. I am.”

“I believe you. You were good on that stage, too,” he added, with a bolus of heat seasoning his voice. “Sexy. Confident. A woman with a mission.”

“I was on a mission. I want to dance at Destiny. And now I’ve proved that I can,” I rushed to add when he opened his mouth to reply. “I can dance, I can satisfy the customers. I can blend. Bottom line, I can be one of these girls.”

“I’ve no doubt that you can.”

I cocked my head, wondering at his game. “Really?”

“I’m more interested in why you want to.”

“I told you. I want to find Amy.”

“Mmm.” The sound was thoughtful, and he stood up, then moved to stand behind the chair I was sitting in. He put his hands on my shoulders, then slowly slid one down, over the material of his jacket to brush my chest.

My breath hitched as the stroke of his fingers on the swell of my breast sent fresh desire coiling through me. “There’s something I want you to see,” he said, bending down so that his mouth brushed against my ear.

I trembled, squeezing my legs together as I imagined his hand traveling lower and lower.

But that wasn’t what he had in mind. Slowly, he withdrew a card from the interior pocket of the jacket, letting it trail teasingly over my nipple before he pulled it fully out and tossed it on the desk.

He brushed a soft kiss over the top of my head, then moved to sit on the edge of the desk, his thigh right beside my hand. “Take a look.”

I picked it up, then saw that it was a postcard from Caesar’s Palace. It had a Las Vegas postmark and was addressed to someone named Darcy, care of Destiny.