then using her legs surged to her feet.
She played the other side of the stage in much the same way. But here she got a better look at the man at the bar. Their eyes met, held for two beats. He held up a bill, cocked his head.
Then he went back to sipping his beer.
SHE WISHED SHE’D been able to make out the denomination of the bill. But she thought it might be worth five minutes of her time to find out how much he’d pay.
Still, she took her time, cooled off in the shower, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. It was a rare thing for her to go out into the club after a performance, but she trusted Karl and the other muscle Marcella kept on tap to keep her from being hassled.
In any case, most of the patrons kept their attention onstage, toward the fantasy sex, rather than scoping out the real women in the area.
Except for Slick, she thought, at the bar. He wasn’t watching the stage. Though in her professional opinion the current act was one of the more creative ones. His gaze stayed on her as she crossed to the bar. And on her face—which she gave him points for—rather than on her tits.
“You want something, Slick?”
Her voice surprised him. It was smooth and silky and without any of the hard edge he’d expected from a woman in her line of work.
Her face did credit to her body. It was hot and sultry with those dark, almond-shaped eyes and the full, red-slicked mouth. There was a little mole, a beauty mark, he supposed you called it, just at the lower end of her right eyebrow.
Her skin was dusky, adding a touch of erotic gypsy.
She smelled of soap—another illusion shattered. And sipped idly from a tall bottle of water.
“I do if you’re Cleo Toliver.”
She leaned back on the bar. She wore tennis shoes now rather than heels, but the jeans were black and molded tight to her hips and legs.
“I don’t do private parties.”
“Do you talk?”
“When I have something to say. Who gave you my name?”
Gideon merely showed her the bill again, watched her gaze flick on it and narrow in speculation. “I think this should buy an hour’s conversation.”
“It might.” She’d reserve judgment on whether or not he was a moron, but at least he wasn’t cheap. She reached for the bill, annoyed when he moved it just out of reach.
“What time do you finish here?”
“Two. Look, why don’t you just tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if I’m interested.”
“Conversation,” he said again and tore the bill in half. He handed her one part, pocketed the other. “If you want the rest of it, meet me after closing. The coffee shop in the Wenceslas Hotel. I’ll wait till two-thirty. If you don’t show, we’re both out fifty pounds.”
He finished his beer, set down the glass. “It was an entertaining performance, Miss Toliver, and lucrative from the looks of it. But it’s not every day you can make fifty pounds by sitting down and having a cup of coffee.”
She frowned when he turned to walk away. “You got a name, Slick?”
“Sullivan. Gideon Sullivan. You’ve got till two-thirty.”
Four
C LEO never missed a cue. But neither did she believe in giving her audience the appearance she’d rushed to hit one. Theater was rooted in illusions. And life, like the big guy had said, was just a bigger stage.
She strolled toward the coffee shop at two minutes to deadline.
If some jerk with a pretty face and a sexy voice wanted to pay her for some conversation, that was fine by her. She’d already determined the exchange rate from Irish pounds to Czech koruna, using the little calculator she carried in her bag to figure it to the last haleru. In her current position, the money would go a very long way.
She didn’t intend to make her living stripping off her clothes for a bunch of suckers for long. The fact was, she’d never intended to make her living, however temporary, dancing naked in a Prague strip club.
But she’d been stupid, Cleo could admit. She’d walked
She played the other side of the stage in much the same way. But here she got a better look at the man at the bar. Their eyes met, held for two beats. He held up a bill, cocked his head.
Then he went back to sipping his beer.
SHE WISHED SHE’D been able to make out the denomination of the bill. But she thought it might be worth five minutes of her time to find out how much he’d pay.
Still, she took her time, cooled off in the shower, then pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. It was a rare thing for her to go out into the club after a performance, but she trusted Karl and the other muscle Marcella kept on tap to keep her from being hassled.
In any case, most of the patrons kept their attention onstage, toward the fantasy sex, rather than scoping out the real women in the area.
Except for Slick, she thought, at the bar. He wasn’t watching the stage. Though in her professional opinion the current act was one of the more creative ones. His gaze stayed on her as she crossed to the bar. And on her face—which she gave him points for—rather than on her tits.
“You want something, Slick?”
Her voice surprised him. It was smooth and silky and without any of the hard edge he’d expected from a woman in her line of work.
Her face did credit to her body. It was hot and sultry with those dark, almond-shaped eyes and the full, red-slicked mouth. There was a little mole, a beauty mark, he supposed you called it, just at the lower end of her right eyebrow.
Her skin was dusky, adding a touch of erotic gypsy.
She smelled of soap—another illusion shattered. And sipped idly from a tall bottle of water.
“I do if you’re Cleo Toliver.”
She leaned back on the bar. She wore tennis shoes now rather than heels, but the jeans were black and molded tight to her hips and legs.
“I don’t do private parties.”
“Do you talk?”
“When I have something to say. Who gave you my name?”
Gideon merely showed her the bill again, watched her gaze flick on it and narrow in speculation. “I think this should buy an hour’s conversation.”
“It might.” She’d reserve judgment on whether or not he was a moron, but at least he wasn’t cheap. She reached for the bill, annoyed when he moved it just out of reach.
“What time do you finish here?”
“Two. Look, why don’t you just tell me what you want, and I’ll tell you if I’m interested.”
“Conversation,” he said again and tore the bill in half. He handed her one part, pocketed the other. “If you want the rest of it, meet me after closing. The coffee shop in the Wenceslas Hotel. I’ll wait till two-thirty. If you don’t show, we’re both out fifty pounds.”
He finished his beer, set down the glass. “It was an entertaining performance, Miss Toliver, and lucrative from the looks of it. But it’s not every day you can make fifty pounds by sitting down and having a cup of coffee.”
She frowned when he turned to walk away. “You got a name, Slick?”
“Sullivan. Gideon Sullivan. You’ve got till two-thirty.”
Four
C LEO never missed a cue. But neither did she believe in giving her audience the appearance she’d rushed to hit one. Theater was rooted in illusions. And life, like the big guy had said, was just a bigger stage.
She strolled toward the coffee shop at two minutes to deadline.
If some jerk with a pretty face and a sexy voice wanted to pay her for some conversation, that was fine by her. She’d already determined the exchange rate from Irish pounds to Czech koruna, using the little calculator she carried in her bag to figure it to the last haleru. In her current position, the money would go a very long way.
She didn’t intend to make her living stripping off her clothes for a bunch of suckers for long. The fact was, she’d never intended to make her living, however temporary, dancing naked in a Prague strip club.
But she’d been stupid, Cleo could admit. She’d walked
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