Miami [antikvár]

November 1991 Miami Christa was an animal. She looked like one. She felt like one. Backstage, wrapped tight in the cloak of heavy rock music, she paced the small space as if testing the limits of a cage. Soon she would be free, free to terrify, free to ravage, free to thrill. But now, as the awesome feeling built within her, there was nothing but the excitement, the anticipation, and the laser power of her focus. Out there, in the audience, were the men with the megabucks the mountains of money that she was about to force them to make over to her. She shivered in the eighty-degree heat. Then she arched her back and pushed out her hips, sending muscle ripples down her stomach as she yawned away the tension in the moments before the appearance she already knew would be a triumph. "Two," said the technician, mouthing the words in the tempest of sound. He held up two fingers. Christa took a deep breath. She shook her Uon's mane of hair from side to side, testing the way it would swing on the catwalk. She braced her legs, feeling the delicious stretch in her taut quadriceps, the tension in the gluteals, the stirrings of an energy that was sexual. She looked into the mirror at her side and checked the visuals. Green eyes flashed back at her, a wild animal's eyes, darting, daunting, dangerous. She threw back her head and growled a laugh as she let inhibition go. Hands on the upper outer quadrants of drum-tight buttocks, her breasts pushed forward to prick the eyes of the men who would want her. Her lips were parted in a snarl of sensual hunger, and she flashed her tongue over them