Amanda.
“You can tell Baker you won’t do it.”
Now it was her turn to scowl. “I’ve never backed away from a challenge. I can’t afford to.”
Being a woman in a still predominantly male field probably did have its challenges. Rick wondered if that was the reason for the ugly shoes, the plain clothes, the severe hair. Was this her way of making her gender less of an issue, or was she stuffy and uptight by nature? He’d worked with her for three years, but didn’t know. Didn’t know much at all about her personal life. He’d asked. She’d just never answered.
“He can’t make you go undercover as a stripper.”
Julia shrugged. “It’s just part of the job. No big deal.” Then she slid her cell phone across the table. “Call her. Set up an appointment.”
Rick ignored her phone and pulled his out instead. Before leaving the club that morning, he’d put Amanda’s number in his phone book. She would think he’d gotten it from Harry, which suited him just fine. None of the girls needed to know that GBI had done background investigations on them all.
As the phone rang, he idly wondered if it was too early to call. She’d left the club two hours before him, but that didn’t mean she’d gone home and to bed. She could have stopped for something to eat, gone out with friends or had a date. Not his business if she had.
But she answered on the third ring and her voice was too cheerful and alert for her to have been sleeping. The simple sound of her hello conjured an image of her, not in the skimpy clothes he usually saw her in, but the way she’d looked that morning, in faded jeans and a T-shirt advertising Atlanta’s zoo. She’d looked so different. Still pretty, still sexy, just wholesome. Unjaded.
She’d repeated the hello before he prodded himself to answer. “Hey, this is Calloway. Did I wake you?”
“No, not at all.”
“I told Julia, my, uh, friend, that you’d agreed to teach her, and she wanted to know when you could start.”
Her voice hushed, Amanda spoke to someone in the background, and Rick wondered again if she’d had a date and if he’d slept over. What kind of man dated a stripper? Not that there was anything wrong with strippers in general. Most of them he’d met were nice women just trying to make their way. But what kind of man didn’t mind that his girlfriend took off her clothes for the gratification of strangers? Maybe Rick was old-fashioned, but he liked to believe that, when he was involved with a woman, he was the only one seeing her naked, or practically so.
“Sorry,” Amanda said into the phone. “My puppy was trying to eat my laundry. Um, is she available today?”
Today? Rick mouthed, and Julia mouthed back, Now? “How about now?” he asked.
“Sure, anytime. I’ll be here until six-thirty. My address is…”
Rick didn’t pay much attention. He’d already gotten that from her file, too. He was thinking about the fact that it was a puppy, not a boyfriend, who’d distracted her, and the fact that the knowledge was somehow satisfying when it shouldn’t mean a damn thing.
“Okay,” he said when she stopped talking. “I’ll tell her. Thanks.”
Julia waited until he’d flipped shut the phone. “Well?”
“Anytime before six-thirty. She’s working tonight.” Working. Dancing. Taking off her clothes. She was one of the few dancers at Almost Heaven who didn’t strip down to nothing but a thong or g-string. She always kept those teeny-tiny bras on, and the men didn’t mind, always tipping her generously.
But there wasn’t a man among them who didn’t wish she would dispose of the bra just once.
“Are you going with me?” Julia asked.
“Why?”
“Just to perform the introductions.” She was uncharacteristically nervous—her gaze not quite meeting his, her fingers pressing against the coffee cup hard enough to turn the tips white.
“Okay. Sure.” He wouldn’t mind seeing where Amanda lived. Seeing how she looked on a normal day when she was just being herself and not an exotic dancer whose job was to titillate.
Then he would go home and back to bed for a few hours’ more sleep.
Julia left enough money to cover the coffee, then slid out of the booth. Her shoulders were set, the line of her spine rigid. He couldn’t imagine her loosening up enough to mimic even one of Amanda’s fluidly sensual, graceful moves, but she might surprise him. As she’d said, she didn’t back away from a challenge.
He gave her the address in case they got separated, then climbed into his car. The engine growled to life, vibrating through the seat. The Calloway boys all had a thing for old engines with power. His 1969 Camaro was a couple years older than him, with a 454-cubic-inch small block V8 that put out 641 horsepower. It was fast.
With Julia following in her sedan—good price, good mileage, so-so performance, totally forgettable—he navigated through mile after mile of gas stations, fast-food restaurants and used-car lots before turning into Amanda’s neighborhood. The houses were older, probably built in the forties or fifties, most pretty well maintained. Hers stood out, sporting recent coats of orange and off-white paint that looked better than they should have. The grass was neatly mowed and the last of the summer flowers bloomed along the sidewalk and in beds that fronted the porch.
“It’s a homey place for a stripper,” Julia murmured when she got out of her car, parked at the curb behind his.
“You were expecting something a little more club-like? Or just a little more sinnerlike?” When she scowled at him, he grinned back. “Don’t be disappointed yet. She might have the inside all done up in red and black satin with mirrors, poles and chains.”
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
