Three Fates

like a man. Though no one would mistake her for one, he admitted. Not if you were blind and on the back of a galloping horse. But there was something primitively erotic about the way she moved inside that traditional pin-striped suit.
    The music was hot, edgy American rock, and her lighting a steamy and smoky blue. He found it clever and ironic that she’d select Bruce Springsteen’s “Cover Me” to strip to.
    She knew what she was about, he realized as she tugged the tailored jacket off her shoulders, moving, always moving, pulled it off.
    While the others on the stage had been spinning or sliding, shaking or shimmying, this one was dancing. Sharp, complicated moves that demonstrated genuine style and talent.
    Though when, with one of those sharp moves, she ripped the breakaway trousers aside, he lost track of the style for a moment.
    Christ, she had legs, didn’t she?
    She used the poles as well, doing three fast circles with those long legs cocked up. Her hair tumbled free, past her shoulders in a straight rainfall of rich brown. He didn’t see how she opened the shirt, but it was flying around her now, revealing a scrap of black lace over high, firm breasts.
    He tried to tell himself they were likely manufactured, and either way they had nothing to do with him. But he found saliva pooling in his mouth when she stripped off the shirt.
    To clear his throat, he sipped his beer, and watched her.
    She’d made him from her first turn. She couldn’t see him clearly, and wasn’t concerned enough to worry about it. But she knew he was there, and that his attention was on her.
    That was fine. That’s what she got paid for.
    With her back to the audience, she slid a hand down her back, flicked open the catch of her bra. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she spun back. There was a light dew of sweat on her skin now, and a small grin—ice cold—on her lips as she made eye contact with the men in the audience she’d deemed most likely to part with folded money.
    She tossed her hair back and, wearing nothing but the heels and a black G-string, lowered to a crouch so they could see what they were paying for.
    She ignored the fingers sliding over her hips and registered the money tucked under the G-string.
    She eased back when one overenthusiastic patron reached for her. In a move that could have been mistaken for playful, she wagged a finger at him. And thought, Asshole.
    She came up in a one-armed backbend, 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