His Fantasy Girl (Things To Do Before You Die)(4)

By: Nina Croft



She wasn’t supposed to look at him as though he was all her nightmares rolled up into one big pile of dog crap that she couldn’t wait to scrape off her sensible shoes. And that was only after she’d finally recognized him—which had taken far longer than it should have done considering they’d had hot, mind-blowing sex every night for a year.

In his dreams.

He’d spent last night lying awake, going over the meeting, trying to decide what his next move should be, if any. But Josh and Vito would have a field day if he gave in this easily. And he was one hundred and ten percent convinced she wouldn’t be calling, or turning up at the club, any time soon.

She was nothing like he remembered, and certainly nothing like the sort of woman to indulge in his kinkier fantasies, which was a pity and a dash to his hopes. For a moment, he’d thought he’d gotten the wrong Abigail Parker. Josh’s security company had found her for him. Logan had only had the name Abigail and her date of birth—she’d told him she’d been celebrating her eighteenth birthday that night—but Josh had said that was enough. Logan had asked for a name and address. Perhaps he should have asked for more. But when he’d examined her closely, the basics were all there. The dark mahogany hair, though it was caught up tight in some sort of bun thing, and the big blue eyes. Her mouth…

But he somehow remembered her as bigger. She was medium height, about five-five in her low heels, and she had a trim figure in a gray skirt that reached past her knees and a white shirt, buttoned up tight. Prim and proper. Especially when she’d pursed her lips and looked him over as if trying to work out what a tattooed, ex-con like him was doing on her pristine doorstep.

At first he’d been amused when she so obviously had no clue who he was. Then he’d been pissed off. Once she had finally recognized him, she had gotten rid of him so fast it should have been funny.

Except he wasn’t laughing.

People had always looked at him and made assumptions about the sort of man he was—most of them bad and many of them correct—and it had never bothered him before.

And it shouldn’t bother him now. So why the hell—

“Are we boring you, boss?”

The question dragged him from his thoughts, and he frowned. He realized he’d been staring at the toes of his boots where they rested on the chair opposite, when he should have been watching the woman on the stage. But it had taken him all of about five seconds to decide she wasn’t suitable. They were a classy nightclub not a seedy strip joint. The dancers were there to provide a little glamour not a service for the customers.

He glanced at Jerry, his artistic manager, who sat beside him, in a crisp business suit. “No, not bored, just a little preoccupied.” With Ms. Prim and Proper.

Still the question made him think. This had once been one of his favorite jobs—interviewing dancers for the clubs. Christ, what man wouldn’t enjoy the show?

He studied the woman gyrating on the stage. She had impossibly red hair and impossibly huge tits only marginally covered by a sequined bikini top. Classy she was not. Nor was she prim and proper. She saw she had his attention and increased her efforts, gyrating to the low throb of the music. Reaching behind her, she tugged at the ties of her bikini top. Normally, at this stage he’d stop her and point out the whole classy nightclub thing, but he was worried.

What the hell was wrong with him?

Shouldn’t he be feeling something right now? Something other than pissed off at a woman he hadn’t seen in eleven years, and who wasn’t even here, and probably never would be.

The dancer was doing this clever move, which made her nipples sort of rotate. Very impressive. But somehow he wasn’t impressed. He looked down and contemplated the bulge in his jeans—not even a twitch. Once he would have taken the dancer up on the very clear invitation in her big brown eyes, just because he could, and because he loved women, all sorts of women, the more variety the better. And they would have both had a good time. Women liked him.

But the thought made him want to yawn.

Shit, he was only thirty-two. Wasn’t that too young for a midlife crisis?

He loved running the nightclubs and had been doing it for ten years, ever since he’d gotten out of prison. His father, Rory, had believed he needed to keep busy to stay out of trouble. Though it wasn’t needed; Logan had already decided he was never getting into trouble again. No way. But he’d loved the nightclub business from the start—the challenge, always something different going on, and an inexhaustible supply of gorgeous women to fuck. When had that lost its appeal? He couldn’t remember the last woman he’d—

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