Forbidden Stranger Read online

  As they crossed the sidewalk, he took her arm. She stiffened but didn’t pull away. “What’s that for?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” They climbed the steps and he rang the doorbell, then grinned at her again. “Amanda thinks you’re wanting to learn to strip for me.”

  Color flooded Julia’s face, but before she could say anything, the door opened. Amanda stood just inside the screen door, long curls pulled up in a ponytail, wearing a faded University of Georgia T-shirt, a pair of denim shorts, no shoes and no makeup. She looked younger than the thirty he knew her to be, soft and pretty and not the least exotic.

  Beside her stood a dog the size of a small pony, long, gangly, with feet that would do an elephant proud. Its coat was pure black, sleek except for the cowlick between its ears, and its dark eyes were fixed on Rick. “Some ‘puppy,’” he murmured.

  “The vet estimates her age at about ten months. That makes you a puppy, doesn’t it, Dancer?” Amanda unlatched the screen door, then stepped back. “Come on in. You must be Rick’s friend. I’m Amanda Nelson.”

  “Julia Dautrieve.” Giving the dog a wary look, Julia moved into the foyer, belatedly shaking hands with Amanda. She took a few steps away, glanced around, then smiled nervously. “I, uh, appreciate your doing this.”

  “No problem.” Amanda shifted her gaze to Rick. He knew from her background investigation that she had hazel eyes. That seemed such a tame description for the blue, green and brown mix that gazed at him. “Are you going to stay?”

  “No,” he and Julia said at the same time. It was one thing to watch Amanda dance at the club, another to do so in the intimacy of her home, and still another to do so with his supposed girlfriend there. He would be safer all around if he left. Now.

  “Julia’s going to surprise me later,” he said, making his partner blush again. She really would surprise him if she found the courage—and the sensuality—to go through with the job. “I just came along to perform the introductions. Now I’m outta here.”

  Amanda nodded, then went into the living room to the right, giving him privacy to say goodbye to Julia. He grasped her fingers, cold and clammy, and pulled her around so his back was to Amanda. “You okay?” he murmured.

  Looking anything but, she nodded.

  Not sure whether Amanda was watching, he brushed a kiss across Julia’s mouth. “Call me,” he said, then winked and grinned. “Have fun.”

  Before she could react—a forced smile, a sarcastic reply, an internal struggle not to draw her weapon on him—he ducked out the door, trotted along the sidewalk to his car and slid behind the wheel. As he pulled away from the curb, he felt a rush of relief, as if he’d just escaped some danger.

  And its name was Amanda.

  Until the wee hours of that morning, Amanda hadn’t spent even one second considering what kind of woman would attract Rick Calloway. As long as he paid no attention to her, that was all that mattered. In the past few hours, though, she’d wasted far too much time considering it, and she hadn’t guessed even faintly close.

  She’d expected someone pretty, sexy, maybe even edgy. Someone sure of herself personally, professionally, sexually. Someone other guys would covet, who made other women feel insecure.

  Not someone like Julia Dautrieve. Oh, she was attractive in a plain sort of way. She needed a more flattering hairstyle and the unrelenting black she wore made her porcelain complexion look pasty and washed out. The below-the-knee dress length was dowdy, and those shoes…Amanda’s only thought on the shoes was burn them.

  But she’d caught Rick’s eye.

  She was standing in the living room doorway, her gaze returning repeatedly to the stripper pole in the dining room, looking as if she’d like nothing more than to run in those sturdy, plain shoes back to her sturdy, plain car and her sturdy, plain world. But she hadn’t fled yet, so Amanda chose to act as if she wouldn’t.

  “Would you like a glass of tea before we start?”

  “I’d rather have scotch,” Julia muttered.

  “Sorry. I don’t drink.”

  Julia smiled unsteadily. “Tea is fine.”

  “We can sit on the porch if you’d like. I think it’s cool enough to be comfortable.”

  With a nod, Julia went outside. Nosing the screen door open, Dancer followed her while Amanda went to the kitchen for the tea. She carried the two glasses outside a moment later, finding Julia in one of the wicker chairs, Dancer in another. She handed one glass of tea to the woman, then took the third chair.

  “Rick says you’re interested in making a career change. What do you do now?”

  “I’m a bookkeeper.” Julia’s nose wrinkled. “Big switch, huh?”

  “Not really.” Amanda was a stripper about to become a college-level English instructor. That was a big change. “Have you ever danced?”

  “I took ballet when I was a kid.”

  “Really.” Amanda never would have guessed it, except that she did have perfect posture. But no grace, no elegance, no comfort with her body.

  Her noncommittal response didn’t fool Julia. “I know. You’d never know it to look at me, would you?” She ran one fingernail along the rounded neckline of her dress as if it choked. “I’m a little uptight.”

  Amanda smiled gently. “I think when it comes to keeping books, being uptight is probably a good thing.”

  “Probably, but it doesn’t do much for a woman.”

  Didn’t do much for Rick? Was that what she meant?

  Gazing at the periwinkles that bordered the porch, Amanda asked, “What made you decide to try this?” If she was forcing herself to act so totally out of character for anyone besides herself, it wasn’t going to work. Like losing weight or getting in shape, stripping was something a woman had to want for herself.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think every woman must wonder what it would be like.” Julia shrugged uncomfortably. “Wearing sexy clothes, doing sexy dances, having men look at you, want you, pay to be with you. Men have probably always looked at you like that, but not me. I just want to know how it feels.”

  How it felt was unremarkable. Just as balancing spreadsheets was part of Julia’s day, it was part of the job.

  Oh, not in the beginning. There had been a real sense of power in those early days. Men who had never laid eyes on her before were willing to pay money just to have her sit at their tables and talk to them—willing to pay a lot of money for private dances. They hadn’t known or cared that she’d grown up on the wrong side of town, that she’d gone through a wild-child phase in high school, that the boys back home had called her Randy Mandy. All they’d cared about was those few minutes when her attention was all theirs.

  “But you have a boyfriend that most of the girls at the club would give a month’s worth of tips to have for just one night,” Amanda pointed out.

  For a moment, Julia looked puzzled, then she gave a shake of her head as if clearing it. “You mean Rick. Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”

  Funny. “Nice” didn’t come to mind first, second or even third when Amanda thought of Rick—or any other Calloway, for that matter. Handsome, sexy, privileged, snobbish, bastard—at least, when it came to Robbie.

  “Did he ask you to do this?”

  Pink tinged Julia’s cheeks. No doubt, she hated to blush, but there were men at the club who would pay extra just to see it. Innocence fascinated them, especially when they saw so little of it onstage. “No,” she denied unconvincingly. “I want to give it a shot. See if it will help me loosen up.” She took a deep breath, then her pretty brown gaze met Amanda’s. “I’ve been rigid and stuffy all my life. Just once I’d like to be something else.”

  Amanda understood wanting to be something else. She’d felt the yearning, the need, the dissatisfaction. “All right. Let’s go inside and start turning you into something else.”

  Julia was slow to rise from the chair. As she did, Dancer jumped to the floor, too, trotted over and walked through the open screen door, stopped at the water dish, then curled onto the
one-armed chaise that served as Amanda’s sofa.

  “I like your house,” Julia said as she followed Amanda down the hall and into the bedroom.

  “Thank you. I did it—am doing it—myself.” She pointed to the chair in front of her dressing table, then slapped down a packet of makeup remover towelettes. “Take off your makeup.”

  The dressing table was really an old rolltop desk, with a lighted makeup mirror in the center and everything a woman needed to make herself look good tucked into the drawers and cubbies. Amanda plugged in the curling iron, used in the occasional futile attempt to tame her own curls, then began removing the pins that held Julia’s hair in its unforgiving chignon.

  “You realize your age will work against you,” she commented as she combed out the fine silken strands. “Twenty-nine, thirty—that’s pretty much the cutoff for dancers. It’s a hard job.”

  “I know. I’m not giving up my day job. I’d just like to do it for a while.”

  “And Rick’s okay with that.”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t he be? Your boyfriends don’t mind, do they?”

  Amanda combed out a section of silky black hair, then rolled it onto the curling iron. “They usually didn’t mind in the beginning. Sooner or later, though, they got jealous.” Or, worse, they got turned on—not by her, her dancing, her body, but by the fact that other men were turned on by her. The ick factor in that was too extreme to overcome.

  But she’d thought Rick…Hell, she didn’t know Rick. And he was Robbie’s brother, after all. His ick factor could well be much higher than she wanted to know.

  Face stripped clean of makeup, Julia watched silently as Amanda curled her hair. Finally, almost timidly, she said, “I thought you’d teach me something today.”

  “You want things to be different. We’re starting with making you look different. Your hair is too stuffy and your makeup’s too subtle.” Amanda smiled a bit wistfully. “There’s nothing subtle about this business.”

  Leaving the curled hair to cool, she turned her attention to makeup. Her skin tone was a few shades darker than Julia’s, but with some mixing of foundations, she matched it pretty closely. Judging by the faint smears on the towelette, Julia’s normal routine included foundation, blush and a single shade of eye shadow, all applied with a very light touch. Her eyes popped when she got a look at the products Amanda lined up, everything from corrector to eyeliner to glimmery powder.

  “A lot of new dancers take a drink or two before they go onstage,” she remarked as she worked. “It becomes a habit way too easily, so don’t even start. And take the time to find some good body makeup. If you do much floor or pole work, you’ll need it to cover the bruises. Buy your shoes now and get used to wearing them. You’re about my height, so four-inch heels are the minimum. Try the six-inch, and when you can handle them, consider the eight-inch. They make your legs and your butt look better and that will get you better tips.”

  “Eight-inch heels?” Julia squeaked. “I wear flats.”

  “Not to dance. You’ll have to invest in some clothes, too—thongs, bras, skirts, booty shorts. There’s a little shop here in town—” Amanda broke off when a giggle escaped Julia.

  “Booty shorts?” she echoed.

  “Micro shorts, hipsters. Just like you CPA types, we have our own lingo. For your first time out, I’d recommend a Brazilian thong. It gives more coverage in back than a regular thong. And you know you have to have a bikini wax.”

  “That’s one thing that’s not new,” Julia said with a grimace.

  Maybe she wasn’t as ill-suited to this adventure as she seemed. Once Amanda retired, she would give up bikinis forever, because she was damn sure giving up bikini waxes. She was getting rid of all her dance clothes and her arch-killing shoes—well, there was one pair of sweet crystal-encrusted four-and-a-half-inch stilettos that made her legs to die for. And maybe she’d keep the Tinkerbell skirt with its fluttery hem and the iridescent bra that matched. After all, she was giving up stripping, not looking sexy from time to time.

  She dusted a mocha-hued eyeshadow over Julia’s lids before picking up the gel eyeliner and a small brush. “If you want to dance professionally for any length of time, you’ll have to get in better shape. Jogging is great for stamina, and weight-training to define the muscles. Yoga, too. It gives you a longer, leaner look. And watch your diet. Low carbs, low fat, low calorie. The lower your body fat, the bigger your tips.”

  “Jeez, this sounds like training for some sort of athletic competition.”

  “It is,” Amanda agreed. More than most people realized. But dancers didn’t get the kind of respect athletes did—at least, not exotic dancers. To too many people, strippers were one step, if even that, above prostitutes. She’d never had sex for money, but her aunt Dana had still called her a whore when she’d thrown Amanda out of her house twelve years ago. Her mother had still talked about the shame she’d felt when Amanda had decided to make her temporary dance job permanent.

  Her hand trembled, smearing the black-brown mascara. She used a swab to clean away the streak, then concentrated on what she was doing. Those old hurts would never be gone. She could haul them out to reexamine tomorrow or next month. At the moment, though, she had a job to do.

  Taking money from Rick Calloway to make his girlfriend sexier for him.

  Just like her father and her mother before her, she was working for a Calloway. But this was different. Her parents had worked for the Calloways because they’d owned damn near everything in Copper Lake. They’d had no choice. In this venture, all the choices were Amanda’s. Her livelihood wasn’t at stake. All she had to say was no, and their association would end.

  When she finished with the makeup, she combed out Julia’s curls before letting her check the results in the mirror. Julia’s brown eyes widened as she turned her head from side to side. “Oh, my gosh. I look…”

  Her black hair shimmered in waves that softened her face, and the makeup played up her eyes and the great cheekbones beneath them. She looked prettier, more approachable, sexier.

  “Wow. This is worth whatever Rick’s paying you. I could stop right now—” Abruptly, she bit her lip, smudging the lip liner/lipstick/lip gloss Amanda had just applied. After a moment, she smiled and went on with less enthusiasm. “I’m just kidding. Of course I want to learn to dance. I really do.”

  Who was she trying to convince? Amanda?

  Or herself?

  Chapter 2

  R ick stood behind the bar, damp cloth in hand, toothpick between his teeth. He glanced at his watch. It was eight-thirty. Amanda had finished her first set fifteen minutes ago and was now seated at a stage-side table with some of her regulars. Four men, early fifties to sixties, varying shades of gray except for one bald guy, always dressed in suits and ties. They looked just like the businessmen that made up about half the clientele, but he knew from the records checks that their business was education. Baldy was the president of a small liberal arts college nearby, and the other three were deans. Tuesday nights were their regular budget committee meetings, or so they told their wives.

  Rick hadn’t talked to Amanda since he’d left her house that morning, but he’d spoken to Julia on the phone. She’d been pretty closed-mouthed about her first lesson, saying nothing besides it had gone well. Now she was in the process of moving into his apartment, halfway between Amanda’s house and the club. She didn’t like the idea, even though she would have her own room, but she damn sure didn’t want to give out her real address when she came to work here. If she came to work here.

  Amanda’s laughter separated from the background noise, drawing his attention her way. She was standing now, one hand on the back of baldy’s chair. Tonight the thong and bra were black-and-gold tiger stripes. Points of see-through black fabric fluttered over her middle and a length of shiny gold coiled around her upper left arm. The whole outfit was sexy, but just that bracelet wrapped around her bicep was enough to turn a man on.

  She patted baldy on the shoulder,
then headed toward the bar. Rick watched her, idly noting that the temperature seemed to be rising. Great for the girls in their skimpy costumes. In jeans and a T-shirt, he was liable to break out in a sweat.

  Amanda stopped at the end of the bar. “Three vodka Collins, one cosmopolitan and a bottled water.”

  He got the water first, sliding it across the bar to her. It was tempting to stand there and watch her drink it—twist off the plastic cap, lift the bottle to her mouth, take a drink so long and so cold that it raised goose bumps on her skin. Instead, he turned his attention to the drinks. His only qualification for this job when he’d started was that he’d drunk his share of liquor over the years. A crash course in bartending, along with a tattered copy of The Moron’s Guide to Mixology tucked under the bar, had gotten him through.

  “Those men are old enough to be your grandfather,” he remarked as he poured vodka into all four glasses.

  “Father, actually. I’m not that young.”

  She looked way too young to be working in a place like this.

  “Aren’t you ever tempted to tell them to go home to their wives?”

  She held the water bottle to her throat, close enough to feel the chill but not to touch her makeup. She had the makeup application down to an art—enough to look good under the stage lights, but not so much that it looked overdone offstage.

  “Their wives don’t miss them. The men have their budget committee meetings and the women have their garden club.”

  “Do they ever try to buy more than drinks?” None of his business, Rick silently acknowledged. Some dancers worked the prostitution angle; plenty didn’t. When the case was over, he would put everything he’d found out in his report and if anyone on the job chose to pursue it, fine.

  “Not these guys. Coming here is a little wild and risqué for them. Their lives are pretty tame.”

  Rick finished off the Collinses with club soda, then added triple sec, cranberry and lime juice to the cosmo. Not these guys, she’d said, which implied that others did. He wanted to ask which ones and whether they’d been successful. “How did it go with Julia?”