“Ms. Love. Ambrosia Love. That was your stage name at Rachel’s, wasn’t it?”
She loosened her grip on the doorknob, tried to relax. “I can’t see what business that is of yours.”
“I think you might disagree once you see what I have to show you. May I come in?”
“No.”
“Well then, I’ll have to send this stuff over the Internet, and security being what it is these days, I can’t be held responsible for who might see this information.”
She swallowed and hoped he didn’t notice. “What information do you think you have, Mr. Buchanan?”
“Information that I don’t think you’d want anyone in the good town of Bakersville to see.”
Had someone seized the back of her neck? Her airway seemed compromised. Couldn’t get enough oxygen. She counted to ten, willed herself to calm down. What the hell was he talking about?
She’d danced at Rachel’s, that was all. An admirer talked her into a lap dance once. She’d taken his two hundred and sworn never to do it again. Wasn’t worth it. She’d spent the whole time trying to keep his paws off her. She’d hardly danced at all. But she had a rule. No one touched the goods. She wasn’t that desperate.
She steeled herself. “Look, it’s no secret that I danced at Rachel’s.”
One side of his mouth rose and a huff of air escaped. “Danced? That’s quite a euphemism, isn’t it?”
“Danced.” She gritted her teeth. “It wasn’t the classiest job in the universe, but it paid the bills, and I saved up enough to start a new life. Anything wrong with that?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Then why exactly are you here?”
“Because you did more than dance, Ambrosia. And I have proof.”
She gulped. What the hell was he talking about?
“Ready to let me come in?”
“Absolutely not.” She pushed him out the door.
“Fine. Give me about an hour to circulate these photos on the net.”
Her throat constricted again. Breathe, Amber, breathe.
“What photos? I didn’t do anything!”
“I’ve got photographic proof otherwise.”
Curiosity got the best of her. Chad and Catie knew this guy. She felt sure she wasn’t in any physical danger. Heck, if she didn’t find out what was going on, she was liable to pass out from hyperventilation.
“Fine. Come in then. Let’s see what you think you have.”
He entered. “Nice place.”
She scanned the room for a paper bag. There, on the table, holding lemons from the store. She dumped the lemons on the table and crunched the bag in her fist. “It’s cozy. Now enough with the small talk. What do you want?”
“Look, I understand why you worked at Rachel’s.”
“For the money,” she said, “pure and simple.”
“I know that, and I understand. We all do what we have to do sometimes for the money.”
“Do you have a point?”