the club circuit.
“I’d pay for your time, of course,” Rick said.
She smiled thinly. Money—the magic word. Every exotic dancer she knew was in it for the money. It was a job that always outdid minimum wage and, if a girl was lucky and stayed in good shape, sometimes paid extraordinarily well. The trick was to put some of the good money away to help out through the not-so-good times.
That was a lesson Amanda had learned early on. She’d paid for her car with her savings, bought a house and put herself through college. When her thirty-first birthday rolled around in six weeks, she would officially retire from the business. No more bikini waxes, diets, working nights and sleeping days. No worrying about her body mass index or jogging three miles daily in Atlanta’s muggy heat. No wearing clothes that wouldn’t adequately cover a toddler—
Rick cleared his throat and she refocused on the subject. Did she want to teach Rick Calloway’s girlfriend how to turn him on by taking off her clothes? Not particularly. Was she willing to take his money in exchange for a few hours of her free time? Why not? It wasn’t as if she would be spending time with him. He would remain just as clueless about her as he was now.
“Okay. Tell her to call me.” Climbing into her car, she started the engine, then backed out. When she drove away, he was still standing there in the parking lot, watching her car as it disappeared into the night.
It was a ten-minute drive to her neighborhood, where her house stood in counterpoint to all the white houses on the block. Its wood siding was the color of a pumpkin pie fresh from the oven, its trim the same hue as whipped cream. It was small, little more than thirteen hundred square feet, but came with a decent-sized yard and a big front porch. And it was hers. Until she’d bought it, she’d never really had a place that was hers.
She parked in the driveway, then climbed the steps to the porch. It was deep enough to provide a sheltered view of the frequent summer storms and held a swing, a pine rocker, three wicker chairs and matching tables. With the floral cushions and the potted flowers scattered around, it was the fussiest space in her house.
Like her, the house was a work in progress; unlike her, it would soon be finished. She’d done the labor herself—hauling out cheap carpet and pad, stripping the heart of pine floors, sanding and refinishing them. She’d hung Sheetrock, replaced molding, completely retiled the fireplace surround, the kitchen and the bathroom. The only room left to finish was her bedroom, which would be done about the time she retired from dancing and started her new life.
Her puppy greeted her with a sleepy one-eyed look before rising to her feet, stretching, then padding over for a scratch. Amanda obliged her for a moment, then opened the door so Dancer could trot out into the yard. In a minute or so, she was back, tail wagging lazily as she headed for her spot on the bed.
Stifling a yawn, Amanda wandered into her bedroom, still a ghastly “before” that would soon become a fresh “after.” Not that there was a rush. She hadn’t brought anyone home to see it in more months than she wanted to recall.
And that admission was certainly no reason for Rick Calloway’s image to pop into her mind. She’d had enough of the Calloways to last a lifetime. Her father had worked for Calloway Industries, as his father and grandfather had. They’d lived in houses and apartments owned by the Calloways, had shopped in Calloway stores in a town whose mayor was always a Calloway. Her own first job had been for the family, and her first broken heart had come at the hands of Robbie Calloway. When she’d left Copper Lake almost fifteen years ago, she’d thought she’d seen the last of them.
Then Rick Calloway had walked into the club. There was no mistaking that he was one of those Calloways. She may not have seen one in ages, but the family resemblance was strong. She’d held her breath for a time, hoping he wouldn’t recognize her before realizing her own conceit. He’d never noticed her when they lived in the same small town. He’d been older, she’d been poorer; he’d been special, she’d been nobody. How could he recognize someone he hadn’t known existed?
Giving in to a yawn, she kicked off her shoes and went into the bathroom, the tile cold beneath her feet. While the tub filled with hot water, she stripped off her clothes, removed her makeup and secured her hair to the top of her head before sliding into the tub. There was a time when she’d danced a six- or eight-hour shift, then gone out to party for another three hours. Not anymore. Stripping was a demanding job that took its toll on a body. A dancer had only so many good years and she was at the end of hers.
Her new career wouldn’t be nearly as strenuous. Walking across campus, carrying books, handing out stacks of papers… Eyes closed, she smiled, her satisfaction so intense that the water around her practically vibrated with it. Amanda Nelson, poor girl who would never amount to anything, high school dropout, stripper, was going back to college.
This time as a teacher.
For the first time in her life, she was going to be one hundred percent respectable.
If he were alive today, wouldn’t her father be proud?
Bleary-eyed after less than five hours’ sleep, Rick Calloway slid into the booth across from his sometimes-partner and removed his sunglasses. He winced at the bright light and put them on again, then took a swig of coffee. What it lacked in heat, it more than made up for in bitterness, but he didn’t bother doctoring it. He wouldn’t bother finishing it, either.
“You look like you had a tough night.” Julia Dautrieve’s voice was just like her—no-nonsense. Everything about her was function over style, from her black dress with matching jacket to her low-heeled shoes. She was smart as hell, handled a gun better than most of the men they worked with and was more capable than just about anyone he knew. He just couldn’t see her handling this new job.
“My night would have been fine if someone hadn’t dragged me out of bed at an ungodly hour for coffee,” he grumbled. The club closed at two, but by the time he got everyone out so he could clean and lock up, it was usually after three. This morning it had been four before he’d made it home, five before he’d showered and fallen asleep.
Thinking about Amanda Nelson.
He’d noticed her his first night on the job. Hell, he was alive, wasn’t he? Five foot six, slender as a reed but with some very nice curves, too. Long auburn hair that curled wildly, endless legs, pale golden skin. And she’d been showing a lot of skin that first night, wearing a tiny yellow bra that covered only the necessities and a breakaway skirt that was about the size of a paper towel.
It had been clear that night that she was a lot of guys’ fantasy come to life, but not his. She was part of the job and Harry had told him with a wink and a grin, “Look, but don’t touch.” That was official policy at all the clubs, though it was broken at all of them. He hadn’t yet met the bartender, bouncer or manager who hadn’t had a thing with one or more of the girls at their clubs.
Look, but don’t touch was his official policy. His bosses at the Georgia Bureau of Investigation would frown on him hooking up with a stripper while in the course of his investigation.
“Did you talk to her?”
Julia’s businesslike tone cut into his thoughts and made him scowl. “Yeah. She said okay.”
“Damn.” Julia’s voice held more emotion than usual—disappointment, irritation. “I was hoping…”
That Amanda would turn him down. That all the girls would tell him no, earning Julia a reprieve. Amanda had agreed for a price, though
