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Strike made his way slowly and somewhat painfully down the wooden stairs into the depths of the gentlemen’s club. He’d been trailing around other clubs all day, and had found no sign of their mark. It was as if the man had vanished into thin air.
Maybe Robin would have had more luck. He cast his eyes around surreptitiously, looking for her. He was more than a little anxious to check she was okay. He’d been extremely reluctant when she’d suggested going under cover as a waitress here. He was no stranger to such establishments, and had known the skimpy uniform she’d be given to wear, the unwanted attention she would no doubt receive from the punters.
Robin, however, had enlisted Shanker to fight her corner with her. This was one of the less disreputable clubs, his old friend had informed him, run by a manager who understood the value of keeping the girls happy whether they wanted to dance or just wait tables. And Shanker had agreed to a temporary job as bouncer (if Strike paid him as much again as the club were paying him), so he’d be there to keep an eye out for her. Strike had reluctantly agreed, and even more reluctantly stayed away and trusted Shanker and Robin to do their jobs.
Now, though, he rather urgently needed to talk to Robin, and she wasn’t answering her mobile, so he’d taken the risk of discovery and decided to come for an afternoon pint.
The bouncer on the door wasn’t Shanker, and nor was the one stood menacingly to one side of the bar, carefully watching a punter who was quite drunk and catcalling at the stage. The large man’s body language suggested the drunken guest would soon be encouraged to seek his entertainment elsewhere.
Strike moved quietly to the bar, bought a pint and went and sat at a table near the back. No sign of Robin. He picked up a rather sticky menu and perused it, hoping this action might draw a waitress in his direction.
The girl on stage finished her dance and slipped away through a bead curtain at one side of the stage. The heavy drinker got up and staggered towards the gents’ toilets. A couple of other men took advantage of the break in the entertainment to go to the bar and refill their pints.
The next dancer came out onto the stage. Strike read the menu and wondered where Robin was, and why Shanker wasn’t here. He supposed it wouldn’t have been possible to coordinate their every shift. He knew Shanker would have worked out the hierarchy here very quickly and probably had someone watching “his” Robin - Ruby, Strike believed she was calling herself here.
He sighed, and glanced around the room. The dancer on stage now had a rather nice figure, tall and curvy, a delectable besequinned arse facing him as she bent herself around the pole. Strike watched idly as she swung herself lithely around, snaking her body to face out into the room, red lips pouting, eyes meeting his.
It was Robin.
There was a horrified pause as their gazes clashed. Robin froze, her face flushing scarlet, and then hurriedly resumed her dance, but she was stiff and awkward now. Besides the tiny little sequinned shorts, she wore a diamanté encrusted bra and impossibly high glittery heels, and nothing else. Very little was left to the imagination. Her breasts were glorious creamy mounds swelling above the bra. Her eyes were ringed heavily with kohl, her lips scarlet.
Strike was appalled that she was dancing here instead of waitressing, and even more appalled at the jolt to his libido at the sight of her. He dragged his eyes away from her hurriedly, and gazed down at his pint, his mind racing, forcing himself to ignore the desire thrumming though his veins at the sight of...well, of just so much of her.
The drunk man lurched back from the toilets towards his seat, and whistled appreciatively at the sight of a new girl on stage. Strike’s hand clenched into a fist on the table next to his pint. Robin ignored the man and carried on dancing. Strike tried desperately not to watch, but he couldn’t keep his eyes from drifting repeatedly back to her, mesmerised. Where on earth had quiet, well-brought-up, respectable Robin learned to pole-dance, and like that? How did she even know what it was supposed to look like, let alone be so good at it?
The drunk man yelled a few more comments that Strike supposed he thought were complements, and the detective gritted his teeth. Then the man stood and lurched towards the stage, calling out to Robin.
Strike moved to stand, but before he was even halfway to intervening, the bouncer had stepped forward and another had appeared from a side door. Quietly and firmly, they intercepted their target and steered him to the stairs with the minimum of fuss, presumably to explain to him in no uncertain terms that his afternoon of entertainment at this particular establishment was over.
They were gone some minutes, during which Robin finished her dance a little self-consciously and slipped through the curtain. The next dancer came out, and Strike stood and made his way through the cluster of small tables to the bar. He knew how these places worked. He ordered himself another pint, and asked if he might buy a drink for the redheaded dancer.
A few minutes later, Robin came out through a side door to join him. He could see the worry in the back of her eyes, fearing his disapproval, but she held character and held her ground, chin up, and gave him a cheeky smile as she thanked him for her drink and sipped it through the straw, her scarlet lips sucking seductively. Strike was sure she knew she had to do that for interested punters and fervently wished he was immune to it, but he was anything but.
“What’s your name?” he asked her, aware of the proximity of the barmaid, trying to look like the kind of guy who paid for one-on-one attention from exotic dancers all the time.
She grinned up at him through long eyelashes, and desire surged again. She was discomfortingly good at this.
“Ruby,” she replied, her voice husky. “What’s yours?”
“Al,” he replied, trying not to think too hard about why his half-brother’s name was the first he could think of. He was pretty sure that if Al and his peers ever did indulge in paying for the company of beautiful women, it was probably done privately through contacts or high-class escort agencies, not in seedy clubs in Soho.
The barmaid moved away to serve another punter. Strike glanced around swiftly. The bouncers hadn’t returned yet. He leaned in close, trying to keep his eyes above her collarbone.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed. He could smell her, her perfume and a unique, slightly over-hot scent that was undeniably Robin beneath the floral notes.
“I wanted to be able to talk to him if he showed up,” Robin hissed back. “Waitresses aren’t supposed to fraternise. That’s what the dancers do.”
“I don’t want you ‘fraternising’,” Strike whispered fiercely, scandalised at the thought. “And look at you!”
Robin glanced down at herself and grinned. “What are you, my mother?” She winked. “Don’t you like it?”
“No! Well, I mean— No!” Strike stammered, his face red.
“This guy bothering you, Ruby?” A deep, menacing voice said from behind Strike. He froze, his instincts on high alert, but Robin was smooth.
“Not at all, Baz,” she drawled in a scarily good imitation of Shanker’s cockney accent. “We were just negotiating terms for a little private dance, weren’t we, darling?” She winked outrageously at Strike.
“Er, yeah...” he muttered weakly, and found himself powerless to resist as she took his hand in hers and led him to a little booth in a secluded area behind the bar. She’d never held his hand before. Her fingers were slender and capable, and her hand in his made him feel both aroused and oddly vulnerable.
She drew him into the little circular booth. It had high sides, high enough to hide all but the head and upper shoulders of a person seated, but no door. With a slightly stronger push than strictly necessary, she shoved him down onto the plush banquette that skirted the wall.
“Baz keeps an eye via the mirror, so make it look realistic,” she murmured, twirling around for him and peeping back at him over her shoulder.
Strike took a shuddering breath and kept his eyes on hers and not on her arse or the scattering of freckles across her back. Who would have guessed that that creamy skin would be dusted with cinnamon? It was strangely arousing, sexy and a tiny bit innocent somehow.
“So, what are you doing here?” Robin murmured, swinging back around again and gyrating gently in front of him, half an eye on the bouncer watching from a discreet distance. She knew the bouncers’ job was to keep her from being groped by over-eager punters, but for once she wished he’d not be so attentive. Dancing like this for Strike was hideously awkward.
Or at least, it had been. Robin hadn’t missed the flush on his cheeks, or the short, shallow breaths he was taking, the way his hands splayed across his knees and flexed a little. He was either a very good actor, or he was rather enjoying her display. She felt a sudden, heady surge of feminine power. She had despaired of ever ridding herself of her long-hidden crush on her boss, but maybe...
“I tried to ring you, several times,” he replied, a little shakily. “You were supposed to keep your phone on you.”
Robin glanced down at herself, and back up at him, one eyebrow arched in amusement. “Where?”
Strike flushed redder. “I assume there’s a little more to the waitress uniform that you’re actually supposed to be wearing.”
Unable to resist, Robin bent towards him with a little shimmy, and Strike took a shuddering breath and closed his eyes briefly as her breasts jiggled in front of him. She didn’t think she was imagining it. Suddenly she found her eyes tempted to stray to his groin, wondering how much of an effect she was having. She felt a blush creep up her chest, and swung away again as though to show him her bottom.
“What was so urgent it couldn’t wait till I got back to the office?” she asked over her shoulder.
Strike glanced up at the ceiling, saw that it, too, was mirrored and hurriedly looked down again, trying to erase the memory of being able to see directly down Robin’s bra. There was absolutely nowhere safe to put his eyes.
“Er, I heard on the grapevine—” Dragging his mind back to the case, he hesitated, glancing around. It wouldn’t do to give away any connection between the two of them, or any information about their mark.
Understanding, Robin moved closer. “Keep your hands spread to the side where Baz can see them,” she murmured. “The no touching rule is pretty strict here.”
Strike stretched his arms along the back of the banquette either side of him, his breath hissing in and his hands gripping the plush fabric as she drew closer than he was expecting, leaning to breathe in his ear, her hands resting either side of his head, hips still gyrating gently, her knees brushing his. He turned his head a little, fixing his eyes on the cushions opposite over her shoulder.
“Whisper it,” she murmured, and Strike had to suppress a moan as her breath tickled his ear. Desire surged fiercely and suddenly he was losing control of his body’s response to her, his cock swelling against the front of his trousers. He wished he was wearing his jeans, but he’d been pretty sure he wouldn’t have been granted admittance to the club in denim and so was wearing soft, semi-smart trousers that would conceal very little.
“What?” he managed.
“What was so urgent you had to come down here and see me?”
“Um...” Strike battled to marshal his thoughts. He glanced back at her, and she was so close, he couldn’t breathe, her blue-grey eyes pools he could drown in.
“Sorry, is it too much cleavage?” Robin murmured, moving back a little. “I think this bra is a size too small.”
“No, it’s.. It’s fine,” Strike rasped, flushing again. How could he possibly tell her what the real problem was?
“Look, I’m not supposed to let this go on too long, unless you’ve got a serious amount of money on you, so let me at least tell you what I’ve found out.” Robin struggled to keep her voice businesslike. She was pretty sure, now, that she was having quite the effect on Strike, and that fact was having its own effect on her. Far from feeling embarrassed or ashamed as she might have expected, she felt giddy with power and arousal.
“Okay.” Strike nodded, striving to sound as normal as Robin did. Then a very un-normal strangled sound escaped him as she slid onto his lap, her knees either side of his, facing him. She put her mouth to his ear and spoke rapidly, looking for all the world like she was whispering sweet nothings but rattling off information that his brain, flooded with endorphins, struggled to process. All he could think of was her bottom pressing down onto his lap, her thighs either side of his, her hands just above his shoulders, her breath in his ear. His mind longed for her to back away. His raging erection wanted her closer, much closer. He closed his eyes and tried hard not to groan out loud.
“Cormoran?” Robin had stopped talking.
“Mm?”
“Cormoran...” Her voice was low, breathy.
Strike’s eyes drifted open, languid, and he knew she’d see the desire burning through him. She met his gaze, and a little whimper escaped her and she rocked her hips forward, rubbing herself just a little against the suddenly very obvious bulge in his trousers.
Now he did groan, a deep sound of need as his cock pulsed at the touch of her, and Robin moaned a little too. Her eyes locked on his, she moved against him again.
“Fuck, Robin...” he breathed, his voice hoarse with arousal.
“Keep your hands in view,” she murmured, and she began to rock against him, flexing her hips and rubbing her heated core against his groin, moaning a little at the friction. She watched him, fascinated by his arousal, by his reaction to her, by the way he shuddered beneath her. She also kept half an eye on the bouncer, who appeared to be having a conversation with someone on the stairs.
“What are you doing?” Strike managed, pleasure pulsing through him. Her shorts were stretchier than he had expected, and he could feel the softness of her flesh against his aching cock through even though his thin trousers. He could smell her, too, hotter now and musky with arousal.
“Do you want me to stop?” Her eyes were heavy-lidded.
Strike hesitated. “No,” he admitted, knowing he should say yes, that this was madness. But she felt so good, rocking against him, undulating her hips, rubbing up and down his hard length. He groaned again as his cock jerked. It was a very long time since he’d last had sex, somehow feeling that, with Robin divorced, he wanted to stay available, free of entanglements, just in case...
Robin shifted slightly, and suddenly her shorts moved and stretched a little and her clit was rubbing against his cock through the cloth that separated them. Pleasure swelled within her and she groaned low, her eyes glazing over. This was feeling embarrassingly too much like pure pleasure now, and suddenly she knew she could come if she kept going like this.
“Oh, God, Cormoran—” Her movements stuttered a little. Over his shoulder, she saw a slight scuffle by the stairs. It looked like the drunk idiot was attempting to regain entry. Baz disappeared to help his colleagues at the door.
They had a moment, maybe a few minutes, unchaperoned. Robin met Strike’s heated gaze with her own, and then she leaned forward and kissed him, her tongue sliding into his mouth, her hips still moving against him.
He kissed her back fiercely, tasting of smoke, of spice, a little of beer. His tongue met hers, tasting her, exploring, meeting her passion, and then she drew away, gasping, pleasure storming through her.
“Christ, Robin.” Strike gritted his teeth, overwhelmed by arousal at the look in her eyes, the way her head dropped back, the way her movements sped up and suddenly she was thrusting against him in earnest, tilting her hips to his, grinding herself along his straining length. His hips were bucking up helplessly against her now, pleasure pooling liquid at the base of his spine, his cock beginning to throb, tension drawing tight. His grip on the backrest tightened hard, his knuckles going white.
Her eyes flew open with shock suddenly and found his. Her gaze was glassy, and he knew she was close to the edge.
Strike groaned, losing all semblance of control. “Fuck— Fuck, I’m gonna come,” he muttered helplessly, and at his words Robin whimpered and fell apart, uttering little gasps of pleasure as she jerked against him, her head dropping back as her orgasm rolled through her.
With a fierce grunt, Strike arched as his own orgasm hit, pulsing against her as he spilled inside his boxers, his cock jerking with pleasure as she continued to rub against him, slowing gradually. Her forehead dropped to his shoulder and she panted against him for a few moments as they came back down to earth.
Voices in the bar dragged Robin back to reality and she raised her head and slid back a little, her gaze meeting his, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Flushed too, Strike gazed back at her. “Um...”
Robin giggled. “Well, at least you bought me a drink.”
Tension broken, Strike laughed. “Can I buy you dinner later, somewhere slightly less seedy?”
Robin grinned. “I’d like that,” she said. “Um, are you going to be okay—?” She glanced down at his groin, high spots of colour on her cheeks.
Strike huffed a rueful breath. “I’ll detour to the loos to clean up a bit,” he said. “I’m sure I won’t be the first guy to walk out of here having come in his pants.”
Robin squeaked an embarrassed laugh. Over his shoulder, she saw Baz reappear, and drew back reluctantly.
“We’re being watched again,” she said. “Have you got three hundred quid on you? I’ll give it back. My cut, anyway.”
Strike stared at her, incredulous. “Three hundred quid?!”
She shrugged, a sly grin creeping across her face. “I’m good.”
He chuckled deeply, digging for his wallet as she stood and moved back. “Oh, I know. I know.”