# Pulled Under

Kelli Ireland

The Bare TruthJust weeks ago, Levi Walsh became the proud part-owner of Beaux Hommes, a bar featuring the sexiest exotic male dancers in the city – including himself. But as Levi, a financial whiz in his own right, goes over the books, he realizes something is definitely not right. And then the IRS comes knocking on his door.IRS investigator Harper Banks is determined not to notice that Levi is hot, ripped and seriously sexy. Her job is to investigate dirty businesses, not indulge in even dirtier pleasures. But even as his skilled seduction melts her rigid self-control, Harper is certain of one thing: Levi is lying to her. Which means she'll have to strip him down…and pull him under!

The Bare Truth

Just weeks ago, Levi Walsh became the proud part-owner of Beaux Hommes, a bar featuring the sexiest exotic male dancers in the city—including himself. But as Levi, a financial whiz in his own right, goes over the books, he realizes something is definitely not right. And then the IRS comes knocking on his door.

IRS investigator Harper Banks is determined not to notice that Levi is hot, ripped and seriously sexy. Her job is to investigate dirty businesses, not indulge in even dirtier pleasures. But even as his skilled seduction melts her rigid self-control, Harper is certain of one thing: Levi is lying to her. Which means she’ll have to strip him down...and pull him under!

“What is it exactly that you do for Beaux Hommes, Mr. Walsh?”

His eyes grew hooded. Tossing his glasses onto the desk behind him, he slowly pulled his sweatshirt off to reveal a wickedly cut torso, his obliques so defined they were like funnels for the eye, drawing it straight to... Whoa.

Harper lost her battle to subdue a heated blush. “You’re a stripper. Why are you working in the office?”

His face closed down. “They keep the Hooked on Phonics in the closet for us to come by and use whenever we want.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she fumbled, beyond irritated that she’d so completely lost her footing. She’d known he was a stripper. She just hadn’t expected him to own it with such authority—or to demonstrate it.

His shoulders went rigid. “Stop assuming I’m stupid.”

“Then stop using your body as your primary asset!”

And that, right there, was the problem. She’d assumed he was harmless.

She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the third book set in the world of Beaux Hommes, the most exclusive all-male revue in Seattle. This story definitely showcases some of the hottest skills the men have, not the least of which is brains. The men are all more than fun personalities and, well, great bodies. They’re all driven to find the ultimate success.

Oh! You’re curious about their greatest skills? They might argue, but I’m going to set the record straight: their capacity to love wildly is off the charts.

Writing this, the third book in the trilogy, was the most challenging story I’ve ever undertaken. Never before have I had two characters so absolutely opposite to each other, two people who have very legitimate reasons to distrust, even dislike, each other from the moment they meet. Our hero has a past that still haunts him and drives him to find monetary success. He’s taken on financial responsibility for more than just himself, and he takes his obligations seriously. But there’s more at stake for him than the bottom dollar.

And our heroine? So much is going on behind the face she shows every day. Glass ceilings, inner-office politics and a history of heartache have combined to make her who she is—cautious by nature and a definite stickler for rules. Irony twists her into knots when both she and our hero discover she’s the one person who can save his future or see him awarded three meals a day and recreation time...in prison.

Pulled Under is a story about being willing to take the kind of chances that force a person to walk the tightrope strung between want and need. Even more, this story is about discovering the confidence to follow one’s heart. When it goes against everything a person believes in? That’s when a person finds out just how far they’re willing to go for the ultimate payout.

Love.

Fondly,

Kelli Ireland

Pulled Under

Kelli Ireland


www.millsandboon.co.uk

KELLI IRELAND spent a decade as a name on a door in corporate America. Unexpectedly liberated by Fate’s sense of humor, she chose to carpe the diem and pursue her passion for writing. A fan of happily-ever-afters, she found she loved being the puppet master for the most unlikely couples. Seeing them through the best and worst of each other while helping them survive the joys and disasters of falling in love? Best. Thing. Ever. Visit Kelli’s website at kelliireland.com.

## MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

To Adrienne.

Without you, this story simply wouldn’t have been.

I owe you huge.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

Extract

Copyright

[1]

A PAPER AIRPLANE soared over the top of Harper Banks’s cubicle wall and bounced off her computer screen. She picked it up and unfolded it, then scowled. The plane had been made of what had to be the hundredth copy to circulate the office from her most famous pinup photo shoot for a custom motorcycle magazine. Disgust drove a hot flush across her skin.

“Ignore them, Harper.” Daniel Miller looked over his shoulder and shouted, “You guys cut the crap already!”

“Forget it, Daniel. They won’t stop. I’ve moved on.” A woman might think the universe would cut her a little slack for a slew of bad decisions, but no. No slack for her. She’d spent the past five years paying for blindly leaping for that elusive gold ring—and failing.

Her cell gave a Harley-like rumble, the ringtone she’d set for her dad.

“I need to take this,” she muttered, turning to face her desk. She swiped her thumb across the screen and propped the phone between her shoulder and ear so she could talk and type. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

On the other end of the phone, the TV volume decreased and papers rustled. “How’s the IRS’s newest senior field investigator managing today?” her dad asked, gravelly voice rumbling from deep in his chest.

“Oh, you know—working to corral corruption and put bad guys behind bars.”

“Doin’ your job then.” He coughed. “You get your copy of Cycle Mania yet?”

“Nope. Hoping it comes in today. Anything good?” Harper tapped her user ID and password into the network portal, absently listening to her dad ramble about the latest innovations for the big choppers they used to work on together. An unexpected sensory memory swamped her and she could smell the rich exhaust of an old Kawasaki H1 500 engine, could feel the smooth glide of cloth over chrome.

She’d loved motorcycles since she was a kid, always interested in the hows and the whys. It had given her a connection with her dad, a way to gain his attention and earn his approval. When had he first let her near the machines he’d made his living from? Absently interrupting him, she asked. “How old was I when I started helping you out at the shop, Dad?”

He snorted. “Couldn’t a been more than four. Showed up with one a them Cracker Jack temporary tattoos on your arm, proud as hell and showing it off to all the guys. Without even asking, you grabbed a cloth and set yourself to polishing the tailpipes of that ’72 FLH Shovelhead Hardtail I was chopping. Like you were part of the crew. Had a soft spot for that bike ever since.” He paused, his breathing slightly labored from years of smoking. “It’s been a long time since I laid hands on anything that makes my heart speed up like that bike.”

“Good thing Mom’s not around to hear you say that,” she teased, clicking to open the desktop file labeled Beaux Hommes. She scribbled a couple of notes on a legal pad and switched the screen to her email inbox.

“She’s working overtime at the store this week,” he grumbled.

Harper knew just how much it bothered him that his wife had been forced to work at their local grocery store after the custom cycle shop her dad and his two brothers had built went under. Her old man had worked for as long as Harper could remember to design the next big thing in the motorcycle industry, always sure he was on cusp of some great financial payout. It had never come through. He’d been forced to start letting staff go just before Harper left for college, one man at a time. Two years after she’d graduated, he and his brothers closed the doors for good.

It had been just as much of a blow to Harper as it had been for her dad. She’d lived that dream with him, worked side by side to learn the trade, designing custom bikes, running the wrench or the paint gun, managing the books and, like him, always waiting for that one chance to make it big.

Which was why when her former lover, Marcus, offered to help her recognize the family dream, she’d jumped on board. And been screwed over.

Her email pinged. The sound jolted her from rapidly spiraling memories, and the phone slipped from her grasp. Fumbling, she caught it before it hit the desk and put the receiver to her ear. “Sorry. Got a little nostalgic for a second, Dad.”

“Nostalgic, my ass. You were thinking about Marcus. You ever hear he gets paroled, let me know. I may be old, but no one’s got to puree my peas yet, and my trigger finger’s still in fine shape.” The man’s hostility rolled over the line and through her consciousness, the familiar threat both soothing and terrifying.

“We’ve been over this, Dad. I’m a federal officer now, so no threatening to off anyone when we talk, yeah?”

“Some days I wish you’d joined the mafia instead of the IRS.”

“Funny guy.” She absently scanned the email that had just landed in her inbox and froze. It was what she’d been waiting for—the green light to move on the strip club. And she’d been named the lead investigator. Three months of subtle but hard work and endless hours of research had finally paid off. She was going to take these guys down.

She interrupted her old man. “I’ve got to go, Dad. Work’s calling. I’ll be out of town for a few days, but I’ll call soon.”

“Be careful, baby girl,” he said, voice husky.

“Always. Love you both.” She hung up, already out of her chair and in motion. Gathering the loose files on her desk, she shoved them and her laptop into her beat-up messenger bag. Daniel nearly ran her over as he charged into her cubicle as she headed out.

He grinned. “You get the email?”

“Yep,” she said with an answering smile. “I’m cleared for Seattle.”

“They’re giving you the lead on this one. It’s about time. You earned it.”

“Thanks.” She swallowed hard. “You’re still on the case, though.”

“Yeah. I’ll follow you in a week—sooner if you need me—and we’ll wrap up whatever you’ve got, get the local field office involved for cleanup and close the case. Standard fare, but this is your first time flying solo, Harper.” He studied her with a decidedly calculated look. “You cool?”

“Cool? Man, she’s colder than the Arctic in January,” a voice muttered over a near cubicle wall.

“You know, just because you have a dick doesn’t give you carte blanche to act like one,” she snapped. Still, the guy’s barb stung.

As the only female investigator in this division, she’d expected to have to smash some glass ceilings, but she hadn’t anticipated the outright animosity she’d faced from her peers and, in some cases, superiors.

Yes, she’d once been investigated herself by the IRS’s criminal investigative unit, but she’d been exonerated completely.

And seeing that process in action, observing the security with which the agents had done their jobs, had prompted her to pursue the kind of financial stability she’d never known growing up. Dreams were great, but they didn’t pay the mortgage or put food on the table. So she’d put her accounting degree to work for the very entity that had proven to her that policy and procedure could give her a different type of satisfaction.

Daniel, the only coworker who’d shown her any level of genuine camaraderie over the years, offered her a hand and tipped his chin in the direction the slight had come from. “I’ll deal with that later.”

“Don’t bother.” One corner of her mouth kicked up. “On a scale of one to infinity, my witty factor will always be higher than most of these guys’ sperm counts.”

He laughed, ignoring the sputtering of a couple of voices nearby. “You really should have ditched the rules and gone out with me when I asked.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still of the opinion that if you break the rules, you own the consequences. Besides, I wasn’t ready for that kind of commitment.” And after Marcus, she probably never would be.

He considered her, his eyes searching her face. “What would it take to make you break the rules?”

“Nothing short of a life-changing experience—and I’m not looking for that kind of commitment, either.” Daniel reached for her but she stepped out of range. “I’ll catch the red-eye to Seattle first thing in the morning and check in after I get a feel for the place. Keep a bag packed on the off chance I have to call you in early.”

“I’ll pack as soon as I get home.” He tipped his head toward the lobby and spoke so low Harper had to lean in to hear him. “Don’t go out there with the idea you’ve got something to prove to these desk jockeys, Harper. That’s how people end up getting in over their heads.”

“I’m almost six feet tall without heels, so the odds of me getting in over my head are slim to none. Tell the director I’m out and I’ll be in touch after I wrap the first day.”

She started for the lobby, her stride long and sure. The anomalous snap of her stiletto heels on the thin industrial carpet was muted but still set her apart from the muffled shuffle of men’s dress shoes. She couldn’t care less. She’d been given her first solo assignment, and she was going to work—and close—this case with her notorious efficiency.

For a brief second, she felt sorry for the strippers at Beaux Hommes. She hated to see people lose their jobs. But corruption couldn’t be stopped otherwise. They could dance at other clubs.

The owners, on the other hand, the men she suspected were using the club as a front to move large amounts of cash? Harper intended to make those men pay the highest possible price for their lies and corruption.

And to her, the price to be paid for deception was never high enough.

* * *

LEVI WALSH PROPPED his elbows on the small desk and tunneled his fingers through his hair. A monstrous headache had settled on his temples. If it kept evolving at this rate, it would become a full-blown migraine before the club opened its doors later tonight. Considering he was the marquee dancer this evening, he couldn’t afford the complication. Because Levi was in deep shit.

He’d bought into the club as a 25-percent owner six weeks ago. After the three other owners discovered Levi was an investment whiz, they’d encouraged him to check out the books. They didn’t realize he’d been the kid who’d gone to the University of Washington at age sixteen and then the Foster School of Business for his postgraduate degree at age twenty. They only knew him as the shy boy who’d been thrust onto the stage during open-call night on a fraternity dare. The other dancers had bet against him surviving the experience. He’d taken their money right down to the last dime. He’d enjoyed working at the club and believed in its earnings potential. Even so, prior to the purchase, Levi had taken a couple of days and done an in-depth review of the profit-and-loss statements and both the digital and manual-entry ledgers. The club turned out to be a bigger moneymaker than he’d estimated, so he’d bought in. It had nearly wiped out his and his parents’ investment funds, but the returns should have been immediate.

But then, just days after he’d signed the contracts, he’d learned via a passing comment from the general manager about a third ledger, one the guy used to track “daily stuff” before entering firm numbers into the formal ledgers. That had made Levi very uneasy. Since then, he’d had been bugging the general manager, Kevin Metcalf, to hand over that third ledger.

It had taken almost a month to corner him, but Levi had caught Kevin in the main office this morning and demanded the ledger, no excuses. Kevin had handed it over and retreated to his private office without a word.

Now that the manual-entry book was in his hands, though, Levi was sorry he’d pressed. Something was seriously wrong. Granted, he was busted-ass tired after having been up all night entertaining Sarah—or was it Tara? Whatever. He wasn’t nearly so tired he couldn’t decipher simple double-entry bookkeeping ledgers.

Leaning forward again, he parked his head in his hands and tried to view the ledger entries from a different perspective. It didn’t help. They didn’t add up. “What a freakin’ mess.”

The club’s general manager ought to be whipped with the electrical cord from an adding machine for the mess he’d made of this thing. There should be checks and cross-checks to ensure nothing was omitted, skipped or forgotten. Not in this case. How the company managed to function blew his mind. That he depended on it for roughly half of his monthly income? His gut cramped.

The digital files he’d reviewed had led him to believe the club was raking in the cash. If he’d seen this third ledger, he would have abandoned the deal before he reached the end of the book’s first page. Levi had made a very bad and very costly mistake.

Picking up his cell, he hit speed dial for the direct number to Jeff Wheaton, the owner Levi was most familiar with. The alcohol distributor was also the owner who’d originally approached Levi about buying in.

The man answered on the second ring. “Wheaton.”

“Jeff, it’s Levi.”

“What’s up, man?”

“Have you seen the manual ledger—the third ledger—Kevin keeps for the club?” The pause on the other end stretched out so long Levi checked his phone’s screen to ensure the call hadn’t dropped. “Did I lose you, Jeff?”

The guy cleared his throat. “Apologies. I was trying to remember whether I’d ever seen his working ledger.”

Levi blew out a hard breath. “This isn’t a working ledger, Jeff. This is a mess of epic proportions. There’s no way the P&L sheets and the digital ledger can be right if Kevin’s entering figures from this thing.”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Levi.”

“And I’m sure it’s proof the books aren’t right,” he bit out.

“How can you be sure?” It sounded as though Jeff was speaking through a clenched jaw.

“I’m looking at his ledger right now. The guy has alcohol purchases categorized as income, payroll written in and then written over multiple times in ink so there’s no telling what the right numbers are, and quarterly tax payments have been deducted more than once. I’m on page one.” Levi closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand over his forehead. “It’s royally screwed up.”

“If it will give you peace of mind, I’ll make a couple of calls, get in touch with Mike and Neil, and find out what the accountants have been apprised of,” Jeff said, his words strung tight and close together. “In the meantime, why don’t you get together with Kevin and ask him about his methods?”

The headache tightened its invisible metal band, crushing Levi’s skull. “Just keep me posted.”

“Of course.”

The distinct click of the call disconnecting sounded louder than it likely was. Levi swiped a thumb across the screen to make sure his phone was off before tossing it onto the paper-littered desk. Slowly rising, he kept his hands braced on the desk and let his head hang loose as he took a few slow breaths.

There’s an easy answer to this mess. The club’s never missed payroll, never had vendor issues. No way is it as bad as it seems. Just my paranoia. I would’ve noticed if something had been wrong, really wrong, when I reviewed the books.

He hoped.

Lifting his face, Levi slid his glasses down and, rubbing the bridge of his nose, shouted as loud as he could manage without cracking his head wide-open. “Hey, Kevin!”

Nothing but silence.

He’d find the guy and drag him in here, get him to explain the convoluted system Levi hoped and prayed was being used. “Kevin!”

Still no answer.

Shoving his glasses on, he stalked out of the tiny closet–cum–side office and glanced around.

Empty.

What the hell? Where did everyone go? And when?

A sharp knock startled him. He strode to the door and opened it a few inches, bracing his foot and shoulder on the back side to prevent being rushed. “Yeah?”

“Open the door, please.”

The woman’s voice was as smooth as fine whiskey and hot as smoke-fueled sin. Levi drew in a sharp breath. Then her foot hooked around the edge of the door to expose a length of leg that could have tempted an angel to fall. And he was no angel. He wanted to trace his fingers from the arch exposed in the cutaway heels all the way to her—

“I’ll ask once more. Open the door, please.”

Levi cleared his throat. “Club opens at nine tonight. Come back then.”

She laughed, the sound rich and throaty. “Right. Open the door. Now.”

The authority that infused her voice made Levi’s brows draw down, pulling the skin over his temples and making his headache even more pronounced. “Shit.”

“That’s closer to the response I expected. You know who I am?”

“No clue. I’ve got a headache.”

“Isn’t that usually my gender’s line?” she asked drolly.

“Cute. Seriously, club’s not open.” He moved his foot just as she shoved. The door nailed him in the forehead, the impact splitting his skull. Stumbling away from the door, he bent forward at the waist and clutched his head. “Son of a bitch.”

“Now that? That’s more the greeting I’m used to.”

He slowly stood, his gaze traveling over the longest legs he’d ever seen, over the trim swell of hip and the tight nip of waist, over a pair of what had to be heaven-sanctioned breasts and up to stunning gray eyes. Ringed in sooty lashes, those eyes were cool, almost cold, and hidden behind benign, ’50s-style men’s glasses. She hadn’t played up the pixie cap of black hair that framed a face almost devoid of makeup. Her full lips curled down at the corners.

“You got your fill yet?”

“Huh?”

“C’mon. I realize the door caught you on the head, but it wasn’t nearly hard enough to warrant me breaking out the hand puppets.” She blinked slow, smiled slower. “Unless, of course, your head is as thick as it seems, based on the sound it made on impact.”

“Thick?”

“Head, door, thickheaded.”

Levi chuffed out a short breath. “You think I’m stupid?” The idea entertained him. It also made him want to prove her wrong. The longer he thought about it, the more her assertion pissed him off. “Rather juvenile assumption. You’ve spent less than three minutes in my presence.”

She waved the comment off and glanced around the office. “I need to speak to a manager.”

“I qualify.” He didn’t elaborate.

“Are you the manager?”

“I’m the only employee here, so it’s me or no one.”

“Looks like today’s just not your day, handsome.”

“Why?” he asked absently, massaging the knot forming on his forehead.

One corner of her mouth curled up. “I really have to speak to someone with authority.”

“And I told you I’m your only option at the moment.” Shrugging off the pain, he pulled his glasses off and arched one brow disdainfully. “You’ve become the bane of my existence in record time. Now, who are you, princess?”

She grinned, the expression so feral Levi fought not to take a step back. “Princess? Not terribly original, are you.” A quick flip of the wrist and she’d unclipped a bifold ID holder at her waist and held it out for him to read. He slipped his glasses on again and immediately wished he hadn’t.

“My name is Harper Banks. I’m a senior criminal investigator with the Internal Revenue Service.” She handed him a sealed envelope. “Beaux Hommes is under investigation for suspected tax evasion and fraud.”

Shit.

[2]

HALF OF HARPER’S brain was mentally peeling this guy’s clothes off because, damn, he was gorgeous. The other half demanded she forgo the mental stripper scene and simply dress him down. No way was an attractive face going to derail her field investigation before it really began.

She clipped her government ID on her hip and glanced around the office. The place was nice if you ignored the layer of dust on the fake plants and the general disorganization of what she presumed was the receptionist’s desk. Generic office furniture appeared relatively new, the visible technology more so. MacBooks and color laser printers sat idle on several desktops while somewhere deeper in the office suite, a telephone rang. But the file cabinets were out of sight, and that’s where she wanted to start.

The weight of the man’s stare was both hot and cold, curious and furious when she shifted toward him. The way he considered her, so intense and controlled, dragged an involuntary shiver up her spine.

“Uncomfortable?”

“It’s eighty-three degrees outside. I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt because your weatherman forecasted early winter temperatures last night.”

“So, not physically cold.” He crossed his arms. “What’s the problem, then?”

Harper considered him, wondering how he could still be so inexplicably sexy in a simple pair of glasses and baggy sweats. And when he lost the glasses and donned the attitude? Things south of the belt went on alert. “I’m not the one with the problem...”

“Levi.”

“Levi what?”

“Levi Walsh.”

Her eyes snapped to his face before she could stop the reaction. Interesting. So she’d nabbed the newest owner right out of the box. Lucky her.

She considered how to play this. She could tell him straight out that she knew he was the club’s newest co-owner. But he’d likely shut down and wait for the troops before talking to her. Not productive.

The other option was to go along with his game, pretend ignorance and see how much he volunteered. He might play nice if he didn’t feel cornered. Yet not owning up to the fact that she recognized him was a lie of omission, and she didn’t know if she could accept that kind of near deceit.

He watched her, widening his stance. Not quite combative but not friendly, either. “So what’s the protocol?”

“What are you, ex-military? ‘Protocol,’” she said on a snort, mind racing to another option than the lie.

He whipped off his glasses, pale blue eyes alight with irritation. “You can be as much of a smart-ass as you’d like, Ms. Banks, but don’t lord your authority over me like I’m some two-bit chump here to take your beating.”

“Quite the speech.” She tugged at her sleeves, ensuring her wrists were covered. “Beaux Hommes is being investigated—”

“Based on what? Anonymous tip? Filing discrepancies? What was the red flag that sent you haring across the country to make my life hell?”

Drawing a deep breath, she forced the clenched muscles in her jaw to relax. “If you’ll let me finish?”

He dipped his chin once.

“Gracious of you. Thanks.” Even in her heels, this guy topped her by an easy two inches, making her have to stand up straighter and lift her chin in order to meet his gaze. “Everything is outlined in the letter I handed you, but I’ll summarize.”

“Gracious of you,” he parroted, his sarcasm as thick as cold syrup and just as distasteful.

“The IRS lives to serve.” Hands resting below her belly button, she gripped her opposite wrist. “Beaux Hommes had a variety of red flags—a radical drop in revenue, excessive expenses in relation to that annual revenue, a significant increase in employees disparate to the drop in revenue and tip reporting discrepancies on official documents.”

She paused, gauging his reaction. The guy actually appeared surprised by her list, but she’d seen too much over the past few years to buy a ticket to that particular show. Still, the expression on his face wasn’t the deer-in-the-headlights, oh-man-I’m-so-busted look most audit recipients sported. He seemed concerned but curious, and that curiosity threw her for a loop. She hated loops.

“Seems like an awful lot of suspicion for a single year’s return.”

Smart, she mused. Or it had been a lucky guess. “As I said, the letter explains everything.”

His eyes roved over her and she had the distinct impression he was using the borderline rude action to buy time to formulate his response. Too bad she didn’t feel like accommodating him.

Releasing her hands so they hung by her side, she blinked slowly. “This conversation has been great, but I have to speak to the manager on duty. Now.”

“I manage the dancers, and I’m the only one here. You’ll have to make do with me.”

His lie decided her course of action. He’d implied he was nothing more than a midlevel manager. She needed access to the files as soon as possible if she was going to close this case, so they’d play it his way. “Your day just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it? First, I’d like to see the operating ledgers, as well as P&L statements for the last three years. Digital or paper copies will be fine. Current and past employee files would be helpful, too.”

“I don’t actually work in this department.”

And there it is. The first blatant, outright lie. She’d learned that the guilty regularly manipulated the truth into something they thought would offer them the most hope of escape. Knowing this firsthand didn’t squelch the sting of disappointment that he’d followed the pattern, though. She had...what? Hoped he might be honorable?

“Get over yourself,” she muttered softly enough he didn’t hear her.

He looked over his shoulder at the large wall clock. “I’m guessing everyone has gone to lunch. If you want to come back in an hour or so, I can get you in touch with the general manager, Kevin Metcalf. He’ll be able to help you with whatever you need.”

“I’m not leaving until I see those files. I have my own computer, but I’ll need access to a dedicated printer and copier.” He looked at her blankly, and she sighed. “Do you have any idea where the P&Ls or ledgers might be?”

He sighed. “I’ll have to make a couple of calls.”

“Feel free, but I’m within my jurisdiction to begin my investigation even without your help. It’ll save both of us a lot of time if you’d point me in the right direction.”

He shifted to sit on the desk behind him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Should I obtain legal representation?”

Harper strolled to the desk opposite Levi and leaned a hip against it, considering him. “You’re free to do so, but retaining an attorney won’t stop me from looking over company files and copying relevant paperwork. Even a court-ordered injunction won’t be enough. The IRS has authority in this investigation, Mr. Walsh.”

His eyes flashed even as his lips thinned. “You’re making it very hard for me to want to comply.”

She lifted one shoulder in an approximation of a shrug meant to irritate. “Not my problem.” For some reason, needling him was entertaining. “My job is to uphold the law and execute the actions detailed in that letter.”

“Nice.” He ripped the envelope open, scanned the letter and made a very visible effort to keep himself from reacting. When he looked up, he’d mastered his emotions again. “I’m going to make those calls before I give you the proverbial keys to the kingdom. You can wait here or outside.” He shoved off the desk and stalked to a tiny room off the reception area, not waiting for her response before slamming the door behind him.

“I’ll be right here,” she murmured. He had an air about him, a subtle confidence she found inexplicably attractive.

Reminding herself what was at stake, she began mentally cataloging the office. Digging into her briefcase, she pulled out her iPad and began tapping in visible inventory and taking supporting pictures. Seven desks with one computer each, yet none of the desks had any paperwork on them, save for the very first desk, where the sole phone rested. There were four printers, only one of which was actually plugged in. The others had a faint covering of dust and a general air of disuse. Interesting.

Logging it all, she wandered through the desks, randomly opening drawers and searching for any signs of use. Again, only the first desk seemed occupied.

“Who sits here?” she called out.

Levi emerged from the small office, smartphone pinned between his ear and shoulder as he flipped through the letter. “Sure. That makes sense.” He paused, glancing at her as he spoke. “No, she’s not the most agreeable person I’ve ever met.” He laughed. “You’d think, but it appears she’s unaffected by my many charms.” Another laugh. “Yeah, well, some women are completely immune to men.”

Harper blinked slowly. “Are you implying I’m a lesbian simply because I’m not falling at your feet and begging you to take me?”

He stopped, his gaze heating as it roamed over her body. As he pulled the cell phone from his shoulder, one corner of his mouth kicked up in a roguish smile. “Nope, but I would say you let your professional ambitions ruin any fun you might have. Probably ever.”

Marcus had accused her of being too ambitious, too anxious to push the next project. He’d claimed she’d been domineering and that had driven him to seek true feminine solace with their company’s receptionist. That’s when she’d realized how stupid she’d been—made even more painfully obvious when she, Marcus and their other partner, Vigo, were arrested for embezzlement and fraud.

But she wasn’t that gullible kid anymore. Her successes were hers. A woman in a man’s world, she wasn’t about to apologize for her professional drive or explain to Levi that she had plenty of fun. She’d prove it to him.

She let one corner of her mouth curl up. “Tell me, Levi. If you don’t work in this particular department, where do you work?”

“I’m employed by the club.” His eyes tightened at the admission, revealing the very early markers of crow’s-feet. “Why?”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, and his gaze dropped to the glimpse of cleavage the button-up shirt exposed. “I’m wondering how Beaux Hommes most benefits from your particular brand of charm, unpolished as it is.” She blinked slowly. “I’d assume whatever you do doesn’t require much talking.”

Shifting his attention to somewhere over her shoulder, he snorted. “Forget it, Ms. Banks. I’m not stupid enough to bait this particular dragon. I’m just trying to supplement my income.”

“So is Beaux Hommes your regular source of income?”

He eyed her with open distrust. “Sort of.”

“Do you dance to earn that income?” she asked, coquettishly tipping her head to one side. “That would require mastery of seduction.”

Levi scowled at her and tugged his collar. “I’m actually...”

Harper held her breath. She’d opened the door for him, giving him an easy way to offer her the truth.

He dropped his hands to his waist and looked at the floor. “I am a dancer. The lead dancer, actually. I got into it to support my parents after...after they...” He stumbled to a conversational halt. “What I earn here helps them out.”

She shifted from foot to foot. Something about his answer, the way he tripped over it, bothered her. “What happened with your parents, Levi?”

Lifting his chin, he considered her before laughing again, decidedly softer this time. “I’m not interested in whatever angle you’re trying to work.” His face tightened. “As for my parents? Don’t go there. They’re off the table and off-limits. Period.”

“I’m an IRS agent. I don’t work angles,” she bit out, “and I go where I have to go.” His response only made her more curious, more concerned. But pitying this man or his parents wasn’t going to close the case.

Irritation rode her spine like a free-fall carnival ride, climbing one vertebra at a time only to careen down her back and haul her stomach with it. She was caught between wanting to prove him wrong and...what? Wanting to force him to understand that she was human, too?

Harper stilled. Where had that come from? She didn’t know him, wouldn’t ever see him again after this case closed, yet it mattered what he thought of her in that particular moment? “No,” she said softly, shaking her head, unaware she’d spoken aloud until he responded.

“No, what?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered, totally thrown off balance for the first time since taking this job.

Levi considered her, the look on his face both shrewd and calculating. “Suddenly not up to the verbal sparring? That means you forfeit this round, Ms. Banks. Can your ego take it?”

Her mouth opened and closed twice before she got her voice back. “You do not want to challenge me, Mr. Walsh. I’ll take you to the mat.”

“Yeah?” He pulled his glasses off and grinned. “What will you do with me then?”

Harper realized too late that he’d walked her right into the flirtatious byplay. Fighting the urge to snarl, she held out one hand and curled her fingers. “The ledger.”

“I was hoping you’d be more creative than that.”

Something suspiciously close to attraction curled around her ankles and made its way up her legs. “I’ll ask one last time, Mr. Walsh. What is it exactly that you do for Beaux Hommes?”

His eyes grew hooded. Tossing his glasses onto the desk behind him, he slowly pulled his sweatshirt off to reveal a wickedly cut torso, his obliques so defined they were like funnels for the eyes, drawing them straight to...whoa.

Harper lost her battle to subdue a heated blush. “I get the picture. If you’re a stripper, though, why are you working in the office?”

His face closed down. “They keep the Hooked on Phonics set in the closet for us to come by and use whenever we want.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she fumbled, beyond irritated that she’d so completely lost her footing. She’d known he was a stripper. She just hadn’t expected him to own it with such authority—or to demonstrate it.

“Yeah? Well, you’re a bright woman. Choose your words more carefully when you make snap judgments.”

“Right. Because I’m sure you were in there with the ledger, what, fixing it? I didn’t know LeapFrogs had Excel spreadsheet capabilities. My bad.”

His shoulders went rigid. “Stop assuming I’m stupid.”

“Then stop using your body as your primary asset!”

And that, right there, was the problem. She’d assumed he was harmless. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

* * *

LEVI’S MUSCLES LOCKED UP. From the bottom of his feet to the top of his scalp. She had pissed him off with that last allegation, that he used his body as his primary asset. Yes, he was a stripper, but he was more than that. He wasn’t a brainless body. If that’s what she thought, though? His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed.

She was also with the IRS. He had a personal history with that arm of the government, which made defying her way more satisfying.

“Enough with the evasive maneuvers. Give me the ledger, Mr. Walsh.” She tugged.

His hands fisted, the letter crinkling in protest. “I’ll get it for you.” At least the one I intend to show you. “But for doing so, I’d appreciate little show of good faith.” Show... “Why don’t you come to the show tonight?”

“I don’t... No,” she stammered. “That’s not my flavor of entertainment.”

“How can you be sure? Have you ever been to a male revue?” He leaned back and waited.

“Hand over the ledger, Mr. Walsh. And please put your clothes on again. It’s not appropriate for you to use your body as a deterrent to this investigation.”

“Couple of big words in there for such a simple mind as mine.” He stood and slowly untied the string of his sweatpants, working the material down to expose the skin of one hip. “I’d think something like this would qualify as more of a deterrent than a simple bare chest.”

“Cut it out, Levi,” she barked, twisting away from him. “I’m going to arrest you if you don’t cut the crap right now.”

“I’m not impeding anything. I’ve invited you to the show tonight. I’ll get the ledger from...the owner I just spoke to and make copies for you. Besides, don’t you want to see firsthand how the club operates?” Leaning on the desk, he left his sweats riding low and tightened his abs, sure she wouldn’t be able to keep herself from looking.

She spun further away, immediately proving him right.

Tightening his glutes made his hips shift forward. “Ms. Banks?”

Her eyes went to his groin right before a faint blush stole across her cheeks. “Stop it.”

“If you want to see how we handle cash income, you have to come to a show and document our practices.” He straightened, tugging his pants up as he went. “I’m right, and you know it.”

Harper shook her head. “What I know is that you’re pressing me to come watch you take your clothes off. What I don’t know is why. What do you hope to gain?”

A chance. The answer popped into Levi’s head unbidden. Yes, he needed the chance to fix the ledgers. But there was also something about this woman that made him want her to have a little fun, even if it went against her better judgment. He and the guys specialized in good times.

Considering her, he kept his gaze cool and detached. “I don’t expect to get anything out of it other than a fair chance to document the club’s business practices.” And to try to figure out what Kevin did to the damn ledger to make it look like a scratch pad for a first-year English major taking graduate-level accounting—before Harper gets to it.

A fine sheen of sweat popped out on Levi’s upper lip and along his hairline. His stomach pitched and rolled like a dinghy in a violent storm. If she got her hands on the ledger, she could shutter the business. Which meant he was out of a job.

While he didn’t count on stripping for his entire income, most of the money he made at the club went into his parents’ investment portfolio. He’d supported them since his dad, a third-generation farmer, had lost everything after four consecutive drought years. Then the corn subsidies dried up. His dad hadn’t been able to pay the taxes on the land, so the IRS had taken everything from him and auctioned it off to settle the debt. His dad, the man Levi had admired all his life, had been reduced to working at a fast-food restaurant while Levi’s mom had taken a job at a big-box store as a greeter.

It enraged Levi. Here he was working his ass off to make sure his parents were taken care of, and the IRS showed up again. It struck him as far too personal. He’d watched his parents go through this once before, and he’d be damned if he’d watch it happen again.

That meant he had to keep one IRS investigator otherwise occupied until he fixed Kevin’s daily accounts ledger. Levi was absolutely willing to flirt, even tease her a bit if it distracted Harper long enough. He wouldn’t seduce her, though. Even as much as he despised the IRS, there were some things a man just didn’t do, and using sex as a manipulative weapon was up there near the top of that list.

Of course, if the club was guilty of fraud, he could be facing asset seizure and jail time. Levi would lose everything. His parents would lose everything all over again. No cost was too high to stop that from happening.

“Mr. Walsh?” Harper asked, considering him. “You’re sweating. Did you spring an unexpected fever or is your conscience suddenly manifesting?”

“My conscience is fine.” He swallowed, feeling more off balance than he had since she’d nearly caved in his skull with the door. “It’s hot in here.”

“Considering you’re not wearing your shirt and the air-conditioning is running, I’m putting my money on conscience.” She tucked her hands in her skirt pockets. “What’s got you so worried?”

“Nothing. I know the reporting practices are sound.” The lie slipped out without a thought.

“If I come to the show tonight, you’ll bring me that ledger?”

Without batting an eye, Levi held out a hand. “Agreed.”

He watched the investigator from hell hesitate before reaching out and shaking his hand, her gaze both shrewd and wary. “That was a little too easy. If you’ve misled me in any way, I will discover it, Mr. Walsh. And when I do, I’ll prosecute you to the fullest extent of the law for impeding a federal officer in the execution of her duties. Are we clear?”

His stomach plummeted even as he slowly locked stares with the one woman capable of making him hate his life. “Do your worst.”

“Oh, I will,” she answered softly, picking up her briefcase and heading for the front door. “I will.”

Levi had absolutely no doubt that she, at least, wasn’t hedging the truth.

[3]

HARPER COULD ONLY imagine the razzing she was going to get from the men in the office when they found out she’d gone to a show at Beaux Hommes. After all, she’d been pretty insistent she’d rather audit God than deal with muscle-bound men clad in G-strings and slathered in testosterone. Galling as it was, though, Levi had been right. The best way to see the club’s practices in action was to get inside during operating hours. So here she stood, assessing her wardrobe for clubbing attire.

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes at irony’s sense of humor.

Not having brought anything really appropriate for a night out, she was stuck piecing together what she could from her suitcase. One pair of low-slung skinny jeans, one pair of black platform heels and a white dress shirt with French cuffs proved the best she could do on short notice.

She fully expected Levi to put his sensual talents to good use. The image of him pulling his shirt off and easing his pants down was seared in her brain, damn him.

But for every action, there was an equal and opposite reaction. Assuming Levi intended to attempt to seduce her, her reaction was hers to control. She could play a little suggestive cat and mouse with him. She’d never take it far enough to be accused of improper behavior. He wasn’t worth losing her job over. But she was willing to take things to the very edge of the gray zone in order to retain the upper hand and control the outcome—a successful closure of this case.

For a brief moment, she wondered what her dad would think of her willingness to manipulate someone to achieve her goal. He’d be disappointed she hadn’t chosen to be a better person than the opposition. But then, that was why he was poring over pictures of bikes in magazines instead of working on them himself.

She grabbed her keys and left her hotel room. It had been ages since she’d tried to flirt with someone. Her mouth was dry enough to be declared a federal disaster area. And one eye twitched. She pressed her fingers near the edge of her eye, trying not to mess up her makeup.

Tonight was going to be all about sex without touching, innuendo without crossing invisible lines and suggestions without follow-through. She’d be on Levi’s turf, so she’d have to up her game, insecurities and history be damned.

The drive passed in a blur of GPS directives, and shaking off the last of her self doubt, she pulled up to the club. The line of women waiting to get inside surprised her. Cover was twenty bucks a head. Freaking crazy. Yet within ten minutes she was in the mass of estrogen waiting her turn to get her wrist stamped and pass through security.

Once inside, she was reluctantly impressed. The club was clean, well lit and tastefully decorated. It wasn’t as if she’d expected giant statues of Priapus to grace every square inch of free floor space, but she also hadn’t expected the fine art pieces, the comfortable seating areas or the subtle sense of wealth the interior projected. Not even close. There wasn’t anything seedy about the place. It made some of the reports she’d received more curious than ever. How could Beaux Hommes be involved in illegal business practices and still project such a sense of accomplishment? It broke every stereotypical assumption she’d had.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

Forcing herself to turn slowly, she wasn’t entirely surprised to find a waiter clad in tuxedo pants, a bow tie and shirt cuffs. She was surprised to find him maintaining eye contact despite the cleavage she was sporting.

He winked at her with an air of innocent flirtation. “Maybe a margarita? Or are you more a white-wine kind of lady?”

“I’m actually more a shot of Patrón with a beer chaser kind of woman.” The honesty of her answer surprised her. Not that she would have lied, but had she thought about it, she would have simply ordered a sparkling water and been done with it.

“Shot of Patrón it is. What kind of beer, beautiful?”

She smiled slowly, watching the man’s eyes soften as he stared at her mouth. “How about a Michelob Ultra in the bottle.”

“First drink’s on me,” he murmured. “My name’s Donovan. You need anything tonight, you find me or shout out. I’m your man.”

Uh-huh. Me and anyone else with a decent figure and a generous tipping habit. “Sure. I’ll buy my drinks, though I appreciate the offer.”

“You want a table?”

“Table?”

“Near the stage.” He tucked his serving tray under his arm as he angled his head toward the front of the club. “Those are the best seats in the house. We always keep a few available for favored patrons.”

She met his gaze, steady and confident he was doing her a favor. “I’ve never been here before.”

“All the more reason to sit near the stage. C’mon.” He reached for her hand.

Stepping away, she took a deep breath. “I’d prefer to just hang out here and see what’s what first.” She reached out and rubbed his arm, trying to soften her rejection. “I can always find you if I want a seat at the front, right?”

“The offer stands, particularly for you.” He gave a little bow. “Shot of Patrón and Michelob Ultra in the bottle on the way.”

“Thanks.” She shifted her attention to the buzz around the club, taking in the women’s excitement, the swift business the bar was doing and the orderliness with which everything ran. The first was understandable. The latter two were surprises. Given what she’d seen of the offices earlier, she hadn’t expected any sense of organization during the more chaotic regular business hours. She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. Unexpected aspects of any investigation were always worth a second look, though.

Donovan returned with her drink order. She downed the Patrón, relishing the burn even as she placed the shot glass on the serving tray. The Michelob she sipped before digging a twenty out of her pocket and dropping it on the tray. “Keep the change.”

He grinned, placing a hand over his heart. “She looks like a goddess, drinks Patrón and tips like she’s waited tables before. You might just be the perfect woman.”

“No woman’s perfect.” She patted his cheek. “Sweet sentiment, though.”

“Shout if you want anything at all. I’ll check in on you in a bit.” Pocketing the twenty, he headed to the next table of women.

It bothered her on a very fundamental level that she hadn’t been able to just take his compliment without feeling the need to dissuade him from the belief she was perfect. And that he’d mentioned her looks first really irritated her. She’d have to get over the hang-up if she hoped to win when she sparred with Levi tonight. And she always played to win.

The lights dimmed. She leaned against the wall, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as the women in the club went wild.

* * *

TOWEL WRAPPED AROUND his hips, Levi stepped into the locker room. The guys were giving each other shit in typical fashion. He loved this part of the night, when his nerves were strung tight enough to make the muffled buzz from the crowd skate across his skin with a slightly abrasive touch. It thrilled him and, if he was honest, kept him nervous—scared?—enough to ensure he forced himself to seize his alter ego by the balls, get onstage and dance his ass off. Otherwise? The urge to just settle into the background and play with his day trades was almost overwhelming.

“Levi!” Several of the men shouted greetings. Only two walked up to him and shoulder bumped him, though.

Eric and Justin, his two best friends, were winding up their dancing careers after finding success in the nine-to-five world. Part of him was jealous, but it had nothing to do with their financial accomplishments. The envy that ate at him and made him feel like a total ass was based on the relationships the two men had found.

Eric and Cass had been together long enough that Eric was starting to talk about rings and lifetimes and houses.

Justin and Grace were already engaged, having loved each other far longer than the few months they’d been together.

Every time they all went out, Levi was the fifth wheel. That he was envying his boys was one thing That he was letting himself slip into feel-sorry-for-himself territory was another. Disgusted, he drove a fist into the locker.

Eric opened his adjoining locker. He didn’t turn around when he asked, “Feeling a little violent tonight, Einstein?”

Levi snorted. “Seriously? You guys need to let the nickname go. I’m not the one with the doctorate.” He completely ignored the questionable violence call. It was too close to the truth.

Justin popped Eric with his towel, dropping trou without blinking an eye. “I might have the doctorate, but you’re the one with your own company set to make millions.”

Eric nodded toward Levi. “And the captain of finance here is going to out-earn all of us with his giant brain and play trades.”

Or dump them all into financial ruin. Levi gently banged his head against the locker, forgetting about his bruised forehead until the first shock of pain registered. “Ow.”

“Man, what happened to your head?” Eric leaned in close. “You look like you met the wrong end of a two-by-four.”

“Actually, it was the office door.”

Eric winced. “What’d you do, trip over your IQ and run headlong into your potential?”

“No, you gossipy wench. I didn’t. I happened to move at the same time—” he paused, looking around before mumbling “—at the same time the investigator from the IRS shoved her way in.”

Eric and Justin both stilled.

Levi leaned against the locker and crossed his arms. “What’s worse, Kevin kept the real ledger from me before I bought into the club.” He glanced around, feeling ridiculously paranoid. The other men moved in closer. “I was going over it today when the agent from hell showed up.”

“And?” Justin quietly pressed.

“Something’s not right.”

“Not right as in ‘Kevin can’t do basic math’ or not right as in ‘We need to pack our stuff and get out before we’re dragged down’?” Eric asked.

“I don’t think we need to get out. Not yet, anyway. And you guys in particular should be fine. I’m part owner, though, which could get a little dicier. I spent the morning with the ledger and trust me when I tell you there’s a good chance we’re going to get tagged, and hard, for something more than a little tax hiccup.”

Justin’s brow creased. “Why?”

“The IRS sends auditors when they want to look into the books. This woman identified herself as an investigator and asked not only for the standard books but also for the personnel and financial files.”

“Shit,” both men said in unison.

“Not a word to anyone else.”

“No way,” Justin muttered.

Eric nodded once. “What he said.”

Levi cocked his head to the side, listening to the music. “Your set just cued, Nick,” he shouted to one of the other dancers.

“On my way, boss man.”

“I’m after Nick, so I should get out there.” Levi opened his locker and pulled out a military uniform. “How obvious is the bruise on my forehead?”

Justin dug around in his locker and pulled out a pen and scrap of paper. “I’ll pass a quick note to the lighting guys and let them know not to run a purple or blue light over your set. Should be fine.”

Thinking about his upcoming performance, he absently touched the bruise again. “Hey. Let me borrow a piece of paper and your pen when you’re done.”

“Sure.” Justin scribbled out his note, retrieved another piece of paper and handed it and the pen over.

Levi quickly jotted down his own note and folded it twice, wrote a name on the outside and returned the pen. “Thanks.” Dropping his towel, he absently stepped into first his black G-string and then his rip-away fatigues. He sat on the bench and pulled on his combat boots and white undershirt. As the marquee dancer, he was onstage longer than most. He had a sexually suggestive song to entertain to, and he’d changed up the routine a little tonight to showcase his physicality. If Harper Banks proved brave enough to show up, he’d give her a show she’d never forget.

The crowd screamed as Nick took the stage.

“Keep this to yourselves, okay? Catch you guys later.”

Traversing the dark hallways, he stepped over cords and cables, the butterflies in his stomach building. He was going to up the heat to cook the crow he intended to serve Harper Banks. She wanted to make snap judgments on his intellect based on his appearance, wanted to believe that his IQ was equivalent to his biceps circumference? Fine. Let her. Until then, she was going to want him. He’d make sure of it. Then he was going to clean up the books and go over them line by line with her, defending every debit and credit with calm aplomb. She could suck it.

A stagehand met him in the wings. He pressed the note into the guy’s hand. “Find Donovan and give this to him as fast as you can. It’s about my set.”

The young man nodded, took the paper and disappeared down the side of the stage and into the crowd.

Rolling his head back and forth and then rotating his shoulders, Levi bounced on his toes and scanned the crowd as the emcee announced his routine.

“Ladies, you’re in luck tonight. Who here has seen Levi work the stage?” Screams. “Sounds like you can’t get enough of him. Well, the feeling’s entirely mutual.” The music started, an electronic beat with a woman’s moans and gasps in the background. “Welcome Levi to the stage!”

The crowd went wild.

[4]

THE ENERGY FROM the crowd filtered through Harper, slowly bringing her away from the wall to stand at one of the few empty tables near the back. She was on her second beer—thank you, Donovan—and beginning to get into the show. The men were spectacular, the athleticism undeniable, the dance moves seriously hot. More than once she’d had to remind herself she was here to observe the club’s business practices, not its men.

So far she hadn’t spotted anything illegal happening on this side of the curtain, but the night was young. After the show, she’d make Levi take her backstage so she could see how the dancers were logging their cash tips because, from what she’d observed, the take was damned impressive.

The lights went down and the hum of the crowd built to a static white noise that made the fine hairs on her arms rise. Faint gunfire sounded over the speakers. A very patriotic musical introduction followed. Deep and rhythmic, the DJ’s voice filled the room. “Welcome Levi to the stage!”

The crowd went wild.

“What is this, a freakin’ rock concert?” she asked no one in particular. “If they start moshing, I’m out.”

Looking over the crowd and through the mass of women waving cash, she caught a glimpse of Levi. He wore a pair of military fatigues, a white undershirt, combat boots and a hat. Strapped to his arm was a knife large enough to fillet a moose. She was gaping at him and she didn’t even care. This was not the geeky guy who’d fumbled through her arrival earlier. This was not the same man who’d taken his sweatshirt off in an attempt to distract her. There were flavors of him there, but no. This was not the same man.

The man onstage was a sexual machine. He moved with a type of confident awareness that he was it, and every woman in the place wanted him. There was a sexual...presence to him that made her rub her thighs together. A man like that would be talented in bed. He couldn’t do that thing with his hips onstage if he hadn’t done it with someone in bed.

“Probably a thousand times.” Her words were lost among the sounds of the crowd. But they were a reminder that this was a bad idea. She never should have come to the club when she knew he’d be—

Her eyes bugged when he pulled the giant knife. Her gaze locked onto his torso as he sliced the knife up his shirt halfway and then slowly, slowly worked it into his arm sheath. All the while, he kept moving his lower body—hips thrusting, glutes flexing, thighs straining the tight material of his pants. Every movement gave the smallest glimpse of his abs and a seriously cut six-pack of muscle. Tanned skin revealed a sheen of sweat under the stage lights. He gripped the edges of the now cut shirt in each hand and did a little peep show.

Money rained around him.

Moving to the edge of the stage, he spread his feet and ripped his shirt off. A near brawl broke out when he threw it into the crowd.

“Who is this guy?” she muttered.

A hand touched her elbow and she almost came out of her skin.

Whirling, she found Donovan standing next to her with a third beer in one hand and a glow stick held above his head in the other. “You look like you could use this,” he shouted over the noise.

She silently grabbed the cold beer and downed half of it, ignoring the almost nauseating way it sloshed in her empty stomach. There would be time for regret later. Right now? She had to get herself under control.

In no part of her planning had she considered she might actually want Levi. She was supposed to be controlling the situation and, thus, the case. What she was experiencing at the moment was far closer to taking a sharp corner at high speed—any control she wielded was marginal at best.

The crowd grew louder.

“I’m out,” she shouted at Donovan, digging in her pocket for the bills to cover the drink.

He grinned. “You might have to stick around a few more minutes.”

“Why?”

He jerked his chin at something over his shoulder. “You’ll have to take it up with him.”

She froze, her beer bottle halfway to her lips. “No.”

“Oh, yeah, gorgeous. He’s coming for you.”

* * *

LEVI LEAPED OFF the stage and danced his way through the crowd to Harper. She had her back to him and wasn’t moving. Tall and lean, her waist nipped in before flaring slightly over lush feminine hips. Her shoulders were a touch wide. The way her neck curved made him want to kiss her just there, at the shallow indent at the top of her spine.

Donovan leaned toward her and said something indiscernible.

She shook her head.

The waiter took her beer, looking both amused and uncertain as he moved away and lowered the glow stick. A swift lift of his chin urged her face the stage.

She didn’t.

“Don’t chicken out on me now, sweetheart,” Levi shouted above the crazy noise level.

She turned, driven by the challenge.

Levi’s breath hung in his chest. The words he’d been about to toss out fell flat at his feet. The woman he’d met today appeared absolutely nothing like the woman gazing up at him now through smoky eyes, with no glasses, full lips and sharp cheekbones—she was a complete and total knockout. Breasts that had been full earlier had been magically lifted so they were somehow more. Her shirt was tied at her waist to reveal taut abs. Tight-fitting jeans enhanced her long legs. And she wore the same heels that had knocked him out earlier. She was a pale-skinned beauty he’d totally underestimated.

One corner of her mouth curled up, and her brows slowly rose. “I’m not your sweetheart.”

Gripping every ounce of pride he could muster, he reached out and traced one finger along her jawline. “You could be.”

Her laughter was like the best cigar followed by a sip of expensive whiskey—rich, sultry, cultivated. Seductive. But her voice? It was the way a voice should sound after a good hour of foreplay. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“That line’s wasted on the girls. I save it for the women, and trust me, Ms. Banks, from where I stand? You’re all woman.” He closed the distance between them, wrapped his hand around her neck and leaned in. “You want backstage? You’ll have to come with me.”

“I don’t have to have your help to get backstage.”

“But I can make your life easier, and a whole lot more fun.” He kneaded his fingertips into the tense muscles that ran along her spine. Not nearly as calm as she’s putting on. “C’mon.”

He watched her closely, aware the moment the muscles in her neck went from tight to nearly rigid. Levi dropped his hand and stepped just out of reach. Holding out his hand, he curled his fingers in a come-here motion. She started to lift her hand in his direction then paused. She considered him for a moment before finally closing the distance. Their fingers touched, a simple brush of skin across skin. Awareness jolted through him, an electrical shock to his entire system. His breath came faster. His fingers twined around hers in a jerky movement. His focus narrowed.

Her eyes never left his.

Levi began to back toward the stage, pulling her along slowly. The noise level seemed to have decreased, reduced to little more than a buzz as he took precise steps, redirecting his path to the stage stairs. Nothing, and no one, existed in that moment but the woman he guided toward the stage. Everything else became secondary. His plan for a little cultivated teasing wasn’t going to be enough anymore. This wasn’t the woman he’d encountered earlier, the one he’d been so sure he could direct at will. No, the woman whose hand he now held had shown up in the equivalent of feminine armor tonight. She’d come prepared for a fight, and that was the last thing he’d expected. He needed to rethink his approach, figure out how to maintain control. That would take time—time he didn’t have. His only choice was to move forward, to exercise extreme caution, to execute the subtle seduction and make her want him. The rest he’d improvise. It had to start somewhere, and given their location? His only choice was to dance for her.

Yanking her close, he thrilled when she planted her free hand on his chest, her fingers reflexively curling into the pad of muscle there as she lifted her face to his.

He flexed his pec.

Her fingers spasmed and she huffed, her hot breath skating over his lips.

Drawing her closer, he spun her in a tight circle so she was the one to back up the steps, keeping her off balance and touching him. All that mattered was that she didn’t stop.

The first step parked her breasts at eye level for him. Grinning, he kept her moving. She could either go where he directed her or tip over. Her choice.

“You’re a real bastard,” she muttered.

“Ya think?” Grinning up at her, he winked and stopped her in the middle of the stage. “Wait until I really get going.”

Amusement flickered in her gaze before she snuffed it out.

“What’s it going to take to get you to let your hair down a little, Ms. Banks?”

“You could stop calling me Ms. Banks, for one.”

The sharp command was issued with an undertone of insecurity that surprised him. “Consider it done...Harper.”

Her fingers flexed against his chest before she flattened them out and, palm over his heart, leaned in close. “Are you going to talk me to death, or are you going to get down to business?”

“Oh, this one isn’t business, honey.” He couldn’t stop his smile widening as he moved around her with all the grace he could muster. “This one’s just for fun.”

She stood perfectly still, facing stage right.

Stopping behind her, he leaned in so his lips were a mere whisper from the shell of her ear. “What are your fantasies, Harper?”

A slight stiffening of her spine said she’d heard him over the crowd’s din. Without warning, she spun to face him and closed the distance between them, her chest pressed against his. “My fantasies aren’t up for discussion.”

He lowered his lips to within a hairbreadth of hers. “Then I’ll have to go with my...highly...active...imagination.” Every last word was punctuated by the sensual brush of his fingertips over her skin. He thrilled at the goose bumps that chased his touch.

The music changed to a distinctive techno beat. The suggestive lyrics heated his blood. Skating his hands down her arms, he shifted, took one hand and spun her out and away. Her eyes were wide, surprise evident in their gray depths. Clearly she hadn’t expected him to go through with the dance. This would teach her to doubt him.

Levi dropped her hand and went to his knees, crawling toward her in time with the music’s bass line. She shifted from foot to foot as he drew closer, her eyes darting left and then right. She scrubbed her hands on her thighs and swallowed. It almost looked as if she was fighting the urge to run. Odd. He’d taken her for a bit more adventurous than that.

He went to his belly at her feet and then rolled over. Grasping her ankles he spread her legs and slid between them, hips thrusting up, the short, sharp movements an unmistakable sexual pantomime. His vantage point gave him an uninterrupted view up the long, lean length of her body. He was tempted beyond measure to touch her.

So he did.

Running his hands up over her calves and down again nearly scrambled his brain cells. The bare skin across the tops of her feet appeared pale in the bright light. Hungry for skin-to-skin contact, he ran his fingertips from the tips of her shoes across the narrow expanse of bare skin and under the hem of her jeans to grip her ankles. He reveled in the silkiness of her skin for a moment before tracing his way down the sides of her shoes to her arches. The way she twitched thrilled him. No way could she say he wasn’t getting to her. Likewise, he couldn’t deny she was affecting him in a way no woman ever had.

Definite complication to a calculated seduction.

He’d deal.

Sliding through her legs, he went to his knees before scaling her body one handhold at a time. He was careful not to cross proprietary boundaries. That didn’t mean he let her move away. No, with the firm grip of each hand he insisted she accept his touch. The tension radiating off her body said he was well on his way to accomplishing what he’d set out to do: cranking her up.

Groin brushing her ass, he danced for her, with her. He ran his hands around her waist and splayed them over the slim expanse of skin above her jeans and below the shirt hem she’d knotted above her waist.

Her belly fluttered beneath his touch, her breathing undeniably rapid.

Applying subtle pressure to her abs encouraged her to lean into him. Gentle direction to and fro got her moving her hips in time to the music. She had great rhythm, keeping up with his direction without difficulty. Bending forward, he wrapped his arms around her and caged her with his arms, his chest, his hips. “You’ve got moves.”

She didn’t answer.

He let her go with reluctance and moved around her. Reaching behind him, he took her hands and dragged them up his body to his neck and then, with deliberation, down his body to the top edge of his pants. He parked her fingers under the waistband and, with relish, undid the snap and teased the zipper down. The crowd screamed louder.

Her fingers caressed his abs.

His hips thrust forward of their own accord. Damn it. The goal was to wind her up, not the other way around. He’d never had trouble remaining professional. Getting turned on by a dance was the equivalent of having no stamina in bed—the guys would give him hell if they figured out what was going on.

When her fingers slid lower and brushed the edge of his G-string, his whole body jerked and he lost the beat of the music for a moment.

Like that, is it?

No way would he allow her to take control of his show. No dice.

He took her wrists and encouraged her hands lower, then lower still. Her fingertips brushed the root of his swelling cock.

She jerked as if she’d been shoved.

Levi pulled her hands free and spun in the loose circle of her arms before indelicately shoving her hands down the back of his pants so her palms cupped the bare skin of his ass. With a couple of careful twists, he trapped her arms under his.

With her feet still spread, it was the work of a moment to position a thigh between her legs and press up, into her sex, as he took the dance to a whole new level. Her breasts brushed against his chest, capturing his attention. He dragged his gaze down neck and across her chest. His reward? An eyeful of cleavage. A fringe of lace revealed the black of her bra as her shirt shifted aside.

He sucked in a breath and glanced up when her fingers dug into his ass.

Their eyes met.

Primal desire flooded Levi’s system. Raw and undiluted, it instantly drowned out the shallow thrill he’d been flirting with. She stared up at him, eyes dark and pupils huge, lips parted as she fought to breathe—she was as caught up in the moment as he was.

He stopped moving, could only stare down at her.

And no matter how long he lived, he’d never forget what she did next.

Harper pulled her hands from his pants, grasped the free material around his thighs and yanked, divesting him of his rip-away pants.

The crowd went absolutely insane.

Breath still coming rapidly, she managed a shaky smile. “Your move, Mr. Walsh.”

“Since you’ve just divested me of my pants in public, why don’t you call me Levi.”

Her chin tipped up as she laughed. Truly laughed.

Levi shivered.

But he couldn’t lose focus. He had a responsibility to the men working for him, now truly his employees. Then there were his parents. He’d do almost anything to ensure his friends’ safety, but for his parents? There was nothing, nothing, he wouldn’t do to make sure they were never destitute again.

It was time he stopped following where Harper directed him and instead started leading her where he needed her to go.