“Show us your tits!” repeated a man in the front row with a one-track mind.
The bouncer dragged Callie back toward mid-stage, then stood between her and the curtain. “Finish your damn number or Marty is gonna fire your ass.”
Predictably, the moment the big beefcake released her, she made another run for it, this time darting for the stairs that led to the club floor. She valued her freedom way more than this piss-ass job.
But Thorpe was one step ahead of her. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, blocking her exit off the stage. And in those shoes, jumping down five feet to the ground would be impossible.
They had her surrounded.
Sean quickly assessed the situation, then leapt onto the stage and reached into his pocket to flash his badge to the hunk of beefcake. “FBI. Unless you want trouble, give the girl to me.”
The big guy stiffened as the music screeched to a stop, his eyes narrowing as he took in Sean, then his badge. He stepped back and tossed his hands in the air. “We just hired her, man. We don’t want any trouble. Take her.”
Callie tossed Sean a defiant glower and over the din of the crowd, she warned, “You stay away from me.”
“Not going to happen, lovely.” The words were a vow, spoken as Sean prowled closer, but his expression was pure warning. He meant to assert his will.
She froze, then her gaze darted around the room. Thorpe’s gut knotted. Goddamn it, she was going to make a run for it.
He opened his mouth to warn Sean, but she was quicker, taking off one of her wicked shoes and tossing it in Sean’s direction. Callie’s makeshift weapon smacked him in the shoulder, then she planted her hand on his chest and shoved him off balance. While Sean scrambled to right himself, she tore off the other stiletto and raised it menacingly at the bouncer. He charged her and grabbed her wrist, clamping down harshly to stop her from pelting him. So she kicked him in the balls.
As the incredibly stupid hulk dropped to his knees, he clutched his genitals and groaned. Callie sprinted past him and through the curtain, disappearing backstage.
Thorpe darted up the stairs after her, tearing past the drape in time to see her shove the weathered industrial back door open and race into the alley behind the building. He swore and took off after her.
The metal door was swinging shut, and Thorpe pushed it open, then hit the alley. Under the spotlight of a bug-infested bulb, he looked left, then right before he caught sight of Callie dashing away on her bare feet in a fevered panic, artificial blond pigtails swinging against her pale back only saved from bareness by the strap of that tiny, sexy bra. Damn it, she was either begging to step on glass or be raped by some criminal in the shadows. Of course, she was in full flight mode and not using all her logic, but what the hell was she thinking?
One thing became immediately clear: Callie was younger and surprisingly fast. But if he let her through his grasp again, he’d be f**ked seven ways from Sunday.
He charged after her as fast as his stride would take him, rapidly gaining ground on the barefoot girl. She was about to reach the end of the alley, which didn’t worry him . . . until a taxi rolled by. Of all the rotten f**king luck.
Somehow, he had to stop Callie. On feet, he wouldn’t catch her in time. Neither would Sean, whom he could hear chugging down the pavement behind him. Once Callie made it inside that taxi, Thorpe knew she’d be gone forever. She’d definitely be taking his heart with her. And Sean’s. Motherfucker.
Between the lights of other businesses and the moon, he could see that the alley was blessedly empty. So he did the one thing he thought might stop the panicked girl in her tracks.
“Callindra Alexis Howe, stop and look at me this instant.”
Chapter Eleven
WHEN Callie heard Thorpe shout her real name, her heart screeched to a stop. He knew? She turned, still backing away, tangled up in his gray eyes. How? When? What had given her away?
Damn it, his life had just become twenty times more complicated—and dangerous. She didn’t want that for him.
Stricken, she shook her head, struggling to take in air. “You’re wrong. That’s not me.”
Thorpe approached her in long, determined steps, his face granite, his hand outstretched. Behind him, Sean, that deceitful snake, charged toward her like a train with a headful of steam. She spun around and darted away again. What the hell was he doing here? With Thorpe? She couldn’t allow either of them to get their hands on her.
Callie raced for the cab fifty feet away, still idling at the corner and waiting for the light to turn green. Dressed only in a bra and a little short skirt, she could probably get his attention. Maybe. In this neighborhood, maybe not. Good thing she had money in her thong. She’d have to pick up her “go” bag at the motel, lay low for a while, then find a bus station . . .
“Don’t you lie to me,” Thorpe shouted out to her. “And don’t run!”
“Don’t believe Sean,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“That nick on your left hip came from a bullet, delivered when your family’s killer shot at you. I felt it with my own f**king fingers.”
Two Decembers ago, when he’d touched her intimately. That explained so much, like why after so many passionate kisses, each an exquisite promise, he’d walked away without a word and left her aching. And why he’d cut off nearly all romantic or sexual contact since.
For the past two years, Thorpe had never even hinted that he knew the truth. And despite the stupidly huge bounty on her head, he had never turned her in, either.