The Tycoon's Stowaway

A wicked smile broke out across her face as she downed the entire drink. A stray droplet escaped the corner of her mouth and Chantal caught it with her tongue. God, he wanted to kiss her.

‘It’s the champagne.’

‘Well, if you keep drinking it like that…’

‘I might get myself into trouble.’ She pulled a serious face, her cheeks flushed with the alcohol.

She’d looked like this the night he’d danced with her at Weeping Reef. Chantal had always been the serious type—studious and sensible until she’d had a drink or two. Then the hardness seemed to melt away, she loosened up, and the playful side came out. If she’d been tempting before, she was damn near impossible to resist now.

‘You always seem to treat trouble like it’s a bad idea.’ Brodie divested her of her champagne flute before tugging her to him.

‘Isn’t that the definition of trouble?’ Her hands hovered at his chest, barely touching him.

He shouldn’t be pulling her strings the way he did when he wanted a girl. He liked to wind them up first. Tease them… get them to laugh. Relax their boundaries. He was treating Chantal as if he wanted to sleep with her… and he did.

He was in for a world of pain, but he couldn’t stop himself.

‘Bad ideas are the most fun.’

SYDNEY’S MOST ELIGIBLE…

The men everyone is talking about!

Young, rich and gorgeous, Rob, Scott, Brodie and Luke have the world at their feet and women queuing to get between their sheets.

Find out how the past and the present collide for them in this stylish, sexy and glamorous new quartet!

These sexy Sydney tycoons didn’t get to the top by taking the easy way—the only thing they love more than a challenge is a woman who knows her mind!

So let the fireworks begin…!

HER BOSS BY DAY… by Joss Wood Available January 2015

THE MILLIONAIRE’S PROPOSITION by Avril Tremayne Available February 2015

THE TYCOON’S STOWAWAY by Stefanie London Available March 2015

THE HOTEL MAGNATE’S DEMAND by Jennifer Rae Available April 2015

You won’t want to miss any of the fabulous books in this sizzling mini-series!

STEFANIE LONDON lives in Melbourne with her very own hero and enough books to sink a ship. She frequently indulges in her passions for good coffee, French perfume, high heels and zombie movies. During the day she uses lots of words like synergy and strategy. At night she writes sexy contemporary romance stories and tries not to spend too much time shopping online and watching baby animal videos on YouTube.

The Tycoon’s
Stowaway
Stefanie London

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my wonderful husband for supporting me from the very first time I wrote ‘Chapter One’. Thank you for always understanding my need to write, for keeping me sane through the ups and downs, and for holding my hand when I took the biggest leap of my life.

I love you.

Always.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Copyright

PROLOGUE

HOT. LOUD. CRUSHING.

The dance floor at the Weeping Reef resort bar was the perfect way to shake off the work day, and for Chantal Turner it was the perfect place to practise her moves. She swung her hips to the pulsating beat of the music, her hands raking through her hair and pushing damp strands from her forehead. A drop of perspiration ran in a rivulet down her back but she wouldn’t stop. At midnight, the night was still in its infancy, and she would dance until her feet gave out.

She was enjoying a brief interlude away from her life plan in order to soak up the rays while earning a little money in the glorious Whitsundays. But the second she was done she’d be back on the mainland, working her butt off to secure a place at a contemporary dance company. She smiled to herself. The life in front of her was bright and brimming with opportunity.

Tonight the majority of her crew hadn’t come out. Since Chantal’s boyfriend wasn’t much of a dancer he stood at the bar, sipping a drink and chatting to another resort employee. No matter—the music’s beat flowing through her body was the only companion she needed. Her black dress clung to damp skin. The holiday crowd had peaked for the season, which meant the dance floor was even more densely packed than usual.

‘Pretty girls shouldn’t have to dance on their own.’

A low, masculine voice rumbled close to her ear and the scent of ocean spray and coconut surfboard wax hit her nostrils, sending a shot of heat down to her belly.

She would know that smell anywhere. A hand rested lightly on her hip, but she didn’t cease the gentle rolling of her pelvis until the beat slowed down.

‘Don’t waste your pick-up lines on me, Brodie.’ She turned and stepped out of his grip. ‘There are plenty of other ladies in holiday mode who would appreciate your cheesy come-ons.’

‘Cheesy?’ He pressed a hand against his well-muscled chest. ‘You’re a harsh woman, Chantal.’

The tanned expanse of his shoulders stretched out from under a loose-fitting black tank top, a tattoo peeking out at the neckline. Another tattoo of an anchor stretched down his inner forearm. He stared at her, shaggy sun-bleached hair falling around his lady-killer face and light green eyes.

He’s off-limits, Chantal. Super off-limits. Don’t touch him… don’t even think about it.

Brodie Mitchell stepped forward to avoid the flailing arms of another dancer, who’d apparently indulged in a few too many of the resort’s signature cocktails. He bumped his hip against hers, and their arms brushed as Chantal continued to dance. She wasn’t going to let Brodie and his amazing body prevent her from having a good time.

The song changed and she thrust her hands into the air, swinging her hips again, bumping Brodie gently. His fingertips gripped her hips like a magnet had forced them together. Every touch caused awareness to surge through her veins.

‘You can’t dance like that and expect me not to join in.’

His breath was hot against her ear. Her whole body tingled as the effects of the cocktails she’d downed before hitting the dance floor descended. The alcohol warmed her, giving her limbs a languid fluidity. Head spinning, she tried to step out of his grip, but stumbled when another dancer knocked into her. She landed hard up against Brodie, her hands flat against his rock-hard chest. He smelled good. So. Damn. Good.

Against her better judgment she ran her palms up and down his chest, swinging her hips and rolling her head back. The music flowed through her, its heavy bass thundering in her chest. She probably shouldn’t have had so many Blue Hawaiians—all that rum and blue curaçao had made her head fuzzy.

‘I can dance however I like,’ she said, tilting her chin up at him defiantly. ‘Mr Cheese.’

‘You’re going to pay for that.’ He grinned, snaking his arm around her waist and drawing her even closer. ‘There’s a difference between charming and cheesy, you know.’

‘You think you’re charming?’ she teased, ignoring the building tension that caused her centre to throb mercilessly. It was the alcohol—it always made her horny. It was absolutely nothing to do with Brodie.

‘I do happen to think I’m charming.’

His lips brushed against her ear, and each bump of his thighs sent shivers down her spine.

‘I’ve had it confirmed on a number of occasions too.’

‘How many women have confirmed it?’ She bit back a grin, curious as to the number of notches on his bedpost. Brodie had a bit of a reputation and, as much as she hated to admit it, Chantal could see why.

It wasn’t just that he had a gorgeous face and a body that looked as if it belonged in a men’s underwear commercial. Hot guys were a dime a dozen at the resort. Brodie had something extra: a cheeky sense of humour coupled with the innate ability to make people feel comfortable around him. He had people eating out of the palm of his hand.

‘I don’t kiss and tell.’

‘Come on—I’ll even let you round up to the nearest hundred.’ She pulled back to look him in the eye while she traced a cross over her heart with one finger.

He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand behind his back, forcing her face close to his. ‘I’m not as bad as you think, Little Miss Perfect.’

‘I doubt that very much.’

The music switched to a slow, dirty grind and Brodie nudged his thigh between hers. A gasp escaped her lips as her body fused to his. She should stop now. This was so wrong. But it felt better than anything else could have right at that moment. Better than chocolate martinis and Sunday sleep-ins… even better than dancing on a stage. A hum of pleasure reverberated in her throat.

‘I bet you’re even worse.’

‘Ha!’ His hand came up to cup the side of her jaw. ‘You want to know for sure, don’t you?’

Her body cried out in agreement, her breath hitching as his face hovered close to hers. The sweet smell of rum on his lips mingled with earthy maleness, hitting her with a force powerful enough to make her knees buckle.

Realisation slammed into her, her jaw dropping as she jerked backwards. His eyes reflected the same shock. Reality dawned on them both. This was more than a little harmless teasing—in fact it didn’t feel harmless at all.

How could she possibly have fallen for Brodie? He was a slacker—an idle charmer who talked his way through life instead of working hard to get what he wanted. He was her opposite—a guy so totally wrong for her it was almost comical. Yet the feel of his hands on her face, the bump of his pelvis against hers, and the whisper of his breath at her cheek was the most intoxicating thing she’d ever experienced.

Oh, no! This is not happening… This is not happening.

‘You feel it, don’t you?’ Worry streaked across his face and his hands released her as quickly as if he’d touched a boiling pot. ‘Don’t lie to me, Chantal.’

‘I—’

Her response was cut short when something flashed at the corner of her eye. Scott.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he roared. His cheeks were flushed scarlet, his mouth set into a grim line.

‘It’s nothing, man.’ Brodie held up his hands in surrender and stepped back.

He was bigger than Scott, but he wasn’t a fighter. The guilt in his eyes mirrored that in Chantal’s heart. How could she have done this? How could she have fallen for her boyfriend’s best friend?

‘Didn’t look like nothing to me. You had your hands all over her!’

‘It’s nothing, Scott,’ Chantal said, grabbing his arm. But he shook her off. ‘We were just dancing.’

‘Ha!’ The laugh was a sharp stab of a sound—a laugh without a hint of humour. ‘Tell me you don’t feel anything for Brodie. Because it sure as hell didn’t look like a platonic dance between friends.’

She tried to find the words to explain how she felt, but she couldn’t. She closed her eyes and pressed her palm to her forehead. She opened them in time to see Scott’s fist flying at Brodie’s face.

‘No!’

CHAPTER ONE

REJECTION WAS HARD ENOUGH for the average person, and for a dancer it was constant. The half-hearted ‘Thanks, but no thanks’ after an unsuccessful audition? Yep, she’d had those. Bad write-up from the arts section of a local paper? Inevitable. An unenthusiastic audience? Unpleasant, but there’d be at least one in every dancer’s career.

Chantal Turner had been told it got easier, but it didn’t feel easy now to keep her chin in the air and her lips from trembling. Standing in the middle of the stage, with spotlights glaring down at her, she shifted from one bare foot to the other. The faded velvet of the theatre seats looked like a sea of red in front of her, while the stage lights caused spots to dance in her vision.

The stage was her favourite place in the whole world, but today it felt like a visual representation of her failure.

‘I’m afraid your style is not quite what we’re looking for,’ the director said, toying with his phone. ‘It’s very…’

He looked at his partner and they both shook their heads.

‘Traditional,’ he offered with a gentle smile. ‘We’re looking for dancers with a more modern, gritty style for this show.’

Chantal contemplated arguing—telling him that she could learn, she could adapt her style. But the thought of them saying no all over again was too much to deal with.

‘Thanks, anyway.’

At least she’d been allocated the last solo spot for the day, so no one was left to witness her rejection. She stopped for a moment to scuff her feet into a pair of sneakers and throw a hoodie over her tank top and shorts.

The last place had told her she was too abstract. Now she was too traditional. She bit down on her lower lip to keep the protest from spilling out. Some feedback was better than none, no matter how infuriatingly contradictory it was. Besides, it wasn’t professional to argue with directors—and she was, if nothing else, a professional. A professional who couldn’t seem to book any decent jobs of late…

This was the fourth audition she’d flunked in a month. Not even a glimmer of interest. They’d watched her with poker faces, their feedback delivered with surgical efficiency. The reasons had varied, but the results were the same. She knew her dancing was better than that.

At least it had used to be…

Her sneakers crunched on the gravel of the theatre car park as she walked to her beat-up old car. She was lucky the damn thing still ran; it had rust spots, and the red paint had flaked all over the place. It was so old it had a cassette player, and the gearbox always stuck in second gear. But it was probably the most reliable thing in her life, since all the time she’d invested in her dance study didn’t seem to be paying off. Not to mention her bank accounts were looking frighteningly lean.

No doubt her ex-husband, Derek, would be pleased to know that.

Ugh—she was not going to think about that stuffy control freak, or the shambles that had been her marriage.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she checked her phone. A text from her mother wished her luck for her audition. She cringed; this was just another opportunity to prove she’d wasted all the sacrifices her mother had made for her dancing.

Staring at herself in the rearview mirror, Chantal pursed her lips. She would not let this beat her. It was a setback, but only a minor one. She’d been told she was a gifted dancer on many occasions. Hell, she’d even been filmed for a documentary on contemporary dance a few years back. She would get into one of these companies, even if it took every last ounce of her resolve.

Despite the positive affirmation, doubt crept through her, winding its way around her heart and lungs and stomach. Why was everything going so wrong now?

Panic rose in her chest, the bubble of anxiety swelling and making it hard to breathe. She closed her eyes and forced a long breath, calming herself. Panicking would not help. Thankfully, she’d finally managed to book a short-term dancing job in a small establishment just outside of Sydney. It wasn’t prestigious. But it didn’t have to be forever.

A small job would give her enough money to get herself through the next few weeks—and there was accommodation on site. She would fix this situation. No matter what.

She clenched and unclenched her fists—a technique she’d learned once to help relax her muscles whenever panic swelled. It had become a technique she relied on more and more. Thankfully the panic attacks were less like tidal waves these days, and more like the slosh of a pool after someone had dive-bombed. It wasn’t ideal, but she could manage it.

Baby steps… Every little bit of progress counts.

Shoving the dark thoughts aside, she pulled out of the car park and put her phone into the holder stuck to the window. As if on cue the phone buzzed to life with the smiling face of her old friend Willa. Chantal paused before answering. She wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she had a two-hour drive to get to her gig and music would only keep her amused for so long.

Besides, since her divorce Chantal had realised that real friends were few and far between, so she’d been making more of an effort to keep in touch with Willa. Ignoring her call now would go completely against that.

She tapped the screen of her phone and summoned her most cheerful voice. ‘Hey, Willa.’

‘How’s our favourite dancer?’

Willa’s bubbly greeting made a wave of nostalgia wash over her.

‘Taking the arts world by storm, I hope?’

Chantal forced a laugh. ‘Yeah, something like that. It’s a slow process, but I’m working on it.’

‘You’ll get there. I know it. That time I saw you dance at the Sydney Opera House was incredible. We’re all so proud of you for following your dream.’

Chantal’s stomach rocked. She knew not everyone Willa referred to would be proud of her—especially since it was her dancing that had caused their group to fall apart eight years ago.

Besides, they only saw what she wanted them to see. If you took her social media pages and her website at face value then she was living the creative dream. What they didn’t know was that Chantal cut out all the dark, unseemly bits she wasn’t proud of: her nasty divorce, her empty bank account, the reasons why she’d booked into some small-time gig on the coast when she should be concentrating on getting back into a proper dance company…

‘Thanks, Willa. How’s that brother of yours? Is he still overseas?’ She hoped the change of topic wasn’t too noticeable.

‘Luke texted me today. He’s working on some big deal, but it looks like he might be coming home soon.’ Willa sighed. ‘We might be able to get the whole gang back together after all.’

The ‘whole gang’ was the tight-knit crew that had formed when they’d all worked together at the magical Weeping Reef resort in the Whitsundays. Had it really been eight years ago? She still remembered it as vividly as if it were yesterday. The ocean had been so blue it had seemed otherworldly, the sand had been almost pure white, and she’d loved every second of it… Right until she’d screwed it all up.

‘Maybe,’ Chantal said.

‘I think we might even be getting some of the group together tonight.’ There was a meaningful pause on the other end of the line. ‘If you’re free, we’d love to see you.’

‘Sorry, Willa, I’m actually working tonight.’

Chantal checked the road signs and took the on-ramp leading out of the city. Sydney sparkled in her rearview mirror as she sped away.

‘Oh? Anywhere close by?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’m off to Newcastle for this one.’

‘Oh, right. Any place I would know?’

‘Not likely, it’s called Nine East. It’s a small theatre—very intimate.’

She forced herself to sound excited when really she wanted to find a secluded island and hide until her dancing ability came back. God only knew why she’d given Willa the place’s name. She prayed her friend wouldn’t look it up online.

‘Look, Willa, I’ll have to cut you short. I’m on the road and I need my full concentration to deal with these crazy Sydney drivers.’

Willa chuckled. ‘I forget sometimes that you didn’t grow up in the city. Hopefully we’ll catch up soon?’

The hope in her voice caused a twinge of guilt in Chantal’s stomach. She didn’t want to see the group. Rather, she didn’t want them to see how her life was not what she’d made it out to be.

‘Yeah, hopefully.’

There was nothing like being surrounded by friends, with the sea air running over your skin and a cold drink in your hand. Add to that the city lights bouncing off the water’s surface and a view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge against an inky night and you had a damn near perfect evening.

Brodie Mitchell leant back against the railing of his yacht and surveyed the group in front of him. Champagne flowed, music wafted up into the air and the group was laughing and reminiscing animatedly about their time working at the Weeping Reef resort. A long time had passed, but it made Brodie smile to think the group was no less lively now than when they’d all been fresh-faced kids, drunk on the freedom and beauty of resort life.

‘Hey, man.’ Scott Knight dropped down beside him, beer in hand. ‘Aren’t you drinking tonight?’

‘I’m trying to be good for once.’ Brodie grinned and held up his bottle of water in salute. ‘I’m training for a half marathon.’

‘Really?’ Scott raised a brow.

Brodie shoved his friend and laughed. ‘Yes, really.’

As much as he wanted to be annoyed that his friends would assume him incapable of running a half marathon, he kind of saw their point. Running competitively required a certain kind of routine and dedication that wasn’t Brodie’s style. He was a laid-back kind of guy: he thrived on surf, sand, and girls in bikinis. Abstaining from alcohol and waking up at the crack of dawn for training… Not so much.

‘You have to admit it doesn’t seem to fit in with the yachting lifestyle.’ Scott gestured to the scenery around them.

The boat was a sight to behold—luxury in every sense of the word from its classy interior design to the quality craftsmanship out on the deck.

Growing up in a big family had meant the Mitchells’ weekly grocery shop had needed to stretch across many mouths, and schoolbooks had always been passed down the line. They hadn’t been poor, but he’d never been exposed to fineries such as yachts. Now he owned a yacht charter business and had several boats to his name.

‘I didn’t exactly come up with the idea myself,’ Brodie admitted, taking a swig of his water. ‘There’s a guy at the marina back home and he’s always on my back about taking up running. He bet me a hundred bucks I couldn’t train for a race.’

‘So you started with a half marathon?’ Scott shook his head, laughing. ‘Why not attempt a lazy ten k to begin with?’

Brodie shrugged and grinned at his friend. ‘If I’m going to waste a perfectly good sleep-in, it might as well be for something big.’

‘Says the guy who once chose sleep over judging a bikini contest.’

‘And lived to regret it.’

Scott interlocked his fingers behind his head and leant back against the boat’s railings. ‘Those were the days.’

‘You look like you’re living the dream now.’ Brodie fought to keep a note of envy out of his voice.

A slow grin spread over Scott’s face as his fiancée, Kate, waved from the makeshift dance floor where she was shaking her hips with Willa, Amy, and Amy’s friend Jessica. The girls were laughing and dancing, champagne in hand. Just like old times.

‘I am.’ Scott nodded solemnly.

Just as Brodie was about to change the topic of conversation Willa broke away from the group and joined the boys. She dropped down next to Brodie and slung her arm around his shoulders, giving him a sisterly squeeze as she pushed her dark hair out of her face.

‘I’m so glad you’re back down in Sydney,’ Willa said.

‘And where’s your man tonight?’ Brodie asked.

‘Working.’ She pouted. ‘But he promised he’d be here next time. In fact I think he was a little pissed to miss out on the yacht experience.’

Brodie chuckled. ‘It’s an experience, indeed. My clients pay an arm and a leg to be sailed around in this boat, and she’s an absolute beauty. Worth every cent.’

The Princess 56 certainly fitted her name, and although she was the oldest of the yachts his company owned she’d aged as gracefully as a silver-screen starlet. He patted the railing affectionately.

‘Guess who I spoke to this afternoon,’ Willa said, cutting into his thoughts with a faux innocent smile.

Brodie quirked a brow. ‘Who?’

‘Chantal.’

Hearing her name was enough to set Brodie’s blood pumping harder. Chantal Turner was the only girl ever to have held his attention for longer than five minutes. She’d been the life of the party during their time at the Whitsundays, and she’d had a magnetic force that had drawn people to her like flies to honey. And, boy, had he been sucked in! The only problem was, she’d been Scott’s girl back then. He’d gotten too close to her, played with fire, and earned a black eye for it. Worse still, he’d lost his friend for the better part of eight years over the incident.

Brodie’s eyes flicked to Scott, but there was no tension in his face. He was too busy perving on Kate to be worrying about what Willa said.

‘She’s got a show on tonight,’ Willa continued. ‘Just up the coast.’

Brodie swallowed. The last thing he needed was to see Chantal Turner dance. The way she moved was enough to bring grown men to their knees, and he had a particular weakness for girls who knew how to move.

‘We could head there—since we have the boat.’ Willa grinned and nudged him with her elbow.

‘How do you know where she’s performing?’ he asked, taking another swig of his water to alleviate the dryness in his mouth.

‘She told me.’

‘I don’t know if we should…’ Brodie forced a slow breath, trying to shut down images of his almost-kiss with Chantal.

It was the last time he’d seen her—though there had been a few nights when he’d been home alone and he’d looked her performances up online. He wasn’t sure what seeing her in person would do to his resolve to leave the past in the past.

The friend zone was something to be respected, and girls who landed themselves in that zone never came out. But with Chantal he seemed to lose control over his ability to think straight.

‘We should go,’ Scott said, patting Brodie on the shoulder as if to reassure him once again that there were no hard feelings about that night. ‘I’m sure she’d appreciate the crowd support.’

By this time Amy, Jessica, and Kate had wandered over for a refill. Scott, ever the gentleman, grabbed the bottle of vintage brut and topped everyone up.

‘We were just talking about taking a little trip up the coast,’ Scott said. ‘Chantal has a show on.’

‘Oh, we should definitely go!’ Amy said, and the other girls nodded their agreement.

All eyes lay expectantly on him. He could manage a simple reunion. Couldn’t he…?

‘Why the hell not?’ he said, pushing up from his chair.

When Chantal pulled into the car park of the location specified on her email confirmation her heart sank. The job had been booked last-minute—they’d contacted her, with praise for the performance snippets she had on her website and an offer of work for a few nights a week over the next month.

A cursory look at their website hadn’t given her much: it seemed they did a mix of dance and music, including an open mike night once per week. Not exactly ideal, but she was desperate. So she’d accepted the offer and put her focus back on her auditions, thinking nothing of it.

Except it didn’t look like the quietly elegant bar on their website. The sign was neon red, for starters, and there were several rough-looking men hanging out at the front, smoking. Chantal bit down on her lip. Everything in her gut told her to turn around and head home—but how could she do that when it was the only gig she’d been able to book in weeks? Make that months.

Sighing, she straightened her shoulders. Don’t be such a snob. You know the arts industry includes all types. They’re probably not criminals at all.

But the feeling of dismay grew stronger with each step she took towards the entrance. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder and fought back the wave of negativity. She had to take this job. Her ex had finally sold the apartment—meaning she had to find a new place to live—and this job included on-site accommodation. It would leave her days free to pursue more auditions, and it was money that she desperately needed right now.

One of the men hanging out at the front of the bar leered at her as she hurried past, and Chantal wished she’d thrown on a pair of tracksuit pants over her dancing shorts. The sun was setting in the distance but the air was still heavy and warm. She ignored the wolf-whistling and continued on, head held high, into the bar.

The stench of cheap alcohol hit her first, forcing her stomach to dip and dive. A stage sat in the middle of a room and three men in all-black outfits fiddled with the sound equipment. Chantal looked around, surveying the sorry sight that was to be her home for the next month. The soles of her sneakers sucked with each step along the tattered, faded carpet—as if years of grime had left behind an adhesive layer. Though smoking had long been banned inside bars, a faint whiff of stale cigarette smoke still hung in the air. A small boot-sized hole had broken the plaster of one wall and a cracked light flickered overhead.

Delightful.

She approached the bar, mustering a smile as she tried to catch the attention of the older man drying wineglasses and hanging them in a rack above his head. ‘Excuse me, I’m here—’

‘Dancers go upstairs,’ he said, without even looking up from his work.

‘Thanks,’ she muttered, turning on her heel and making her way towards the stairs at the end of the bar.

Upstairs can’t possibly be any worse than downstairs. Perhaps the downstairs was for bands only? Maybe the dancers’ section would be a little more… hygienic?

Chantal trod up the last few steps, trying her utmost to be positive. But upstairs wasn’t any better.

‘Oh, crap.’

The stage in the middle of the room sported a large silver pole. The stage itself was round with seats encircling it; a faded red curtain hung at the back, parted only where the dancers would enter and exit from. It was a bloody strip club!