Irresistible Read online

  Irresistible

  by

  Shara Azod

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Double Duty Copyright© 2011Shara Azod

  Cover Artist: Shara Azod

  Editor: Novellette Whyte

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.

  Chapter One

  “Hey, baby. I’m Cinnamon. You wanna lap dance, private dance, or just a little company?”

  Cinnamon. Funny she didn’t look a thing like the spice to which she’d referred.

  Her skin was more of a mocha and sienna combination, darker and richer than cinnamon. Perhaps the fake name had come about because of her eyes. They were brown, but a few shades lighter than her skin rather than darker. At least he thought they were, but it was really hard to be sure because of the muted lights in the club. He supposed it was silly contemplating the absurdity of a “stage name.” He knew very well who she was. Delilah Thomas fit her far more than the Cinnamon moniker. He knew a lot about the woman before him now. Age twenty-nine, even if she didn’t look a day over twenty-one at most. Born in Lafitte, Louisiana to Reverend Elias and Evangelist Sadie Thomas. Third born of five children, the couple’s only girl.

  “Uh, lap dance? I had something a little more intimate in mind.” Edward generally detested the idea of human contact of any kind. Probably because no one had ever touched him without wanting something from him since he’d hit puberty. He pushed the glasses he didn’t really need up the bridge of his nose, giving the woman a stare that scared the living shit out of most people of his acquaintance. The whys of it had always escaped him. This woman, however, didn’t even flinch. Ah well, he was simply going to have to force the issue. “Here’s my credit card. There’s no limit, so tell your cashier person to charge whatever the going rate is for an exclusive…show.” Whatever the hell one called that sort of thing, he really couldn’t say. He was very aware, however, of the hulking figure in the shadows slightly to their right. It was the main reason he’d raised his voice when shoving his credit card in her general direction. He watched Delilah’s eyes (he refused to even think of her as Cinnamon) dart in the general direction of the shadow before she answered. He’d also seen her eyes before she looked to the right; she’d been about to pawn him off on someone else.

  A few precious moments of observation, and Edward was regretting his plan. It wasn’t going to work. More than that, this was not the woman he’d been led to believe she was. There was no way out of the damnable private dance now. The probability of anyone in this somewhat ethically challenged establishment giving in to a simple request his credit card NOT be charged was about as likely as snowfall in Miami.

  Walking out after conceding to a full charge would look suspicious and garner unwanted attention. He was simply going to have to bite the bullet and soldier on.

  “All right, honey, whatever you want.” She wasn’t even looking at him when she said it. Edward noticed her eyes were looking toward the shadow, though to any watching it looked as if that pasted-on smile was all for him. “This way.” She sounded oddly defeated as she took his credit card, taking it to the rotund man in the obscenely small booth. Turning back to him, she graced him with yet another false smile; this one, he supposed, was intended to be seductive. It was too bad her eyes were full of disdain—it might’ve helped matters if he could delude himself into thinking she was truly interested in him. She was very good at the subterfuge, though, perhaps to keep him from noticing she was moving away from the man in the booth who still had his credit card.

  “We have a private room upstairs, sugar. If you’ll follow me?” Miss Delilah Thomas was truly magnificent in the soothing department. Perhaps that was what David saw in her.

  “My credit card?” Edward worked in academia, a world chock full of false niceties and falser smiles, and he thought he’d seen the best of the fakers. Yet none of them could touch this woman. She actually offered a thrilling little laugh and went back to get the card. Like they didn’t have everything they needed to charge him anything they wanted.

  “Here ya go, sugar. Come on, let’s go and help you relieve some tension.” There was something that flashed in her eyes when her gaze drifted briefly over him. Not actual hatred, but certainly resentment. Try as he might to not be affected by it, the emotion momentarily stunned him. He wasn’t really sure what he’d find when he came to the infamous Sailor’s Delight club hidden amidst the trendier but local jazz clubs in Tremé. Flinty eyed, money-grubbing professionals, certainly. Smooth-talking swindlers, definitely. He couldn’t really describe Delilah as any of those things. As soon as they were out of sight of her watchers, walking up a dimly lit staircase, there was a shift to her demeanor. Edward didn’t need to see her face to note the changes in her carriage. Her back was ramrod straight, her head held high and pointed directly ahead.

  She walked as if she could care less whether or not he followed; gone was the exaggerated sway of the hips. They swayed now, all right, but it wasn’t deliberate. Her natural walk was a million times sexier than the act she’d put on downstairs.

  Everything about her now practically screamed that she didn’t want to take him to the private rooms; it was as if she didn’t care to have a customer tonight.

  But then again, why would she need any other customer, since she had David as a regular? The amount of money Edward’s nephew had spent here on this very woman was enough to buy several middle-class homes. Perhaps that money had been spent just as Edward was spending his now. With David as a faithful customer, Delilah wouldn’t need any other clients—none for private showings, anyway. Since David couldn’t be reasoned with to stop coming here, Edward had decided to come and see this Cinnamon person for himself, though not before finding out everything he could about her.

  “In here, sugar.” Swinging open a simple whitewashed door, she motioned for him to go inside. The false smile was back, brighter than ever.

  For some reason that smile worked on Edward’s nerves. He had to grit his teeth to keep his sometimes acerbic tongue silent. Verbally shredding her attitude to ribbons would do no good at this point. He entered the room and then came to an abrupt halt.

  This place really was some someone’s outdated idea of a bordello, wasn’t it? The décor could’ve come straight out of an old-fashioned gentleman’s study, complete with an oak-paneled bar in the far corner, a fireplace, even bookshelves lined with books that had probably never been opened. The only things distinguishing the place from his own office in his country home were the metal pole on a raised platform in the middle of the room, with an armless leather recliner directly facing the contraption; a king-sized bed in the corner opposite the bar; and the God-awful purple, red, and black leather color scheme. The total effect was somewhat garish, shocking to the system.

  “Go on, sugar. Have a seat while I make you a drink. What’s your poison?”

  “Bourbon, neat.” Edward’s response came without thinking, springing to his lips as an automatic reaction. Years of ingrained response, he supposed. At the time he’d been silently
obsessing over the use of the endearment she kept throwing out at him. He really wished she would stop doing that.

  “Coming right up.” Another bright fake smile, a subtle shift of her body causing the tight, clingy little scraps of cloth she was wearing to move slightly without showing anything. Clever. “Sit down, sugar—you’re not getting any taller. Make yourself comfortable.” Edward sat, but the last thing he was feeling was comfort. “Let me tell you this right up front, this room and my…services are a hundred and fifty an hour, no matter what happens here. What kind of music would you like me to dance to?” Curious. He’d expected her to expand on the “what happens here” part, but she didn’t. Maybe that was how it was done these days; Edward would be one of the last to know. This was his first experience in such a place.

  “You pick the music. I don’t care.” Nor could he name any songs released in the past century. He seriously doubted Bach was on the playlist.

  Delilah handed him a drink, offering a smaller smirk instead of the smiles he’d been graced with thus far. This close, Edward could finally make out the exact color of her eyes. They weren’t cinnamon either. A soft amber would be more apt, with the faintest ring of blue around the iris. She was stunning, really, under the layers of makeup and artifice. He had an urge to wash her face and take the piles of auburn-colored hair that wasn’t her own off her head. He wanted to take her home, he realized with a start. Why, he couldn’t begin to explain. The world-weary eyes stopped him from uttering any sort of stupid declaration. A woman in her position had probably heard it all; men who’d blurted out promises they could never keep probably came a dime a dozen. She may be weary, but she didn’t belong here. Determination shone through the disillusionment like a beacon. She wanted out.

  Maybe she’d seen David as some kind of rescue? Edward found he didn’t believe it. He had no idea why Delilah had consented to a regular such as his nephew, but he was becoming more and more sure that she hadn’t been using the young fool.

  “All right, sugar, how would you like to do this?” She moved back, out of his reach. Edward could’ve easily pulled her back close to him. Lord, why did he want to so bad? “I can start on the pole or go straight to the lap dance. You can have a body-to-body massage—”

  “Body-to-body massage? What the devil is that?” He’d never heard of such a thing. Being lost in ancient civilizations had left his own education lacking, it seemed.

  A peal of laughter caught him by surprise. It was the first genuine expression of emotion he’d witnessed from her, a sweet, honest sound. Edward wanted to make her do it again, but he had no idea how. Interpersonal relationships were a complete mystery to him. The only time he ever made anyone laugh was by complete accident.

  All too soon the sound was gone, dying in the air as if it had never been. He wanted it back; he wanted such sounds to surround him in a way he never had before.

  “I’m sorry, sugar, you just looked so adorably lost for a second there.” Her explanation of the laughter might have been as sweet as the laughter itself if it hadn’t been for the infernal use of the word “sugar.” “A body massage is where we both strip down to our unmentionables, and I use my body to massage yours. I’m afraid that’s as far as I go, but if you’re looking for something more intimate, I can get you another girl who’ll be more accommodating.”

  The declaration at the end of her statement shouldn’t have pleased him as much as it did. He knew it, deep down, before she ever took him upstairs. There was something about her, a kinship Edward recognized that wouldn’t let him believe she was anything like he’d first feared when his sister came to him, worried about the amount of time and money David was spending on this place. It hadn’t been hard to find out whom his nephew was coming to see, but he had to know why before he acted.

  He still didn’t know why, but nothing overtly scandalous had gone on here—Edward was certain of it.

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary.” Edward had to drink to wet his suddenly dry throat. “Go ahead and…dance.” Not knowing what else to do, he pointed to the pole.

  “Up there.”

  Not his most eloquent, he knew, but it would do for now. His original plan had seemed so simple in theory. Find out what David was doing with this woman, and if it were a matter if simple economics, keep her occupied until David outgrew his fascination and moved on to the next obsession that entered his young brain. Edward had been prepared to return every night that she worked, offer her obscene amounts of money until she forgot about David, and then disappear. The last thing he’d expected was to be fascinated, ensnared by this woman. He had never craved human contact like this. Research was his mistress, his love, his life. There was no place for anything more but responsibility that forced him to interact with the modern world.

  “No problem, sugar. Let me just start the music…”

  “Cease with the empty platitudes and endearments, please.” The words whipped across the space between them. He hadn’t meant to sound harsh, but he really couldn’t stand it. How many other men had heard those words from that velvet voice” David, sure…but who else? In this at least he wouldn’t be like her regulars; he could at least fool himself that he wasn’t a customer. “My name is Edward.”

  Chapter Two

  His name was Edward Michael Prichard. Delilah knew very well who this man was. He looked very much like his nephew David, her little angel of mercy. She supposed it would be more correct to say David looked like his uncle. She’d known it would only be a matter of time before a member of David’s very rich, very influential family came to investigate where he was spending so much time and money. She hadn’t expected a game, though, and that was exactly what Edward was doing: playing a game. Had the bastard just been honest and asked her, she would’ve told him the truth about herself and David.

  That would be too easy, she guessed. Instead the man had bought her time, for what end she didn’t know. No matter what, she wasn’t about to tip her hand and let him know she knew very well who he was. She’d go along with this farce and see where it led. No doubt sooner or later he would try to talk her into more than just a dance. Men like him always thought it was only a matter of price to get her to spread her legs for them like a bitch in heat. To be completely honest, so many of the “dancers” would gladly give a customer whatever they wanted for a price. This was a whorehouse masquerading as a strip club, after all.

  Delilah couldn’t, wouldn’t go down that road. It was something she absolutely refused to do. The only thing saving her job was that for some reason, her regulars were all big spenders. Each and every one of them thought they would be the one to change her mind. Eventually they all moved on to other women who would do a little extra for more money. It had worked to Delilah’s advantage so far because she kept bringing in fresh meat. Sooner or later, however, she was going to have to make a critical choice. As far as she was concerned, she’d lost enough of her soul; if forced to take that final step, she’d lose herself completely. It was hard enough to look in the mirror as it was. She had to get out. Age was creeping up on her; life was passing by without her really ever living it. How she’d gotten to this place was clear enough. It was the getting out that was murky, which brought her to the problem in front of her now—David’s uncle.

  Well, it made sense that Edward Prichard would be the one to show up and

  “deal” with her. The rest of the esteemed Prichard clan consisted of women: David’s mother, one maternal aunt, one paternal grandmother, two sisters, and a scattering of female cousins. Delilah knew each and every one of them by name and face. David did like to share his familial woes with someone outside his societal structure. She’d always enjoyed listening, and now she was very, very glad she did.

  “All right then, Eddie.” Compliance to a customer’s wishes up to a point was a lesson she’d spent years learning, perfecting, living. She knew exactly how to make a man feel at ease enough to loosen the hold he had on his wallet. She couldn’t give in completely to th
is customer, however. It just pissed her off too much that he was here in the first place. “I’ll put on the music and we can begin.” Edward didn’t want to be here; Delilah could read it in every move he made.

  That made two of them. But she refused to be in intimidated just because he was a man of considerable means. Let him be uncomfortable, he deserved to be. Instead of putting on anything with a heavy beat that made pole dancing easy, Delilah chose her own private mix. Music that was slower, more sensual, it was her personal wish mix full of songs people didn’t generally associate with stripping. Fuck Mr. High and Mighty Prichard; she would be dancing for herself.

  Usually Delilah would never allow anyone to see her dancing in any way other than what they paid for. Becoming a dancer had once been a dream, the one she ran away from home to pursue only to end up here. Part of what made her so popular with the men who came here was her ability to connect with them. Some strippers allowed their minds to drift, especially in one-on-one sessions. Delilah never wanted to forget where she was, what she was doing or why. Once, a long time ago, she’d allowed herself the luxury of pretending she wasn’t here shaking her ass for money, only to wake up on the wrong side of twenty-five with nothing to show for her troubles but a pair of stripper boots and a beat-up car.

  That was when she’d come to her own personal crossroads. Hiding from the truth was a luxury she didn’t have. Since then she came to work every night with eyes wide open. She started to save what money she could instead of blowing it on whims.