Strip. Delta Dupree
every way.
“Guess that settles it,” Galaxeé said. She searched through her purse, found her cell phone. “I’ll give him a call.”
“Hold your horses,” Rio ordered. “Richard Monroe isn’t a bad choice. He’s cute, he dances well and he’s black.”
“Shit, he’s also rangy. Women want to see muscle on our dancers. They want to fantasize about them as good lovers, not about crushing chicken bones or believing they’d squish him flatter than a damn pancake.”
“Okay, fine. David Chambers.”
“He’s gay, remember? A waste, but gay. He wears a Mickey Mouse watch and wiggles like Minnie. Totally uncool.”
Chambers was the best-looking dancer in the remaining group, a fine-looking African American who sported a decent body, but wasted manliness all the same when he paraded his feminine side. He’d risk having his delicate feelings injured if the crowd booed him offstage. And that would even hurt Rio’s feelings because Chambers was quietly sensitive.
“Quit trying to eliminate Bryce. He’s perfect in every way. Our clientele will love him.”
“We might lose clients over this.”
“Bet?” Galaxeé snapped one hand to her hip. “Buck says you lose. Put your money where your mouth is.” They never wagered more than a dollar.
Rio scratched at an imaginary itch near the corner of her mouth. Why was this niggling sensation tickling her skin, now of all times? Sullivan surpassed good. He had talent. Everything about him was steeped in excellence—like a high-quality Bordeaux worth hanging on to, saving the best for last.
“All right. You call. See if he can start tomorrow night. Call Dallas, too. Let him know his partner in crime will split dance routines.”
“He won’t be happy, but his bitchy little girlfriend will jump for joy.”
“Forget her. Shannon is just a silly, jealous heifer.”
Rising from her chair, Galaxeé said, “Actually, I think I saw her mug plastered on a telephone-pole poster that read: Lost dog. Breed: Slut.”
Rio closed her eyes at the poster’s image forming in her mind, her shoulders rocking.
“Answers to ‘Tramp.’ Last seen: In bed with any willing mongrel.”
Rio burst out laughing. “Stop.”
“Shannon ought to be happy Dallas made money here. Good money.”
The dancers earned more in tips than salary. Shannon hated seeing her man touched by other women, although Miss Fields had no qualms about caressing any other dancer. She worked her hands better than two washcloths when performers left the stage to give customers a closer look and better feel. Tips came in the form of G-string insertion. Every dancer accepted the codeand women paid to do the honors.
“What about the bet? Chic-ken?” Galaxeé asked. Flapping her arms, she squawked.
“The devil with you.” Rio laughed again. She swung her soft leather stool around, picked up her favorite gold pen, scribbled her signature on a service document and shoved it into the out-basket with an attached check.
When a loud gum pop filled the room, she murmured, “The bet is off.” And she flinched at the next explosion.
“He’d make a good birthday present for you this year. You could thank him for giving.”
Every year for the last thirty-five, they’d exchanged gifts on birthdays and Christmas. This year, they had included Killer Bods’ sixth-month anniversary.
She spun around again. “Giving what?”
“You a good fucking.” Galaxeé imitated a hyena’s laughter better than the natural-born creatures.
Rio didn’t crack a smile. “Girl, you need to tame your tongue.”
“Why? Randy likes me to talk dirty without cussing.”
“I’m not Randy. And you cussed.”
“Well, it makes him horny. Makes me horny making him horny.” Biting her lip, she looked down at her diamond-faced wristwatch. “I’m taking an hour. Got to find my old man. For some reason, I feel a juicy climax coming on. And Randy—”
“Too much information,” Rio admonished. The woman was as horny as a bitch in heat and open as a busted fire hydrant. “Criminy.”
“Sorry. Forgot you’ve been doing without.” The cheesy grin on her face said it all. “Be back shortly. I’ll tell you all about it later.”
Rio tsked, tossing the pen onto the secondhand drafting table she used for a desk. She needed earplugs.
No, what she needed was a good man to hold her, a gentle companion to ease the aching deep inside her body, a special guy who looked for the same contentment as she—simple companionship.
Fantasy.
All the decent men in this world were married, dead or gay and most of them were far from Thoroughbred stallions. She held up one hand. Were there even five decent ones in the vicinity?
Doubtful. She went back to her daily duties.
An hour and a half later, Galaxeé hung her new red fox-fur jacket on the coat rack. She flopped down on her desk chair. “I called Bryce.”
“And?” Rio asked.
“The man is excited, but he tried to conceal it. Vibes, you see. He’s got a powerful energy that travels through the phone lines, even in this raggedy weather.” She crossed her legs, tapped the toe of her high-heeled, tan-colored boot against the metal file cabinet. “It’s gotten cold, perfect for your birthday.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She kept her gaze glued to the document she held, bracing for Galaxeé’s unveiling. Lord. What in the world was filtering through her mind at this particular moment?
“It does fall on Thanksgiving this year. Got any plans? Randy and I decided to go to an island and soak up some heat. Fiji, Caymans, maybe some place called the Seychelles that he wants us to visit. I still have a bunch of air miles to burn. You’re welcome to—”
“And do what?” Rio glanced over her shoulder. “Fry in the sun while you and Randy engage in orgies? No, thank you very much.”
“You can’t sit around by yourself on your birthday. That’s illegal.”
“In whose eyes?”
Fat grins always grew wider. “Mine, Venus’ and God’s. Remember, I worked up your chart. Turmoil in your future calls for companionship.”
Rio snorted inelegantly. This woman always came up with the most absurd revelations. “Nothing can happen if I’m completely alone at the cabin. No turmoil, no havoc.”
She’d purchased the remote bungalow for when she needed time away to tame the funky emotions invading her well-being. Hormones, she’d told herself. The way she’d been feeling lately, an extended leave of absence had moved high on her list. Alone, secluded, a good distance away from Denver’s fast pace.
“What if a bear breaks in? You won’t have anybody to protect you.”
“I don’t need protection, and no one’s spotted a bear up there in years. Besides, bears hibernate during winter. I don’t plan to be outside, either, romping around like a snow bunny in my new snowsuit. It’s too cute to get wet. I don’t ski, sled, or build snowmen. If a blizzard socks me in, bring it on. I’ll have a couple books to read, a roaring fire, soulful music and plenty of food. Best of all, excellent wine.”
A robust French Bordeaux and any top-of-the-line cabernet were favored. At the loft, the petite wine cooler was filled to near capacity for intimate gatherings. Those, however, were house parties with friends.
Lifting