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The 13 th Step

    The first time he saw her under the
flashing lights on the dance floor, Blake thought it was his
imagination. The second time, he thought he'd seen a ghost. The third
time brought a harsh curse to his lips, because he knew the truth was
far more disturbing than either of those options.
    Ella.
    She spun around, dark locks
swinging, and gyrated her hips in quick, skillful circles that made
his cock harden. The multicolored lights reflected off the fine, soft
leather of her pants. Those'll
take forever to get off her. Then he grimaced. In five seconds, he'd gone from detached
professional to horny, slavering teenager. Just
like always.
    A man beside him watched her as
well. "Hot, huh? Damn."
    Blake murmured his assent then
snorted. "She's trouble."
    "You know her?"
    "Used to." She shimmied
and flipped her hips from side to side, her arms in the air. The tiny
halter top bared her back all the way down to where the soft curves
of her hips peeked out above the low-riding pants. If he didn't know
better, he'd think she'd staged this little show. "She'll eat
you alive."
    The man sighed. "It'd almost be
worth it."
    He finished his beer and arched an
eyebrow at the man next to him, ready to admonish him for being a
horny idiot. A flash of pale blue fabric and skin dragged his gaze
back to the dance floor.
    She was staring at him.
    The minute he made the mistake of
meeting her gaze, she smiled. Even, white teeth flashed at him. They
barely deserved to be called fangs, though their daintiness didn't
make her any less capable of sinking them into a man.
    A shudder wracked him as he
remembered how good it felt to have those teeth on his skin. In, he corrected silently. In his skin. Too damn good, and exactly why he'd left her.
    He watched as she walked off the
floor, disappearing into the crowd. He knew he should turn around.
Leave. He should get the hell out of this club, out of Vegas—hell,
out of the damn state of Nevada.
    Instead he followed her, a man
possessed. Obsessed. It should have been hard to track one scent in
the jumble of bodies on the dance floor, but it wasn't just any
scent. It was her. It was Ella.
    He caught a glimpse of her when he
reached the far side of the crowd. She waited for him, obviously
posed for effect with her hands braced against the door. Her back
formed a graceful arch down to her ass, which looked damn fine hugged
by tight leather on display for him.
    Anyone who didn't know better would
think she'd struck a pose of submissive offering. Like everything
else about her, though, her invitation was a trap. Oh, she'd bend
over for him. She'd wiggle and moan and beg him to fuck her, and
she'd feel so fucking good around his cock that he'd wonder if this
time he just might die from it.
    And even bent over a table, held
immobile with his hand twisted in her hair, she'd own him.
    She knew it, too. He saw it in the
teasing glint in her eyes as she twisted her head back to look at
him. Her tongue snuck out, swiped across her lower lip, and she blew
him a kiss.
    He took another step. She
straightened and disappeared through the door, a smooth,
old-fashioned piece of wood with a tiny black sign that read
Employees Only.
    He growled and followed. He had come
to Las Vegas for a job. Falling off the wagon wasn't part of the
plan. Now every instinct screamed that there was no job, that Ella had lured him to the city, to the club, for reasons
he'd yet to discover.
    Self-serving reasons, no doubt.
Nefarious ones. The knowledge irked him. He slapped his hand against
the wood of the door with a dull thud. It popped back into the wall.
"What the fuck is this all about, Ella?"
    "Missed you, too, baby."
She looked relaxed, leaning back against the wall. When he glared at
her, she shifted her arms, holding them above her as she slid a few
inches down the wall with a devastating smile and shimmied her way
back up again. "Not even a little bump and grind for old times'
sake?"
    "Old times are old times for