Her robe hung just inside the doorway and she grabbed it, putting it on as she made her way back to her dressing area. She smiled as the music started for Roseanne, the dancer who shared the 10:00 p.m. time slot.

Tapping her foot to the notes of “Viva Las Vegas,” Dahlia took off her makeup and got changed. She usually tried to hang out at the club twice a week or so to watch her friends dance and also have a few drinks. She’d met a lot of interesting people and oddly enough, gained a following of sorts.

The Dollhouse was a burlesque lounge. The dancers did not strip totally nude, and Dahlia thought of the show as an elaborate celebration of women’s sensuality. The women there always reminded Dahlia of the Elvgren pinup-girl art her grandpa used to have in his garage. Dahlia loved the coy sex kitten she embodied onstage. She often felt as though Dahlia was her other half, the part of her she could release only up there for those minutes she was performing. The half she put away when she turned back into a pumpkin. Or, more precisely, a graduate student.

The club had only been open for six months and already had a hip, young following with lines outside every night. The lounge itself was small and intimate; it didn’t hold more than seventy-five people. The interior was subtly sexy with lush fabrics and deep-colored leather. A nice place to hang out and have a drink with her friends, a place she’d never have been able to afford were it not for the fact she worked there.

Emerging from the back of the club and walking into the lounge area, she searched for her friends. Catching sight of them, she also noticed her boss at his usual table. William Emery was a very sexy man. High-powered, charismatic and extraordinarily successful. He’d broken ground on the first retro-style burlesque club in Vegas, and now others copied him. He seemed to constantly be in motion, working twelve- to fifteen-hour days. She admired that, even if he did come off like a cold asshole sometimes.

He certainly liked a wide variety of women. Although she’d give it to him that he seemed to keep a professional wall between himself and his dancers. He flirted, but he didn’t prey on them. He paid her well and didn’t hit on her and she was down with that. Smiling, she sent him a wave and a wink as she made her way past.

* * *

Nash Emery sat with his brother William, the owner of The Dollhouse, and a bevy of beautiful women at one of the VIP tables. He’d been sipping a very fine Scotch when he caught sight of the statuesque dancer who’d just been onstage.

The smoky taste smoldered on his tongue as his heart sped at her saucy, sexy wink. He drank in every detail of her face and body—as much as he could anyway, in the low light of the club. Her black hair was drawn up into a chic, fifties-style ponytail, and bright red lipstick painted her carnal lips.

The captivating sway of her walk and the jiggle of her breasts in that dress mesmerized him. Her legs were miles long and she was all curves and valleys—the kind of woman a man wanted to sink himself into for days without coming up for air.

The kind of woman they didn’t make anymore. Coy and smoking hot all at once. Suddenly, he felt a little less jaded and a lot more interested.

He leaned into his brother. “Who is that?”

William’s eyes quickly raked over the woman before turning back to Nash. “That’s Dahlia. No shit, that’s her real name. From some hick town, grad student. She’s one of the favorites here. Not too often you see a package like that, even here in Vegas. Hot, isn’t she?”

“Hot isn’t a word that does her justice,” Nash murmured as he extricated himself from the knot of people at the table and moved to intercept her.

She hadn’t been paying attention and ended up bumping into him, her hand moving to his chest to keep from falling. That small touch sent electric warmth through him.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t see you there.” Big brown eyes met his, and damned if his cock didn’t jump. Her voice, like smoke and whiskey, low and sexy, stroked over his skin.

The scent of her perfume just beneath the smell of cigarettes, alcohol and sweat in the club tickled his senses. Reaching out, he put his hand at her waist. The abundance of her body and the incredible beauty of her face knocked him out. Damn, he couldn’t recall being so excited by and interested in a woman in a very long time.

“No need to apologize, honey. I’m Nash. Why don’t you come and join us?”

One perfectly shaped eyebrow rose slowly. Imperiously. She took a step back, out of his grasp. “That’s all right. I have friends waiting.”

He reached and took her forearm, caught sight of the cherries on her dress, the red fingernails and toenails through the open toes of her very high heels. The woman was a fucking sex bomb, and he wanted to detonate her right then and there.

“Wait. Can I give you a call? I’ve got a very nice penthouse here on the Strip. What do you say we go there? Drink some champagne while I scrub your back in the bathtub. You can show me what was under the hat. You know, be my private dancer.” He laughed, teasing her.

Her lip curled in a sneer as she pulled out of his grip. “Private dancer? Like a whore? Oh, sure. Give me your number and I’ll just show up, blow you and be on my merry way. Because that’s what all showgirls do, right?”

He put his hands up in defense. “I…uh, I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Her fisted hands rested on her hips like an angry Amazon. “What the hell else would I be? You don’t know me from Adam and you’re propositioning me thirty seconds after you bump into me? Didn’t your mother raise you with any manners?”

Holy shit, was this going badly. He’d really fucked this one up. It’d been a long damned time since a woman had turned him down, about as long as it’d been since he’d misjudged one so severely.

“You’re right. I apologize. It was rude of me. In my defense, you’re so beautiful I sort of lost my mind. I do hope you won’t hold my terrible behavior against me in the future.” He bowed. “Can we start over? I’m Nash Emery and I really was raised with manners, I swear to you.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that. That was the fakest apology I’ve heard since, well, since the last rich asshole hit on me.”

Nash might have been offended but he couldn’t help but like her fire. And he had been an asshole. Cocky was a fallback position for him. Women usually dug it. Not this one. A smile crept back onto his face.

“You’re a hard woman. I’m sorry. I was a jerk. But I meant it when I said you were beautiful. And you do knock me out. Can we start over?”

He held out a hand. Cocking her head and hesitating a moment, she took it. “Emery, huh? I suppose you’re the playboy brother I’ve heard all about. Although frankly, I’d expect some more original lines from someone with your reputation. ‘Private dancer,’ gee, I’ve never heard that one before. I’m Dahlia Baker and I am not a round-heeled tart. I’m getting my MBA at UNLV.”

He laughed, chagrined. Okay, okay, so he’d made some snap judgments. He’d taken one look at the eye-popping body and face, added it to the fact that she danced in a burlesque show and made some assumptions.

“I don’t know if I’d say I was a playboy, and I’d love to know what you’ve heard about me. Can I buy you a drink, Dahlia? I promise to be on my best behavior.” He sent her his most charming smile.

“I bet you would.” One dimple at the right corner of her mouth showed as she fought a smile. Nash wanted to lean in and lick it. Until she continued speaking. “No, thank you, Nash. I don’t have drinks with patrons, and my friends are waiting for me.”

“Oh. Well, all right. Have a nice night, Dahlia. Again, I apologize for offending you.” He wanted to argue he wasn’t a patron but he’d done enough damage for one night. Dahlia Baker tickled his fancy, and Nash Emery wasn’t a quitter. He’d be back to wear her down until she went out with him. He just needed to come at it better.