Page 57 of Her Reluctant Hero
He scanned the stages. Three women danced, but none could hold a candle to Isabella.
What the hell was wrong with him that he was comparing strippers to her?
Alex walked to the bar, every nerve alert. He ordered a beer from the overweight shaggy bartender who passed him the bottle and didn’t even look up. Alex paid and turned back toward the stage, tilting the bottle so the liquid cooled his throat. The beer did nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. Damn, he hadn’t been this nervous about an operation in years, but he’d never had a civilian involved before.
He didn’t want to choose a table till he knew which stage Isabella would be dancing on.
A stick girl wandered off stage and the pulsing of a Black Eyed Peas song began. Alex took a seat at the edge of the middle stage when Isabella strode from behind the curtains. With a flip of her hair and a flick of her wrist, her dress dropped away, no preamble. She wrapped both hands around the pole and did a twirl, rolling her hips clad in those lace panties. To his left, he heard a wolf whistle and felt heat rise in a surge of protectiveness. She dropped till her ass touched her heels, her body still circling the metal pole. With a display of unsuspected athleticism, she lifted herself and faced the audience, her body undulating, her breasts, so damn high in that bra, nearly touching the pole. On his right, a man groaned and Alex clenched a fist.
As if she knew how crazy the action would make him, she started making her rounds of the stage, shaking her tits at that one, her ass at another, holding still only long enough for them to tuck ratty dollar bills into her thong with their grubby fingers.
He hated this. He hated the overwhelming urge to snatch her off the stage and wrap her back in that dress. Haul her out of here. He ground his teeth together so hard he couldn’t even hear the music anymore.
Then she was in front of him, legs straight, palms on her thighs, and bent forward. Her cleavage was deep, sexy as hell, but his gaze was drawn to her knowing eyes. Keeping his gaze on hers, he tucked a bill between her breasts, careful not to touch her smooth skin.
A flick of her eyes and then she rose, twirling, undulating, turning her back to the pole and sliding down it, her knees falling apart, opening herself up to him, sliding her hands down her thighs and back up again, drawing attention to what was his.
The thought was strong, surprising him, tensing every muscle in his body in fight mode. Only the person he wanted to fight was himself.
God, she was stunning, and arousing, and she was dancing for him now, turning her back, bending over almost to the floor, her ass in the air. He wanted to glide his hands over the curves there, over her thighs, wanted to bend over her and nip her throat as he plunged into her. He indulged himself in the fantasy, was aided when she turned her head to look back at him, hair tumbling over one shoulder, eyes telling him she knew what he was thinking.
With a snap of her back and her neck, she ended the song with a flourish, to raucous applause. She smiled and spun on the ball of her foot, dipped to snatch up her dress before she disappeared behind the curtain.
Christ. He struggled to keep his expression neutral, preferring to focus on that than on the conflict of arousal and protectiveness.
She emerged from behind the curtain with a swagger. She didn’t look at him, avoided the touch of her admirers with skill, and walked over behind a curtained area at the opposite end of the room from the door.
Crap, why hadn’t he gone to look over there? Of course Jorge would be all Wizard of Oz, segregated from the general clientele but with a clear view of the stage. No telling who was with him.
Alex started to rise, but met Julian’s eyes. The younger man shook his head and leaned back in his chair, showing Alex he had a better vantage point without drawing as much attention.
Didn’t matter. Tension ran through Alex’s nerves like live wires. She was only behind the curtain, but she may as well have been behind a brick wall. And he had nothing to protect her.
Minutes passed, then more minutes. Alex’s gut tightened painfully. Making his decision, he pushed to his feet and went over, ignoring Julian’s glare. He stumbled on purpose, playing the drunk, and ducked behind the curtain.
Sitting at a semicircular table, Isabella was snuggled up against Jorge. She looked up sharply when Alex staggered back, and he saw the panic in her eyes, followed by an expression that assured him she had everything under control.
What it looked like she had was her hand on Jorge’s lap.
“Sorry, man. Trying to find the bathroom,” he muttered.
Jorge pointed through the sheer curtain to a giant neon sign behind the right stage.
“Dude, sorry.” He gave Isabella a long look, then headed off. Walking away was hard, so he turned back. “Great dance,” he said, and turned away.
He continued his drunk act into the bathroom, where Danes joined him.
“Smooth,” the older man said.
Alex shook off the criticism. “I had to see who was back there.”
“What she was doing?”
“Nah, that—she’s doing what she has to do.” He tightened his jaw, because he had expected to see her bartering for information with her body. He still wasn’t sure what he would have done if she had been.
Danes rested a hip against the sink. “Don’t try to kid me, man. You didn’t blink when she was on that stage.”
“Did you?” Alex challenged.
