The Tycoon's Stowaway

‘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!

‘Chantal?’

A voice caught her attention. She contemplated lying for a second, but the recognition on the guy’s face told her he knew exactly who she was.

‘Hi.’

‘I’ve got your room key, but I don’t have time to show you where it is now.’ He looked her up and down, the heavy lines at the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. ‘Just head out back and get ready with the other girls.’

‘Uh… I think there’s been some kind of mistake. I’m not a stripper.’

‘Sure you’re not, darlin’,’ he said with a raspy chuckle. ‘I get it—you’re an artist. Most of the girls say they’re paying their way through university, but whatever floats your boat.’

‘I’m serious. I don’t take my clothes off.’ She shook her head, fighting the rising pressure in her chest.

‘And we’re not technically a strip club. Think of it more as… burlesque.’ He thrust the room key into her hand. ‘You’ll fit right in.’

Chantal bit down on her lip. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as she thought.

But, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself, her gut pleaded with her to leave.

‘I really don’t think this is going to work,’ she said, holding the key out to him.

‘You really should have thought of that before sending back our contract with your signature on it.’ His eyes hardened, thin lips pressing into a harsh line. ‘But I can have our lawyer settle this, if you still think this isn’t going to work.’

The thinly veiled threat made Chantal’s heartbeat kick up a notch. There was no way she could afford a lawyer if they decided to take her to court. How could she have made such a colossal mistake?

Her head pounded, signalling a migraine that would no doubt materialise at some point. What kind of club had a lawyer on call, anyway? The dangerous kind… the kind that has enough work for a lawyer.

‘Fine.’ She dropped her hand by her side and forced away the desire to slap the club owner across his smarmy, wrinkled face.

She was a big girl—she could handle this. Besides, she’d had her fair share of promo girl gigs whilst trying out for dance schools the first time. She’d strutted around in tiny shorts to sell energy drinks and race-car merchandise on more than one occasion. This wouldn’t be so different… would it?

Sighing, she made her way to the change room where the other dancers were getting ready. She still had that funny, niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right… and it wasn’t just that she’d somehow landed herself in a strip club.

She concentrated for a moment, analysing the feeling. It had grown stronger since her audition—an incessant tugging of her senses that wouldn’t abate. She unpacked her make-up and plucked a face wipe from her bag. Smoothing the cloth over her face, she thought back to the director. He’d looked so familiar, and he hadn’t seemed to be able to look her in the eye.

A memory crashed into her with such force she stopped in her tracks, hand in midair. An old photo, taken a few years before she’d first started dating Derek—that was where she’d seen his face before. He was a friend of her ex-husband’s, and that couldn’t be a coincidence.

Rage surged through her. Her hands trembling, she sorted through her make-up for foundation. That smarmy, good-for-nothing ex-husband of hers had put her name forward for this skanky bar. He probably found the idea hilarious.

If I ever come across that spiteful SOB again I’m going to kill him!

An hour and a half later Chantal prepared to go on stage. She looked at herself in the mirror, hoping to hell that it was the fluorescent lighting which made her look white as a ghost and just as sickly. But the alarming contrast against her dark eye make-up and glossed lips would look great under the stage lighting. She’d seem alluring, mysterious.

Not that any of the patrons of such a bar would be interested in ‘mysterious’. No, she assumed it was a ‘more is more’ kind of place.

She sighed, smoothing her hair out of her face and adding a touch of hairspray to the front so it didn’t fall into her eyes. The other dancers seemed friendly, and there were actually two burlesque performers—though they didn’t look as if they danced on the mainstream circuit. When she’d asked if all the dancers stripped down she’d received a wink and an unexpected view of the older lady’s ‘pasties’.

Well, she wouldn’t be taking off her clothes—though her outfit wasn’t exactly covering much of her body anyway. She looked down at the top which wrapped around her bust and rib cage in thick black strips, and at the matching shorts that barely came down to her thighs. She might as well have been naked for how exposed she felt.

It wasn’t normal for her to be so filled with nerves before going onstage. But butterflies warmed her stomach and her every breath was more ragged than the last. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and shut her eyes, concentrating on relaxing her breathing. After a few attempts her heart rate slowed, and the air was coming more easily into her lungs.

Her act would be different—and she wouldn’t be dancing for the audience… she would be dancing for herself. Taking a deep breath, she hovered at the entrance to the stage, waiting for the dancer before her to finish.

It was now or never.

CHAPTER TWO

‘ARE YOU SURE we’re in the right place?’ Brodie looked around the run-down bar and shook his head. ‘She can’t be dancing here.’

‘I double-checked the address,’ Willa said, her dark brows pinched into a frown. ‘This is definitely it.’

‘Looks like there’s an upstairs section to this place.’ Kate pointed to a set of stairs on the other side of the room.

A single guy sat in the middle of the stage, playing old country-and-western hits, his voice not quite up to par. The bottom half of the bar was crowded and Brodie stayed close to the girls, given a few of the patrons were looking at them a little too closely for his liking. The group wove through the crowd until they reached the staircase at the back of the room, filing one by one up to the next level.

The music changed from the twangy country-and-western songs to a more sensual bass-heavy grind. The crowd—all men—encircled the stage and were enthusiastically cheering on a blonde dancer performing on a pole. She wore little more than a glittering turquoise bikini and her feet were balanced precariously on the highest pair of heels Brodie had ever seen.

‘We must be in the wrong place.’ Brodie rubbed his fingers to his temple, forcing down the worry bubbling in his chest.

Willa shrugged, looking as confused as he felt.

Chantal was a magnificent dancer—he’d often sneaked away from his duties at the Weeping Reef resort when he’d known she’d be using her time off to practise. She had innate skill and passion when she danced, no matter if it was in a studio or on the resort’s packed dance floor. He couldn’t understand why on earth she would be wasting her talent performing at some dingy dive bar.

The blonde left the stage to a roar of approval from the crowd and the music faded from one song to the next. His eyes were riveted to the space between the red curtains at the back of the stage. Heart in his throat, he willed the next dancer to be anyone else in the world other than Chantal. But the second a figure emerged from the darkness he knew it was her. He felt her before his eyes confirmed it.

No one else had a pair of legs like hers—so long and lean and mouth-wateringly flexible. She took her time coming to the front of the stage, her hips swinging in time to the music. Each step forward revealed a little more as she approached the spotlight. Long dark hair tumbled in messy waves around her shoulders, swishing as she moved. The ends were lightened from too much sun and her limbs were bronzed, without a tan line in sight.

Her eyes seemed to focus on nothing, and the dark make-up made her look like every dirty, sexy, disturbing fantasy he’d ever had. A jolt of arousal shot through him, burning and making his skin prickle with awareness.

He was in a dream—that had to be it. It was the only plausible explanation for how he’d ended up in this hellish alternative universe where he was forced to watch his deepest fantasy come to life right in front of him. He’d never been able to keep his mind off Chantal at the resort, but now she was here, the ultimate temptation, and he had to watch a hundred other men ogle her as though she were a piece of meat offered up for their dining pleasure.

His fists balled by his sides as he fought the urge to rush up onto the stage and carry her away. She wasn’t his responsibility, and the more distance he kept the better. He’d learnt that lesson already.

A wolf-whistle erupted from the crowd, snatching Brodie’s attention away from his inner turmoil. Chantal had one hand on the pole, and though she wasn’t using it as a prop, the way her fingers slid up and down the silver length made the front of his pants tighten. He shut his eyes for a moment, willing the excitement to stop. He shouldn’t be feeling as if he wanted to steal her away and devour her whole… but he did.

When he dared to open his eyes he found himself looking straight into the endless depths of Chantal’s luminous olive-green gaze. Emotion flickered across her face and her mouth snapped shut as she continued to dance, her eyes locked straight onto him.

Was it his imagination or were her cheeks a little pinker than before? For a moment he let himself believe she danced only for him, each gentle curve of movement designed to bring him undone.

In that moment she was his.

Dancing barefoot, she moved about the stage as though she owned it. Her feet pointed and flexed, creating lines and artful movement. Her arms floated above her head, crossing at the wrists before opening out into a graceful arc. Brodie’s body hummed as though she played him with each step, with each look, each flick of her hair.

Her eyes remained on him. She seduced him. Broke apart every brick of resolve that he’d put in place until the wall crumbled around him like a house crushed by a tidal wave.

She capsized him. Bewitched him.

Her eyes glimmered under the spotlight, energy building with the climax of her performance. His body tensed and excitement wound tight within him. A coil of wanting, ready to be released at any moment. It was so wrong. He’d thought he’d moved on. Forgotten her. What a joke. He’d never get Chantal out of his head. Never.

The spell was broken as soon as her song finished. Her eyes locked on him for one final moment before she retreated behind the red curtain. The catcalls and cheering only made Brodie’s pulse increase and tension tighten in his limbs. She should not be dancing in a place like this. Wasn’t she supposed to be married? Where the hell was her husband and why wasn’t he protecting her?

‘That wasn’t quite what I expected,’ Willa said, looking from Amy to Brodie and back again. ‘I mean, she’s a gorgeous dancer—but this place is…’

‘Wrong.’ Brodie gritted his teeth together.

‘Don’t be so judgmental, you two.’ Amy folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m going to see if I can find out what time she finishes.’

She wandered off in the direction of the stage but Brodie hung back with the others. Scott and Kate were chatting and laughing amongst themselves; Willa and Jessica were discussing the outfit of the next performer. Brodie leant back against the wall and ran a hand through his hair. His heart thudded an erratic beat and he wasn’t sure if it was from the desire to protect Chantal or from the fact that her skimpy black outfit had worked his libido into overdrive.

No, it had to be concern over her safety. He had four little sisters, and the need to protect was ingrained in him as deep as his need to breathe. Sure he was attracted to Chantal—what red-blooded man wouldn’t be? But it was nothing more than that. It had never been more than that.

Somehow the lie was no more believable now than it had been eight years ago.

Chantal had thought it wasn’t possible for the night to get any worse. Dancing in front of a room full of people who wouldn’t know art if it hit them over the head was bad enough, and the catcalls and leering were the proverbial cherry. But then she’d spotted Brodie and a good chunk of the Weeping Reef gang. Her stomach had felt as if it had dropped straight through the stage floor.

She braced her hands at the edge of the make-up bench and looked at herself in the mirror. All she wanted was to wash off her make-up and lock herself away until humiliation lost its brutal edge… though it was possible that would take a while. The shock on his face had been enough to destroy whatever confidence she’d managed to build up. He’d looked at her with an unnerving combination of disbelief and hunger.

She was about to remove her false lashes when her name rang out amongst the backstage hustle and bustle. Amy bounded towards her, arms outstretched and shiny blond hair flying around her face.

‘You were fantastic!’ Amy threw her arms around Chantal and gave her a friendly squeeze.

‘Thanks.’ Chantal forced a smile, wishing for possibly the hundredth time since she’d met Amy that she could have even an ounce of her vivacious confidence. ‘It’s a small gig in between a few bigger things.’

She hoped the lie didn’t sound as hollow out in the open as it did in her head, but she couldn’t let go of the false image she’d constructed. If they knew how bad things were right now… She wouldn’t be able to handle the pity. Pity was the thing she detested most in life—possibly due to the fact that it had been doled out in epic proportions throughout her childhood.

The teachers had pitied her and her borrowed schoolbooks, the other mums and their suit-and-tie husbands had pitied the way she’d had to wear the same clothes week after week, and as for the students… pity from her peers had always stung the most.

‘No judgment here.’ Amy held up her hands. ‘You have to come for a drink with us, though. We’ve got everyone together… well, almost everyone.’

‘Oh, I would love to, but…’ Chantal’s smile wavered. ‘It’s been a long day and I’ve got an audition tomorrow.’

She scrambled for an excuse—something that Amy wouldn’t question. There was no way she could go out there and face them—no way she could keep her head held high after what they’d seen. Heat crawled up her neck, squeezing the air from her throat. Not now, please don’t fall apart now.

‘Is your audition in Newcastle?’

‘No, Sydney. So I’ve got quite a long drive.’

Amy grinned and grabbed her hand, tugging her towards the door. ‘I’ve got the perfect solution then. Brodie got us here on his yacht, but he’s supposed to be docking at The Rocks. If your rehearsal is in the city it would be perfect. You won’t have to drive there, and Brodie can sail you back here after your audition.’

‘I really am tired.’ She shook her head and pulled her hand from Amy’s grasp.

‘You just need a drink or five.’ Amy winked. ‘Come on—it’ll be like old times.’

Chantal stole a glance at her reflection. She’d have to change. There was no way she’d go out there and stand in front of Brodie wearing mere scraps of Lycra. It’s not like he didn’t notice you dancing half-naked on that stage.

‘Just one drink,’ she said, sighing. ‘I need to be on good form tomorrow.’

‘Great.’ Amy bounced on the spot. ‘I’ll let you get changed. Meet us out the front in a few minutes?’

‘Sure.’

With Amy gone, Chantal could let the fake smile slide from her lips. Why the hell had she agreed to a drink with the old gang? She was supposed to be keeping her distance—at least until her life had started to match the image she’d presented online. No doubt they’d ask about her marriage: fail number one. They’d want to know about her career: fail number two. And she’d have to act as if it wasn’t awkward at all being around Scott and Brodie: fail number three.

Willa had told her that they’d recently repaired the rift she’d caused, but that didn’t make her any less squeamish about having the two of them in the same room as her.

She contemplated looking for a back exit to slip out of. Maybe if she disappeared they might get the hint that she wasn’t feeling social right now.

You can’t do that. These people are your friends… possibly your only friends.