Forbidden Stranger. Marilyn Pappano
placing their orders with the waiter, Amanda and Julia chatted about pretty much nothing until the food came. Halfway through the meal, Julia put her fork down, pushed her plate away and fixed her gaze on Amanda. “Would it be okay if I come by the club some night and just watch?”
The memory of Rick “watching” the night before streaked through Amanda, leaving heat and edginess behind. It made her throat tighten, made her hand tremble when she picked up her glass for a sip. “That’s what we’re there for,” she replied with a smile she couldn’t hold for more than a moment.
“I think maybe I could learn something. Could I meet some of the other dancers, too?”
“Sure. Anytime you want.” Preferably on Rick’s night off, though he’d be likely to accompany her. He’d said he wanted to keep an eye on her, hadn’t he?
Amanda’s father was the first and last man to care about keeping her safe. He’d lost the physical ability to protect her when she was six, but emotionally, he’d been there for her until the day he died. She missed that. Missed having someone who would worry if she didn’t come home. Missed having someone to share things with.
She missed having a man in her life.
“Are you friends with all of them?” Julia asked, then smiled deprecatingly. “I know I’m probably totally naive, but I imagine it’s like some kind of sisterhood. You know, exotic dancers united against the rest of the world.”
Amanda glanced at Rick, leaned back, one arm resting on the seat cushion at Julia’s back, apparently content to listen to the conversation without contributing, then she shrugged. “I’m friendly with all of them, but not necessarily friends. It’s like any group of women who work together. Some are nice. Some aren’t. Some are competitive. Some are jealous. The younger girls are looking for friends or mentors—or mothers,” she added drily, thinking of the eighteen-and nineteen-year-old kids she’d helped along. Even when she was nineteen, she’d felt years older.
“How old do you have to be to dance?”
“Eighteen most places.”
“How old were you?”
She finished the last of her tea and folded her hands in her lap. “Eighteen.”
Julia shook her head. “Wow. I was finishing high school and starting college then. And you—” she elbowed Rick “—were probably raising hell back home at eighteen and making everyone grateful you were leaving for college, too.”
“Hey, there were plenty of people who were sorry to see me go,” he protested.
“Let me guess. All of them female and under the age of twenty.”
“Twenty-two.” His gaze narrowed, as if he were thinking hard, then relaxed again. “No, twenty-four.”
Julia laughed. Mention of girls in his past didn’t seem to faze her at all. She must trust him a lot, Amanda thought, and envied her that. Most of the men in her past had been trustworthy only about as far as she could have thrown them.
“How did you get into dancing?” Julia asked, including Amanda in the conversation again.
“I had a friend who danced. She badgered me into auditioning and…” She shrugged as if to say, Here I am. And it was basically true. Just the shortened version. She had intended the dancing to be a temporary thing, just something that was fun and would give her a little extra cash to make life easy for once. Financially, life had gotten easier, practically from the first day. Emotionally, it had taken a nosedive. Her mother and her aunt had both objected strenuously—first to the dancing, then to her. They’d wheedled, coaxed, demanded, judged and damned, and her relationship with them had never recovered.
The waiter began clearing dishes from the table. “Would you like some dessert? Fried ice cream, flan, sopaipillas?”
“Sopaipillas,” Rick said. “With three spoons.”
Amanda’s mouth watered, though she was experienced at resisting temptation. She took a sidelong look at Rick and reminded herself: very
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