"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Norris," Tomas Ruiz said formally, his large brown hand clasped around her much smaller, much paler hand.

"Seraphina." Mouth dry, lips barely parted, breaths coming and going in shallow pants, her rising arousal shocked her out of her perpetual sadness. "Please call me Seraphina."

"Thank you. I’d like that. Tomorrow, Seraphina," he said her name softly, as though caressing each syllable, "I'll start asking around town about work for you. With the building surge in town, there’s bound to be an opening somewhere."

She hung onto his palm, reluctant to let go. "Thank you. That’s very sexy of you."

He grinned. "You’re welcome. And thank you for the compliment."

What compliment?

She thought backwards, flushing when she recalled yet another slip in her speech. "I misspoke. Again. I meant to say that’s very -- er -- solicitous of you."

"Gee, I'm crushed. And here I work so hard at sexy, too. Ain't I at least muy suave?"

She rolled her eyes.

He dimpled. "Aw, c'mon! Give me smooth, anyway!"

Sighing, Seraphina withdrew her hand.

She doubted Tomas Ruiz had to work all that hard at anything, certainly not at sexy or smooth or muy suave. Sure, he cultivated his natural attributes with various poses and posturing, and enhanced his bad-boy image with a black T-shirt and jeans wardrobe, but the man naturally exuded charisma. Some men had animal magnetism. Other men had integrity. Few men possessed both, as the first quality invariably corrupted the second.

Tomas broke into her thoughts. "How’s this? Not only will I find you another full-time job other than teaching, I'll also find you another place to live."

"That is not the kind of help I need!" Before she said more, something she’d later regret, she walked away.

"Hold up!"

Turning, she saw a pink something wave at her from between two brown fingers. "What's that?"

"My business card. In this instance, the card will also act as an employment referral to the manager at The Flamingo. I’ll tell Lou Franco to expect your arrival at two o'clock, and that’s sharp, to discuss part-time work." His smile dazzled, a tease lurked in his voice. "If that appointment is convenient for you, naturally."

Retracing her steps, she lifted the card from between his fingers and read the fine print beneath the practically pornographic logo. "I'll get my legs waxed. Those feathers don't hide much."

His sexy lips trembled at the corners. "Know how to lap dance?"

"No. Should I signup for an accelerated class?"

Tomas washed both hands over his face. "We've both had our fun. Give the card here." He wiggled his fingers.

"I'll do nothing of the sort!" She slipped the delicate pink rectangle into the pocket of her navy-blue skirt. "I'm going."

"Wait a minute! You can’t strip! You’re a nice woman --"

"Oh, please! Spare me the moral outrage. You are not the keeper of my values. Believe it or not, I don’t happen to have nice woman tattooed on my rear end," she said defiantly. "Now about those pink feathers -- would a wealthy man like you push a hundred-dollar bill down my cleavage for a few extra grunts and grinds?"

Based on past experience, she already knew the answer.

No!

She did not inspire lust in men. Even if she took it all off, including the feathers, even if she strutted her stuff on that stage as naked as the day she was born, Tomas Ruiz wouldn't notice or care.

Though -- he really did seem to like her breasts. She’d caught him eyeing them more than once when he thought she wasn't looking. Real breasts must be novelty items in his circles, she thought, chuckling to herself.

Tomas frowned. "What's so funny?"

"Breasts."

Could she believe, he blushed?

"Breasts ain't funny, ma'am. Breasts are serious business."

"My goodness! I do believe we’ve finally stumbled onto a subject upon which we can both agree." She slanted him an arched look. "Though, for different reasons, I'm sure. In my opinion, the purpose of a woman's breasts is for the nurturing of babies. But more and more, society views breasts as ... well ... decorative. Hardly functional at all. Their sole value relegated to bra cup size. That trivializes their importance."

"See that? Just like I said, breasts are serious business."

"And you seriously enjoy looking at mine."

Tomas, the sexy man of the bad reputation, looked bashfully away. "Ease up, woman! A Latino male never discusses such things with a lady."

"Oh, go on! Admit it! You ogle my breasts when you think I won’t notice."

"Admitted," he said, looking anywhere but at them, now that they were out in the open, so to speak.

"So, answer my question -- would you push a hundred-dollar bill down my cleavage for a few extra grunts and grinds?"

Tomas Ruiz raced for the door. "Ask for Lou. Two o’clock sharp."