Forbidden Stranger. Marilyn Pappano
shoes was burn them.
But she’d caught Rick’s eye.
She was standing in the living room doorway, her gaze returning repeatedly to the stripper pole in the dining room, looking as if she’d like nothing more than to run in those sturdy, plain shoes back to her sturdy, plain car and her sturdy, plain world. But she hadn’t fled yet, so Amanda chose to act as if she wouldn’t.
“Would you like a glass of tea before we start?”
“I’d rather have scotch,” Julia muttered.
“Sorry. I don’t drink.”
Julia smiled unsteadily. “Tea is fine.”
“We can sit on the porch if you’d like. I think it’s cool enough to be comfortable.”
With a nod, Julia went outside. Nosing the screen door open, Dancer followed her while Amanda went to the kitchen for the tea. She carried the two glasses outside a moment later, finding Julia in one of the wicker chairs, Dancer in another. She handed one glass of tea to the woman, then took the third chair.
“Rick says you’re interested in making a career change. What do you do now?”
“I’m a bookkeeper.” Julia’s nose wrinkled. “Big switch, huh?”
“Not really.” Amanda was a stripper about to become a college-level English instructor. That was a big change. “Have you ever danced?”
“I took ballet when I was a kid.”
“Really.” Amanda never would have guessed it, except that she did have perfect posture. But no grace, no elegance, no comfort with her body.
Her noncommittal response didn’t fool Julia. “I know. You’d never know it to look at me, would you?” She ran one fingernail along the rounded neckline of her dress as if it choked. “I’m a little uptight.”
Amanda smiled gently. “I think when it comes to keeping books, being uptight is probably a good thing.”
“Probably, but it doesn’t do much for a woman.”
Didn’t do much for Rick? Was that what she meant?
Gazing at the periwinkles that bordered the porch, Amanda asked, “What made you decide to try this?” If she was forcing herself to act so totally out of character for anyone besides herself, it wasn’t going to work. Like losing weight or getting in shape, stripping was something a woman had to want for herself.
“Oh, I don’t know. I think every woman must wonder what it would be like.” Julia shrugged uncomfortably. “Wearing sexy clothes, doing sexy dances, having men look at you, want you, pay to be with you. Men have probably always looked at you like that, but not me. I just want to know how it feels.”
How it felt was unremarkable. Just as balancing spreadsheets was part of Julia’s day, it was part of the job.
Oh, not in the beginning. There had been a real sense of power in those early days. Men who had never laid eyes on her before were willing to pay money just to have her sit at their tables and talk to them—willing to pay a lot of money for private dances. They hadn’t known or cared that she’d grown up on the wrong side of town, that she’d gone through a wild-child phase in high school, that the boys back home had called her Randy Mandy. All they’d cared about was those few minutes when her attention was all theirs.
“But you have a boyfriend that most of the girls at the club would give a month’s worth of tips to have for just one night,” Amanda pointed out.
For a moment, Julia looked puzzled, then she gave a shake of her head as if clearing it. “You mean Rick. Yeah, he’s a nice guy.”
Funny. “Nice” didn’t come to mind first, second or even third when Amanda thought of Rick—or any other Calloway, for that matter. Handsome, sexy, privileged, snobbish, bastard—at least, when it came to Robbie.
“Did he ask you to do this?”
Pink tinged Julia’s cheeks. No doubt, she hated to blush, but there were men at the club who would pay extra just to see it. Innocence fascinated them, especially when they saw so little of it onstage. “No,” she denied unconvincingly. “I want to give it a shot. See if it will help me loosen up.” She took a deep breath, then her pretty brown gaze met Amanda’s. “I’ve been rigid and stuffy all my life. Just once I’d like to be something else.”
Amanda understood wanting to be something else. She’d felt the yearning, the need, the dissatisfaction. “All right. Let’s go inside and start turning you into something else.”
Julia was slow to rise from the chair. As she did, Dancer jumped to the floor, too, trotted over and walked through the open screen door, stopped at the water dish, then curled onto the one-armed chaise that served as Amanda’s sofa.
“I like your house,” Julia said as she followed Amanda down the hall and into the bedroom.
“Thank you. I did it—am doing it—myself.” She pointed to the chair in front of her dressing table, then slapped down a packet of makeup remover towelettes. “Take off your makeup.”
The dressing table was really an old rolltop desk, with a lighted makeup mirror in the center and everything a woman needed to make herself look good tucked into the drawers and cubbies. Amanda plugged in the curling iron, used in the occasional futile attempt to tame her own curls, then began removing the pins that held Julia’s hair in its unforgiving chignon.
“You realize your age will work against you,” she commented as she combed out the fine silken strands. “Twenty-nine, thirty—that’s pretty much the cutoff for dancers. It’s a hard job.”
“I know. I’m not giving up my day job. I’d just like to do it for a while.”
“And Rick’s okay with that.”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t he be? Your boyfriends don’t mind, do they?”
Amanda combed out a section of silky black hair, then rolled it onto the curling iron. “They usually didn’t mind in the beginning. Sooner or later, though, they got jealous.” Or, worse, they got turned on—not by her, her dancing, her body, but by the fact that other men were turned on by her. The ick factor in that was too extreme to overcome.
But she’d thought Rick… Hell, she didn’t know Rick. And he was Robbie’s brother, after all. His ick factor could well be much higher than she wanted to know.
Face stripped clean of makeup, Julia watched silently as Amanda curled her hair. Finally, almost timidly, she said, “I thought you’d teach me something today.”
“You want things to be different. We’re starting with making you look different. Your hair is too stuffy and your makeup’s too subtle.” Amanda smiled a bit wistfully. “There’s nothing subtle about this business.”
Leaving the curled hair to cool, she turned her attention to makeup. Her skin tone was a few shades darker than Julia’s, but with some mixing of foundations, she matched it pretty closely. Judging by the faint smears on the towelette, Julia’s normal routine included foundation, blush and a single shade of eye shadow, all applied with a very light touch. Her eyes popped when she got a look at the products Amanda lined up, everything from corrector to eyeliner to glimmery powder.
“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,