Page 7 of Training His Pet

“It’ll be right over, Mr. Nichols. Tammy and Lucinda will be your servers tonight,” the bartender announced.

Erika eyed Mr. Nichols once the manager got lost behind the crush of people. Sliding over one more stool, she found herself seated directly beside him.

“Sounds like you got the shaft tonight, huh?” Erika said with a grin.

Mr. Nichols eyed her, his gaze dragging up and down her face while he seemed to determine if she was worthy of his conversation.

She must have passed.

“Yes. The private room was overbooked, so my party has been moved out here.” He licked his bottom lip. “Annoying to not have the privacy, but if the liquor is free, we’ll stick around for a bit.”

“How can they make a profit if they give away an entire party tab?” Erika asked.

“That’s not my problem.” Mr. Nichols lifted a shoulder. “But I suspect they’d rather lose money tonight and not my business.” He turned so his elbow perched on the bar, and he made no effort to hide his appraisal of her dress.

She’d borrowed one of Christy’s black hip- and boob-hugging dresses. Though Christy had been gifted a bit more in the boob department, the dress fit well enough that Mr. Nichols seemed to like what he saw.

“I bring my party here every other weekend. The room rate isn’t bad, but they make a killing on my bar tab. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.” He made a show of looking over her shoulder and returning his focus to her with a slimy grin. “It would be a shame for you to spend all night alone.”

A cold chill ran over Erika’s skin. She had a good picture in her mind of what an evening with his friends looked like. Her goal was a groundbreaking news story, not something worthy of the tabloids.

“Maybe I’ll stop over later? Where are you?” She casually looked over his shoulder, seeing his little group of men leering at the pretty young things doing their best not to show their own repulsion at being manhandled by their escorts.

“Don’t be too late. We’ll be moving the party somewhere a bit more private soon.” Nichols licked his lips and winked. Who the hell was this guy? Not a single woman in all of the world would think that was an appealing offer.

“Okay.” She nodded with a smile, but her attention was already focused on the door to the private room swinging open as a waitress exited the room with an empty tray.

Joey Persuccio. Her mouth dried. He was there. He must have been the overbooking.

Leaving Nichols to his party, Erika made her way toward the private room. Unlike the manager who everyone watched out for, she needed to maneuver through the dancing crowd to get to her destination. If they were in the back room, she wouldn’t be able to overhear anything. She needed to get inside.

As she came up to the door markedprivate party, she moved to the side, still thinking. She couldn’t just walk in and strike up a conversation, and even in Christy’s dress she didn’t look like someone who would be a guest of the Persuccio men.

“Can I help you?” The dark voice from the bar returned.

“Uh, hi.” Erika turned to face him, pushing her lips into a wide smile. “You’re the manager, right?”

Holy hell, he was taller than she’d originally thought. Even in her heels, the top of her head only reached his chin. The dark lighting of the bar didn’t let her see much of his physique, but she was getting a clear view now. His tight black t-shirt stretched over his broad chest. Black ink ran down his left arm, and she could make out some on his chest, too.

She cleared her throat, jerking her thoughts away from the strong body in front of her and putting them back on trying to get her story.

“Owner, yes. Is something wrong?” He folded his arms over his chest, like he knew she was fishing for a lie to tell him. She hadn’t even said more than a sentence. How could he know anything about her?

“Of course not.” She threw in a soft chuckle, like the idea of anything being wrong was just ludicrous. Obviously, she needed to work on her undercover skills.

“This room is for private parties only.” He gestured with his chin toward the door behind her.

She looked over her shoulder, already knowing what he said was true, then gave him her best surprised look. “So it is.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re Erika Devore,” he accused.

A black ball of dread sank into her stomach. “Guilty.” She tried to smile wider, but when she met his glare it faltered.

“You’re a journalist for theChicago Evening Post.” Another accusation.

“Again. Guilty.” She pressed her lips into a flat line. “Didn’t think many people knew my work.” She hadn’t had a permanent byline yet and the fluff pieces she’d been putting out weren’t exactly memorable.

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