Page 35 of Corrupted Deception

Apparently, she’s trained some of the most successful exotic dancers in the country. Personally, I think she spends her spare time giving the devil lessons on how to be evil.

My father is standing in the corner of the room, his arms crossed over his chest and a deep furrow between his brows that has been there ever since I started my poor rendition of bumping and grinding.

I ignore the devil-instructor and roll my eyes at my dad.

“I think you’re punishing me for something,” I whine some more.

“If you think I’m thrilled about my daughter shaking her ass in some crowded club, think again. But if you want in, then you need to be equipped with every skill in the arsenal, Char. It isn’t all stealth and gunfights. Sometimes, it’s about flawlessly reeling in a mark without giving yourself away.”

I huff, mainly because I know he’s right.

“Try this,” the devil-instructor says, and then the room goes black and the music strikes up again.

“Seriously?”

I hear my dad chuckle. “Just try it.”

Without my reflection making me feel like I’ve got a hot spotlight on me, my joints loosen and the music works its way into my muscles. By the time my dad calls it quits for the day, there is the tiniest flame of confidence burning in the core of me. And just eight more weeks with the devil-instructor to go.

I blinked and forced the memory away, dancing flawlessly with the stranger in the Euphoria nightclub.

I could feel Mendoza’s gaze burning into me, his interest piqued.

The sultry tension in the air thickened, drawing him in with each sensual sway of my hips.

I glanced in his direction.

Our gazes locked, engaged in a clandestine conversation, one that promised secrets and decadent pleasures.

Without looking away, he discreetly signaled to the two blondes, who exchanged confused glances before reluctantly departing.

Now, he sat alone, a predatory look in his eyes as he watched me.

Though the lights flashed all around, for me, the room was black.

No spotlight, just the feel of the music wending its way into my muscles.

As the song faded into a dreamy electronic outro, it was time to make my move.

With a quick, sultry glance back at my dance partner, I extricated myself from his grip, leaving him looking mildly disappointed, and gracefully made my way through the pulsating bodies on the dance floor to Carlos Mendoza.

I approached him with slow, deliberate steps, my eyes locked onto his as I sat down on the plush seat next to him, legs crossed, leaning in just enough to let my perfume tease his senses.

I watched his sharp, intelligent eyes take in my attire—the formfitting black dress, the high heels, the diamond in the hollow of my throat.

His lips slowly curved into a faint smile.

He greeted me in Spanish, but I knew better than to respond.

This wasn’t a Latin club, and I was passing myself off as one-hundred percent homegrown American here—which I was, so that was convenient.

“That performance was captivating,hermosa,” he said, his accent thick as he switched to English—mostly—and his gaze traveled back up to my face.

“I’m sure it was,” I purred, my voice a velvet whisper.

The devil-instructor would be so proud.

“But I have a feeling the real show is yet to begin,” he said.

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