Stripped Down

Some men know how to wear a suit.

He knows how to take it off…

Eric Reeves is the CEO of a real estate development firm that’s on the cusp of a huge breakthough. Soon, he’ll taste the first fruits of true success—or watch his dreams go up in smoke. But first he has to earn a living…by becoming Dalton Chase, the most sought-after stripper at Beaux Hommes, one of Seattle’s most exclusive adult clubs.

Cass Jameson hires Dalton for her best friend’s bachelorette, but from the moment he steps through the door, his eyes never leave her. Dalton is hot, ripped and exactly what Cass needs to let off a little steam. Nothing can stop the primal need between them—to touch, to taste, to take…and to want more. Nothing except their real identities.

“Go with it…”

Pulling his tie loose, Dalton left it around his neck as he flicked first his vest then his shirt open. They landed on the floor beside his jacket. He was tan, smooth-skinned and defined in a way that made Cass hunger to run her hands over his body.

Cass couldn’t look away from him. He owned the moment, so compelling and utterly sexual in a way she’d never experienced.

He surged to his feet, hips rolling and thrusting in time to the music. The way he moved had to be illegal in twenty-seven states. Maybe twenty-eight. Or forty.

Glancing up, she was stunned to find him watching her.

Eyes brimming with something primitive and dark, he never looked away from Cass as he grabbed Gwen’s hand and guided her through removing his belt. He stalked around them. One wide hand moved around Cass’s waist to feed the belt across her lower hips. Dalton gripped each end and leaned back, forcing Cass to arch her spine. Dropping the belt, he grabbed her hips and moved against her, and her mind went totally blank.

The only thing she could manage was conjuring images of Dalton naked, in bed, pulling some of the same moves. Cass closed her eyes.

Her first inclination was to regain control.

But she had earned this… And it would only be one night.

A night no one would, or could, ever know about…

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the world of Pleasure Before Business and, more specifically, Beaux Hommes, the most exclusive all-male revue in the Pacific Northwest. The men are hot, both on the stage and between the sheets. Their lives are just the way they like them. As the most popular thing to happen in Seattle once the sun goes down, things just don’t get much better than this. But for all they love to please, they have hopes and dreams much bigger than Wednesday through Saturday night work schedules, screaming female fans and G-strings. The one thing they never banked on? Love itself.

The idea for the stripper series was born when this criminally sexy hero started whispering to me about what it was like to be trapped in one career that strictly pays the bills so he could pursue his real dream. He talked about paying his dues, fighting his way to the top, craving that elusive thing: respect. The one thing he was certain of? There was absolutely no time for romance or, heaven forbid, love. He had plans!

Poor guy should never, ever have thrown down that particular gauntlet.

I hope you’ll find a few laughs, a little heartache and a huge amount of redemption in this story. I know, as I wrote it, that I learned what it meant to really root for your own characters’ happy endings.

Fondly,

Kelli Ireland

Stripped Down

Kelli Ireland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

From stable hand to a name on the door of a corporate American office, KELLI IRELAND has been many things. (Never a waitress, however. Thank-you cards for her sparing the unsuspecting public from this catastrophe can be sent in care of her agent.) Writing has always been her passion, though. And writing romance? An absolute dream come true. Her theory is that a kiss should be meaningful regardless of length, a hero can say as much with a well-written look as he can with a long-winded paragraph and heroines are meant to hold their own. She’s no Cinderella, and Shakespeare wrote the only Romeo and Juliet, so Kelli sticks to women who can save themselves and tortured heroes who are loath to let them.

Kelli and her husband live in the South, where all foods are considered fry-able and bugs die only to be reborn in bloodsucking triplicate. Visit her online at kelliireland.com anytime.

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To the only man to ever hold my heart in his hands.

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

Extract

Copyright

1

FEET PROPPED ON the low windowsill and ankles crossed, Cass Jameson focused on her toes. Rather, the polish on her toenails. The electric blue polish, “Ogre the Top Blue” courtesy of OPI, was the only color in her otherwise staid corporate attire. She loved the color with an unholy passion, but it also served a purpose.

After her environmental engineering firm, Preservations, celebrated its first full year of operating in the black, Cass had treated herself to three indulgent days at a luxury spa. She’d purchased the nail polish before she left as a constant reminder she could, would, make Preservations a success. That trip had been the first time she’d allowed herself to breathe in more than three years. Now, eleven months later, she was holding her breath again.

So much hinged on the incoming email from the Environmental Protection Agency. Preservations had been awarded the contracts for establishing rainwater runoff and soil erosion at the proposed site of the elite Chok Resort on Lake Washington. She and her team had busted their asses for months to create long-term, environmentally sound solutions. They were due to present their plan to the resort’s builder, Sovereign Developments, in under a week. Sovereign’s board of directors, made up of old men with even older money, wanted a cheap fix to the runoff and erosion problems, but they also wanted the project endorsed as green construction for tax purposes and public support. She couldn’t deliver on the former. The latter? She had it covered in spades.

But only if the EPA signed off on Preservations’ plans. If it did, Sovereign would be hard-pressed to reject her proposal. She’d have the backing she needed to persuade the tight-assed CEO to move forward. Probably. Maybe. God, she hoped so.

A kernel of dread, her constant companion as this deal had been negotiated, threatened to erupt. Pressing her fist into her diaphragm, she forced her breathing to slow. Just once she’d be the emotionless Ice Princess her competitors accused her of being. Ironic that her father, David Jameson, was heralded for his cold-blooded business dealings while her peers and competing engineering firms lobbed it at her as an insult.

A seagull rode a thermal by the fourth-floor window, drawing her attention. Low-hanging clouds shrouded the Seattle skyline and blanketed pedestrians below in heavy mist. Behind her, her laptop chimed.

Such a soft, innocuous sound, that, the herald of her fate. Her fingers curled around the armrests of her chair, but she didn’t drop her feet or face the monitor. Not yet.

She’d known securing this location had been a good strategy. It hadn’t come cheap, but it positioned Preservations close to the downtown business district and near contractors. Signing the five-year lease had been a calculated risk.

“Greater the risk, greater the reward,” she murmured. Provided the risk pays out. Her father’s baritone echoed through her head, unwelcome. Particularly now.

Muffled voices hummed as the hive of employees gathered outside her door.

Her office door handle rattled as the door opened. She should really call maintenance, have them fix that.

“You didn’t read it, did you?” Gwen’s tone was neutral, guarded even.

Shoving her feet into her high heels, Cass swiveled toward her business partner and best friend. Everything they’d worked for—all the long nights studying, the family expectations, the sexist remarks of her peers, the casually exchanged conversation between competitors that she and Gwen were destined to fail as women in a man’s world—it all came down to this. “Tell me the EPA cleared us to move forward with the Sovereign project. Tell me Preservations is going to be solvent for years to come because our proposal was accepted. Tell me we can hold Sovereign’s board to their agreement to move forward with our solutions if we could get absolute EPA support. Say the words, Gwennie.”

The stunning petite blonde propped a hip on the corner of Cass’s desk. “You need to breathe.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. Not yet. You know how I get.”

“You’re right. I do. Here’s a news flash, Cass. Your biggest character flaw? You’re always expecting the worst. Negative Nancies aren’t attractive.”

“Negative Nancies?” One corner of her mouth curled up. “This is business. Being an emotionally reserved pessimist has kept us afloat.”

Gwen’s brows drew together in a fierce scowl. “You sound like your father.”

A small hitch in Cass’s chest made her words raspy. “I’m not my father.”

“Then don’t be so afraid to express a little emotion. You’re not an automaton.”

But a lifetime as the oldest child of business magnate David Jameson, a man who valued control above all else, had taught her to smother her reactions. He’d hammered home one thing above all else: to reveal emotion was to reveal weakness, and any opponent worth his salt would use that weakness against her. He’d proved it by using her emotions against her again and again, until all that was left between them was undisguised resentment and, at least on her part, more than a little paranoia.

When she’d founded Preservations, she’d been so concerned about being singled out as Jameson’s daughter she’d gone into business under her mother’s maiden name—Wheeler. She’d also kept her name buried in the company directory, not touting her partial ownership. Distancing herself from both his name and his expectations had been a matter of self-preservation. She hated him for making it a necessity. She hated him more for continuing to steal moments like this from her.

“Cass?”

Running a hand around the back of her neck, she took a deep breath before looking at Gwen. “I’m working on it.”

“You need to have fun, let your hair down, dance on a few tabletops now and then. You’re not fooling me.”

“I know. Just...update my online dating profile after you tell me what the email says, okay?”

“Oh! Can I really update your profile?” Gwen grinned and did a little hip shimmy on the desk.

Cass sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes for a second. “Why do women who are about to get married always want to hook their friends up?”

“Because it makes us happy to think said friend, singular, is not destined to end up alone with subscriptions to multiple trashy tabloids that she reads aloud to the twenty-seven cats she lives with in an apartment that smells like tuna salad and vapor rub.” Gwen never stopped smiling. “Now, if you promise me I can update your profile, I’ll tell you what you want to know, since you’re not brave enough to read it yourself.”

“I promise,” Cass said between gritted teeth.

“Deal. The EPA cleared us straight across the board. We’re green-lighted to present the solutions to Sovereign Developments and its backers.”

“Straight across the board. They accepted everything.” Cass whispered the questions, but her intrepid spirit wound through the words so they came out with concrete assurance. Clearing her throat, she rose to her full height and squared her shoulders. The invisible fist that had been strangling her instinctive emotional response relaxed and, without warning, she erupted in a hip-shaking boogie dance, pumping her fists in the air with a scream. Yanking Gwen off the desk, she spun the woman in circles. Shouts and cheers rose outside the office door. Months of hard work and long hours had paid off. “Grab your partners and—”

“If she cries out ‘do-si-do,’ I’m outta here,” someone shouted.

“Funny guy,” Cass shouted back, laughing. “Grab your partners and meet us at Bathtub Gin tomorrow night. We can officially afford to say, ‘It’s on us!’”

Another cheer went up in the hallway, shouts and laughter weaving through the raucous group as everyone took a deep breath.

Cass realized she’d been clutching Gwen’s hand hard enough to mottle the woman’s skin. Releasing it, she stepped back. “Someday I’m going to get through this without you.”

Gwen shut the office door to a chorus of laughter as the group moved off. Turning, she leaned against the nearest bookshelf. “I hope you always need me, Cass.”

“I didn’t mean...” She ran fingers through her hair, disrupting the smooth chignon. Tucking the loosened pieces in place, she moved to stand over Gwen. In heels, it was easy to dwarf the petite blonde.

“You’re looming, love.”

“I know.” Cass leaned down and kissed the woman’s cheek.

“Does this mean I get a rose and you ask me to stay on your island?” Gwen demanded, hands on her hips.

Cass laughed, that kernel of dread morphing into something effervescent and pervasive, something suspiciously akin to hope. It spread through her limbs and left her feeling light and impossibly encouraged. “We now officially have two things to celebrate,” she said, letting a slow, seductive smile spread over her face.

Gwen stepped back, smacking into the door. “I know that look. That look says you’re going to get me in trouble with Dave. I’m getting married next Saturday, Cass. I can’t exactly return the dress, and I want that damn cake. We got a layer of peanut butter and jelly.” She slid along the door as Cass stalked forward.

“You’re the one who said to live a little.”

Gwen shook her head. “You. Not me. You live a little. I’ve lived. I’m tired of living. That’s why I’m getting married.” Her brow furrowed. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cass, Dave has specifically forbidden me from getting in over my head, and the expression on your face says you’re throwing me in the deep end in a total sink-or-swim, survival-style move.”

“Yep.” A feral grin tugged at Cass’s lips. She adored Dave, but no one would ever truly be good enough for Gwen. It just wasn’t possible.

“Swimming?” Gwen tugged at her collar. “I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”

“Naked swimming, Gwen.”

A sheen of sweat dotted her friend’s upper lip. “N-Naked?”

“As in, without clothes. Yes.” Cass reached out and grabbed her best friend’s wrist when she reached for the door. “Nope. No bailing. Dave will be fine with this. He’s no doubt getting the same treatment. You’re not leaving my side until the night’s over.”

“A bachelorette party?” Gwen gasped.

The sound of surprise struck Cass particularly hard. “You didn’t actually think I’d let you get married without a party, did you?”

“What happened to the emotionally suppressed pessimist? I want her back.”

“Too bad. You’re the one who told me to dance on a few tables. Besides, we still need to have my and Dave’s names tattooed on your ass. He gets left and I’ll always be right. It’s more poetic that way.”

“Tattoos?” Gwen squeaked, edging toward the door again.

Cass coughed to cover her laugh. “Truth?”

The smaller woman nodded, wide eyes never leaving Cass’s face.

“Nothing’s going to happen tonight that you don’t want to happen. Period. I’ve got your back, as always.” She arched a brow and slapped a cuff on Gwen’s wrist, fastening the other around her own before the other woman could react.

“You let me go right now, Ramona Cassidy Jameson, or I’m calling your father and informing him you’re a sexual deviant.”

“Stomp your foot and I swear I’ll dump your new Mac in the Sound.”

Gwen watched her for a minute and then smiled wide. “You would, too. That’s one of the reasons I like you so much. You don’t take shit from anyone, ever, and you always come out on top.”

“Because I fight to get there.” Cass grinned down at the vixen latched to her wrist. “Tonight? What you do, I do. That’ll keep things from getting too wild.”

“Too wild?” Gwen glanced up, biting her bottom lip. “How wild is too wild?”

Cass dragged a superficially reluctant Gwen out of the office to yet another round of cheers. As they waited for the elevator, Cass rattled their joined wrists. “How wild is too wild?” She waggled her eyebrows. “Fifty bucks says we find out tonight.”

* * *

ERIC REEVES WALKED through the office, navigating cubicles, stopping here and there to exchange a word of encouragement or thanks, sometimes a laugh, with his employees. Sovereign Developments, the real estate development firm he’d founded on dollar bills and a dream, was on the cusp of a huge deal. After securing the rights to develop the Chok Resort on Lake Washington in a battle with David Jameson, an established developer, that had, at times, been brutal, they were waiting for the EPA to approve the environmental engineer’s plan. More importantly, they were waiting for the board to agree to fund the plan. In the meantime, he’d had to forgo his salary to make sure Sovereign could pay its bills, and he was working a second job to pay his own bills.

When the contracts between the parties were signed and Sovereign was officially the development firm of record, Eric would breathe again. Until then, he had a metric crapload of work to do, not the least of which involved long hours at his second job.

“Hey.” Eric’s assistant, Gretchen, fell into step beside him. “You’re on your fifth lap around the office. What’s up?”

“I’m not making laps. I’m managing,” he answered, smiling absently as he watched an engineer manipulate a drawing on his computer.

“Managing, huh?” She held out a clipboard with several papers attached. “Well, I need you to manage this while you wear the soles off your shoes.”

He took the clipboard and scanned the forms. Payroll. Shit. “How deep are we in it this time?” Gretchen’s studiously blank face was answer enough, but Eric wanted to hear it before he saw the numbers. “Prepare me, Gretch.”

“Let’s just say we’re going to be pushing the limits of our line of credit this pay period.”

His stomach tightened as bile rose in his throat. Still, he nodded and let one corner of his mouth curl up in a half smile. “Once we’re officially cleared on the Chok Resort, you’ll be able to stop hovering over the line of credit like a financial mother hen over her little brood of dollar signs.”

“I don’t hover,” Gretchen huffed. Her lips twitched. “Much.”

“Right. And I’m actually a leprechaun.”

“You’re too tall.”

He glanced over and arched a brow as he crossed his arms over his chest. His suit pulled at his shoulders. “Are you disparaging my people because I’m a physical anomaly?”

Gretchen laughed out loud, drawing several glances from around the room. “Eric says he’s a leprechaun,” she announced.

“Where’s my pot of gold?” someone shouted.

A discussion ensued regarding leprechauns and what people would do with the gold if they had it. Eric signed forms, keeping one eye on the clipboard and one ear on the chatter. The underlying energy in the room hummed along his skin like a small electrical current. He fed on it. It kept him moving forward, kept him focused and encouraged. As the owner and CEO of Sovereign, he had to ensure the company’s financial security and longevity, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do to make sure that future was as secure as it could be.

Handing the signed forms to Gretchen with a word of thanks, he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for the chief financial officer’s office.

Dan had been a financial whiz and good friend in college. Eric had recruited him fourteen months ago, spending a pretty penny to make sure Dan came on board. The guy could nearly project markets, could wring out the last cent from every investment and generally make a dollar go further than anyone else Eric knew. Beside himself.

Dan sat behind a beat-up desk, hammering away at his computer. He looked up as Eric came in and closed the door.

“Payroll. When will we be able to afford it?”

Dan swiveled back and forth, his old office chair groaning in protest as he rocked. “We’re pushing the financial envelope, Eric. The line of credit won’t support another payroll unless we supplement it with some kind of cash influx. The investors won’t come up with the cash until the deal is done, and we still don’t have a clear picture of how much Preservations’ plan is going to cost. If it’s too much, the board is going to balk. I have to have twenty grand just to make this week’s payroll, so if they postpone their decision, we’re screwed. Bottom line? We need your other source of income.” Dan spun a pencil between his fingers. “What is it that you do, anyway?”

Eric leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “Whatever I have to.”

Or, to be more specific, whatever his alter ego, Dalton Chase, headline stripper for Beaux Hommes, had to do.