“I wouldn’t have pegged Tasha for a junkie.”
“No, me, neither. I suspect her better offer had to do with a man. She may come back someday or she might live happily-ever-after in Buckhead.”
The image of Tasha living in one of Atlanta’s better neighborhoods didn’t amuse Rick. He also suspected her disappearance had to do with a man—Rosey. Unlike Amanda, though, he doubted she would ever be seen again.
“Does it happen often?” he asked, and Amanda raised her brows in response. “The better offer. Legitimate ones.”
“Sometimes. I know a number of dancers who have retired and are married, raising kids, driving a minivan and going to church on Sunday.”
“Their husbands know and don’t care?”
“Some. The others don’t know and hopefully never will.”
“Would you lie about it?”
“Not to the man I was going to marry.”
“But you would lie to others?”
She shrugged and one curl slipped loose from the mass on her head. It swung, brushing her cheek, before she pushed it behind her ear. “Stripping doesn’t make me any less qualified to teach English lit. It doesn’t make me any more likely to lead the students astray. It doesn’t mean I’ll advocate any particular lifestyle or career path. But it’s highly doubtful that any school other than Middleton would have hired me knowing how I spent the last twelve years. If Middleton hadn’t offered me a job, would I have lied about my background to get a teaching job someplace else? Probably. Yeah, I would have.”
At least she was honest about her dishonesty. He appreciated that. Still, he pointed out, “That’s not fair.”
“Haven’t you learned? Life isn’t fair.” She glanced at her watch, then reached for the ticket the waiter had brought with dessert.
Rick grabbed it first. “I’ll pay.”
“No, thanks. You didn’t invite me—”
“But I enjoyed it.”
She held his gaze, her hazel eyes narrowed, her lips flattened. Then, less than graciously, she said, “Thanks. I’ll take care of the tip.”
She left a generous tip on the table, stood and started toward the door. He followed, his gaze on the sway of her hips. Her jeans fit like a second skin, topping out two inches below her waist; the wide lace hem of her shirt stopped an inch or two above that. The skin revealed there was pale gold, enticing. If he walked beside her, he could put his hand in the small of her back, could let his fingers graze across that skin and see if it was as soft as it looked. It would be warm and his touch there would send a shiver through her. Just a touch would make him hot and hard and—
Realizing she’d stopped moving, he did, as well, just in time to avoid plowing over her. They’d reached the cash register next to the door and he hadn’t even noticed. Stepping past her, he gave the check and three twenties to the cashier, pocketed his change, then opened the door for Amanda.
Outside, she faced him. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Consider it a trade.”
A breeze blew that curl against her cheek again and she absently brushed it away again. “For what?”
“I need a ride home. Julia and I came together. I’m without a car.”
She looked as if she wanted to refuse, but gestured toward her car instead. It was a lot like Julia’s car—not bad if transportation was all you wanted. It wouldn’t win any races or any points for appearance, but it was clean, comfortable and the engine turned over on the first try.
“What do you usually do on your nights off?” he asked, settling into the seat.
She looked both ways before pulling out of the parking lot in the direction he indicated. “Read. Watch TV. Work on my house.”
Rosey had said something about working on her bedroom the night before, and the idea that he’d known anything about her bedroom had surprised—annoyed?—Rick. It hadn’t occurred to him when he’d chosen to approach her regarding Julia that she might be friends with the boss. Even with Julia’s rational explanation, Rick still found it creepy.
“Your house looks fine,” he said. “What is there to do?”
Signaling, she checked the rearview mirror, then looked over her shoulder before changing lanes. Then she smiled. “You haven’t seen my bedroom.”
Simple smile, innocent words, and they had the effect of a punch in the gut. He would like to see her bedroom. Would like to see her in it. Not wearing her stripper clothes, but her this-is-who-I-am stuff. Tight jeans, lace tops, T-shirts, everyday lingerie. Nothing at all.
But he was undercover. Worse, he was undercover as Julia’s live-in boyfriend. Worse yet, Amanda was a subject in an investigation. Depending on what was between her and Rosey, she could even wind up being one of the targets of the investigation. There was no way he could risk getting involved with her.
But there was nothing wrong with tempting himself a little, was there? He was strong. When it was time to make a decision, he always made the right one.
“What’s wrong with your bedroom?” he asked, indicating that she should turn right at the next intersection. Again with the turn signal, the mirror checks and over-the-shoulder looks. She was a cautious driver.
Who worked as a stripper.
For Rosey Hines.
“My house was built in 1934. All the mechanical stuff was updated over the years, but it still had the original paint and wallpaper when I moved in. I’ve redone every room except the bedroom, and I’m working on it now.”
“So you’re good with your hands.” His gaze automatically shifted to her hands, loosely gripping the steering wheel at ten and two, just as he’d been taught years ago in driver’s ed. They were small, capable, her fingers long and slender, her nails painted some dark shade that was probably called crimson or scarlet but was really just red. She wore rings on four fingers; the shadow of a fading bruise darkened one knuckle. “And you’re coveting some fancy wallpaper.”
She stopped at a red light and gave him a steady look. “My house is to me what your car is to you.”
That was putting it in terms he understood. She could have bought a newer house, that needed less work, that was a cookie-cutter copy of a million other houses out there, just as he could have bought the latest-model car. But where was the fun in that?
“Those are the apartments,” he said, gesturing to the complex ahead on the right. “Turn in this entrance and go all the way around to the back.” Then he added, “I’m flattered you noticed the car.”
Her cheeks turned pink, but he went on. “She’s supposed to attract notice. That’s part of what I’ve spent so much time and money on.”
“She?”
He grinned. “I think all sleek, powerful, beautiful things are female.” Including her. Sleek? Oh, yeah, when she moved on the stage like a predatory jungle cat, sinuous and fluid. Powerful? She turned intelligent men into tongue-tied idiots. And beautiful…oh, hell, yeah.
She slowed to the posted speed of ten miles per hour, a rarity in this parking lot. For once he was glad it was a sprawling complex and that his apartment was at the rear, where it overlooked the parking lot and Dumpster alley.
“Do you come by your remodeling skills naturally?”
She scoffed. “I wish. Trial and error, with a huge debt of thanks to the home improvement center. I’m on a first-name basis with all the guys down there. I started out of ignorance. I had no clue what I was in for. Then, when I found out, it became a challenge to finish. Now I’m pretty good at it. If I hadn’t gotten the teaching job at Middleton, I could have gone into business painting, plastering and tiling.”
“You could’ve given new meaning to ‘stripping paint.’”
She smiled again, that simple sucker-punch smile, as she pulled into the parking space next to his car. She shifted into Reverse, making clear she wasn’t staying long, then gazed at the building, where lights shone in every apartment. “I hope Julia’s feeling better.”
He looked, too. His living room lights were on, but his bedroom was dark, and
her room was out of sight on the other side of the apartment. “I’m sure she is.”
“How long have you two been together?”
He stuck to the truth. “Three years, give or take.” That was when they’d both transferred onto the Organized Crime squad and had worked their first case together. Besides being the truth, more or less, that amount of time would explain why they weren’t overly affectionate in public. A lot of months together, a lot of time to get over the initial lust and start taking each other for granted. Time enough for their sex life to need a little spicing up.
“After three years together, you should marry her.”
His laughter was spontaneous, as much shock as humor. He could see himself married someday, but to Julia? She was his partner, a friend of sorts, as comfortable to be around as one of his female cousins or his mother. While there were men who found her just their type, he wasn’t one of them, and he had no doubt she felt the same about him.
“How long have you been alone?” he countered.
Amanda shrugged delicately.
“You should find a man.” The thought created a small knot of distaste in his gut. He opened the car door, the overhead light throwing both light and shadows across her face, and climbed out, then bent so he could see her again. “Let’s make a deal. You worry about your love life and I’ll worry about mine.”
She shrugged again in agreement. “Thanks for dinner.”
“Thanks for the ride.” He pressed the button to lock the doors, closed the door, then stepped out of the way as she backed out of the space. A moment later the taillights of her car disappeared, ten miles per hour, around the next building, but he still stood there. Watched. Waited for his common sense to return. Wondered if it would come back in time to make this case easier.
Then movement upstairs caught his attention, and he saw Julia standing at the living room window, also watching and waiting.
Nah, the case couldn’t be too easy. Interesting cases never were. Amanda Nelson was just a complication, and he’d learned over the years how to handle complications. He would handle her.
Just not the way he’d like to.
It rained Thursday morning, not a downpour, but one of those steady showers that seemed to create themselves out of the ever-present humidity. No winds, no threat of lightning or thunder, just gray clouds and a nice steady shower that would be over in an hour, two at most.
Amanda liked running even in storms and she had a dozen regular routes to choose from. This morning she’d chosen the least used of them all. The trek led her through neighborhoods much like her own and around apartment complexes similar to Rick’s—big, sprawling, dreary. She had lived in a place just like that when she’d started dancing. For someone like Rick, whose biggest concerns were a bed to sleep in and someone to sleep there with him, it probably seemed fine, even though he could afford a better place on what Rosey paid and the tips the dancers all shared with him.
For Julia, though…she was too fastidious to want to live in such a place. But she did it for Rick, because she loved him. Logical? Yes. Even though she didn’t act like a woman in love. All through dinner the night before, they’d shared no little touches, no secret looks, no private smiles. They’d seemed like friends, and not of the intimate nature.
But Julia was uptight. Maybe she had rules for conducting relationships. Maybe they were politely friendly in public and they saved all that intimacy and passion for private. Maybe Rick had doted on her after dinner, had babied her and held her until she’d felt better. Maybe she’d already been feeling better and they’d jumped each other’s bones through the rest of the night.
She thought too much about Rick and Julia. Nothing had changed. Rick worked at the club. He was Julia’s boyfriend. He was Robbie’s brother. He was the wrong person to lust after in so many ways that it wasn’t funny.
She was nearing the midpoint of her run, the whole reason she’d mapped out this particular route. It was a small white duplex, surrounded by other small white duplexes. The porch on the left held two patio chairs and potted flowers on its porch; the other porch was bare. The yard on the left was neatly mowed and beds of flowers edged it all the way to the sidewalk. The right yard was overgrown and choked by clumps of dead grass. The porch on the left held chimes and a flag in autumn hues. The right held a faded sign that said No Solicitors.
Amanda slowed as she crossed the street, then walked along the sidewalk, switching off the music on her iPod when she stopped. She’d never been inside the duplex on the right. An invitation would mean the world to her, and it might come in the near future. Once she’d left Almost Heaven, once she was settled into the new job and could prove that she was respectable.
Which wouldn’t change the fact that for twelve years, her mother had been ashamed of her. What kind of relationship could they build out of that?
The sound of pounding footsteps caught her attention and she turned to watch a tall, lean figure approaching. He wore shorts and nothing else, a fact that thudded into her brain with each jarring step. Dark hair, slicked back from his face. Broad chest, dusted with hair. Muscular arms, long legs, thighs and calves knotted with muscle. A nice toasty brown all over that would have been enticingly sweaty if not for the rain. She was surprised he didn’t have a trail of female drivers following him just to enjoy the view.
She was more surprised to see him here, on her route. “You followed me,” she accused when Rick came close enough.
He carried his T-shirt in one hand, wrapped around a bottle of water. After taking a long drink, he looked her in the eye. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Consider yourself inspiration.”
Plenty of men—customers, joggers and others—had told her over the years that her legs and butt were her best features. They should be. She worked damn hard on them. “So you’re a bartender, on occasion you fill in for Chad at the door, you’re a curious guy and you’re a stalker.”
He grinned. “Aw, I’m not stalking. It’s the middle of the day. I called your name twice, but you didn’t hear or you just ignored me.” Reaching out, he tugged one of the ear buds for her iPod. “Don’t you know it’s dangerous to run with music in your ears? It blocks out other noises like traffic and real stalkers.”
“I keep the music low enough to hear a car horn or a siren.”
“Yeah, well, real stalkers don’t generally announce themselves with horns or sirens.”
She started walking again and he kept pace.
“Truth is, I usually run on Calhoun. Lot of traffic, distractions, pollution. I saw you turning onto a side street and I figured you’d have a better route worked out. So I followed you.”
Once they’d crossed the street again, she eased into a slow jog. “So I’m not the traffic/distractions/pollution sort.”
“Oh, you’re great at distractions. What’s with the house?”
She glanced over her shoulder just before the gentle curve of the street blocked the view. “It’s just a house. A turnaround point. From my house to there and back again is exactly four-point-three miles.”
“And you like to run four-point-three miles every day?”
“No. I usually run three miles.”
“So Thursday’s the exception, when you increase your distance by forty-some percent.”
She clamped her mouth shut, then changed the subject. “How is Julia?”
He looked ahead instead of at her. “Fine. She had a yoga DVD on when I left.”
“She’s taking up yoga?” Amanda was pleased. The slow, controlled movements would help Julia loosen up and become more comfortable with her body.
“Not exactly,” Rick replied. “It was on. She was watching it, not doing it. She’s pretty convinced her body wasn’t made to move that way.”
“Did you persuade her otherwise?”
“How the hell—”
Amanda caught his grimace, quickly wiped away as he stopped himself. How the hell would I know? Was that what he’d been about to
say? Having sex with her for three years should have given him a good idea of exactly what she was capable of.
Theirs was one very strange relationship. And it was none of Amanda’s business.
A block or so passed in silence before he spoke again. “That girl we were talking about last night—Tasha. Do you know any way to get in touch with her?”
“Isn’t she a bit young for you?”
He looked affronted, but said nothing in his defense.
A strange relationship indeed. She shook her head, her curls dripping rain water down her cheeks. “We weren’t close. She wasn’t interested in advice.”
“Was she close to any of the other girls?”
“Just one—DinaBeth.” She smiled faintly at the image of the redhead from Peach Orchard, Georgia. Her real name was Diana Elizabeth, but DinaBeth, she’d decided, made for a better stage name. She’d even dotted the i with a star, for the fame she was sure to find someday. Like too many dancers, she’d been cut out of her family’s lives, but after the initial hurt, her motto had been Screw ’em. She was better off without them, she’d insisted.
Sadly, it might have been truth rather than bravado.
“I haven’t seen a DinaBeth at the club,” Rick said.
“She quit a few weeks before Tasha.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She got a better offer, too.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
The muscles in Amanda’s calves were tight and her lungs were starting to protest. With a glance around, she determined she’d already put in her usual three miles. It wouldn’t hurt to walk the rest of the way. She slowed, removed the clip that held her hair, squeezed out the water, then fixed it more securely on top of her head.
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