Joanne Rock - Revealed

She frowned for a moment. “I see. Zing-O-Gram has been a bit overloaded this week. Sorry about the confusion.”

“Not a problem,” Greg assured her, honestly. Her late arrival hadn’t thrown off his schedule too much. “You’re here now and that’s all that matters. Can I get you a drink or anything else before you get started?”

Why did he find himself wanting to delay her show? Sure he was wildly curious about the body she was hiding underneath that kitten costume. But the notion of her being so completely revealed in a bar with all of Mike’s horny friends looking on suddenly disturbed him.

He’d heard of college students earning money for their tuition this way. Is that what had convinced Jackie to don the cat suit?

Jackie licked her lips, a gesture that seemed to suit her feline garb.

Greg tracked the progress of that small, pink tongue and found his own mouth had gone dry as dust.

“I wouldn’t mind a glass of water.” She glanced longingly at the bar.

Twenty guys shouted to the bartender for water.

Jackie shuffled on her tennis shoes as if nervous. Her tail seemed to twitch in response, drawing his attention unerringly to her long legs.

If Greg didn’t know better, he’d swear he was drunk. Since when did a stripper in a two-bit cat costume turn him on to this extreme? He was twisted in knots before she’d shed so much as a glove.

He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to work out one of those knots. Maybe he’d just been working too hard lately. He hadn’t been out on a date since his disastrous break up with the lady meteorologist…three months ago?

Obviously he was sex-starved. He just hadn’t realized it until Jackie had strutted her way into his life.

But he had no intention of acting on an impulsive attraction to a seductive pussycat.

Poor choice of images.

He tried in vain to staunch the blatantly sexual thoughts bombarding his senses. He needed to give Jackie her water and then allow her free rein to do her show.

Surely once she launched into her practiced routine of seduction, Greg would lose interest. Then he could get his mind off her…tail, and back on business.

JACKIE TUCKED HER TAIL closer to her body and gulped down her water gratefully.

The cat costume had never felt blatantly erotic until Greg De Costa had looked at her in it.

The man had her overheating, inside and out, and the soaring temperature didn’t have anything to do with being embarrassed at her birthday party snafu.

No. Jackie didn’t care that a bunch of overgrown boys had hired her to sing at their friend’s birthday party. She was used to being the center of attention and their ogling stares didn’t ruffle her fur in the least.

But Greg De Costa was another story.

One look at the man had her hyperventilating—not a good thing in a costume held together with duct tape.

He was handsome in a Tom Cruise sort of way—he had the look of a cocky Boston business exec, all charm and smooth talk and control. He wore a crisp white shirt tucked into navy-blue trousers with burgundy-striped suspenders. A matching wine-colored tie hung around his neck, but he’d loosened the knot at his throat and unbuttoned the collar.

Jackie had to admire the way his suntanned skin and dark-brown hair contrasted with that pristine white shirt. He probably summered on Martha’s Vineyard and wintered at Vale. She knew the type well. Heck, she’d grown up surrounded by overprivileged men and couldn’t find all that much to recommend them.

But those guys hadn’t possessed Greg De Costa’s penetrating brown eyes.

The charismatic birthday boy didn’t look at her with the standard I-know-what-you-look-like-underneath-that-cat-costume stare. His frank gaze was at once more respectful and more intimate. He peered at her like he knew she’d rather be at home writing stanzas.

And like he’d rather be there with her.

The notion unsettled her far more than any obvious, meaningless ogling from the other twenty-some guys in Flanagan’s.

She needed to shake Greg’s mesmerizing stare, sing her song, and flee the bar before she did something stupid like wrap herself around him and start purring.

“I’m ready,” she announced, taking the situation in hand. She’d already spent too long soaking up the heated vibes of attraction zipping between her and Greg. “Shall I set up over here?” She walked to a small dance floor in the corner of Flanagan’s back room.

She could perform most anywhere, but she’d learned to take charge of her environment in this business. She liked a wall behind her, her audience in front of her. Besides, she felt more in control when she named her parameters.

The throng of men attending the party moved as one into the back room, dutifully situating themselves right where she wanted them.

She could do this. They really were as well behaved as the six-year-olds she usually performed for, even if they had greeted her with wolf whistles. At least they hadn’t tried pulling her tail.

Greg was the last man to fall in line. He prowled the perimeter of the crowd, his eyes never leaving her.

“Do you need us to set up some music?” he called over the heads of his friends as they seated themselves at cocktail tables all around her.

“I’m the music,” she announced, allowing her artistic pride to get the best of her for a moment.

She was no lip-synching performer, after all. Jackie wasn’t here to dance around in a cat costume. She was here to sing.

No room full of overgrown boys was going to make her forget it. Though heaven knew, Greg De Costa was doing a damnably good job of trying.

She closed her eyes for a moment, willing away the sensual magnetism of Greg’s eyes. She took a deep breath and quickly regretted it as the duct tape along her seam shifted under the pressure of expanding lungs.

Panic welled up in her at the thought of flashing a room full of men. She hadn’t even been able to stuff a bra underneath her too-tight costume. If the duct tape gave, her audience would be in for an eyeful.

Jackie hummed out a middle “C,” allowing the pure musical note to center her.

Three minutes and she’d be out of here. She could make it another three minutes without bursting out of her costume.

The musical note grew, reverberating through her. She relaxed and breathed, nearly forgetting about the duct tape, but not quite forgetting about Greg De Costa.

“Happy birthday to you…” Jackie launched into her song, a slightly revamped version of the birthday classic.

Was it her imagination, or did the room still once her voice hit the airwaves? Her audience grew less leering, more attentive as she belted out her song in perfect pitch.

Nothing like a good performance to soothe her nerves.

She vocalized her way into the last refrain, more confident with every note that she was going to make it out of Flanagan’s back room with kitty costume and her dignity intact.

Then her eyes collided with Greg’s.

His warm-coffee gaze wasn’t offering up heated glances anymore. Unless you could call his intense, enraptured stare heated.

He liked her voice.

She knew it as surely as if he’d spoken the words aloud. Her vocal chords were her one and only vanity, the lone genetic gift from her prodigy parents.

Men—being such visual creatures—rarely recognized her single outstanding quality. But Greg De Costa knew it, heard it, admired it.

Her heart started pounding in a way that threatened her furry shrink-wrap. Blood pulsed through her, flushing every last inch of her body with liquid heat.

Oh no.

Desire swamped her along with the closing notes of her birthday song.

“Happy birthday, dear Gregory…” Dear God, had she just called him Gregory again? She’d meant to sing it as Greg.