The Dare Collection: March 2018. Nicola Marsh

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       CHAPTER EIGHT

      Tanner

      DOING THE ROUNDS of my clubs after putting in two long days at the patisserie wasn’t my idea of fun, but I’d been away for almost a year and I wanted to do a stealth visit to see how the managers and staff were coping.

      I needn’t have worried. I only hired the best and the four clubs I’d visited so far were operating with precision. Embue was the last on my list and, like the rest, the managers were on top of things and the place was packed.

      I’d planned on spending thirty minutes mingling, chatting with staff, getting a general feel where I could liven things up.

      That plan shot to shit when I spied Abby. Writhing on the dance floor, arms flung wide, hips swaying, out of time with the music but dancing to some imaginary rhythm in her head.

      Damned if it wasn’t the most erotic thing I’d ever seen.

      So I watched. My cock throbbing in time with some crap techno beat. Wanting her.

      I saw some guy sleaze up to Makayla and they started chatting like long-lost lovers, all over each other. Leaving Abby a third wheel and about to leave.

      She strode off the dance floor and twenty guys in the vicinity swivelled their heads to watch.

      Not that she wore anything revealing. In fact, her modest black dress was practically outlandish in a sea of scantily clad women. But it was the way she carried herself. The set of her shoulders. The tilt of her head. The way her hips moved.

      She exuded class. And every horndog in the place wanted to see if they could get behind that cool exterior and see how far she could be pushed to get off.

      When one guy put down his drink and walked towards her, I made a move, cutting him off. ‘Sorry, buddy, she’s mine.’

      A possessive statement I had no right making but no way in hell would I stand by and watch Abby have to fend off a bunch of horny pricks.

      I reached out to tap her on the shoulder when she spun around and smacked into me.

      ‘Whoa.’ My arms shot out to grab her, her look of abject horror at finding me here making me want to tease the hell out of her. ‘You’ve got to stop throwing yourself at me like this.’

      She recovered her wits and her balance but I didn’t release her. I liked having her this close, her nipples grazing my chest, her palpable heat warming my body, the sweat-slicked sheen to her skin.

      She looked radiant.

      ‘What are you doing here?’

      ‘I own the place.’ I shrugged, like it meant little, when in fact every club I owned was testament to how far I’d come—and how far I’d proved Dad wrong. ‘Haven’t been here in a year so after I locked up at the patisserie, I’ve done the rounds of my clubs, checking up on things.’

      To my surprise, she hadn’t moved. In fact, now that she’d recovered from the shock, she seemed perfectly relaxed having me hold her arms like I wouldn’t let go.

      ‘The diligent boss, huh?’

      ‘Something like that.’

      We ran out of conversation, our gazes locked in some kind of invisible heated battle, as I wondered what it was about this woman that rattled my cage.

      I wanted her with a fierceness I hadn’t felt for a long time. If ever. I dated. I screwed. I didn’t do commitment. It worked well for me. Sex as exercise. Sex for fun. Sex with women who knew the score and didn’t have any expectations.

      Women nothing like Abby.

      Abby would be a hearts and flowers kind of girl. She’d told me about her bastard ex and the emotional abuse, but who knew what kind of expectations she’d put on the guy? Maybe he hadn’t lived up to her high standards? Maybe he’d lashed out verbally when he couldn’t handle it?

      The moment I thought it, I felt guilty. Just because I wanted Abby and knew that having her would be a screw-up of monstrous proportions, I was trying to find excuses and maligning her in the process. Not cool.

      ‘I should go.’ She tried to back away, and the smart thing to do would be to release her.

      I tightened my hold. ‘Would you like a tour? You can have a drink and relax in the VIP room, then I’ll get you a taxi.’

      A refusal hovered on her lips. I saw them tremble with it before she clamped them tight and nodded.

      Mentally calling myself everything from putz to dickhead, with a long list of obscenities in between, I led her to a shimmering gold curtain in the back corner and pulled it aside.

      ‘After you.’

      She hesitated, as if unsure of my intentions. Smart girl.

      ‘What’s wrong?’

      She glanced sideways at me and, rather than see trepidation in her eyes, I glimpsed excitement. ‘I’ve danced for about two hours nonstop and I’m about to faint if I don’t get a drink. Could we skip the long tour and head straight to the bar?’

      I smiled, her honesty refreshing. ‘Sure, this way.’