Page 8 of Lawless in Leather

Come to think of it, maybe he did need more therapy. Because buying a baseball team wasn’t exactly designed to deliver a life of peace and quiet. But the craziness would die down, he hoped, once they got everything running to their satisfaction. Then it would just be the long slow process of building the Saints back up to the team they should be. The team they would be if he had anything to say about it.

That wouldn’t be crazy. Just a process. A considered and logical process if you listened to Alex and Lucas and Dan Ellis, the Saints’ manager.

So, a calm and steady life. That sounded good.

But he was pretty sure that calm and steady ruled out women like Raina Easton. She owned a nightclub, of all things. He didn’t know what happened there but it wasn’t exactly mainstream USA.

Not that he could claim to be mainstream USA, either. But he could get there.

So he needed to stop thinking about Raina Easton. Yes, she was sexy. Yes, he already liked her style. Yes, there might be a little itch there. But that didn’t mean he had to indulge it.

The lights changed and he gunned the bike down the near-empty street—only to land in a detour due to construction work on the cross street. He turned right, in obedience to the signs and the guy directing traffic, and went down the next street at a more sedate pace. He pulled up at a set of lights and glanced down the next street as he waited for the green. And there, winking at him like an invitation, was a discreet sign lit in shades of blue and green that read MADAME R. The R stood out because it was outlined in pink, unlike the rest of the lights.

Madame R.

Raina Easton’s club. He knew the name from the résumé he’d read when they hired her.

Keep moving, Coulter.

Just keep moving.

But despite the better urgings of his brain, he turned the bike as the lights turned green and rode toward that bright pink R like it was a magnet, cursing himself while he did it.

It was late but the club was still open. For another hour, or so the guy at the door—who was wearing skintight black apart from the braces holding up his trousers; those matched the shiny dark-pink door—informed him. Okay. One hour. That was time to have a drink and regain control of his senses and go home. He paid the cover charge and walked up a half flight of stairs toward the sound of music and laughter. It was a Tuesday night, but apparently that wasn’t deterring anyone from going out and having a good time.

At the top of the stairs there was a heavy velvet curtain in a deep shade of greeny blue, half hooked back with a cord that ended in tassels with tiny deep-red fabric lips hanging from them.

He moved through the opening, ducking to avoid the curtain’s fringe, and stepped into the club.

The inside of the club wasn’t what he had expected. He’d expected red and gold. The bordello school of sexy … well, he really hadn’t thought about it that much. But this space wasn’t that. No, this was sleek and sensual. Black lacquered furniture and low lighting from both lamps and candles and soft fabrics in deep gray and jewel tones. There were mirrors here and there in aged silver frames, set in places that reflected both light and the people within, making it hard to tell exactly where the room ended. There were lights above, too, high in the air. Black chandeliers dripping with crystals that mirrored the other colors in the room. It all said, Come in. Sit down. Let us entertain you. You’ll like it. We promise.

Intriguing. How had she managed to achieve that with just furniture and paint and fabric?

But the furniture wasn’t really what he was interested in. Nope.

Not even slightly. Not when the second thing he’d spotted after walking into the club, after the chandelier, was Raina Easton standing on the stage in a very short, very tight sequined silver dress and fishnet stockings, sparkly microphone in one hand, mouth painted a siren red even brighter than her hair. A wicked grin that made his temperature rise a few degrees brightened her face.

She had her head slightly tilted to one side and whatever she’d done with her makeup made her eyes look far greener than they had earlier.

She was listening to something someone in the audience was saying, which Mal couldn’t quite make out.

But apparently Raina could. She laughed, a throaty, deep-down laugh that had no business coming out of such a small woman, and then shrugged and did a little shimmy that made the shiny fringe of her dress, which he hadn’t noticed before, spark light in all directions.

It wasn’t all that was sparking. He felt his mouth go dry and his brain go foggy as she purred, “Sorry, sweetie, but that’s all you’re getting tonight.”

The audience laughed along and Mal found himself suddenly scanning the crowd, trying to figure out who it was who’d made the comment—it had obviously been some sort of invitation.

Shit. What the hell was he doing?

This wasn’t good news.

He shouldn’t be bristling over something some complete stranger said to a woman he barely knew. Not when he hadn’t even heard the comment to know whether there was something actually worth bristling over.

He made himself look back at the stage, where Raina was bending down to give a round of applause to the tiny band—a drummer, a guitarist, a sax player, and a keyboardist—nestled next to one corner of the curving stage.

The audience applauded again and started to call for more.

Raina shrugged. “No can do, my lovelies. The neighbors get a little difficult about noise restrictions around here, and your favorite gals need their beauty sleep.” She gestured down the length of her body and mock-pouted. “All this takes work, you know.”

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