Seeing her cheeks flush, imagining that maybe ... just maybe, she was as affected by him as he was by her.
Somehow, he knew that stripping for a crowd wasn't going to be like that. But he could either tuck his tail between his legs and give up or stick it out and nail this asshole.
No contest.
"Where do I start?" he grumbled.
The door behind the bar slammed, and Mark looked up to see a man with short dark hair and wide shoulders emerge. He wore tailored black slacks, a white oxford under a black leather jacket, and Italian loafers that had probably cost as much as Mark's rent payment.
Blade Bocelli. The picture Mark had seen of the gangster hadn't included his whole face, but given the guy's cocky attitude, he had no doubt this was the man he'd come to bring down.
Bocelli sailed through the club, hawkish gaze seeming to take in everything, even as he gave off a definite don't-fuckwith-me air. Mark gritted this teeth, restraining the urge to jump off the stage, take the prick down, and beat him senseless. Too bad that wouldn't accomplish anything--except make him feel a whole lot better.
Suddenly, the thug stopped. He glanced from Mark to Lucia. His eyes narrowed.
"Your Uncle Pietro don't want you around those pretty boys, Lucia. Don't you have a research paper to write?"
Lucia's back turned rigid. "Don't you have anything else to worry about?"
"Right this minute? No." His ruthless glare riveted to Lucia, and he sauntered closer, until he stood at the base of the stage.
Bocelli and Zack were about the same height and build ... but the similarities ended there. Zack's slightly pissy air of authority drowned in Bocelli's heavy presence.
"Too bad," she shot back. "I'm introducing myself to Mark. Uncle Pietro can't object to that. And in case it's escaped everyone's notice, I am a grown woman."
Bocelli raked a quick dark-eyed gaze over Lucia. "You are. But I'm here to look out for the club. If the Viking over here isn't learning his routines," Bocelli said with a sneer, "then he's not doing something that's gonna earn this place some money. You're distracting him on company time."
"I'm being friendly."
"Call it what you want, but Pietro don't want you around him and his type." He gave Mark a dismissive glare then proceeded through the club and out the front door.
As the door shut behind him, the tension left Lucia's shoulders. She turned back to face Mark, her expression sheepish. "Sorry. Blade is harmless, really, but ... difficult. He likes to growl a lot."
Harmless? The good professor might know a thing or two about history. She knew squat about men.
"Growling makes him feel big and bad," Zack agreed.
Well, Mark couldn't wait to teach Bocelli otherwise. And he'd make damned sure the time came soon.
T he only way to put an end to the insanity, Mark feared, was to hunt Nicki down and talk sense into her. He had an inkling that, in this case, Nicki's version of seeing reason was him nodding as she told him how things were going to be.
That wasn't going to happen.
Besides convincing her the Viking gig was a bad idea, he had to find some way to gain her trust, fast. The fact it had taken Nicki more than a year to trust Zack Martin to do a job he juggled almost effortlessly did not bode well. Mark didn't have a year to give to this endeavor. Even a month was stretching it. While that left his options limited, he had no objection to the one he had: pursuing the sizzling chemistry between them. It was a sure way to break down barriers and build intimacy--all while getting him very close to a woman he was dying to sample, one square inch of skin at a time.
He knew exactly where to start.
Climbing the stairs to the third floor after rehearsal, Mark entered his own temporary apartment. It wasn't his room at the Bellagio, complete with minibar and maid service, but it would do.
A quick shower and a shave later, he dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. Nicki had stared when he wore something similar, and Mark was
Somehow, he knew that stripping for a crowd wasn't going to be like that. But he could either tuck his tail between his legs and give up or stick it out and nail this asshole.
No contest.
"Where do I start?" he grumbled.
The door behind the bar slammed, and Mark looked up to see a man with short dark hair and wide shoulders emerge. He wore tailored black slacks, a white oxford under a black leather jacket, and Italian loafers that had probably cost as much as Mark's rent payment.
Blade Bocelli. The picture Mark had seen of the gangster hadn't included his whole face, but given the guy's cocky attitude, he had no doubt this was the man he'd come to bring down.
Bocelli sailed through the club, hawkish gaze seeming to take in everything, even as he gave off a definite don't-fuckwith-me air. Mark gritted this teeth, restraining the urge to jump off the stage, take the prick down, and beat him senseless. Too bad that wouldn't accomplish anything--except make him feel a whole lot better.
Suddenly, the thug stopped. He glanced from Mark to Lucia. His eyes narrowed.
"Your Uncle Pietro don't want you around those pretty boys, Lucia. Don't you have a research paper to write?"
Lucia's back turned rigid. "Don't you have anything else to worry about?"
"Right this minute? No." His ruthless glare riveted to Lucia, and he sauntered closer, until he stood at the base of the stage.
Bocelli and Zack were about the same height and build ... but the similarities ended there. Zack's slightly pissy air of authority drowned in Bocelli's heavy presence.
"Too bad," she shot back. "I'm introducing myself to Mark. Uncle Pietro can't object to that. And in case it's escaped everyone's notice, I am a grown woman."
Bocelli raked a quick dark-eyed gaze over Lucia. "You are. But I'm here to look out for the club. If the Viking over here isn't learning his routines," Bocelli said with a sneer, "then he's not doing something that's gonna earn this place some money. You're distracting him on company time."
"I'm being friendly."
"Call it what you want, but Pietro don't want you around him and his type." He gave Mark a dismissive glare then proceeded through the club and out the front door.
As the door shut behind him, the tension left Lucia's shoulders. She turned back to face Mark, her expression sheepish. "Sorry. Blade is harmless, really, but ... difficult. He likes to growl a lot."
Harmless? The good professor might know a thing or two about history. She knew squat about men.
"Growling makes him feel big and bad," Zack agreed.
Well, Mark couldn't wait to teach Bocelli otherwise. And he'd make damned sure the time came soon.
T he only way to put an end to the insanity, Mark feared, was to hunt Nicki down and talk sense into her. He had an inkling that, in this case, Nicki's version of seeing reason was him nodding as she told him how things were going to be.
That wasn't going to happen.
Besides convincing her the Viking gig was a bad idea, he had to find some way to gain her trust, fast. The fact it had taken Nicki more than a year to trust Zack Martin to do a job he juggled almost effortlessly did not bode well. Mark didn't have a year to give to this endeavor. Even a month was stretching it. While that left his options limited, he had no objection to the one he had: pursuing the sizzling chemistry between them. It was a sure way to break down barriers and build intimacy--all while getting him very close to a woman he was dying to sample, one square inch of skin at a time.
He knew exactly where to start.
Climbing the stairs to the third floor after rehearsal, Mark entered his own temporary apartment. It wasn't his room at the Bellagio, complete with minibar and maid service, but it would do.
A quick shower and a shave later, he dressed in jeans and a tight T-shirt. Nicki had stared when he wore something similar, and Mark was
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