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  He mirrored her stance, digging his hands into his own pockets, hoping to hide the hardening he suffered from so regularly with Harley around. “About male sexual fantasies?”

  She paused to consider her answer, and Grant felt the stir quickening in his groin.

  “No.”

  She was probably better off. Definitely better off. At that moment, Grant could create a picture of male sexual fantasies that would send the most staid psychoanalyst sprinting toward an industrial-strength freezer.

  She slid her fingers into her hair, hooking the ebony strands behind her ear. A delectable ear. An ear he could spend the next few hours nibbling.

  “Did I say anything before you pummeled me with that book?”

  He drained the rest of his glass in one gulp. “I didn’t pummel you with the book.” He slipped past her, grabbed the manicotti and put it in the refrigerator. “You backed up to avoid Steve’s groping and bumped into the bookshelf.”

  “Steve was groping me?”

  “Attempting to. He was drunk and his aim was off.”

  “Where were you?”

  In a bright flash, Harley saw Grant rushing toward her, panic and passion darkening his eyes. He was leaping, airborne, with such determination, she’d stepped back to avoid being consumed. Yet like her dream this morning, the image sped away the moment she realized what it was.

  A memory.

  “Harley?”

  Grant placed his hand beneath her elbow, and she realized she’d nearly fallen backward.

  “I just saw you,” she said.

  “I’m right here.”

  “Last night. Before the accident.”

  His grip tightened. “You remembered something?”

  I remembered you wanted me. Brief but powerful, the recollection revealed an intense sensation of passion and need. Mutual need. When he’d shot toward her, she’d retreated, not out of fear of him, but of herself. She’d wanted him too.

  “You’re sure we didn’t know each other before last night?” she asked, desperate to make sense of the disturbing impression. If they’d been strangers, how could she have had such an overwhelming desire for him? A desire that remained even when her memory did not.

  “Positive. Harley, what did you remember?”

  She couldn’t tell him. Such a revelation would bring them no closer to learning her identity. She’d only embarrass herself more than she had already. She was a stripper, for goodness’ sake. A romantic relationship with her, even a brief one, could devastate his career.

  “I remembered the book. Falling. Hitting me. For an instant, I saw you running toward me. Nothing that helps.”

  Grant placed his other hand on her shoulder, and for a moment, she hoped he might take her into his arms. Instead, the muscles and joints in his arms locked, keeping her at a safe distance.

  Right where she should be.

  “I spoke to Gus at the rehearsal. He did some research and thinks the amnesia wasn’t caused by the bump on the head exactly, but is your brain’s way of protecting you from some traumatic event. In cases such as yours, the memory returns in bits and pieces. This is a start.” He didn’t try to disguise the excitement in his voice. “If we find Moana tonight, maybe she’ll trigger something else. You could regain your memory before the night is over.”

  She nodded and forced herself to smile, acting as if she shared his enthusiasm. She should have. She knew she should. She’d already decided she had to leave Grant’s house as soon as possible. Leaving, after all, was the right thing to do.

  So why couldn’t she bring herself to do it?

  6

  HARLEY TOOK A DEEP BREATH when Grant turned away from the burly man at the club door and walked back toward her. They’d visited three nude dance establishments in the last hour, and after encountering a rowdy group of college boys in the parking lot of the first, Grant insisted she wait in the car. If anyone at the club knew Moana, or a stripper named Harley, he’d signal.

  Like a coward, she’d agreed. Grant’s forceful use of cool logic and blatant intimidation proved impossible to fight, particularly when she still reeled from his sudden enthusiasm for finding out her real identity. He’d probably rethought his decision to escort her to such a public event as tomorrow’s wedding, particularly after her bumbling with his nosy neighbor. Although she’d already decided her leaving would be best, his eager attitude stuck in her craw.

  So what if they hailed from different ends of the universe. So what if they had nothing in common except a phenomenally strong physical attraction. So what if she’d been the one to climb, uninvited, into his bed and practically beg him to kiss away her loneliness. She didn’t want to be just a brief encounter he’d laugh about later. She wanted to know him better, discover more about the untamed man he hid beneath his staid facade. The promise of such intense loving intrigued her, tempted her to the point of near obsession.

  Yet from the triumphant look in Grant’s eyes as he tapped on the passenger door window, she doubted she’d be around long enough to learn his favorite color.

  And that was probably best.

  She pressed the button that rolled down the window.

  “The bouncer knows Moana, but hasn’t seen her for over a month. Supposedly, she took a job at a club on the causeway, but he heard she’s not there anymore either.”

  “Does he know me?”

  “No, but there’s another dancer inside named Joy who keeps in touch with Moana. She’s about to go on, so we need to hurry. I slipped him a fifty to let us in the back entrance.”

  Harley rolled up the window without a word and allowed Grant to open the door.

  “You don’t have to go in. I can ask Joy about Moana for you. If you’re uncomfortable.”

  Harley snatched her tiny red purse—the four-dollar bargain from the consignment shop—and swung it over her shoulder, nearly knocking Grant in the face. She slammed the door and stalked silently down the side alley, not waiting for Grant to set the alarm.

  “Why should I be uncomfortable?” she said once she heard him fall in step behind her. “I’ve probably worked in worse places than this.”

  In truth, an icy shiver hovered just below Harley’s spine, ready to shimmy straight up the minute she stepped through the black steel door at the end of the alley. Flashing with neon and packed with cars, this club wasn’t the worst they’d visited tonight. And far from the best. The air surrounding the single-storied concrete block structure reeked of tobacco. Though no alcohol was allowed inside, the dizzying smells of stale beer, pungent whiskey and raw vomit assailed her as she scurried alongside the moldy wall. She nearly gagged when her shoes made a sucking noise as she climbed the single step.

  “Harley, slow down.”

  Grant grabbed her arm as she reached for the doorknob. She tried to ignore the strength of his grip, the warmth of his palm against her bare skin, the soothing command in his deep voice. This man didn’t want her around. Didn’t need her around. She could destroy him just by being in his presence. She couldn’t afford to let herself fantasize any longer.

  “Slow down? You should be anxious to get rid of me.”

  Calmly, he turned her to face him. “I’m anxious for you to regain your memory. Aren’t you?”

  She’d been asking herself the same question all afternoon. After Grant dispelled the overwhelming fear of the unknown she’d experienced the night before, she’d felt safe enough to begin exploring what might be a disturbing past.

  Yet the eagerness with which she’d pursued the cabdriver this afternoon vanished the minute Grant seemed excited to see her go. Her net of security dropped away. She no longer wanted to know how often she’d been employed at rat holes like this one, or what downward turn her life had taken to lead her to stripping in the first place. If not for the nagging suspicion that someone waited for her somewhere, she might have given in to the temptation to start her life over again with a fresh slate.

  Maybe with Grant.

  Except he didn’t w
ant her.

  She glanced aside, avoiding his assessing gaze. “I want to know if anyone misses me. If I belong anywhere or with anyone.”

  He caressed her elbow with gentle friction. “Then here’s the best place to start.”

  Again, Harley wondered why she clung so tightly to this reluctant man she barely knew. She glanced over her shoulder at the massive rusting door and found her answer. Grant was everything her life more than likely was not—ordered, respectable, controlled. Perhaps her mind did choose to shut off the minute she’d seen him hurdling across the room toward her, as if intending to rescue her from some horrid fate.

  She dug her heel into the ground and swung around with renewed vigor. She could damn well rescue herself, thank you.

  “Let’s do it.”

  AS PROMISED, the bouncer’s partner, Carl, admitted Grant and Harley after two solid knocks on the door. The entire backstage area pounded with bone-jarring bass and reverberated with the whoops and hollers of the male patrons out front. Behind the scenes, the dancers, clad in satiny costumes of various sizes and degrees of suggestiveness, shouted to each other over the din, checked their hair in lighted mirrors, puffed on cigarettes and sipped bottled water. Only after Carl directed them into a neat, contemporary-style office could Grant bring his attention back to the matter at hand.

  He directed Harley toward a sleek leather chair and positioned himself behind her. Moments later, the door reopened and a dancer entered wearing a classically tailored gold-sequined dress. Long-sleeved and high-necked, the costume looked nothing like what Grant had imagined. She seemed dressed for an evening at the opera rather than stripping. Only when she turned around to close the door behind her and he saw the low-slung, backless design did he know this was the woman they sought.

  She cut to the chase as soon as she braced her hands on the chair behind the cluttered desk. Her dark hair, pulled up into a loose tumble atop her head, hung around her face and eyes like black fringe. “Sal said you were asking questions about Moana.”

  “Do you know her?” Harley asked, her tone both determined and nonthreatening. She’d acted pensive and moody since he’d returned from the rehearsal dinner. He didn’t know what to expect from her now. Then again, he never knew what to expect from Harley.

  Which, of course, made him desire her all the more.

  “The answer is going to depend.” Joy swung the chair around and settled herself in with grace—the same grace Harley displayed—the grace of a dancer. Fair-skinned and brunette, she nearly mirrored Harley. Same look, same age, yet taller and definitely more jaded. Joy’s eyes, dark and wary, possessed none of the naive wonder Grant often caught in Harley’s baby blues.

  Joy knew the score. And she probably had a price.

  He pulled out his wallet and offered her a crisp fifty. “Will this do?”

  Joy waved the cash away. “Save your money for my next set. I want to know exactly why you’re looking for Moana before I say another word. Don’t even think about strong-arming me, big boy. Carl is waiting just outside the door.”

  Harley slipped her hand over her mouth, undoubtedly amused anyone would think Grant capable of strong-arming anyone. Not that he didn’t have the bulk or the skill. He just preferred more civilized forms of persuasion.

  In this case, however, the truth would serve just fine.

  He swung around Harley’s chair and took the seat beside her. “Moana was hired to perform at a bachelor party at my home last night. She didn’t show.”

  “Did you pay her in advance and come here trying to collect?”

  “I went in her place,” Harley provided, her voice suddenly small.

  “You strip?” Joy’s assessing stare tallied Harley from head to toe. “I’ve never seen you before.”

  Harley straightened her shoulders and leaned forward. “Do you know Moana well?”

  Joy eased back into the chair. “About as well as we ladies can. We met at a tanning salon about two years ago and danced at the same clubs for a while. If you filled in for her, you must have been close. Moana took pride in her work. She wouldn’t trust her reputation with just anyone.”

  Harley nodded. “I figured we were friends.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  Harley twisted her hands in her lap. “I don’t remember anything before last night. I had an accident. When I woke up, I was in this man’s house dressed in a skimpy biker-chick costume.”

  Joy smirked. “Biker chick? That’s not like Moana. This bachelor party must have been special order.”

  Grant shifted uncomfortably. Steve may have been the groom and man-of-honor at the get-together, but Harley’s act had been shaped from Grant’s most secret fantasies. Even the music she would have danced to hailed from his college days, when he used to wait for Gus to leave for class, then crank up the volume and sing the lyrics at the top of his lungs.

  “You can’t remember anything?”

  Joy’s question broke his revelry. Thankfully. Another few seconds and he’d be dragging Harley out to the truck without finding out a single fact about Moana—and not caring.

  “The doctor said amnesia,” Harley answered. “That’s why I’m so anxious to find Moana. She’s my only link to my life before last night.”

  Joy stood, crossed to the front of the desk, then folded her arms beneath her breasts. She pursed her bottom lip and looked Harley dead in the eye. Harley sat back and met her stare for stare, without an ounce of the apprehension Grant had seen in her just minutes ago in the truck. Her fears seemed to manifest only when they were alone.

  He didn’t have time to wonder why.

  “Okay, I buy your story. Besides, neither one of you looks anything like the goons who’ve been asking around for Moana.”

  “Goons?” Harley’s cheeks paled so discreetly, Grant assumed even Joy’s appraising gaze would miss the subtle change.

  “Probably pals of her boyfriend, Buck. He’s a real scum-bucket, you know? Anyway, they’ve been hitting all the local joints looking for Moana. They came here night before last. I was off, but Carl warned me. Moana’s my friend. I don’t want to cause her trouble.”

  “If she’s your friend and I’m her friend, why don’t you know me?”

  Joy shrugged, slipped a nail file out of the pen holder on the desk and tended to her long, gold-tipped fingers. “No clue. Moana never mentioned anyone I didn’t know.”

  “What about family?” Grant remained silent long enough. The pulsating rhythms of the music in the club, coupled with his renewed memories of his college musings made staying in this place painful, in a distinctly male fashion.

  Leaning back on the desk, Joy shook her head. “She never talked much about family. Left home at sixteen. Something about her mother. She had a couple of cousins she missed a lot, but she only talked about that stuff when she drank. Which wasn’t often.”

  “Do you know where she lives? Where we can find her?”

  Joy hesitated, again scrutinizing Harley with a narrowed gaze. Fiercely protective, Joy was a friend Moana was lucky to have. Grant hoped she’d offer the same consideration to Harley.

  Twisting around, Joy snatched a slip of paper and pen from the desk and scribbled. She handed the note to Harley. “Here’s her phone number and address. She lives on Davis Island, just past downtown. She’s supposedly out of town until next week, but you can leave her a message. If she knows you like I think she does, she’ll call you back.”

  Harley reached out to shake Joy’s hand. “I appreciate your trust. We won’t abuse it, I promise.”

  Grant watched a smile bloom on Joy’s sophisticated lips and wondered how on earth he’d ever thought he could steel himself against Harley’s charm. In just one day, she’d enchanted both his secretary and this less-than-trusting exotic dancer. Of course, he’d been enraptured in just a matter of seconds the night before. And the spell hadn’t lessened in the least. If anything, it had strengthened.

  Grant took another piece of paper from the desk and wrote his
unlisted phone number. “If you hear from Moana, or see her, tell her to call right away. I live in Citrus Hill. Harley’s very anxious to hear from her.”

  Standing, he tugged on his pants to keep his renewed craving for Harley his little secret. Joy smirked, then tucked the folded paper in her palm. “I can handle that.”

  He still held the fifty-dollar bill in his hand, but didn’t offer it for fear of insulting her. “Are you sure I can’t offer you anything in exchange for your help?”

  Joy’s smile continued as she strode to the door. “Stay for the show and put that cash to good use. Couples come in this place all the time. The act before mine is a killer—the Diablo Sisters, Dina and Denise. They’ll knock your socks off.” Her appraising gaze traveled from Harley to Grant and back to Harley. Her grin turned sly. “Or other articles of clothing. Never know. You might just learn something.”

  With that, she exited. Grant cleared his throat and tried not to let his imagination run wild. Only a few feet away existed a window into his erotic dreams. His mouth dried at the thought of slipping into some darkened corner table with Harley and watching the Diablo Sisters weave their carnal magic. The education they might receive would be worth the price of a hefty tip.

  Or better yet, he and Harley could spin some carnal magic of their own. Conduct private lessons.

  “Do you want to stay?” Harley asked, startling Grant with the hint of curiosity clear in her voice.

  “I’m male, Harley. The question is, do you want to stay?”

  Part of her did. Perhaps she wanted to see firsthand what kind of dancer she’d been. More than likely, she wanted to see how the act affected Grant. His sexuality fascinated her. Ensnared her. Piqued her curiosity about her own needs and desires. Just watching his suppressed reactions to the lust so blatantly displayed around them renewed the spiraling tendrils of heat coursing through her.

  But she wanted him to respond to her with more than just lust—more than just instinctive male desire. Perhaps she’d had too much of that in her former life. Perhaps she hadn’t deserved anything more from the men she danced for. Perhaps she hadn’t wanted more. Now, she did. Suddenly, watching the dancers on stage lost all appeal.