Joanne Rock - Revealed

Although, no doubt, a naked woman would probably capture a larger share of the bachelor party market.

After grilling the harried woman at Zing-O-Gram for a few more minutes, Greg folded up the phone and popped another cork just as his brother stepped out of the crowd.

Mike De Costa—future bridegroom—claimed an open bottle of top-shelf champagne and proceeded to drink it as if it were a longneck. He grimaced at the label. “Since when do bachelors chug drinks with bubbles?”

“Since they have something big to celebrate, like marriage to a woman who’s nice enough to put up with you.” Greg had known Mike’s bride since kindergarten. Hannah Williams was as sweet as they came—and far too good for a guy determined to charm his way through life like Mike.

Mike swung his arms, sloshing champagne in a wide arc around himself as he did. “But look at what a catch she’s getting,” he protested.

“All six feet, two inches of burning ambition and refined taste,” Greg acknowledged, rolling his eyes.

Mike called up a belch from his toes and grinned. “You probably got me on the refined taste thing,” he admitted. “But not every woman cares about burning ambition, you know.”

“No?” Greg popped the cork on the last champagne bottle and handed it over to the waiter filling a tray of glasses.

“No.” Mike exchanged his half-finished liter bottle for a beer. “But obviously women like that are a foreign species to you.”

“I never met a species of woman I didn’t like.” Greg mopped off the bar with the waiter’s towel, a habit engrained long ago, in another bar, in another life. “I’m just not about to get serious with anyone who doesn’t understand how important it is to get ahead.”

“Then you’re a confirmed bachelor until you find an MBA-carrying superwoman. You’ve been trying to get ahead ever since the first moment you cut in front of me in line at the candy store.”

“Not this time,” Greg corrected him, reaching for Mike’s vacated bottle of champagne. “You’re ahead of me in the matrimony department with a wedding coming up in three weeks. You’re more than welcome to stay in first place.”

Truer words were never spoken. Greg needed a serious relationship like he needed his old bartending job back.

Not in this lifetime. Greg’s job was the envy of all his friends. He’d worked his butt off to carve a niche for himself among Boston’s business elite, and entanglements with the female persuasion only seemed to complicate things. What woman wanted to stick around while he worked until midnight in the studio to get just the right sound for a new commercial or wined and dined clients every weekend? After too many failed relationships and pissed-off women, Greg had learned to keep relationships simple and…brief.

His gig as a network general manager was a coup he planned to enjoy to the fullest—something he didn’t have any intention of risking for the sake of a woman.

The bachelor life couldn’t be any sweeter. To toast that fact, Greg gladly tipped the bottle to his lips, savoring the perfect finish of good champagne.

A ruckus on the other side of the bar caught his attention. Flanagan’s had a dining room at one end, a big bar in the middle, and a back room with a pool table for private parties. From his vantage point near the dartboard, Greg spied a small sea of turning heads, heard the slow rise of collective wolf whistles over the blaring music.

Greg couldn’t see the sudden center of attention with the throng of men to block his view, but he guessed either the stripper had arrived, or someone had smuggled a sexy power tool into the bar for his friends to admire.

Chances were, Zing-O-Gram had finally come through for him.

Downing another short swig from the champagne bottle—his last sip for the night so he could keep a clear head to stay in control of the party—Greg said a mental thank-you to the new arrival. Now that the stripper was here, he could move the evening along and hopefully salvage a few hours afterward to go over some demo tapes at home. As much as he wanted to ensure his brother had a good time, Greg hadn’t risen to the top of the heap at the television station by putting in the standard forty-hour work weeks. He had to review a three-mile-high stack of audio demos in a search for some fresh voice-over talent.

No sooner had he formed the thought than his senses were bombarded by the sexiest voice he’d ever heard.

“But I’m looking for Gregory…” a sultry feminine alto protested. “Is Gregory here?”

Howls of laughter emanated from the horde of males.

“Sure he’s here, honey.” Mike stepped into the fray. “He’s going to be real happy to see you.”

“I am supposed to deliver a Zing-O-Gram here, right?” Her gorgeous voice sailed over Greg’s senses. She had the sexy rasp of a torch singer.

Mike smiled, attempting to straighten his lopsided tie as he flashed her a killer grin. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

Greg slid off the bar stool, still squinting into the crowd to get a glimpse of the woman behind that incredible voice. After having cut his professional teeth in radio, Greg could recognize a memorable set of pipes. The anonymous stripper had them.

The sea of men approached Greg and Flanagan’s back room wearing interchangeable goofy grins. Greg had the feeling from their expressions that he was going to get his money’s worth for tonight’s performance. The stripper must be pretty hot to inspire such fawning before she’d wriggled out of her dress.

Mike reached Greg first. He clapped his brother on the shoulder and winked, then reached into the crowd. “Here’s Gregory, honey. He’s the man responsible for the party. I think he’s ready for the show.”

Mike pulled a female from the crowd. Men parted to make room for her and her…tail?

Greg took a quick inventory of the performer he’d ordered to please tonight’s bachelor party crowd. Weathered black kitty ears nestled into the woman’s silky, cinnamon-colored hair. Bright green eyes peered back at him over long black whiskers that were slightly askew. A pink triangle artfully painted over the woman’s nose completed the feline aspect.

She might have looked like she’d danced straight off the Barney set if she hadn’t been wearing an R-rated cat costume that hugged every curvy nuance of her body.

Greg swallowed as he took in the exposed tops of her breasts, thrust up high by an outfit that had to be too small for this generously endowed creature. The only place she seemed to have any breathing room was around her waist, a tiny curve that nipped in substantially from her rounded hips.

Who knew how long his eyes lingered over those hips. Why was it the furry black getup looked sexier than any showy combination of lace and satin?

Maybe it was the tail that wound around one hip and settled along her thigh, all the way down to her…tennis shoes. Hell, he saw Nike stock in his future. The long rope of black fur seemed to stroke and caress her leg with every breath the woman took.

Meow.

Perhaps he’d taken too long admiring her…outfit. Before he could introduce himself, the cat woman stuck out her hand.

“Hi.” She squeezed his fingers in a cool, professional grip. “I’m Jackie, the entertainment. This is your party?”

Her voice slithered over him, reminding him of smoky blues cafés and sultry jazz singers.

He nodded. He’d hired her after all. “I’m Greg.” Technically, it was Mike’s party. But her bill no doubt had Greg’s name on it. Besides, he wasn’t quite ready to turn her over to Mike’s friends just yet.

There was something compelling about Jackie the cat woman-stripper. Some classy, complex edge that her whiskers and kitty ears couldn’t diminish.