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CHAPTER ONE

LAS VEGAS GRAND PRIX | SUNDAY NIGHT

"Holy. Shit."

The notification on my tipping app can't be right. Among the usual tens and twenties is a single tip that’s slapped me sideways.

One. Thousand. Dollars.

I stare at my phone screen, frozen halfway through peeling off a fake eyelash. The username RP11 glows at me, a saucy little dare saying, “C’mon, you know you want me.” There’s no profile pic, so no clue who'd drop a grand for a five-minute burlesque routine.

"What knocked your jaw on the floor?" Delilah's sequins catch the light as she leans over my shoulder. Her perfume mingles with the greasepaint and sweat of the dressing room. "Goddamn, girl. Someone's got deep pockets and loves how you bump and grind."

"It’s gotta be a mistake." My thumb hovers over the notification, like if I touch it, it’ll go poof . But fuck me, that's rent money sitting there, plus I could get the vintage black corset I was drooling over last night.

Delilah straightens and mists a cloud of setting spray over her elaborate makeup. "Those F1 boys can easily drop that kinda cash on dinner. Guess he really liked the show."

I catch her gaze in the mirror. "F1 boys?"

"The racing crowd? Grand Prix weekend?" She raises a perfectly penciled brow. "Maiken Lange, where’s your head? The city's crawling with them. That's why we're booked solid on a Sunday night in November."

“Oh.” I've been so focused on performing my new routine that I haven't even noticed how packed The Golden Oyster is, but now it clicks.

The VIP tables full of well-dressed men, the electric energy, and those green eyes that hadn't left me during my entire "Retro Cool" routine. The whistles and applause when I'd finally dropped my dress in a slow, deliberate cascade had been thunderous, but I’d felt that man’s intense gaze follow me offstage.

I tap the notification, transferring the tips to my bank account before anyone can change their mind. I’m not dumb enough to keep questioning.

Time to get dressed and GTFO.

I shimmy into skinny black pants, then add a black lace bustier, a zebra-print jacket, and red suede ankle boots; it’s 80's Week in Maiken Lange's rotating retro wardrobe and I’m going for Desperately Seeking Susan without the gum snapping and endless cigarettes.

A quick touch-up of lip gloss, extra shiny tonight to catch the light and make my mouth look like an invitation.

I add a spritz of gingersnap perfume, drape my garment bag over my arm, and throw a kiss at my reflection. I'm a gift to myself and no one else.

The club's still buzzing when I emerge from backstage. Blue and red lights cut through artificial fog and cigarette smoke. The crowd stands three-deep at the bar, money flowing as freely as the booze.

Scanning the room, I thread my way toward Eddie at the end of the bar to collect my cash tips. I catalogue faces — regulars, tourists, and... dayum , there he is. The man from the VIP section, the one whose gaze made me feel appreciated, not objectified.

Well done, sir.

I'd thrown him a saucy wink from the stage, then held my hand to my head like a telephone and mouthed, "Call me." He'd answered with a slow sexy smile, and now I’m wondering if he’s my Mr. Moneybags. Not that I’ll do anything more about it.

Flirtation stays on the stage. I learned that lesson the hard way.

He stands with two other men near their table.

The guy is lean and unquestionably fit, but not in a bulky, try-hard way.

His every movement is controlled and deliberate.

Dark wavy hair cropped close, five o'clock shadow highlighting a sharp jawline.

The guy gives “classic handsome” with a brooding edge.

His is the kind of face that makes smart women stupid.

My nethers sit up and take notice.

No. Bad, Maiken. We don't date patrons. Remember Lear? Four months of "You're my sparkling diamond," before he remembered he had a rich wife and I got tossed aside like a piece of cheap plastic vending machine jewelry.

This dude’s not really engaging with his companions. One is tall and lean with similar features and seems more interested in his phone than anything else. They’re brothers, maybe? The third is loud and obnoxious, clearly intoxicated, eyes scanning the dancers like he's in the meat section at Vons.

Ew.

I smile and nod at club regulars as I squeeze through the mass to reach the bar.

Eddie hands over my envelope with a wink. "Banner night, Mai." He nods toward the VIP table. "Your admirer's been asking about you."

"Which one?"

"Not the jackass." His eyes narrow. "That one's trouble. Already had to warn him about grabbing at Yasmine."

Before I can respond, Trouble Himself detaches from his group and weaves toward me, parting the crowd like Moses. Up close, he reeks of designer cologne and entitlement, his pupils dilated and his smile sharp.

"Beautiful show." He invades my space, breath hot against my face. "Damien Betterton, Junior. You might know the name."

I don't, and I don't care to.

"Thanks for coming."

Shit. Bad word choice. I know it the minute his smile widens.

He leans closer. "I'd love to come again. How about a private encore?"

"Sorry. No. We don't do private shows." I step back, meeting Eddie's watchful gaze across the bar.

Mr. Entitled isn't having it. He grabs my wrist and yanks me toward him. "Don't be like that, sweetie. I can make it worth your while."

My pulse hammers where his fingers dig into my skin.

"Please let go of me." He gets one nice warning. If I have to ask again, I'm gonna smack the mouth off this idiot's face.

"I'm not finished?—"

Another hand grips Douche Bag's wrist with such force that his fingers spring open. I stumble back a step and look up to find those same green eyes that had watched me from the audience.

"She said no."

Dickle's face contorts. "What the fuck, Reece?"

"Touch her again and you'll bloody well find out exactly what the fuck.

" His voice drops to the kind of quiet that makes people pay attention, then back away. Nothing in his expression changes, but something dangerous flickers behind those intense eyes. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t fear taking a hit.

The sullen guy — The brother? — materializes at ass-wipe's elbow. "Junior, mate, pack it in. No one’s got time for this shit." He seems equal parts annoyed and bored, like this is a regular occurrence. "Let's get another drink and blow some money on blackjack."

Eddie materializes beside us, all six-foot-four of tattooed bouncer. "Problem here?"

"No problem," says my defender, still holding Douche Bag’s wrist. "My friend is just leaving."

Asshole wrenches free, face flushed. "You've lost your fucking mind, Reece. Graham's not gonna like this."

"I don't give a damn what Graham likes." Reece turns to the third guy. "Get him back to the hotel, Wyn."

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about me, little brother.”

Muttering in a way that means he’s pissed to be the babysitter, Wyn drags Junior What’s-His-Nuts away. Eddie dogs their asses right to the door.

Meanwhile, Reece turns to me, concern replacing the hardness in his expression. "Did he hurt you?"

His voice is different now, gentle, and a British accent registers with my brain.

Fuuuck. Up close, he's even more striking — emerald eyes under dark brows, perfectly straight nose, lips that look like they know exactly what to do with a woman’s body.

He’s a poster boy for the idealized male lifestyle.

"No. I'm fine." I rub my wrist. I’m gonna bruise for sure. Great. "But I think you just made an enemy."

A smile ghosts across his face. "Don’t worry about that guy." He extends his hand. "Reece Pritchard."

"Maiken Lange." I clasp his hand, and there it is — a spark of attraction.

Shit-shit-shit.

This is something I don’t need. Attraction equals distraction, and that’s a road this ho don’t wanna hoe again. Been there, done that too many times, and it never ended well.

"Sorry about Junior. He's..." Reece pulls a face and shrugs like he doesn’t have a nice way of finishing that sentence.

So I do. "An entitled jackass?"

His laugh is an amazing surprise, a warm rumble that makes my lady bits take even more notice. And the smile it ends with? Fucking media worthy.

"I was going to go with ‘a piece of shit’.”

I laugh. “That’ll do too.”

Eddie appears at my elbow. "Better continue this conversation outside, Mai. That dude's making noise about calling management."

Reece's expression gets hard. "Let me guess. He’s claiming his daddy owns half the strip?"

Eddie nods. "Something like that."

"You should go." I jerk my chin toward the door. "I don't want you getting into trouble because of me."

He shrugs. "I'm already in trouble with those guys. Might as well make the bullshit worthwhile, yeah?” That award-winning smile makes an appearance. “Have dinner with me? I know we just met, but I'd like to make things right."

I blink, surprised. I kinda figured he was angling for the same thing his not-buddy wanted, but with a bit more subtlety. "You wanna have dinner? With me ?"

"Unless you have other plans?" There's a cautious hope in his eyes, and I realize he isn’t like the entitled fucker who grabbed me.

Still, I should say no. I’m teaching tomorrow, and guys who look like him always come with complications. But there's something genuine in his expression that makes me wanna hang out with him.

Reece Pritchard seems cool. Plus, he has a story and, dammit, I’m a sucker for guys with tragic backstories. So, yeah, I know where this is going and I’m helpless to resist.

I slip my arm through his. "Tell you what. I know a place where no one will bother us, and they make bitchin’ onion rings."

His smile widens, transforming his face into something truly outstanding. He’s gone from media darling to Prince fucking Charming. "Lead the way, Maiken."

God, am I dead .