Roseatre, formerly Ruth the Amazon Princess, is now a
dancer at Arcane Royale in Las Vegas. Nightly she finds
herself TAKING THE STAGE and putting on a show. But with
the release of headliner Pandora [Into the Spotlight] the
stage manager has booked a troupe to help with the failing
audience appeal. White tigers. Cats! All they do for
Roseatre is make her want to hunt, but handler Anthony di
Napoli does raise other desires. It has been a long time
since she was even tempted and he is all temptation.
Anthony has been cast out of his pride. It was his choice,
by the refusal to bow to his uncle's leadership. Now he and
his real white tigers travel from place to place putting on
shows but this time it is different. This time his shifter
tiger recognizes their mate. How to get her to accept him
is the question. The Amazon is never going to be any man's
trophy, but maybe a partner?
TAKING THE STAGE is a mysterious and captivating tale of
pride, honor and fate. This second of the Soul Girls
series
by author Heather Long picks up where the first one left
off with even more drama. The characters are perfect for
each other once they are forced into closer consideration
by the stage manager which of course leads to some very
steamy time in his jungle room suite. Ms. Long knows
exactly what readers want and once again has given us a
book you will not be able to put down. After this one is
read you will find yourself waiting for the next
installment.
Roseâtre takes one look at the white tigers that the stage
manager has brought in to shake things up at the Midnight
Mystery Lounge, and nearly has a heart attack. It doesn't
matter that the beautiful creatures' handler raises her
pulse and makes her want to purr. The tigers are sure to
recognize her—and arouse her need for the hunt.
Pride outcast Anthony diNapoli wasn't expecting to encounter
an Amazon princess when he brought his white tigers to the
lounge. The lucrative show will go a long way toward
securing his future, but not if he gives in to the urge to
make her submit to his dominance, and claim her as his mate.
No matter how desperately her body aches for the
sun–kissed stranger and his completely lickable abs,
Roseâtre is no man's prize. Yet she finds herself hungering
for Anthony to defeat her and take her for his own.
It's show time in the Arcana Royale's Midnight Mystery
Lounge and all bets are off.
Warning: Contains sword fights, shackles, sexy showgirls,
and a game of dominance between a determined weretiger and
an Amazon who refuses to submit. Blades, bliss and battles,
oh my!
Excerpt
"Not the toes." Roseâtre refused to squeal. As lead dancer
for the Arcana Royale's Midnight Mystery Lounge, she would
never squeal or scream, but her voice pitched high enough
that the syllable at the end of toes cracked.
The great white tiger snuffling her feet through the
five–inch strappy black–and–sapphire
Louboutins rolled his head away. Instead of obeying, he
stroked a whiskered cheek down her bare leg.
"Cut!" Voice booming, the show's stage manager hustled out
from the wings. Heidi was a brisk woman with a quick temper
and a stout body, dedicated to creating the best shows.
After Pandora's escape from her contract, she relied on all
of her girls to have the same dedication to the performance,
Roseâtre more than most.
Pandora. She'd always made the lead look easy. She'd walked
out on the stage and owned the audience. Roseâtre believed
Pandora could have shared the stage with twelve chimpanzees
and it wouldn't have mattered. Gazes would have been riveted
to the tawny nymph.
The white tiger stretched out his neck and yawned, showing
off a mouthful of glistening teeth. He flexed his paws,
claws scoring the stage. She wasn't fooled by the
sleepy–eyed expression or house–cat
similarities. Big cats weren't pets.
The rest of the dancers relaxed from their poses, some even
dropping down to coo and stroke the cats whose arrival had
elicited a long round of awws and aren't they sweets.
Roseâtre, however, shifted away from the cat with his
tickling whiskers and raspy tongue.
"Rose?" Heidi beckoned, a pen behind one ear and a notebook
tucked under her arm. She pursed her lips in a
you're–not–in–trouble–yet moue, but
the wrinkles knitting her brow told an entirely different
story.
"Yes, ma'am?" Roseâtre didn't drag her feet. One certainly
never dragged Louboutins, but she couldn't quite resist
displaying her mutiny with an uplifted chin and wrinkled
nose.
Cats.
Her nose twitched. Her sinuses burned. Her eyes threatened
tears. But she maintained her composure.
Damn cats.
"Look, I know you're not thrilled with this idea." The
opening gambit was classic Heidi, softening her up for the
too–damn–bad often attached to those statements.
Closeted together at the far end of the stage, Roseâtre was
glad to be out of earshot of her shield–sister
Cerveau, the other dancers and thankfully, the damn tigers.
The Midnight Mystery Lounge was closed for an entire week so
the dancers could learn this new act. She'd woken to the bad
news that the diNapoli Tigers—tigers—were
joining the show for a three–month trial to drum up
business in the magical casino and resort.
"But you're just going to have to get over it. The
apothecary will provide you with a tea for your allergies.
We need this show and you're the headliner. That means you
and the tiger will be all over each other on that stage and
you're going to love it."
And there it was, the verbal slap demanding submission. The
command chafed. But a promise was a promise and she was as
bound by her oath as her shield–sister Cerveau was by
her curse.
"Is there any way we can do this without cats?"
"Not really, no." The sympathy was real, but from Heidi's
compressed expression, the stage manager was plainly not on
Roseâtre's side. "I'm sorry, Rose. But the diNapoli Tigers
were an enormous success in Monaco and Paris. We need them
for resurgence of interest or the Overseers may very well
break up the show."
"Really?" Panic drifted under the surface of her skin,
sending her heart puttering. The Overseers controlled the
Arcana Royale, the sprawling complex where meta–humans
of all types were welcome and could be themselves. They
controlled the shows, the people and in the case of the
dancers, their souls. Breaking up the show meant the dancers
with varying leases on their souls could be placed elsewhere
at the Overseers' discretion.
Worse, Roseâtre and Cerveau could be separated. Roseâtre
couldn't allow that to happen. She'd sworn an oath. Pride
could be sacrificed. Honor could not.
A shield–borne oath was an oath.
"I'll try. It's not just the allergy, though."
"What is it?"
No simple answer existed. Roseâtre glanced over her shoulder
to where the great cats lounged. Some groomed themselves
while yet another rolled over on its back, presenting its
belly to Peppermint for attention. Of all the dancers,
Peppermint was the most gracious, the most loving and the
most likely to enjoy gamboling with the tigers on the stage.
"I assure you, nothing is wrong with my cats." The dark,
deep masculine tones teased up her spine. She jerked her
attention back to discover a bare–chested,
bare–footed blond god had joined them.
Oh my. Who did he kill to get those abs?
She snapped her jaw shut with a flicker of irritation, and
forced her gaze up from the hard six–pack of
clear–cut muscle to roam over the ripped planes of his
chest and shoulders.
Dear gods, does it end?
The cool dislike in his blue eyes slapped her back to the
present. Everything about the man seemed larger than life,
from his thick thighs, easily three times the size of hers,
to his wide hands and square, chiseled jaw.
"Roseâtre, Anthony diNapoli." Heidi's snapped introduction
rebuked her. "Anthony, this is our headliner, Roseâtre."
Be professional. She extended her hand and kept her gaze
focused above his chin. Despite the five additional inches
her designer shoes added to her considerable height, topping
at around six foot, the man towered over her.
And he inspected her with an air of detached amusement, his
gaze clearly dipping below her chin to where her breasts
strained against the confinement of the black leotard.
"Your pleasure, I'm sure." The bastard smiled and ignored
her hand.
"Anthony's cats are in high demand, and he's graciously
consented to this trial contract so we're going to do the
best we can to make the most of this situation." Heidi
turned to Anthony as though unaware of the icy drop in
Roseâtre's regard. "We'll add extra rehearsal time so
Roseâtre and her cat can get used to each other."
We will? Incredulous, Roseâtre could barely pull her eyes
away from Anthony to look at the stage manager. "More
rehearsals?" Tired of holding her hand out to the air, she
let it drop.
"Absolutely." Heidi nodded briskly, clapping her hands and
striding away to gather the dancers, completely ignoring the
cats with the poise of one who was likely more dangerous
than the wild animals. "Ladies!"
Cerveau stood next to Kiki, Peppermint and Amber, the
question in her expression obvious, but Roseâtre shook her
head, waving her off with one short hand gesture. She didn't
need backup.
"So what's your problem with cats, princess?" The words
shivered up her spine. Anthony's voice prowled behind her,
his body heat brushing against her in challenge and
invitation.
"Does it matter?"
She didn't have to play nice. The bastard couldn't be
bothered to shake her hand.
"It might. You're going to be riding my tiger every night
for the next three months." The words dripped with mockery
and some other indefinable emotion.
Roseâtre shifted away, sparing him a dismissive look. She'd
practiced the art of cool disdain for years under her
mother's tutelage. He might call her princess in his low,
rolling sexy voice as a jest, but it didn't make it any less
true.
"What's the problem now, princess?"
"You're getting sarcasm on my shoes." She lifted one, taking
great care to inspect it.
Anthony threw his head back and laughed, a deep
belly–trembling shout of amusement.
The noise drew the dancers' attention like children to free
chocolate. Cerveau's face twisted comically, a mixture of
censure and curiosity reddening her cheeks. She wouldn't
approve the tone, but she would appreciate the cause.
"You still haven't told me why you don't like my cats."
"They're cats."
Head canted to the right, he studied her. The deep blue of
his eyes was enhanced by a circle of darker blue along the
iris. His pupils seemed to blink on their own, but that
wasn't possible. Roseâtre forced her gaze back to his
dimples, just barely disguised by the thick rush of blond
beard coating his cheeks.
"Cats are magnificent, bold and affectionate creatures. They
are slow to trust, but have unshakable loyalty."
"Until you're dead and then they just eat your corpse." She
shuddered.
He laughed again. "You don't need your body when you're
dead."
She was missing everything Heidi was saying to the other
dancers. Clearly, the stage manager didn't care because she
wasn't even looking in Roseâtre's direction, much less
shooting her with her optic laser beams of impatience.
"I'd rather my body was undisturbed, thank you very much.
The idea of anything feasting after I'm dead is
unappealing." Not to mention sacrilegious. A warrior's death
should be honored with blades and flame, never teeth.
Or, the gods forbid, a hairball. Roseâtre grimaced.
"Would you prefer they do it while you're alive?" The silken
whisper brushed against her ear. Tingles raced over her skin
from the sweep of his beard on her cheek.
Heart leaping, Roseâtre barely managed to suppress her
startled scream and settled for smacking his chest. The hard
muscles didn't even budge as her hand made contact, leaving
a vivid, white mark against the golden tan.
"You really need to stop doing that." Enough is enough. The
man might be here at Heidi's request or the Overseers', but
his job was to deal with the damn cats.
"Stop what?" The mock innocence coating his teasing grin
reminded her more of the tiger yawning than it did a
conciliatory gesture.
"Invading my bubble." She rolled her hand in the air between
them. "You haven't been invited into my bubble."
The coolness in his gaze warmed considerably, his grin
widened. He was obviously enjoying the hell out of her
irritation.
"How does one get invited into your bubble?" He batted the
air in front of her, a downright playful gesture that sank
its claws into her belly.
Nope. Not going to be turned on.
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