She loosened the chain around her waist, letting its length trickle between her fingers into a small mound at the base of the pole.
The hook that secured her dress was next to go. With a shimmy, the gold lamé puddled at her feet, leaving her in a strapless black bra and thong. The act brought the usual reaction, still muted in her music-dazed brain…then her muscles went taut. A shiver rippled along her skin, making her feel exposed, and heat followed in its wake.
Opening her eyes, she searched for the gaze that could create such awareness, knowing that it was Rick’s. He stood off to the side, leaning against the jamb, arms crossed over his chest. He looked formidable enough to be a bouncer and drop-dead sexy enough to be any woman’s fantasy.
And he was watching her with enough intensity to make her feel like his fantasy.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marilyn Pappano brings impeccable credentials to her career – a lifelong habit of gazing out windows, not paying attention in class, daydreaming and spinning tales for her own entertainment. The sale of her first book brought great relief to her family, proving that she wasn’t crazy but was, instead, creative. Since then, she’s sold more than forty books to various publishers and has even sold her work to a film production company.
She writes in an office nestled among the oaks that surround her home. In winter she stays inside with her husband and their four dogs, and in summer she spends her free time mowing the yard, which never stops growing, and daydreams about grass that never gets taller than two inches. You can write to her at PO Box 643, Sapulpa, OK 74067-0643, USA.
Dear Reader,
In the past few years, exotic dancing has become a whole lot more respectable. Women dance to stay in shape and to keep their marriages spicy; stripper poles are turning up in the homes of everyday people; classes are offered at gyms and as part of vacation packages – and wasn’t that Oprah hosting a quick intro to stripping on her show?
So when I was working on the idea for this book, I wasn’t surprised to find out that Amanda was a stripper. It wasn’t something I chose for her; it was just part of who she was. I’d already set up Rick, an undercover agent for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, as a bartender in a strip club. Since he would be working a lot in the book, wouldn’t it be easier for his heroine to be someone he works with? And who better for a law-enforcing, badge-carrying investigator to fall in love with?
Love should never go too smoothly, now should it?
Marilyn Pappano
Forbidden Stranger
Marilyn Pappano
Chapter 1
At 1:55 a.m., Amanda Nelson finished her last dance. After stopping in the dressing room to pull jeans and a T-shirt over her hot pink bra and Brazilian thong and to replace six-inch heels with flip-flops, she was out the back door by 2:01, keys in hand, way past ready to go home.
There were still customers in the club, finishing one last drink, some of them trying to buy companionship for the rest of the night from the girls willing to be bought. Those who weren’t willing were still in the dressing room, unwinding, taking off stage makeup, making plans to go out and party. Amanda was the only one in the shadowy parking lot behind the club. That fact creeped her out and made her walk a little faster, clench the keys a little tighter. She had strong lungs and stronger legs, as well as a container of pepper spray in her purse, but she didn’t want to be forced into a test of her ability to defend herself.
She was only a few yards from her car when a shadow separated from the darkness and moved toward her. Her heart jumped and her throat tightened in the instant before she recognized him.
Rick Calloway, part-time bartender, full-time hunk. He’d been at Almost Heaven only a few weeks, and that was all the girls knew about him. Well, that, plus the fact that he was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome.
But Amanda wasn’t just one of the girls. She knew Rick was six years older than her, that he came from the small Georgia town of Copper Lake, that the crook in his nose was the result of a high-school brawl, that he had two brothers, Robbie and Russ. She also knew that he hadn’t recognized her or her name, and for that she was grateful. Growing up in Copper Lake was an experience she preferred to leave in the past.
“Hey, Amanda. Sorry if I startled you.”
“You didn’t,” she lied. She used the remote to unlock her car, the headlights automatically flashing, illuminating him for a few seconds. He wore jeans, faded and snug, and an emerald-green polo shirt, also snug. His dark hair curled over his collar, and his olive-toned skin was stubbled with beard along his jaw. His eyes were surprisingly blue, like Robbie’s, and his voice sounded enough like Robbie’s had fifteen years ago that she would need more than a few words to tell them apart.
In his two weeks at the club, he hadn’t spoken to her more than a few times, and then only to steer her toward a customer who was dropping big bucks. She’d spoken to him only to thank him with a share of her tip. She never got cozy with the guys at work, neither the managers nor the employees nor the customers. She particularly didn’t want to get cozy with Robbie Calloway’s brother.
After tossing her gym bag into the backseat, she turned to face him. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yeah.” He shifted awkwardly. In all the times she’d seen him, awkward hadn’t been his style. “I have a friend who, uh, wants to learn to dance. I was wondering if—” he shrugged “—if you’d teach her.”
Amanda had always been a dancer. Her earliest memories were of twirling around the living room, alone or in her father’s arms, while her mother watched with an indulgent smile. Then the accident had happened and her father never twirled her nor her mother indulged her again.
She’d never had a lesson. She didn’t bother with routines, didn’t care about choreography. Moving to music came naturally to her. What little training she’d gotten had been on the job: watching the other dancers at that first club, getting a feel for what the customers liked and making it her own.
“There are classes she can take,” she said at last.
“She’s a little shy.”
“She can buy a videotape.”
“She does better with hands-on instruction.”
“Does she want to do this as a job or just for you?”
With the only light coming from the nearest streetlamp, it was impossible to say for sure, but his cheeks seemed darker. His voice was definitely a shade hoarser. “Uh, both, I think.”
Stripping could certainly bring a shy woman out of her shell. Not that Amanda knew from experience. She’d never had a shy bone in her body, her father used to say. She’d
