“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
Rick 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?”
“Fine. We went shopping.”
“I’m paying you to shop?”
The remark made her uneasy.