Free Stripped by Tori St. Claire Page A

hand, locking up. “Wait just a damn second. I want to have a conversation with you. Boss. Employee. You know, that sort of thing?”
    He glanced sideways, the already tight line to his jaw hardening. “I already told you, no. You’re not dancing.” With one more twist of his wrist, he latched the last door and stalked off in the direction of the main bar.
    Oh, for God’s sake, that again. She nearly rolled her eyes, but checked the gut reaction. No sense furthering his anger with blatant disrespect. Not that he could see it. But she wouldn’t put it past him to sense she had.
    She did an about face and fell into pursuit, dogging his heels as he weaved around the chairs and the remaining waitresses. “It’s about a job, Moretti. If you’d just stand still and hear me out—”
    “Go home, Natalya.”
    Three quick strides distanced him completely. She scowled at his broad, retreating shoulders. For a fleeting moment, she considered how satisfying it would be to fire a shot into the back of his calf and stop his retreat. Or maybe through the back of his head.
    Expelling a frustrated mutter, she fisted her hands on her hips. She couldn’t shoot him, but she’d be damned if she let him dismiss her so easily. There was one surefire way to make him listen.
    Inhaling deeply, she bellowed across the room, “The back rooms aren’t safe, Moretti!”
    B

randon skidded to a halt at the edge of the bar. He felt, rather than saw, his employees’ heads swing his way and stare at the back of his skull. Fury filtered into his blood, overriding the sexual awareness brought on by one glimpse of Miss Prim and Proper. Heat rushed up his neck, burned in his cheeks. He slowly clenched a fist and turned around to glower at Natalya.
    Christ. He had a murderer running around, and here she stood, hollering at the top of her lungs about the lack of security in his dressing rooms. She might as well stand at the door and invite the bastard inside.
    He stalked toward her, bent on wringing her delicate neck. To his surprise, the closer he came, the straighter she stood. Her eyes warred with his. The set of her jaw mirrored the tightness in his face. When he invaded her space, she tipped her chin up. Stubborn defiance glinted in her jade green eyes.
    A little voice of warning screamed he couldn’t strangle her in the middle of the club’s main room. Nor could he spew the multitude of ways he wanted to tell her to go to hell—right after he told her in no uncertain terms all the things he wanted to do to her. Lay her on the bar. Push her up against the wall. Peel off that blouse, hoist up that skirt and… damn!
    He grabbed her by the upper arm, wheeled her around, and propelled her inside his office. With one swift kick of his heel, he sent the door crashing shut. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    Her voice didn’t so much as quiver as she answered, “Having a necessary conversation.”
    “No. I’ll tell you what you’re doing.” He grabbed her other arm and squeezed as he gave her a little shake. “You don’t throw out accusations about the safety of my girls. Unless you want to be out of a job. Immediately.”
    Anger flashed behind her eyes. Quick. Brief. Deadly. “Take your hands off me.”
    “Not until you get it through your head, Natalya, I’m your boss. You don’t get to call the shots here.” He took another step into her space, forcing her to back up. “And you don’t,
don’t
, give the dancers any more reason to worry about coming into work. Or leaving when the night’s through.”
    “Maybe you should act like my boss then.”
    He blinked, certain he’d heard her incorrectly. When her expression didn’t change, and the defiance lingered in her unblinking stare, he knew he hadn’t misinterpreted. He stepped forward once more, infuriated by her inability to grasp the full meaning of what her bellow could have produced. If the killer was on his staff, he now knew the back rooms were weak. Something