Lover Undercover (McCade Brothers 1)

“You looked pretty good out there—little stiff maybe, but the customers didn’t seem to mind.”

She lifted an eyebrow and tried to emulate the patented Stacy Roberts confidence. “No?”

“Not so much. The big shots up front reserved you and Ginger for a pair of lap dances. She’s out there now. After Ari wraps up, you go do the second guy.”

Vern turned to leave, but when she didn’t move or reply he glanced back and gave her an impatient look. “Problem?”

“No. I’ll be right there.”

Apparently satisfied, he left.

With shaking hands she put her tips in her lockbox, tucked it in her locker, and took a deep breath. Okay. She could do this. Stacy had talked her through the ins and outs of a lap dance, and played the part of customer while Kylie practiced. Three minutes of gyrating over the guy’s lap. Flash her breasts at the end.

Her sister’s words of wisdom floated through her mind. Paste on a smile, say hello, and then ignore him and get on with the dance. Keep the chitchat to a minimum.

He couldn’t touch, except to tip her when it was over. Of course, if he found her dancing “uplifting,” Stacy had warned there might be some incidental contact. Because the thought made her cringe, she focused on the payoff. A lap dance put fifty bucks in her pocket.

“Hey, Snowflake, you’re on. I’ve warmed them up for you,” Ginger said as they passed on the floor.

Kylie eyed the front row. “Wait. Which one is mine?”

The redhead tossed her flaming mane behind her shoulders and pointed. “They wanted to surprise their new friend at the table next door. Enjoy.”

Ginger sauntered off, but Kylie barely noticed. Her gaze fixed on her client, the dark-haired man. Lord, anybody but him. How was she supposed to “ignore him and get on with the dance”? He commanded attention.

Before she could resolve the question, Ariana’s performance ended and the fringed gold curtain came down.

Showtime. Smiling so wide it hurt, she slunk toward her target, using the hip-rolling walk Stacy had taught her. The guys who’d booked the dance clapped as she approached, and a few surreptitious fingers pointed to the dark-haired man at the table beside them. She stopped in front of him and stared at his chin. A nice chin. Square. Maybe a little bit stubborn.

“Hi. I’m Stacy, and I have a surprise for you.”

She felt his eyes on hers but didn’t shift her gaze.

He smiled. Slow. Amused. It brought an endearing softness to the rugged angle of his jaw. “I think you’re looking for one of those gentlemen over there.”

His low, unhurried voice exuded testosterone. Keeping her smile in place, she shook her head. “No. They arranged for me to dance for you.”

Her client looked

over at his benefactors. “Gee, thanks guys. You shouldn’t have.”

Moving closer, she reached around and grabbed the back of his chair. In the process, her fingers accidently ruffled thick, cashmere-soft hair, and she fought an urge to sink her hand into its mink-toned depths. Not good. “Ready?” she asked, still avoiding his eyes.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

Funny, she felt the same way. A tremble wanted to work its way up her spine when the DJ queued the music. She suppressed it and moved into position, straddling his lap. Her boots brushed against hard, muscular thighs. She dipped her hips toward the fly of his black pants, and leaned in until her bikini-straining breasts almost touched his chest.

His indrawn breath made her think he was checking out the view, but when she glanced at him, their gazes collided. She immediately dropped her eyes to his chest and concentrated on her moves.

A few moments into the proceedings, his husky voice endangered her focus. “Come here often?”

“Every Thursday, Friday, and Saturday, from ten ’til two.”

“Busy girl.”

“You have no idea. Heads up, handsome.”

“Trevor.”