Private Dancer (Club Volare Book 12)

by Chloe Cox

  Private Dancer

  A Club Volare New Orleans Novel

  Chloe Cox

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  1

  Bette Liffey thought she knew pretty much everything a woman needed to know about being sexy. Which wasn’t exactly polite to say out loud, but Bette had danced in strip clubs long enough that she’d stopped caring about polite fictions when it came to certain topics. She would much rather deal with rude reality than a polite fiction, because at least the rude reality didn’t deny it when you caught it trying to pinch your ass. And she definitely disapproved of people pinching her ass. Plus, she’d been dancing ever since she’d left home, approximately one million years ago, so at this point she thought she’d pretty much seen it all.

  But as she sat in her car outside the swanky Garden District mansion known as Club Volare New Orleans, sweating between her breasts and wet—wet!—between her legs, one thing became crystal clear.

  Bette Liffey didn’t know a damn thing, starting with what the hell she was doing there.

  Ok, no. She knew. And the reason she was here, today, doing what she was about to do, was way too important for her to screw this up. So as she stared at herself in the rearview mirror of her fifteen-year-old mom van, slicking one more coat of her trademark sparkly pink gloss over her lips, she told herself that Club Volare, this bored-rich-guy kink club, was nothing more than the place where some guy named Spencer Cole called himself a Dom and did…the things Doms did.

  Which wouldn’t be a problem, except for all the other things that Spencer Cole got up to in his down time. Allegedly, anyway. At least according to Bob Faulkner, the world’s creepiest Court-appointed social worker.

  Bette sighed. It was a long story.

  Bob Faulkner, World’s Creepiest Public Servant, was basically in charge of deciding if Bette got to keep custody of her little sister, Lizzie. Lizzie had temporarily been placed in foster care because Bette’s ex-husband, Mark, had, as part of his general campaign to make her life hell, claimed that Bette wasn’t providing a safe environment for Lizzie. And now Bette needed to convince the court that she wasn’t actually some sort of drug-addled floozy, but instead was the type of big sister to help with homework and bake cookies. Which happened to be true, but the truth hadn’t helped her so far.

  The judge would go with Faulkner’s recommendation, so Faulkner was the man. And he was the reason Bette was here, on this ridiculous secret mission. While Faulkner clearly hadn’t been first in line when they’d been handing out hearts or consciences, he’d said this Spencer Cole guy was supposed to be some sort of dirty cop, which was probably worse. And Faulkner had made it clear that if she wanted even a chance of getting a good recommendation, she would need to do something for him: Bette was supposed to get incriminating information on Cole to help Faulkner with…something. Faulkner was vague on that part, which made Bette a little suspicious and a lot uncomfortable, but it wasn’t like she had a choice. She had to go through with it if she wanted Lizzie back.

  So why was her pulse pounding between her legs like a freaking drum?

  “Jesus, Bette, get it together.”

  She capped her lip gloss angrily and threw it at her overflowing makeup bag. And then she had to bend over and grab it off the floorboard before it got lost in the mess of kids’ meal boxes and cheap toys that she should’ve thrown away forever ago because, well, technically they were trash.

  But they were also a reminder, every time she got behind the wheel, that she was gunning for the most important thing she’d ever chased in her life. So she straightened up, grabbed her over-sized bag, kicked the door open, and got out of the van.

  Knees shaking—nerves? Need? Nerves, definitely nerves—she fished the highest heels known to man out of her bottomless bag and held on to the side mirror as she stepped into her shoes one at a time, eyeing the swanky, ivy-covered pillars that framed the big sweeping porch and wondering just how exactly she was going to pull this off. She’d fantasized – a lot – but she’d never once actually, you know, submitted. Or pretended to.

  Maybe it’ll be just like stripping.

  The first time she’d danced, she’d done it mostly numb. She’d been too scared of herself, of the world, of her future, to think about much of anything. But then it got easier, because, well, it had to. Bette had found a way. She’d started dancing for herself, alone up there in a spotlight, getting back in touch with her body for the things it could do, rather than just how it looked. And when it came to talking to customers, she soon figured out that most of them just wanted someone to listen to them. Bette could freaking relate.

  It almost got to be kind of fun, in a way, until everything went sideways with her ex-husband. But before Mark ruined everything, the stage was the only place where she felt totally confident. Powerful, even. In control.

  Wobbling unsteadily across the gravel drive—gravel! In heels!—all that queenly confidence deserted her. Worse: all her professional stripper detachment deserted her, too. But the fact that she was insanely turned on was just a minor complication. Bette Liffey could handle hundreds of horny guys without breaking a sweat. She sure as hell could handle herself.

  Probably.

  Her heart was pounding a mile a minute by the time she finally reached the entrance. Insane security cameras swiveled to follow her every move. She swallowed hard as she lifted her hand to knock, and jumped when the door swung open before she could even touch it.

  An intimidatingly beautiful blonde woman appeared in front of her, all soft eyes and welcoming smile, and instantly Bette felt a little silly. What had she expected, a mean fist reaching out to grab her by the hair and haul her into some dank dungeon?

  On the other hand, this woman looked like she’d never worried about money a day in her life. So that part checked out.

  “You’re new,” the blonde woman said, still smiling. “Hi! Sorry, I’m just excited for tonight. You’re here for the event, right?”

  Bette nodded as she took in the way the other woman was dressed. A curve-hugging but conservative dress covered her from neck to knee, concealing as much skin as Bette’s own clothes revealed. Suddenly uncertain, she asked, “This is Club Volare, right?”

  “The one and only NOLA location. Why don’t you come inside? It’s baking out here. We don’t want you melting into a puddle.”

  Oh my God, if you only knew.

  But Bette just nodded again. This was a lot friendlier than she’d imagined. It was disorienting. A moment later, the woman closed the door behind her and swept her toward a gleaming desk that looked brand new.

  “I’m Simone,” the woman said with another kind smile. “I’m working reception tonight, because special event and all that, but normally I do publicity for the club.”

  Publ
icity. That explained the moneyed look.

  Bette grinned. “Slumming it tonight, huh?” she said.

  Instant regret. Instant. Bette cringed, horrified. She’d really, for real, meant to just make friendly small talk, like make a joke that they could share so that maybe they could become friends, and…that was what had come out of her mouth instead. God, she forgot how socially awkward she was when she wasn’t working and she was just trying to be herself. This woman had been nothing but nice, and nerves had turned Bette into a jerk.

  “Oh Lord, I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I don’t know why I said that. I’m just…”

  “Nervous?” Simone smiled again, this time a little easier. “Yeah, this place has that effect on people. You should have seen me my first night here. But don’t worry. Tonight’s event will have a bunch of people who are new to Club Volare, so you won’t be alone. And we take care of our own here.”

  Slowly, Bette swallowed. Her target Spencer Cole, allegedly corrupt Dom and dirty cop, was one of their own. Bette was not.

  “Sounds good,” she said, finally. “Sounds great, actually.”

  And it did. If she were totally honest, Bette ached for the idea of a place where everyone looked out for each other. That was one fantasy she’d never outgrown. The fact that that place might be full of sexy, intimidating Doms was just the icing on the cake.

  Eyes on the prize, Liffey.

  “Let’s get you signed up, signed in, and sorted out with a guest pass for the night,” Simone was saying, “and then you can go on in and get your bearings.”

  “Thanks.”

  Smiling as though tongue-tied newbies were a familiar sight, Simone turned back to the reception desk to go do something efficient. Bette was hardly paying attention. She was too busy scoping out the details of the foyer, which had clearly been repurposed as some kind of check-in station. There was a discreet sign above one door that identified a coat-check room—not that coats were all that necessary in this freak heat wave, but she supposed people had to put something over their fetish gear between the time they left their homes and arrived at the club. And then there was another elegantly shaped doorway that led into what she could only assume was the heart of the place, the center of action where all the spanking and nipple clamping happened.

  At least judging by the sounds coming from behind it, anyway.

  “Miss?”

  It must be the second time Simone had called for her, because the patient blonde sounded downright gentle.

  “Sorry,” Bette said. “I totally forgot to introduce myself, didn’t I? I’m—”

  Bette stopped short. She had a fake ID in her bag. Part of the whole “go undercover at Club Volare to nail a dirty cop” plan. She hadn’t really thought a fake ID was necessary, but Faulkner had insisted. He’d even gotten it for her, which Bette had thought was a little weird. Now she was just hoping he’d kept her first name the same.

  “My name is Barbara,” she said. It was her legal first name, one she hadn’t heard out loud since she’d left home. It felt weird to say. “You need to see my ID?”

  “Yup,” Simone grinned back. “And then I’ll have you sign all the paperwork and house rules stuff. You actually have to read it, too. Like I have to watch you, and then I have to sign it, too.”

  Bette raised an eyebrow. “You guys don’t mess around.”

  “You have no idea what my fiancé would do to me if I didn’t make sure a prospective club member read the whole thing,” Simone said, grinning. Then she smiled again, shyly, to herself—like she was smiling about a secret Bette couldn’t know anything about.

  It was the most intriguingly suggestive thing Bette had ever seen. What would a Dom do to you for breaking a rule like that?

  “Maybe I’ll just tell him I didn’t make you read it anyway,” Simone said under her breath.

  Bette laughed suddenly, genuinely, and it was like half the tension in her shoulders evaporated. That she could understand. Evidently Simone did too—the blonde looked upward and shook her head while shivering slightly, and Bette knew exactly what she meant. Some guys just got under your skin, in the best way. Or at least Bette had heard it actually happened in real life. Simone apparently had one of those.

  Bette tried not to let the fact that she was handing over a fake ID spoil the moment. She hated lying.

  “Ok, I’ll just make a copy of this, and let me get you the packet…”

  “A copy?” Bette said.

  “Yeah, for insurance purposes, and also just for safety purposes,” Simone was saying. “You actually won’t have full access to the club until we can run a background check, but it won’t matter tonight, because everything will be in the public areas.”

  Background check? On a fake ID?

  Bette probably would have freaked out about that little detail—and damn creepy Bob Faulkner, did he know about this?—except she didn’t have time to freak out about background checks, because, right at that moment, he walked in.

  And, whoever he was, he demanded all of Bette’s freak-out attention.

  Tall, dark, and dangerously handsome didn’t really cover it. Whoever he was, he walked through the doors to the rest of the club like he owned the place. Not just the building, but everything. Everything he could see.

  And those glittering eyes were looking right at her.

  Bette could hardly breathe as he strode towards her. Later, she would try to figure out what it was about him that was so brain-shatteringly hypnotizing. It wasn’t just the solid, muscular mass of him, it wasn’t just the authority that clung to him like a tailored suit. It wasn’t just the rough, masculine bones of his face, the way his heavy features held gray-blue eyes that seemed to have x-ray powers. He just…somehow curved space around him. You couldn’t not look at him. Couldn’t not wait for him to speak. Like he was a force of freaking nature.

  Focus, Bette.

  The first Dom she saw, and she was practically a puddle. Great start.

  He walked right up to the desk like he had a right to be there, like he had the right to crowd her space. Then his eyes locked on hers, and holy mother of God, but it was like he saw her entire life story.

  “Can I help you?” she breathed.

  He said nothing.

  How had she actually formed a sentence? But something about him demanded…demanded something. She didn’t know what. She just knew that she instinctively wanted to give it to him.

  What the actual hell?

  He hadn’t answered her. He was still just staring down at her from his Hulk-like height, which put the top of her head at the same level as his pectorals, eye-to-eye with the pair of tight, hard points poking against a faded black t-shirt that looked so thin and well used, she wanted to rub her hand against it just to ground herself in something soft and comforting. The only thing that stopped her from doing just that was knowing that the man inside that shirt would be as hard as a rock, hot enough to burn, and she’d been burned enough to know it was time to back away.

  So she did just that. Took an uncertain step back. Only for him to match her one step with two strides, putting him so far into her space, a deep breath probably would’ve brought the tips of her breasts into contact with his muscled stomach. So it was a good thing she was incapable of more than fast, frantic sips of air. Or a bad thing. Better if her lungs stopped working altogether so she wouldn’t be overwhelmed by this scent rolling off of him, rich layers of spice and green things and rain. He smelled like photos of the mountains looked, and she swayed on her heels, feeling like she’d been drugged by the air around him.

  The mascara coating her eyelashes suddenly weighed four hundred pounds. That was the only explanation for why she found herself bowing her head, staring down at his large feet braced on either side of her smaller ones. The contrast between her patent-pleather pink heels and his scuffed black leather shoes was…Jesus.

  She blinked and swallowed some more, trying to wrap her mind around how physically powerful he was. And how frighteni
ngly, deliciously soft she felt, standing there in the eye of what she knew, just knew, had the potential to become a raging storm.

  Bette Liffey had never been more attracted to a man in her life.

  Then he opened his mouth and her insides buckled like a ruined old shack, run right over by the low, gravelly sound of his voice. The only thing that kept her upright was the single word he uttered:

  “Bullshit.”

  Her mouth fell open.

  “Excuse me?” she heard herself say.

  She forced herself to muster some semblance of outrage, even though inside she was basically screaming and running around like a crazy person. He wasn’t wrong, whoever he was. She was here under false pretenses. But he couldn’t know that, could he? How the hell could he possibly know that?

  “I said, ‘bullshit,’” he said again. “Don’t make me say it again. Tonight is a night for people new to the club, not new to BDSM. Go home.”

  For a second, time stopped.

  Bette was frozen, terrified by the idea that someone had seen through her. This man—this Dom—whoever he was, he couldn’t know all the details. But he’d looked at her, and he’d seen she was lying. He’d seen that she was an impostor.

  And possibly her biggest fear was that she was an impostor, through and through, totally unable to care for her sister, and undeserving of the right to try. And that someone, somewhere, would see it. In particular, that Bob Faulkner and the judge in charge of her case would see it.

  No. That was her old life. Her new life began tonight, and Bette Liffey would make good.