French Kiss

From the first moment he’d heard Summer lugging packing crates up the steps, enthusiastically belting out an off-key rendition of “Je Ne Regrette Rien,” he’d known she was special.

“I regret nothing,” she’d sung the cabaret torch song in fluent French and his heart thumped crazily.

Who could resist a woman without regrets? He wished he could be so confident in his life choices.

And then he’d gone out side to offer his help and he’d gotten a good look at her.

Long auburn hair, with chunky streaks of blonde shot throughout, that swung provocatively down her back. Her gorgeous butt cupped in those low-rise bell bottom jeans. She wore funky red cowboy boots and a skimpy little white tank top that revealed not only a flat expanse of taut tummy but also a turquoise navel ring.

And that’s when he knew had to have her.

He just hadn’t known how.

He wasn’t the most suave guy on earth. He was an introvert who loved fossils and artifacts and ancient history. Socializing had never come easy and he spent more time with books than with people. Plus, Summer was so full of sass and daring, pulsating with energy and life. She was far too busy piloting hot air balloons or climbing rocks or crafting her one-of-kind southwest jewelry to notice an archeology geek like him.

So he’d bided his time, waiting for the right opportunity, the perfect segue into asking her out. But the longer he waited, the more she treated him like a brother.

If she only knew the very unbrotherly thoughts prowling his head!

Problem was, she’d already formed an image of him as the nice guy next door. A buddy, a pal, a soft place to land. What he needed was for her to view him in a completely different light. But he’d had no idea how to achieve that goal.

Until this morning when she’d said she needed a stripper and he’d recklessly blurted out that the Masked Monsieur was a friend of his.

Well, it wasn’t a total lie. He was a friend to himself. And if tricking Summer into giving him a chance was wrong, then he didn’t want to be right.

“Psst, Joe,” Steve, the bartender, called to him from the dressing room door.

“Yeah?” Hurriedly, he tugged black pleather pants up over his sparkly gold g-string.

“She’s here.” Steve gave him a thumb’s up and scooted back to the bar.

Panic punched Joe’s gut. Summer was in the club. She’d be watching him strip.

“We want the Masked Monsieur,” the crowd of women on the other side of the curtain chanted as his theme song “You Can Leave Your Hat On” oozed from the surround sound speakers and the fog machine belched a fine white mist “We want the Masked Monsieur.”

He almost turned and high tailed it out the back exit. Conquer your fear. Don’t blow this chance. Joe exhaled heavily, took off his glasses and set them on the dressing table. Then he reached for the black leather mask and pulled it down over his face.

It was now or never. The time had come to strut his stuff.

Chapter Three

Summer’s mouth dropped. The Masked Monsieur had the most splendid butt she had ever clamped eyes on.

He was mesmerizingly, stunningly, brain-foggingly stupendous. Bumping and grinding right in front of her, his butt encased in a pair of skin-tight, faux leather pants that molded to his body like plastic.

And those abs! Tight and righteous.

A hundred women were screaming and making swooning noises as if he were Elvis come back to life.

But when the Masked Monsieur spun around to face the crowd, it was Summer’s gaze he caught and held. It was to her and her alone he gave an inscrutable smile and a rakish wink.

In that moment, she knew she’d found her wild fling to take her mind off good ol’ Joe.

“Pinch me,” she murmured under her breath, convinced she was having one heck of a bang-up sex dream.

Strobe flashed, bathing his body in a freeze frame of shifting colored lights. He was large, his shoulders broad, his muscled biceps as thick as her thighs. He gyrated seductively to the Tom Jones song, slowly removing the scarlet tie fastened around his bare neck, all without ever breaking eye contact with her.

“You can leave your mask on,” the audience shouted and waved dollar bills at him.

He tossed the tie to Summer.

A shier, sweeter woman would have let someone else snag the tie. But Summer was no longer sweet and shy. She’d given that up two years ago when she’d vowed to live each and every day to the fullest. She was bold now. Brazen even. And she was feeling revved up and randy. Besides, no one knew her here. If she acted like a slut puppy, no big hairy deal, right?

With one hand she snatched the tie in mid-toss and draped it over her neck. Then she lifted the tip of it to her nose. The silky material smelled of pure masculine essence, raw and powerful. Her knees wobbled and her breath left her body but she never once took her gaze from the Masked Monsieur’s compelling dark eyes.

He unbuckled his belt.

“You can leave your mask on.”

The belt flew through the air straight toward her. A leggy brunette on her right made a grab for it, but Summer was quicker. She cinched the belt around her waist, a coveted prize.

The Masked Monsieur’s smile widened. Then he ripped off the faux leather pants that had been held together by Velcro. They made a sharp tearing sound as the Velcro separated. He dropped them onto the stage.

The women went nuts.

Good God, but the man was extremely well-endowed and Summer couldn’t stop looking at it. Er… at him. She splayed a hand against her throat, felt her pulse galloping wildly out of control.

This magnificent hunk was a friend of Joe Everhart’s? Unbelievable. The two men had absolutely nothing in common.

Then the Masked Monsieur reached out his hand to her, his gaze still pinning her to the spot. His dark eyes cloaked enigmatically behind the mask. He motioned her up onto the stage.

She pointed at her chest, lifted an eyebrow and sent him the silent question. Me?

He nodded, cupped his hand, pulling his fingers toward him in a come hither gesture.

She shook her head. She was brave, but Summer wasn’t sure she was that brave.

No more holding back, remember? Life’s short.Do it.

He kept motioning for her, coaxing. Her face flushed. His rich lips formed a single word.

“Come.”

Chapter Four

She came.

Right up on stage with him, lithe as a cat.