Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12) Page 3

  And that very much included World’s Worst Ex-Husband Mark Duvall, who she had met at a club where she worked. Oh, the irony of that, too. Like, perhaps the fact that she never trusted him enough to even try the things she really wanted was a red flag? One red flag in an entire parade of red flags, if she were being honest. But he’d said all the right things, and she thought she needed him, and she’d wanted to believe so badly…

  Maybe that was why watching that blissful-looking brunette wrapped up in her big, bearded Dom’s arms made Bette inexplicably sad. She hadn’t even allowed herself to dream of something like that, and yet here it was, in real life.

  But mostly, she was confused. Bob Faulkner had described Club Volare as this den of inequity where bad people did bad things.

  Granted, the sketchy social worker who was essentially blackmailing her might not be the best source. But Club Volare was not, so far, a den of inequity or obvious illegality, so Faulkner was wrong on that. He also hadn’t cared when Bette told him she didn’t know what she was doing. She was such a bad liar that she’d resigned herself to keeping her mouth shut if she couldn’t tell the truth. And that encounter out front had only proven her point. That man, the stupidly sexy Mystery Dom with his rough words and hard look, had seen right through her. In, like, a second.

  Just the memory of his gaze raking down her body, so hot he could have burned her skimpy outfit clean off, filled her with a crazy urge to go find him and confess everything.

  Which was stupid. And naive.

  No, the only man who could help her was Faulkner, so she had to find this Spencer Cole and get the “dirt,” as Faulkner put it. It was her only choice if she wanted to get Lizzie out of foster care. And Bette would move actual mountains with her bare hands, handful of dirt by handful of dirt, to bring her little sister home.

  So Spencer Cole, allegedly dirty cop, whoever he was, was going down.

  Probably not going to figure it out standing by the freaking wall, Liffey.

  Bette looked around her, trying to find some clue of what to do next, and she finally realized the energy in the club had shifted. There was an air of excitement and anticipation as people gravitated toward a stage she hadn’t noticed while she was busy being all gawky and reluctantly turned on. Figuring she’d be even more conspicuous if she broke from the crowd, she made her way in that direction.

  Which was when the back of her neck started to prickle. The internal alarm went off about one second before a big hand clasped her upper arm and forced her to stop.

  “You. Who do you belong to?” The man squeezed her biceps and pulled, leaving her a choice between facing him and falling right off of her kick-ass heels.

  She half expected Big, Bad Mystery Dom, so when she turned to face a guy who was only a little taller than her and a good number of years older, his expression arrogant and imperious, she was momentarily struck speechless. Then he gave her a shake and she squeaked out, “What?”

  Brilliant, Liffey.

  “Who,” the man enunciated as a slow, knowing smile twisted his lips, “do you belong to? You aren’t wearing a wristband. Unless, of course, you’re up for grabs.”

  “I. Uh.” Damn. Her mind scrambled for a response but kept coming up with questions instead. What did he mean by wristband? Up for grabs? What?

  And were Doms supposed to go around grabbing unsuspecting subs like this?

  Then she narrowed her eyes. Could this tool be Spencer Cole? He didn’t look particularly scary. Creepy as hell, yeah. But scary?

  Pole dancing wasn’t for feeble women. She was in great shape, strong where it counted. Except for his grip on her arm, which kept getting tighter, this man looked kind of soft around the edges. If it came down to a thing, she could make him seriously regret his life choices. Probably.

  And yet, all she managed to do was stand there and stare because the truth was, Bette didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know this world. She didn’t know the rules. If she kicked this guy in the balls like she would do to a guy who was too handsy at a strip club, would everyone know she was a fraud? For the first time, she felt like worse than a liar—she felt like a fool. A fool who was panicking. Desperate, her eyes wide, she looked around for help.

  Only to find it was already on the way in the form of her big, angry-looking Mystery Dom, the one who’d called her a stripper, the one who’d seen through her like she was wearing plastic wrap. The muscles in his biceps and chest flexed not for show but for action. His burning gray-blue stare seared her. It was some crazy scientific glitch that kept her from going up in smoke right on the spot. Or from melting into a puddle of desire, because holy mother, what his aggressive, possessive look did to her.

  And then he touched her.

  4

  Cole shouldn’t have touched her. It was just playing with fire. He knew that for a fact, but the sight of another man’s hand on her—Christ.

  But he’d done it and now the warm, silky skin between her shoulder blades was fucking burned into his memory, snuggled up tight against the knowledge that instead of flinching at his touch, she’d leaned back into it.

  Focus, Cole. You have an idiot to deal with.

  Mason Brinks. What a goddamn tool. The man who’s hand had been on “Barbara Carrington’s” arm until Cole had just forcibly removed it was a new addition to the club, and he was already on thin fucking ice as far as Cole was concerned. He hadn’t hurt anyone, but he liked to test boundaries in a way that meant it was only a matter of time before he did hurt someone. The man was a walking red flag. And now he’d gone and put hands on a sub who didn’t know enough to know she should tell him to go jump in a lake for doing that outside the rules of engagement.

  Cole was done with it. He would talk to Gavin. This would be Mason Brinks’ last night at the club. He stared hard at Mason, just so later on the little scumbag would know who was responsible.

  And because if he didn’t, there was nothing to keep him from staring at the little lying sub. He could smell her. It was turning him into an animal.

  “You’re going to miss the show, Mason,” he growled.

  Mason wasn’t stupid. He put his hands up before sticking them in his pockets. “Didn’t know she was yours. Maybe you should put a wristband on her.”

  Or maybe he was stupid after all.

  “Go,” Cole clipped.

  He felt the change in his lying sub as soon as Mason looked at her one last time. Her shoulders tensed up and she would have stepped away, except for some damn reason, he slid his hand up her back protectively. Goosebumps peppered her skin.

  Mason finally showed some intelligence, and left. Cole watched him get far enough away, and then turned to take her in.

  He towered over her, an accident of height that gave him a bird’s eye view of her breasts. The creamy swells rose as she drew a deep breath and right there, between one blink and the next, her areolas peeped out from beneath the clingy top she wore.

  If the scent of her arousal hadn’t already gotten him hard as a rock, that little pink peek-a-boo glimpse of puckered flesh would have done it.

  She let out a shuddering breath. “He’s gone. You can let go of me now.”

  Such a hard voice from such a soft woman. It took him a second too long because everything was firing on all cylinders, instinct screaming at him to get past the mask she wore.

  “I told you this isn’t a night for newbies. You should get on out of here,” he said.

  Her big, dark eyes flashed as she turned and tilted her chin, glaring up at him with what he suspected was pure bravado. The sass on this woman. He returned her outrage with a lazy smile. “An experienced sub wouldn’t give me that look, sweetheart. Not here. You’ll have to do better than that if you insist on keeping up this charade.”

  “I don’t…what…?”

  She wore makeup, but she flushed red enough that it did nothing to hide her blush. Fascinated, he watched as she waged a war with her emotions, every one of them right there on her face. She cycled th
rough anger, gratitude, back to anger, but most of all, she was aroused. Lips parted, breath coming quick, a rosy blush that spread down her chest to her pretty breasts. The pulse at the base of her throat fluttered, tempting him to encircle her neck again and rub his thumb over that vulnerable little tell.

  Not your sub, Cole. A liar.

  “Ok, who are you? I mean, who do you think you are?” she blurted.

  He smiled in spite of himself. She was really trying for a spanking.

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he said. “Whoever faked your ID should be ashamed of that hack job. No way in hell your real name is Barbara Carrington.”

  Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I asked you first.”

  That she didn’t deny being caught told him a lot about her. Liar, maybe, but the courage to talk back instead of crumpling under pressure? His smile widened.

  “You didn’t read the paperwork, did you?” he said. “Has the rules of engagement in it for this club. You should read it soon. Otherwise you’re going to end up over my knee.”

  The redness in her cheeks deepened, and her nipples hardened visibly. Automatically, Cole took note. That was an image they both enjoyed.

  “I’m Spencer Cole,” he said. “You can call me Cole. For now.”

  “Cole,” she repeated faintly. The color leeched from her.

  Either she hated the name Cole, or she was getting overwhelmed. For a second, he wondered if she’d heard his name. If she had some reason to fear him. But he shook it off as paranoia. After what happened back in Chicago with his ex, he expected to be a little paranoid. That was no reason to take it out on this little liar.

  “I answered your question,” he said. “Now you answer mine. Who are you?”

  “You’re insane,” she said, rallying. “There’s nothing wrong with my driver’s license.”

  “I wasn’t kidding about the rules of engagement,” he growled. “Or the spanking. Now why are you here?” He looked her up and down and up again, cataloging all the little things her tough little shell couldn’t hide. The things he’d picked up on while she explored the club. The things she’d stopped to look at, and the ones she’d sped past. “You’ve never set foot in a BDSM club before…but you will again.”

  Her eyes widened with the surprise of hearing the truth. She only barely recovered.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” she said. “I have plenty of experience, and thanks for whatever that was with Mason, was it? But I can take care of myself, thank you. Now if you’ll excuse me, you scared off my…my…well, you scared him off. And now I have to start over again.”

  “Well, sweetheart, you’re in luck. The subs’ sign-up for tonight’s special feature is over there.” He jerked his chin toward the far end of the bar. “I figure that’s why you’re here, what with all your experience.”

  She gave a disgruntled little huff, an annoyed glare, and stomped off. Cole turned to watch her go. This ought to be good. Auction Night wasn’t for the faint of heart. It sure as hell wasn’t for the inexperienced. There was no way she would…

  He let out a growl as, instead of running her sweet tail out the door, she picked up a pen and put her name down on the sign-up sheet.

  5

  What in the latex-covered hell have I gotten myself into?

  Bette stared at the array of colored wristbands laid out on the bar beside the sign-up sheet. Which, by the way, told her jack-all about what she was actually signing up for. But it didn’t really matter. She could feel Spencer Cole’s gaze lasering into her back and screw him, she wasn’t going to prove him right by running off like a startled bunny, even if that was exactly what she felt like doing in that moment.

  Jesus. Of course her Mystery Dom was the Spencer Cole. Of freaking course.

  What on Earth was she going to do?

  Obviously if she wanted to get information about Spencer Cole, she should probably go talk to, you know, Spencer Cole. But something about the way the man saw through her entirely made that seem like not a great idea. At least not until she’d somehow figured out how to keep her entire brain working when he was in his vicinity. At the moment, he got near her, and all of the blood in her body went straight to her lady bits.

  Jesus, the way he’d touched her. She could still feel the heat of his fingertips on her back.

  Bette had to buy time. Which meant she had to play the part of the experienced sub at this—what even was this? Whatever, she’d sign up and find out.

  Bette grabbed a pen and carefully signed “Barbara Carrington” on the damn sheet.

  “All signed up for tonight?”

  Startled, Bette looked up to find a woman at least ten years older than her standing right next to her. As Bette watched, the other woman deftly signed her name to the sheet, then gave an open, friendly smile.

  Bette just stood there like a dummy.

  “Nervous?” the woman said. Then she blushed slightly. “Well, we all are.”

  Bette grabbed a handful of the bracelets, waved them in the air, and forced her own smile. “Yep. Pretty exciting stuff.”

  The other woman’s soft brown eyes got big. “Wow, yeah, it’s going to be a big night for you.” She picked up a pale-blue wristband and casually fastened it around her wrist. “I’ve been waiting months for this. I wasn’t around for it last year. Is there anybody in particular you’re hoping to get tonight?”

  Bette busied herself with donning her own wristbands. Had she seriously grabbed five of them? For crying out loud. They were every color of the rainbow. And the only two names she knew were Cole and Mason.

  Attaching herself to Mason was right out. Linking herself with Spencer Cole? She looked past her new companion’s shoulder and, yeah, there he was. Big, bad and still watching her with that intent, narrow-eyed look that made her want to fall to her knees and beg for…for…

  “Oh, I think they’re starting soon. Come on, let’s go join the others.” The sugar-sweet woman who’d waited an entire year to be part of whatever was going on tonight seized Bette’s hand and pulled her into the milling crowd. “Oh, I’m Blue, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Bette said weakly, glad that Blue was too excited to ask for her name. “Barbara” might be her legal name, but she never answered to it. And “Carrington” was completely made up. Even Bette was already confused.

  But as she and Blue joined a group of wristband-wearing people off to one side of the stage, she realized it was true. Having a buddy made her feel less conspicuous when she realized the people in front of the stage largely consisted of the sexiest, scariest group of people she’d ever seen. Leather, muscles, stern expressions. Doms and Dommes, through and through.

  Suddenly Bette felt really, really small.

  The buzz in the room died when one man separated from the herd and mounted the stage. As she turned to watch him, she realized why she felt so mouse-like. The stage was practically her second home. When she was on stage, when she knew she held the attention of people she couldn’t even see, she was in control. But Club Volare was a place where she was supposed to give that up. That’s why it fascinated her. Why it turned her on. And why it scared her.

  Nothing about her walk through Club Volare had left her feeling like she was in control of anything. Ever.

  Thankfully, that was about to change. She blew out a slow, deep breath. Stage meant control. By the looks of things, she’d get her turn up there soon enough.

  “Evening, everyone,” greeted the man who had taken the stage in front of Bette and the other subs. His strong voice carried without a need for a microphone, as though he forced his words through the air with willpower alone. He told some joke that sent rich laughter through the room. She didn’t hear a word of it around the blood rushing her ears. Like she’d wished him into existence, Spencer Cole had stepped into the space left by the man on stage and she just couldn’t.

  Could. Not.

  With the way her knees went soft and her heart started to pound. She closed h
er eyes out of self-defense but that only heightened her other senses. She didn’t know how, but she could feel his eyes on her again. It felt like he wanted her, maybe as much as she wanted him. But Bette knew better.

  He was looking for more proof that she was a walking fraud. Because he saw right through her.

  Knowing that made her…God. Made her wish she was at Club Volare under different circumstances and that this man’s name was anything but what it was. Bette hadn’t had sex since her ex. She’d pretty much just accepted that most real-life men couldn’t offer her the kind of D/s stuff she craved, and even the ones who could would, in the end, probably just disappoint her in the humanity department. And she’d already had enough disappointment for a lifetime. Plus, she couldn’t afford to get distracted—she had more important things to worry about now. Like Lizzie. So she’d just kind of put her libido in storage for the time being.

  And then Spencer freaking Cole comes along.

  Bette forced herself to look around, at anyone else but Cole. It didn’t matter. She could feel him, no matter where she looked. She’d come to Club Volare for him…and now the only thing she wanted to do was that.

  Come.

  For him.

  Which was a freaking problem, because if she wanted to get her family back together, she needed to nail Spencer Cole to the wall.

  Acknowledging that shocked her back to her surroundings just in time for another oh-shit moment.

  “…bidding begins with lot number one. Subs, present yourselves.”

  Wait. Bidding? On lots? Like…an auction?

  “Lot one.” Blue’s excited whisper drew Bette’s horrified gaze. The other woman practically bounced in her heels as she grabbed Bette’s hand. “That’s us!”

  Cole cursed silently as his lying sub mounted the stage. The expression on her heart-shaped face. Screw him six ways to hell and leave him to burn because that woman was greener than grass. And it was his goading that had driven her up there.