Page 12 of Dirty Work

I shrug. “You know how it is. People like to rub shoulders with the club owners. Makes them feel special. And you hate that shit, so...”

He waves a hand at the bank of computers. “Shouldn’t you be down there, then?”

“I was about to head out when you waltzed in.”

One eyebrow arches upward, making it obvious he still doesn’t believe me. “You sure that’s the reason you’re working late, and not that you’re obsessing over the Miami deal?”

“I’m not obsessing,” I insist, even though he’s half right. The Miami deal’s never far from my thoughts, even when I’m focused on something else. Making this thing happen means everything to me. If we can successfully expand into one new market, the whole world’s ours for the taking.

And I want the whole world, dammit.

“If you say so,” Connor says, his tone skeptical.

“I do.”

He reaches out and puts a hand on my shoulder. “You know, there’s no rush on this Miami thing. We’re going to have our hands full with the New York renovations. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to hold off on any other big projects until they’re done.”

“You worry about the renovations, and I’ll handle Miami. The market’s the softest it’s ever been in South Beach. Trust me, now’s the time to jump in.”

“I’ve trusted you since we were in Garanimals.”

“You were the one in Garanimals, dude. I was perfectly capable of matching my own clothes without the help of jungle creatures.”

“Right. Like that puke green and florescent orange striped shirt you liked to wear with those hideous plaid pants.”

“Stripes go with everything.”

He rolls his eyes. “Okay, Tommy Hilfiger. Just keep me up to date on Miami. And let me know if you need anything on my end.”

“Will do.”

I tap a key to check one last live feed before I go down to the club floor and swear under my breath, my mouth going as dry as Central Park’s Great Lawn in August. Two women stand just inside the entrance, but it’s the petite blonde with the killer curves who has my undivided attention. She’s traded her normally casual attire for a flimsy little cocktail dress that hugs those curves like a jealous lover and a pair of spiky heels that make her legs look like they go on for miles.

Fuck me sixty-nine ways to Sunday.

“What’s wrong?” Connor’s hand drops from my shoulder and he swivels his head to study the monitors. “Trouble brewing?”

You can say that again.

“Nah.”Liar.“Just see a familiar face.”

His eyes stop on the screen with Ainsley and her gal pal. One quick keystroke and they’re gone, but it’s too late. He flashes a superior, knowing, smile. “The blonde or the brunette?”

I stand and stretch. The sooner I get out of here, the sooner this conversation can end. “What makes you think it’s one of them? There’s like six computer screens. It could be anyone, anywhere.”

“I don’t know.” He hauls his ass off my desk and follows me out the door and into the hallway. “Maybe because that’s the screen you practically fell all over yourself to change so I wouldn’t see it.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Not.”

“Too.”

We’re at the elevator, and I punch the down button. “What are you, seven?”

He nudges me in the ribs with his elbow. “If I was, I’d be doing your homework.”