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and $200 bought the privilege of doing whatever one liked to the dancer. Some of the guys didn’t care. All that mattered was the money. But the upstairs scene was too reminiscent of Vlad’s days with the International Review. He only worked the VIP when he had no choice.
    Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” was playing in the background and the lounge was still empty except for Rosalie, who sat sipping a bright pink cocktail, watching with unnaturally lifted eyes. Her too-short pink skirt matched her pink-and-black leopard-print shoes. Appropriate footwear for a woman some plastic surgeon had sculpted into a large cat.
    She beckoned, holding two folded bills between her fingers. “You’ve been avoiding me, Vlad.”
    “Not avoid,” he said. “I don’t work VIP.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “That’s what Lamar said, too. But he came around. So will you.” She pointed with her toe at a spot before her round captain’s chair. “Closer.”
    He took another step forward. She lifted her foot, running the sole of her shoe along his inner thigh, and rubbed the pointed tip against his dick. At the same time, she ground the spiked heel into his thigh, marking him. Then she leaned forward and slipped a red-tipped finger beneath his waistband, pulling him closer. When she had him within reach, she stood and circled slowly. Wrapping her hand around his left biceps, she squeezed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you are grade-A prime, that’s for damn sure.”
    Meat. That’s all he was. And as long as he remained at The Male Room, it was all he would ever be.
    From behind, she palmed his bare ass and then wrapped her overly tanned arms around his waist. Her hands splayed across his lower abdomen, kneading his flesh and muscles. Moving lower. Fondling him through his G-string. It took every ounce of self-control to remain still and fight the intense revulsion that pounded through him. Rosalie pressed her mouth to his bare shoulder and nipped with sharp teeth. “So just how bad are you?”
    He had no answer, but behind his closed eyes were faces. The fresh-faced girls who came to the International Review as ex-ballerinas and left as junkies. The senator’s wife who helped him gain freedom, for a price. The sad, lonely women who frequented The Male Room. The bride-to-be willing to risk her fiancé’s love for a night in a stranger’s bed.
    He wanted to be away from all of it. He wanted to be a man who was good and honorable. Going on
Last Fling
might not do that in the short run, but it would earn him enough to start a new life.
    “Don’t you like me?” she purred.
    Again, no answer.
    “I don’t care. I’ve bought you for twenty minutes, and you have to do whatever I want.” She came to the front and jabbed his stomach with a sharp fingernail. “Dance.”
    He went through the motions, his sights on the money clutched between her fingers. The offer for the show was still on the table. All he had to do was call the producer before noon tomorrow. Hell, he would do it tonight. Even if he lasted only a few episodes, he’d come away with more than he had now. And once he had money, the Rosalie DiMarcos of the world would have no power over him.
    “Stop.” She reached between his legs and his cock shriveled at her touch. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like women?”
    He looked into amber eyes that seemed more animal than human. “I like women. But of cats, I’m not so fond.”
    Her slap stung his cheek and she pulled the cash out of reach.

Chapter Three
    The concrete floor of the convention hall was cold beneath Eric’s slush-damp shoes as he stood in line to meet the Midwestern Mondo Motor Extravaganza’s star attraction.
    Moments earlier, ex-TV starlet Alison Michaels had stepped out of the curtained cubicle that served as her dressing room wearing her signature red bikini and matching high heels. Though she carried a few more pounds than she had in her heyday as the scheming Missy Goldsmith, at twenty-nine, she