The Right Moves

By Jan Hudson

Chris Ponder was a tough little cookie, tough enough to drive a tow truck in Houston on the weekends to help support herself and her 18 year old stepson. But the young widow was in for some surprises when she stopped to tow Nick Russo’s car and found herself waiting in a club filled with screaming women and scantily clad young men dancing for them. And holy g-string! Who was that tall kid she spotted on the stage swiveling his hips in a little-bitty Viking getup?

What was the impeccably dressed Nick Russo, mulit-millionaire businessman, doing in such a sleazy place? And why did her insides turn to tapioca when he gave her the once over with his bedroom eyes? He was way out of her league, and she’d been badly burned by a charming rascal before. Uh-uh. No way was she getting involved with him. But when he seduced her on a quiet night with his own dance just for her. . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jan Hudson
• Release date: Mar 28, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476390772

Jan Hudson

Except for a brief sojourn in Fort Knox, Kentucky, when her husband was in the army, Jan has lived her entire life in Texas. Like most Texans, she adores tall tales. One of her earliest memories is wearing her footed flannel pajamas and snuggling on someone's lap as patrons sat around the pot-bellied stove in her grandparents' country store-the same store where her mother once filled Bonnie and Clyde's gas tank. She remembers listening, engrossed, as the local characters that gathered there each evening swapped tales. People and their stories have always fascinated her. All kinds of people. All kinds of stories. And she loves books. All kinds of books. Her house is filled with scads of bookshelves, and books are stacked in odd places here and there. As a five-year-old, her great sorrow was the loss of her big fairy-tale volume to a hurricane. She didn't care about clothes or furniture-or even dolls. She wept buckets over that book. Jan has always had a vivid imagination and an active fantasy life, perhaps as a result of being an only child. Her curiosity is boundless and her interest range is extremely broad. In college she majored in both English and elementary education and minored in biology and history. Later she earned a master's degree and a doctorate in counseling, was a licensed psychologist and a crackerjack hypnotist, and taught college psychology (including statistics) for twelve years. Along the way she became a blue ribbon flower arranger, an expert on dreams, and a pretty decent bridge player. Yet, she had a creative itch she had to scratch. The need to write had always been there, nagging. Her mother always swore that her labor with Jan was so long and difficult because her daughter was holding a tablet in one hand and a pencil in the other and wouldn't let go. After years of daydreaming and secretly plotting novels, she took a few brush-up courses, joined Romance Writers of America, and plunged in. Now she writes full time, sees a few hypnotherapy clients on the side, and spends a lot of time reading-and daydreaming. Though her friends swore that their "love at first sight" romance would never last, Jan and her husband have been living happily ever after for more years that she likes to admit. After a brief career as a rock drummer, their tall, handsome, brilliant son is an ad agency creative director. His most creative production is an adorable grandson who loves the stories his Nana tells him. Her most memorable adventure was riding a camel to the Sphinx, climbing the Great Pyramid, and sailing down the Nile. Her favorite food is fudge. With pecans. Chocolate eclairs are a close second.

Book preview

1The Right Moves

By Jan Hudson

First published by Loveswept at Bantam Books, April 1989

Revised and updated ebook edition by Jan Hudson copyright, 2012

Cover design by Lori D.Wade copyright, 2012

Cover photo credit (male model), Robert Reiff/www.magiclight.com)

Published by Janece O. Hudson at Smashwords

All rights reserved. No part of this work may be used, transmitted, or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author except for brief excerpts used in critical articles or reviews.

This book is purely a work of fiction and the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity between characters, names, or incidents and real people or incidents is coincidental. Certain historical facts or locales have been used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1

Somebody here call for a tow?

Leaving his post beside one of the potted trees flanking the carved door, the parking attendant stepped from beneath the red canopy. White script across the front of the awning discreetly identified Le Boeuf. The same script adorned the left pocket of the smiling young man’s red jacket. His smile widened when he looked into the cab of the tow truck.

Sure thing. It’s for Mr. Russo. Park it over there, he said, pointing to the curb farther ahead. I’ll tell him you’re here.

Chris Ponder pulled the big black wrecker to the spot indicated, climbed down from the cab, and rubbed her back. It had been a long, rough night, pleasantly warm for March in Houston but full of the typical Saturday night crazies. Already she’d worked three major wrecks on the freeways, a couple of side-street fender benders, and four or five other assorted calls. She’d plumped her pocketbook considerably, but she was pooped.

A glance at her watch confirmed that it was almost one-thirty in the morning. After this job she was going to call it a day. She’d been at it for over ten hours. Stifling a yawn, she crammed her fingers in the back pockets of her jeans, rocked back on her scuffed Nikes, and waited.

The smiling young man was back in a short time. Mr. Russo’s with the manager in his office. He said he’d be another few minutes and to come in and have a drink on him.

Scowling, she looked down at her grease-smeared jersey and then to the elegant entrance of Le Boeuf. In there? Like this?

Sure, the young man said. He lifted an eyebrow and stared at the front of her shirt. You look fine to me.

Chris rolled her eyes heavenward. Lord, deliver her from libidinous males, even teenaged ones. This boy, who couldn’t be a day older than her eighteen-year-old stepson, continued to ogle her. Knock it off, kid, she said. I’m nearly old enough to be your mother.

Yes, ma’am, he said, sobering and straightening at the stern parental tone universally recognized by sons.

Come on, Chris said, smiling and softening her words. I could use a cup of coffee.

Yes, ma’am. His grin was back as he led the way and opened the heavy door for her.

Inside, it was dark and smoky. Rock music, so loud that it vibrated the floor beneath her feet, was mixed with frenzied, high-pitched screams.

What kind of a place was this? After the bright lights of the parking lot outside, Chris could hardly see a thing. A form appeared beside her.

"Welcome to Le Boeuf, honey, a deep male voice drawled. The tables are all full, but there’s a spot at the bar. What can I get you to drink?"

Chris squinted at the form, but all she could make out was a red bow tie that seemed to glow in the dark and white teeth gleaming in a wide grin. Someone jostled her and she automatically reached out to steady herself.

Her hand met hard, bare flesh. She gasped.

Uh-uh, honey, the voice said. Look, but don’t touch.

She snatched her hand away from what she could now make out as a broad, naked chest. She swallowed. Excuse me. I’m waiting for Mr. Russo. I just wanted a cup of coffee. Perhaps I’d better wait outside.

Nick Russo? My apologies, miss. I’ll find you a place right down front. This way, he said. Taking her elbow before she could balk, he steered her through the crowd of screaming women and seated her.

Eyes as big as silver dollars, Chris gaped up at the man gyrating in the spotlight on the platform in front of her. His dark, muscled body glistening with oil, he wore nothing but a tiny little loincloth with beads and two feathers in his long black hair.

Geronimo! a woman beside her screamed, waving a folded bill.

When he grunted and gave two thrusts of his pelvis, Chris groaned, Oh my Lord, and dropped her face in her hands. She would have left then except that she was wedged in by frenzied females waving money at the dancer, while begging him for kisses. There were soon so many bills tucked into the edges of his loincloth that he looked like a porcupine. Still he bumped and ground . . . and kissed.

It was disgusting.

Waiters had to stand by to keep the eager women’s hands off the Indian. At last the drumbeats began to die down as Geronimo raised his arms in the air and the spotlight faded.

Maybe she could get out now, Chris thought as she gulped the coffee that had mysteriously appeared before her. No such luck. The crowd was thick around her and music with a slower tempo took over.

"Ladies, here he is. The new star of Le Boeuf . . . that yellow-haired god, the Viking!"

The women went wilder than before—screaming, jumping up and down, climbing on tables. All Chris could see through the frantic arms and legs of the crowd was a tall man standing on a stage across the room. Posed in the spotlight with, a huge sword, he was garbed in furs and had on a helmet with horns sticking out the sides.

When he started to move, a redhead in a miniskirt beside Chris flung her arms out wide and yelled, Come spear me, baby.

Coffee spilled all over the front of Chris’s jersey. Damn! she muttered, trying to sop up the mess with a red cocktail napkin.

Disgusting. Simply disgusting.

How could grown women act like such idiots?

And what kind of man would subject himself to such a degrading display? She wanted to dig a hole and crawl in.

Chris could tell that the dancer was coming closer to her because of the folded bills waving in the air. When the waiters dragged off one of the exuberant patrons blocking her view, Chris caught a glimpse of a fur jockstrap and a navel with an unusual crescent-shaped birthmark beside it.

She sucked in a startled gasp and her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Her jaw dropped open and she sat paralyzed as the image seeped into her brain.

Chris shot to her feet. Flinging aside frenzied females, she bulldozed a path to the edge of the circular dais and stared up at the nearly naked blond giant in the horned helmet who was thrusting his hips at a brunette holding a twenty-dollar bill.

Jon . . . Paul. . . Ponder! Chris shouted. You get down from there this minute!

She climbed onto the stage with blood in her eye as the startled dancer turned to face her. He paled as if he’d seen a ghost.

Fists on her hips, Chris glared up at the young man who topped her by a good ten inches. You’re going to get your clothes on and get out of this place. Right now. She had him by the arm when two brawny waiters dragged her off the platform.

At five four and a hundred and ten pounds, Chris was no match for the pair who tried to hold her back, but she fought them like a lioness. Let me go, you apes, she ground out between clenched teeth.

Ma’am, you can’t touch the Viking, they said, clearly trying to soothe her while struggling to keep her off the stage.

That’s no Viking, she spat at them. That’s my son!

Sure, lady, one of them said as they hoisted her up, feet kicking and dangling a foot off the floor, and hauled her out of the crowd.

I demand to see the manager. Immediately!

* * *

Amused, Nick Russo sat in a dark corner of the manager’s office and watched the cute little dynamo, in a dirty blue jersey and tight jeans that cupped a well-shaped backside, tear a strip off Sal Milella. Part of her hair was still pinned in a lopsided topknot that wiggled every time she shook her finger in Sal’s face, and the rest of the honey-colored ringlets cascaded down her back in wild disarray.

Are you going to explain to me, Mr.— she snatched up the nameplate on the desk, read it, and slammed it back down—"Mr. Milella, exactly why you employ mere boys in this sleazy dive? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You ought to be arrested."

Looking bewildered, Sal glanced from Nick to the spitfire leaning across his desk and back to Nick again as if to say, Help me. What is this crazy lady talking about?

She whirled, following the manager’s gaze. And just who are you?

Nick rose and walked toward her. Even with her eyes shooting sparks, she had the sweetest face he’d ever seen. I’m Nick Russo, he said, his voice deep, soft. He extended his hand and smiled.

As she automatically took his hand and looked into a pair of smoke-gray eyes that drooped under thick black lashes in a natural bedroom look, Chris felt her brain turn to tapioca pudding.

Black-haired with a touch of gray at the temples, he was about five eleven, with wide shoulders filling out a custom-tailored charcoal suit. Beneath a classic Roman nose, his full lips were slightly parted in an off center smile that creased his left cheek and played havoc with her knees.

He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen in her life. Sexy with a capital S. It billowed off him in waves, pulsated from his hand to hers, did strange things to her heartbeat. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t think. She could only stare, mouth agape, at the man before her.

And who are you? he prompted.

I’m Chris Ponder. I came to tow your car.

He frowned. You?

His comment broke the spell she’d been under, and her anger returned, saving her from making a complete ninny of herself. Yes, me, she said, jerking her hand away. But you made me wait, and that’s when I saw Jon prancing around on that stage with nothing on but a little bit of rabbit fur and horns. And he’s just a boy. He has no business being in an establishment like this. He told me he had a job in a beef place. She made a disdainful sound. I thought he meant a restaurant. I didn’t know he was the beef.

Nick’s frown deepened. Who’s Jon?

Jon Ponder. Known around here, she said, turning to glare at Sal, as the Viking.

Ponder, Nick said. Your brother?

No, not my brother. My son.

His black eyebrows shot up. You don’t look old enough to have a son his age. You can’t be more than twenty-five yourself."

Chris sighed in exasperation. Look, I’m thirty-four years old. I’ll show you my driver’s license if that will help. Actually, Jon is my stepson, but I’ve been his mother since he was five.

For some reason, Nick felt a pang of regret as he studied the pert nose and the huge, dark-lashed blue eyes. If Jon was her stepson, there had to be a father. But what kind of a husband would let this delicate little angel-face drive a tow truck alone In Houston at this hour of the morning? Didn’t the fool know it was dangerous? Nick clenched his fists. Already he didn’t like the man. And your husband? Where is he?

I’m a widow, Mr. Russo, not that it has anything to do with this. I’m Jon’s legal guardian.

Nick frowned, glanced at Sal, then back to her. How old Is Jon?

Eighteen.

And he still needs a guardian? Nick asked, amusement replacing concern.

If you ask me, he needs a keeper, Chris said with a bobble of her head that shook the precarious topknot. Her eyes narrowed. He may be in college, but when I get him home I’m going to blister his fanny so that for the next week he’ll have to carry a pillow if he wants to sit down.

I see. Nick fought back a chuckle at the idea of Chris trying to spank the strapping Jon Ponder. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. Sal, he said, turning to the manager who looked decidedly uncomfortable, why don’t you get the young man, and we’ll straighten this out.

Sure thing, Nick, he said and hurried out as if he were relieved to escape.

Chris turned to study the dark man, who seemed to be giving her the once-over as well. His hands were broad, with long fingers and manicured nails. He wore no rings, but she’d bet ten dollars he was the kind of macho Italian male who wore a gold chain hidden beneath that white silk shirt and red paisley tie. Probably had a hairy chest, too, if the dark shadows along his jaw were any indication.

What was she doing thinking about his chest! She forced her eyes away from him and studied the plaster patterns in a corner of the ceiling.

So he was handsome, so he was sexy—if you liked men who wore shiny, hand-made shoes and gold watches that cost more than her car. Which she didn’t. Nick Russo was way out of her league. He was one of those slick ones with soft words and a slow hand who knew all the right moves.

Definitely not her type. Even if she were in the market. Which she wasn’t.

Quiet strength and power radiated from him. It was as evident as the expensive cologne he wore. Kind of intoxicating. Yet there was an edge of hardness to him. Mr. Milella had sure jumped to his tune. Who was this man to be giving the manager orders?

Never one to wonder when she could ask, Chris turned and asked, Mr. Russo, just how are you connected to Mr. Milella and this—she waved her hand around—this place?

We’re family. Sal is my nephew, my older sister’s son. I give him advice from time to time. A slow smile exposed white, even teeth and the slash of a dimple along his left cheek.

It was a mistake to look at him, for Chris felt her knees begin to go weak again. It was the smile that did it, a smile so blatantly seductive that her face flushed under his gaze and she