Hot Stuff Read Online Free PDF

teeth still flashing a piratical grin, stood Briggan O’Brien.
    He closed the trapdoor that had been the means for this dramatic entrance. He shoved me away from the hand reaching up from the floor to grab my ankle. Brig scowled, kicked at the offender’s shoulder, and followed that with a gentler push to the man’s head, shouting, “Don’t you be touchin’ her, you lousy squid!”
    â€œSquid.” Ha! I’d been right. He had said squid earlier, in Gaelic and now in English. The why eluded me but I felt better knowing my translations were spot-on.
    Mahindra glared up at us both, then growled and reached for my foot. Brig lifted me away from the fallen, angry man, then took my hand in his.
    Brig yelled, “Nice fightin’, lass! We’ll be off, then. Got our girl in the bag?”
    I did. I threw the tote over my shoulder and nodded at him.
    Bullets, knives, bottles, and one set of keys flew past our heads. We did the only thing we could. We ran.

Chapter 4
    â€œStop! Please. I can’t do this.”
    I grabbed at Brig’s outrageous Hawaiian shirt and tugged hard. He turned. As far as I could tell, he hadn’t even broken a sweat. And he smelled nice. A faint trace of curry did not hide the scent of the man himself. Masculine. Heady. Yes, nice. But I needed to avoid sniffing him—at least for the moment.
    I had no idea where we were. Brig had taken my hand in his and we’d been running for at least fifteen minutes. He’d transferred the tote bag to his shoulder rather than mine, which made me somewhat suspicious. The reason for the switch must have had less to do with simple courtesy and more to do with the fact that he wanted to stay in close proximity to the ivory Indian goddess.
    â€œBrig. I’m serious. Stop. Please. I just need to rest for a second before starting the marathon again.”
    He smiled. “I think I can do better than a tiny respite for you. Let’s pop into this club, get a drink or two, and sit for a time. How does that sound?”
    I didn’t even quibble. “Delicious.”
    The awning over the doorway read C.C. Curry’s. I hoped it lived up to the name. A few spicy veggies mixed with those wonderful bean pastries called samosas would be my reward for not socking Brig in the teeth with the tote bag after we first took off from Hot Harry’s.
    I sank into a comfortable chair. Sitar and tabla music jangled around me. It sounded terrific, even to ears accustomed to classic rock and Broadway musicals.
    I sat up. I looked around C.C. Curry’s and realized there were no other women seated in the room. Either we’d wandered into a gay bar or an exclusive gentlemen-only lounge. I hissed at Brig, “What’s this place?”
    â€œC.C. Curry’s. Ladies club.”
    â€œThat makes no sense. I thought ladies clubs were where females go to play bridge and avoid guys. Other than me, I do not see any ladies. With or without cards.”
    Brig turned bright red. “You will.”
    He was right. The music cranked up a notch. Heavy bass and funky drums replaced the sitar. I glanced up. An Indian beauty wearing a berry-colored sari and more beads than a rosary stand began writhing and wriggling above Brig and me on a platform.
    I groaned, “Oh no. This I do not need tonight. I’m in a strip joint? Thank you so much. A wonderful spot to hide in.”
    â€œThey don’t call them strip joints here. And they don’t strip. Not like those places in Manhattan on Eighth Avenue that bare it all. Not that I ever darkened a door of one in the city, mind you.” He winked. “No, luv. This really is called a ladies club. The ladies dance for the gentlemen. That’s it. Very sedate, comparatively. Mind you, what they do with the gents on their own time after hours might be arranged in here, but the stripping then is private.”
    By this time, Brig had given me more information than I