Dared: Scandalous Moves Series

by Staley, Deborah Grace

  Anne’s eyebrows went north. “You only order whiskey when serious shit is going down.”

  “I’m going to need it to tell you the rest.”

  “Bring her a double,” Anne called out to the bartender. To Di she said, “I knew there was more.”

  When Di had two sips of the whiskey sliding down her throat, warming her from the inside out, she said, “It was Van. He bought the dance. He made the business proposal. He wants me to choreograph a new show at the club.” She took another drink before continuing. “He wants me to teach his entertainers to dance without stripping.”

  Anne nodded and drank her wine.

  “Well?” Di prompted.

  “I’m waiting for the rest.”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  Anne gave Di the don’t bullshit me look that only a good friend can execute with maximum impact. “You expect me to believe you danced for him, he clapped, offered you a job, and you walked out? Just like that?” Di opened her mouth to speak, but Anne stopped her. “Before you respond, don’t think I didn’t notice that little post-orgasmic glow you’re wearing.”

  Di took another drink. “I’m not proud of that.”

  “Please. He’s hot in a very, very bad boy, dead sexy kind of way.”

  Di rotated her glass, staring at the brown liquid. “He’s not my type.”

  “You’d have to be dead for that man to not be your type. He’s any straight, red-blooded female’s type, and last time I checked, you met the criteria.”

  “I can’t be with someone who runs a strip club, Anne. Moral reservations aside, it could negatively affect my career.”

  “Now you’re just talking crazy. No one would give a rat’s ass about what your boyfriend does.”

  “Van’s not exactly low-profile, and neither am I.”

  “Still calling bullshit, but continue.”

  Di thought for a moment then finally said, “I got nothing.”

  “Do you have feelings for him?”

  “The attraction is off the charts. He does something to me—something I’ve never experienced with anyone else,” she admitted, then downed the rest of her whiskey.

  “Something worth exploring.”

  “I don’t know,” Di said and propped her chin in her hand.

  “It wasn’t a question, hon. Look, word on the street is Vanz is a class act. The dancers line up to work there because they’re treated well.”

  “It’s still a strip club. You know how I feel about those places.”

  “Sounds like he wants you to work there so he can show you his place is different.”

  “Is that even possible?”

  “Aren’t you the least bit curious to get in there and see what’s really going on? And if you get to spend more time with Mr. Hotness himself, that’s an added bonus.”

  “I told him I’d think about it.”

  “Fair enough. But before you tell him no, ask yourself if you’re going to regret not giving this a chance. Think about it, Di. If you’re being honest, you’d have to admit you’ve had a thing for this guy since you went out last year. Don’t you owe it to yourself to see where it goes?”

  Di pushed her empty glass aside and stood. “For me, experience has proven that’s a bad idea.”

  6

  Sunday evening, Di sat stretched out on her couch, knee elevated with an ice wrap on it, and had a good book and wine within arm’s reach. Weekends always did a number on her. Ten years ago, she’d done five performances like it was nothing. Thank God she had a few days to recover before she had to do it again. Nothing good music, wine, a juicy novel, and rest couldn’t fix.

  “Right,” she mumbled to herself. “Keep telling yourself that.” She sipped her favorite merlot and thought about her conversation with Anne. And Van’s offer. She set the wine aside and pulled her blanket closer. Daily contact with Van? Not an option. The man made her lose control and become stupid. No. She couldn’t go there.

  A knock at the door startled her. She checked her watch. 8:30 on a Sunday night? Probably Anne. She’d said something about dropping by if she didn’t get a better offer.

  Di got off the couch and hobbled to the door, feeling every one of her thirty-three years. She looked through the peephole and took a step back. Van . . . She turned in a circle and tweaked her knee. “Ow—shit.”

  “Di?” she heard him say through the door. “ You okay?”

  “What are you doing here?” She leaned back against the door and rubbed her knee.

  “I haven’t heard from you and wanted to talk.”

  When he didn’t continue, she opened the door a crack and propped her shoulder against the wall with her weight on her good leg. “You should have called.”

  “Would you have answered?”

  “Probably not.” God, he knew how to wear tight jeans worn in all the right spots, a dark t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. He looked like an ad for bad boys.

  He lifted a canvas shopping bag. “I brought food.”

  Di crossed her arms, trying not to weaken when he smiled. “I distinctly remember saying none of this kind of thing if I accept your offer.”

  “Have you decided to accept my offer, then?”

  “No.”

  “Then consider ‘this kind of thing’ me trying to persuade you.” He swung the bag on a finger. “There’s wine and chocolate in here.”

  And she’d have to let Van in her apartment to get to it.

  “What?” he said. “Afraid you can’t control yourself around me?”

  She was not taking the bait. Not. Taking. It. “I’m not proud of what happened Friday,” she admitted, trying straightforward honesty for a change.

  Van leaned against the opposite doorjamb. “Regrets are such a waste. Once a choice is made, own it. Trust your instincts. If it’s a bad decision, you can still learn from it, right?”

  “True enough.” Trusting her resolve to control herself, she opened the door wider and stood aside as he walked in. “Kitchen’s through there,” she said, and closed the door.

  Inside the kitchen, she took down a clean wine glass for herself and one for Van. “Plates or bowls?” she asked.

  “Plates,” he said as he pulled half a dozen small containers out of the bag. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I got a bunch of stuff: caprese salad, stuffed olives, stuffed grape leaves, hummus.”

  “Sounds good.” Di gathered plates, forks, and napkins and placed it all in front of the stools at her island. Van seated at her island she could handle. Maybe. Van on her sofa, she wasn’t so sure.

  “You’re limping.”

  “Normal Sunday night stuff,” Di said, downplaying the nagging injury.

  “Since when?”

  “Like most dancers, I have arthritis in my knees.” She sat and watched as Van uncorked the wine and poured.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine in a day or two.” She hoped.

  “In time to do it again next weekend?”

  Di lifted her glass in a mock toast. “The life of a dancer—icepacks and ibuprofen.” She took a drink of the rich red wine and added, “So glamorous.”

  “Why do I get the feeling you’re downplaying something more serious?”

  This little reading her mind thing could become really annoying. Di shrugged and popped an olive into her mouth. Tart, salty, and smooth, creamy cheese. Delicious.

  “What does your doctor say?” he persisted.

  “The olives are divine.” She tried a pita triangle with a bit of hummus next.

  Van shrugged out of his jacket and laid it on the corner of the island. He sipped his wine and watched her eat. Di smiled and pulled the cowl neck of her sweater up to her chin, self-conscious. No make-up, a messy bun, and yoga pants did not exactly add up to a fashionable look.

  “Can you take a few weeks off to rest?” He placed a thin slice of hard, white cheese on a cracker and held it to her mouth.

  Rather than bite into it, she too
k it from him. “You have a one-track mind.” Di bit into the cracker and cheese. The sharp taste contrasted with the salty cracker that melted on her tongue.

  “I don’t like imagining you in pain,” he said seriously.

  “All athletes deal with pain. It’s no different for dancers.”

  “Sounds like my timing is perfect. Van moved around the island and sat next to her. His warmth and scent were a full-frontal assault to her senses. He reached across her to get an olive and his arm brushed hers. “Take a few weeks off from the show and come work at the club.” He put the olive in his mouth and licked his finger then his thumb.

  “Principal dancers in Broadway shows don’t take time off.” Especially not aging ones. She watched as he piled food on his plate and hers. Absently, she rubbed her knee. Van reached down, cupped the back of her ankle, and pulled her leg across his lap. When he began kneading the muscles in her thigh above her knee, she opened her mouth to protest, but the words died on her tongue. The massage felt too good. Dear Lord, he had magic fingers. That thought led to what he’d done to her with those fingers last night.

  “I don’t think you’ll accept my terms,” she said, trying not to moan.

  He eased his hand around to the sensitive area behind her knee. “It’s done. You can have anything you want.”

  His obvious double-meaning set off more shimmers of awareness in her body. “You should hear what I have to say before you agree.”

  His wide-open smile dazzled her. “I can’t imagine denying you anything.”

  Oh, a man like Van should not say things like that to a susceptible woman who was on her third glass of wine and painkillers. And she was ridiculously susceptible to this man.

  “You’re not eating,” he said and held up a slice of melon. She simply could not resist. She leaned in and bit into the fruit. The sweet juice poured over her tongue. “Tell me your ideas,” he encouraged as he put the rest of the melon into his mouth. She couldn’t have imagined how intimate sharing a piece of fruit could be, but she found herself wanting to lean over and lick the moisture from the fruit off his lips.

  “A variety show with some burlesque.”

  “You mean like the movie?”

  “I mean like the style of dance. It’s been around as an art form really since Victorian times. In America, it died out during prohibition in the early Twentieth Century, but there’s been a revival in recent years.”

  She stopped to gauge his reaction. “Still listening,” he said.

  “I’d need to see the dancers’ work and interview them to learn their backgrounds and interests, but I think we could create a nice variety show people would love to come to again and again. Burlesque is a style of dance that’s not only fun and theatrical, but it’s a dance form where poised, confident women come away feeling strong and in control of the story they present to the audience. It’s all about the tease,” she said, warming to her subject.

  “But they still strip,” he pointed out.

  “Not in the manner you’re accustomed to seeing at the club. Think of it as a person stripping away all the artificial layers they present to the world to reveal a strong, confident person beneath.” She paused then added firmly, “A person who will not be completely naked.”

  “Sounds great.”

  She forged ahead, wanting him to know exactly how this would work. “The dancers wear theatrical costumes. Think 1940’s Hollywood glamor. The dancer peels off each layer of the costume until she’s left wearing a panty or thong and fun pasties, which would be revealed at the very end of the dance, just before the dancer struts off stage.”

  Van laughed. “Twirling tassels?”

  “Sometimes, if it fits the performance.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  Since she was on a roll, she said, “And there would be more than dancing. We’d have comedy, magic, and singers. We could add men to the act if you’re open.”

  “Whatever you think,” he said. “How long will it take to stage? I’ll need to get marketing on it.”

  “Depends. There’s a place in town called The School of Burlesque. I think having someone from there come in to work with the dancers would be best. Then we’d need to hire a musical director, work with a costume designer, and set the staging.”

  “We already have a music guy and stage manager. How long?”

  “I don’t know. There are so many variables. I’d need to see where the dancers stand and make calls about the rest. But you know, we could do seasonal shows,” she added, wanting to see how far he was willing to go with this. “A patriotic show between Memorial Day and the Fourth of July, something gothic for Halloween, and there’s so much we could do at Christmas. Live music to accompany the dancers would be great, too, but that could take longer.”

  “We could phase it in.” Van poured her another glass of wine. “When can you start?”

  “I don’t dance on Monday and Tuesday, so I could meet with the dancers and speak with the production company for my show to make sure they’re okay with me dividing my time between the show and the club.”

  “Meaning?”

  “If I cut back to three shows a week for a few weeks, I could get you moving in the right direction.”

  “I’d rather have you full-time.”

  Ignoring that, she added, “We’ll need to make sure the acts speak to your upscale clientele.”

  “I’m not concerned. I trust you.”

  “And you’ll have to agree to not pursuing a relationship with me until this is done,” she reminded him.

  Van turned to her. “For that,” his hand slid up the back of her thigh, “you’ll have to work to convince me.”

  “This point is non-negotiable,” she said, proud her voice sounded firm when his hand was so dangerously close to ground zero.

  He leaned in and nuzzled her ear. “Everything is negotiable.”

  “My deal.” She hitched in a breath when his tongue touched her earlobe. “My terms.”

  He rested his forehead on hers and continued to inch his hand further up her thigh. “I gave you everything you wanted,” he said in low, sensual tones. “I could give you so much more.”

  “Van . . .” She rested a hand on his chest to keep him at a distance, but felt her resolve crumbling despite her good intentions.

  “I’m only just beginning to learn what you really like.” Van opened his mouth on her throat. She tipped her head back and he worked the band out of her hair. “You like that,” he said, then took her hand and put it on his abs—under his shirt.

  He eased his hand up over the curve of her butt then down into the waistband of her yoga pants. “I can’t get last night out of my head. Once, quick and up against a wall, was hot, but not nearly enough.”

  Di felt her core clinch, but still somehow managed to find the strength to take her hand off his hard abs and lean away from him. She slid off the stool and moved around to the other side of the island. Wagging a finger between them, she said, “That—this can’t happen.”

  He followed, of course. She backed into the living room. Van tracked her with a look in his eyes that made her achy knees nearly collapse. “You’re not working for me yet,” he pointed out.

  “We’ve come to an agreement. A loose agreement, but an agreement.” She backed into the couch, and Van was there, his hands on either side of her hips, his long, hard body pressing into hers.

  “Beginning tomorrow. Tonight, we have all night. All night for me to do all the things I want to do to you.” He bumped her breasts with his chest. “One night where we do it my way, and then I won’t touch you again until you ask.”

  What was a girl to do when offered a night of ecstasy with the bad boy of her dreams?

  “If I say no?”

  He kissed her, a teasing touch designed to leave her wanting more. “Why would you say no?”

  Why indeed? She eased her hands up his chest. “Sure of yourself much?”

  “Sure that if you let me stay, your neighbors are going to k
now my name,” he promised. “But you have to ask me.” He lifted her onto the back of the couch and stepped between her legs. “Ask me, Di.”

  She moved her hands across his shoulders, up his neck, and into his soft, waving hair. “Let’s introduce you to the neighbors.”

  7

  Van pulled Di close and just held her. It was more than he could have hoped for—that she would partner with him to transform the club and give them a night together. He felt like he’d won the lottery.

  After scanning the room, he found a hallway he hoped led to her bedroom. He lifted her, snugged her legs around his hips, and moved in that direction. He’d like to make love to her in every room of her apartment so there’d be nowhere she could go without remembering them together, but he’d start with a long, thorough exploration of her body. In her bed.

  Inside the room, a bedside lamp provided soft light, but he focused on the bed. It had a padded headboard and was piled with lots of pillows and a fluffy white comforter. He could work with that. He set her on her feet and in quick, efficient moves, he pulled off her sweater, and God, she wasn’t wearing a bra. “Di, you’re so beautiful,” he said just before he removed his t-shirt, sending it to join her top on the floor.

  “I imagined you went for busty blondes.” She laughed, but he could tell she felt a little insecure.

  He looked into her soft gray eyes, serious when he framed her face. “Since I met you, no other woman has measured up. You’re perfect.” He kissed her, putting all the feeling and passion he could into it. When Di moaned and melted into him, he hoped she understood this wasn’t casual for him. Far from it.

  Van stepped back then pushed her dark yoga pants down over her hips. She wore a tiny pair of white lace panties that only enhanced the view. While he looked his fill, she unbuttoned his jeans and tugged the zipper down.

  “How’s your knee?” he asked.

  “Forgot all about it,” she said in a soft, seductive voice that fueled the fire already burning inside him.

  He took her hand and drew her to him. “I hear sex is good for the knees.”

  She had her hands in his pants now. “I suppose it depends on who’s on top.” She’d pushed his pants to his thighs.