FIVE
Savannah
"You shouldn't be here," I whisper against his ear.
Special Agent James Lexington is my handler. I'm supposed to report anything that happens at the club, and I haven't given him much information. I met up with him earlier at the café, when I nearly got caught by Anton.
How the hell had he found our meeting place?
We'll have to change it, someplace even more public where we're less likely to run into Anton. Not that I expected he'd show up with a kid to the café! I swear he followed me, but when did he manage to pick up his nephew if that were the case?
When I read his background, he didn't have any siblings, which makes having a nephew odd. Maybe it's one of the kids from another member of the bratva? It's not a question I can ask without Anton discovering that I know who he is, and it might reveal my true identity.
I straddle James in the small booth. The room is overzealous with red: red curtains, a red sofa, and even red overhead lighting to set the mood. There's a coffee table in front of the couch, allowing me a platform in the small space if I choose to dance for him.
There are cameras in every nook and cranny of this place, but I'm not sure about audio, so I have to tread carefully.
He's my first private dance. Anyone else, and I'd suspect they could be part of the bratva, testing me. But James is here on pleasure, not business. If it were strictly business, he'd have found a way to talk to me in the lounge or slipped me a note, not paid for a dance.
I start on the coffee table. It's made of wood and easily holds my weight as my platforms click over the material underneath.
"What would you like me to do for you?" I ask, keeping my voice loud enough for the microphones, if there are any, or the outside bodyguards, to hear the interaction. We're not in a private suite. The walls on either side of the couch are shimmery red curtains.
I'm paid by the minute at five-minute intervals, so dragging out everything is encouraged. One of the girls gave me a quick tutorial on making the men beg for what they want and, if they don't ask, dragging it out longer to make more money.
"I want to see you naked," James whispers, staring at me. He loosens his tie, and his jaw is practically on the floor.
"I'll bet you do," I tease with a smirk. There's no way in hell he's got enough cash to earn him a peek at my pink bits. But my job is to tease him, excite him, and make it look believable for the cameras.
"What's your favorite part of my body?" I ask and let my fingers trail over my chest, attempting to entice him.
He croaks and clears his throat. James is trying to stay professional, but he's long since lost that round. He shoves a handful of ones at me, and I shake my head. "It'll cost you more than that if you want a peek at anything."
My fingers rake through James' hair as he leans into me, and his eyes are closed. He's smitten. He doesn't have a wife at home. No kids. He's single, and I've always thought the man preferred work over a woman, but honestly, I'm not so convinced.
I've never seen this side of him, and part of me feels bad for the man. Another part is eager to take his cash. If he's stupid enough to wander into the club and request a dance from me, he will pay the price heavily.
I lower my voice. If there is an audio recording, the music overhead will drown out my whisper. "What are you doing here?"
The FBI shouldn't be here, investigating or sneaking around while I'm undercover. They could blow the entire operation. "New meeting point," James answers just as quietly.
Couldn't he have found another way to tell me of the location change?
His hand comes out, and I push it back down onto the sofa. "No touching," I warn, my voice loud enough for him and the bodyguard to hear.
"Sorry," James is quick to apologize.
I grind my hips against his crotch, and he's not sporting his weapon. I try to ignore the bump I feel and the fact that this man is my colleague and one of my closest allies at the bureau. This has to look believable in case anyone is watching.
But at the same time, my stomach is in knots. What if Anton is watching? Will he recognize him from this morning? Will he remember that James held the door for him at the café?
Anton isn't an idiot. He won't strike it up as a coincidence. This little mishap could ruin the investigation or get me killed.
"You shouldn't be here," I whisper into his ear. "He'll recognize you." I climb down from the table and straddle him.
"I doubt it. There are over eight million people in New York City. I'm just another face."
James is cocky, and it could end up with me getting interrogated or tortured by the bratva. "Where are we meeting?" I ask, wanting this dance to be over. The longer he stays in the booth, the greater the chance Anton will discover him at the club. He needs to leave.
"Here," James says with a sly grin.
"Not going to work. He's already seen your face. You're lucky you're not dead. Send Barrett."
"You want to dance for our boss?" James asks, and I swear if he speaks any louder, I'll have no choice but to murder him.
"Anton's keeping a close eye on me," I whisper as my fingernails tease through his scalp. "Barrett can slip me a note. But you need to give me one of your business cards. Put it between the folded bills," I say.
His eyes tighten, but he doesn't answer. I climb off his lap and hold out my hand, demanding payment. We're paid in five-minute increments, and while most clients I would keep teasing, getting them to pay me even more, James needs to leave.
I climb off his lap, and he shucks a couple of extra twenties at me, grumbling.
"You aren't to come back here," I say as James stands and pushes aside the thick red curtain, exiting the room.