A Pleasing Temptation(10)

By: Deborah Fletcher Mello


Wesley nodded, shooting Kamaya another look. “So, Ms. Boudreaux, how long have you owned…”

“I don’t,” she said, interrupting the question she felt coming. “We just represent the owner’s interests. We work for The Michelle Initiative,” she said, the little white lie spilling easily past her lips as her stare gestured toward Paxton.

“Oh, my apologies. I misunderstood.” Wesley nodded. “Well, why don’t we take this conversation to my office,” he said.

“Why don’t you give us a tour and update us with the status of your renovations,” Kamaya ordered. Her tone was brusque and all business. She turned and moved toward the bar area, her gaze still dancing from pillar to post.

The two men cut their eyes at each other. Paxton shrugged “I report to her,” he muttered under his breath.

Wesley nodded in understanding as he turned to follow the beautiful woman. “Structurally, we’re done with the renovations. There are some minor issues with the tile in the women’s restrooms that need to be addressed and I’m assured that they’ll be resolved before end of business today. We are on schedule for our last inspection tomorrow and I anticipate we’ll have our certificate of occupancy immediately after.

“Tables and chairs will be delivered later this week and the bar will be in place this weekend. The sound system and kitchen are all up and ready, and the interior designer will be here on Monday to add the final decorative touches to all of our guest spaces. We have a team of sixteen dancers who are ready to go at a moment’s notice and our waitstaff will have three days of orientation training early next week. We are on schedule to open doors next month to a by-invitation-only crowd, and I’m confident that we will open to much success.” He took a breath and then he continued.

“All the plans are detailed with respect to the decor and staffing if you’d like to review them. I’ve also printed out the budget and my preliminary forecasts. The numbers are good. They’re even better than what I projected in my initial business plan.”

Kamaya gave him a slight nod of her head. “It sounds like you have everything under control, Mr. Walters.”

“Please, call me Wesley or Wes. Mr. Walters is my father.”

Kamaya smiled. His thick Southern accent was deep and rich, only lacking the soundtrack to make his words as sultry as country crooner Chris Young’s love songs.

The two were suddenly interrupted as Bryan Lackey moved between them. “Hey there, sorry to interrupt,” he said, his grin canyon wide, “but the guys are ready when you are, boss man.”

Wesley smiled. “Kamaya Boudreaux, Bryan Lackey. Bryan, Ms. Boudreaux is a member of the franchise team. She’s here checking that we’re ready to go next month.”

Bryan nodded. “It’s a pleasure. And I think we’re definitely good to go. I’d love to show you our best.”

“Bryan is our lead choreographer as well as my club manager.”

Kamaya cut her eyes back and forth between the two men. “Then I’d love to see your best,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Bryan looked to Wesley for his approval, and then, with a nod of his head, he moved toward the stage, gesturing for the dance team to follow.

“Would you like a seat?” Wesley asked. “I can have a chair brought out from my office for you.”

Kamaya shook her head as she shifted her weight from one hip to the other. “That’s not necessary. But I appreciate the offer.”

Wesley stared at her for a brief moment and then he gestured, pointing an index finger toward the stage.

Music suddenly echoed from every corner of the room. The acoustics were great, clearly demonstrating that some serious attention had been given to the sound system. Kamaya nodded her approval as she suddenly felt her whole body begin to sway with the beat. She didn’t know the song but it had a lush, sexy vibe and she knew a female audience would instantly be engaged. And then the dance team strutted onto the stage.

Kamaya felt her heart skip a beat and then two. She took a step forward as if moving closer would give her a better view when she had the best line of sight in the house, nothing obscuring the stage. The next ten minutes, with three song changes, left Kamaya sweating, perspiration puddling in her creases and crevices as if someone had turned on an inner water faucet and left the water running.

There were twelve men on stage, each one a sight to behold. They all had bodies that were solid steel beneath baby smooth skin, six-pack abs and male model looks. They were a rainbow of hues from the darkest chocolate to the warmest vanilla. They were Black, Caucasian, Latino, Asian and a multitude of mixed races that had them looking like a United Nation’s contingent.

Also By Deborah Fletcher Mello

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