Dared: Scandalous Moves Series Read online

  Dared

  Scandalous Moves Series

  Deborah Grace Staley

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Deborah Grace Staley

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States of America

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Fiona Jayde Media

  Editor: Becky Guyton

  Marketing: Janene Cates Putman

  Created with Vellum

  This book is for all the fierce, beautiful, strong women who have encouraged me to stand in my truth, take chances, and believe in myself. I hope that reading the Scandalous Moves series will inspire women everywhere to believe they can lead empowered lives

  and change the world.

  Contents

  Foreword

  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

  Acknowledgments

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Deborah Grace Staley

  Foreword

  Author Note

  Have you ever done something daring that forced you to step outside your comfort zone? That’s the concept behind my new series, Scandalous Moves. In each of these longer novellas, you’ll see strong, driven women do something out of character that shakes things up in their carefully controlled lives. Through the upheaval, they’ll learn that some chances are worth taking because they’ll realize a life well-lived consists of possibilities and grand adventures. Even though there are sometimes failures, that just makes the successes all the more sweet.

  Scandalous Moves is a FLAME (Sexy) contemporary series not recommended for readers under eighteen or those who blush easily! But if you like your romance novels with sexy heroes and scorching hot sex scenes, read on! If you have a preference for more TAME (Sweet) romances, I have something for you, too. Check out my award-winning and best selling Angel Ridge Series and my short stories (see links to purchase on the “Also By . . .” page).

  Maybe you’ve made some Scandalous Moves of your own. Share your stories on Facebook and Twitter using #Scandalous, and be sure to tag me @debgstaley.

  Happy reading!

  —Deborah Grace Staley

  1

  The waitress delivered a split of wine in a carafe to Diane Jenson’s table. “I didn’t order this,” Di said.

  “Compliments of the gentleman in the corner booth.” The waitress inclined her head towards the person in question, but Di didn’t turn.

  “Thank you,” she said. Di was used to gentlemen buying her drinks. She also knew what it meant. He’d come, ask to join her, and she’d have to go. Di sipped her wine—the wine she’d ordered herself. What she wouldn’t give to be able to go out alone without being recognized. When she’d moved to New York nearly fifteen years ago, she’d been young, broke, and unable to afford exclusive restaurants like this one. Now that she could afford it, she couldn’t enjoy herself.

  Several moments passed, long enough for her to finish her drink. No one tried to join her. Interesting. Curiosity tempted her to turn and see who’d sent over the wine, but she resisted the urge. “Who am I to let good wine go to waste?” she said to herself and poured the golden liquid into her glass. She swirled the wine, inhaled the light scent of peach with a honeyed oak undertone. She tasted it. Pinot Grigio—Italian if she wasn’t mistaken. And pricey.

  “Hello.”

  Awareness pricked down the back of her neck when she heard the low easy tones of the man’s voice—a voice she knew. She glanced up for confirmation and the wine soured on her tongue. “Van.”

  “Di,” he returned, walking into her line of vision. Dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, his white shirt was open at the collar providing a stark contrast to his tanned skin. He wore his dark brown hair longer now. It curled attractively over his collar, marking him as unconventional. Di smiled. What an understatement. She remembered all too well how deliciously unconventional he could be.

  “The wine is delicious.” And since good manners dictated, she added, “Thank you.” Manners also dictated that she should invite him to join her, but she didn’t.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  He sipped his own drink, something a dark amber color in a heavy tumbler. Whiskey or scotch, she guessed. The silence grew, but Di chose not to break it. She had nothing to say to him.

  “How have you been?”

  “Well. Thank you.”

  “I caught your show a few weeks ago.” She raised her eyebrows. “It’s fantastic.” He paused then added in an intimate tone, “You were incredible.”

  “You saw the show?”

  “That surprises you?” He sat down. His scent and warmth enveloped her in the small space, and the memories came, making her uneasy.

  “It does surprise me,” she confirmed. “But you’re certainly free to see any show you want.”

  He set his glass on the table and leaned towards her. “I see it still bothers you.”

  “You sitting at my table uninvited? Yes, it does.”

  He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping her face and then points south. When his dark eyes finally locked on hers again, he said, “I was referring to your response to me. You still want me.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  He rested his elbows on the table and loosely clasped his hands, pointing at her. “The pulse in the side of your throat is throbbing and you’re flushed.”

  “You mistake anger for desire,” she corrected, but he wasn’t that far off the mark. Wanting him, it would appear, was a natural response for her, one she intended to keep in check. “I’m not surprised,” she continued. “Someone like you would make that mistake. You think you know what men want, and you create the fantasy that fits women into that mold. In fact, you’ve made a fortune from it, haven’t you?”

  “I made my fortune the old-fashioned way. I earned it.”

  “You mean the women who dance at your club earned it for you,” she said, referring to the strip club he owned and operated.

  “You are like a dog with a bone where Vanz is concerned, aren’t you?”

  Di laughed. “Are you still trying to convince people you don’t own the club even though your name’s on the building?”

  “You have no idea what Vanz is like.”

  “Enlighten me.”

  “It’s one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in New York. The performers are trained dancers, such as yourself, who are experienced in club dancing.” He swept Di with a cursory look that said she came up lacking. “It’s no criticism of your ability, but dancing in my club requires a particular skill set that goes beyond,” he paused to take a drink, “technical dance moves.”

  Di laughed, relaxing into the plush upholstery of the booth in the Fifth Avenue restaurant. “When did dancing naked become classified as ‘a particular skill set’?”

  “There’s more to it than you realize.”

  “I’ll bet you $5000 I could dance at your club and make m
ore than all your dancers combined without taking my clothes off.”

  Van’s bark of laughter turned several heads. “Not possible.”

  “Provocative does not necessarily equate to naked.”

  “You’re missing the obvious. Men come to a gentlemen’s club to see beautiful women take their clothes off.” Van gave Di an assessing look that clearly said she didn’t fit the profile to dance at his club. Translation: not tall, not leggy, boobs too small. Oh, and not blonde. She felt her blood pressure rise along with the need to make a point.

  “What’s wrong?” Di goaded. “Afraid I’ll make your dancers look like amateurs?”

  Van laughed and the sound pinged off Di’s spine and detonated a powder keg of white-hot anger. “Oh, no. Quite the opposite,” he said.

  Son of a . . .

  “Friday,” Di said, “after my show. I can be there around midnight.” Van didn’t speak. He just stared at Di, long enough for her to need to resist the urge to squirm. “Are you afraid I’ll prove you wrong?” Di said softly.

  “On the contrary,” Van said. “I’d simply hate to see you embarrassed.”

  “Don’t pretend to care about my feelings, Van,” Di said, her tone hard.

  “Someone might recognize you. What would your producers think about their lead dancer slumming at a gentlemen’s club on the west side?”

  “I’m not concerned.” Di said. “Producers from Broadway shows don’t troll gentlemen’s clubs looking for talent.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting they did.” Van sat back in his chair, looking relaxed. Too relaxed. “Before you commit to this, you need to understand a few things.”

  “Such as?”

  “This won’t be like some B-movie where women dance on a stage with a pole in the center and men stuff singles in their G-strings. The clientele at Vanz is upscale. Suits—businessmen entertaining clients and blowing off steam. Sure, there are parties, too, but it’s sophisticated.”

  Di lifted her gaze to the ceiling, then gave Van a look.

  Undaunted, he continued. “The wait list for the club is extensive. In order to get in without a reservation, there’s a line that winds around the block. If they’re lucky, some might get inside a couple of hours before closing.”

  “Great,” Di said. “So the clientele have deep pockets. Even better.”

  “What I’m trying to get across here is that Vanz isn’t a place where women strip while the men shout and grope the dancers. The women are called ‘entertainers,’ not strippers. They never see the money. The club handles all transactions.”

  “I don’t see the problem. It sounds too easy.” Van finished his drink then continued. “The stage dance is to generate interest,” he said, watching her closely. “The dancers and the club make money from private dances.”

  Di closed her eyes, took a deep breath then opened them. “Excuse me?”

  “Table dances are chump change: twenty dollars most places; fifty at Vanz. The real money is paid for private dances in suites upstairs.”

  Di felt her heart drop, but refused to let Van see her fear. No way she’d back out now. “So, I’d have to dance on stage and go into a room alone with some sleaze to give him a private performance.”

  “Again, it’s not what you’re thinking. You won’t be alone—not really. The rooms are monitored with cameras.”

  “Oh, well, that makes all the difference,” she said sarcastically. “And just so we’re clear, I won’t be naked for either dance.”

  “As you wish,” he said with a nod.

  “And how many of these private performances would I have to do to win the bet?”

  “As many as it takes,” Van said with a wicked smile. When she sat quietly, not responding as she gave the situation further consideration, he added, “It’s okay. You can bow out gracefully.”

  “Oh, no. Just considering my terms. How much are the private dances?”

  “Depends on the dancer.”

  Di nodded. “No table dances, only private dances, and those will be $10,000.”

  Van threw his head back and laughed. “You’re making this too easy. No one’s going to pay that.”

  Di lifted one shoulder and laced her fingers together. “We’ll see. And when I win, all the money goes to charity. All of it—the ten grand from the bet and the money I bring in at the club.”

  Van stood and tossed some bills onto the table. “What the hell. Friday night, midnight,” he said. “I’ll send a car to the theatre for you.”

  “Perfect,” Di said, proud of the bravado she heard in her voice before he turned and walked away. A number of appreciative feminine glances followed the man as he walked through the restaurant. Tall, broad shoulders, lean hips, and chiseled features added up to a head-turning package. Di finished her drink and watched him as well. It had been nearly a year since their one and only date. A mutual acquaintance had set them up. She set her glass down. Blind dates were never a good idea.

  She pushed the memory away. Friday was day after tomorrow. Apprehension hit her along with excitement as she imagined herself performing a provocative dance in front of Van. The fantasy of him watching her—and maybe even wanting her—made her feel so scandalous. Di shifted in her seat, feeling heat ignite in her core. His wanting her wouldn’t be enough. She’d have to be good enough for someone to pay $10,000 for a private dance. Someone who was not Van.

  A black-clad waiter approached her table, set a small white napkin next to her drink with a pen, and said, “Ms. Jenson, I’m a big fan of your work. Would you mind?”

  Di smiled and signed her name on the napkin, then handed it back to him. The waiter said, “Thanks,” then gave her another napkin, this one with his number on it, and walked away. Di fingered the napkin. She’d learned the hard way that men and her career didn’t mix. She stood, then walked towards the exit. The waiter gave her a look filled with promise, but his number lay forgotten on the table.

  * * *

  The next morning, Di held her coffee cup in both hands and carried it to the window of her midtown loft apartment. The January weather was gray and cold, the clouds heavy with rain or snow. Di sipped her coffee, thinking.

  She’d agreed to dance at a gentlemen’s club. Her. Diane Jenson, who’d been dancing professionally on and off Broadway, in music videos, on television, and in movies for more than a decade. And not only that, she’d bet Van Vanzant, of all people, $5000 she’d earn more money in an evening than the rest of his dancers combined. What the hell had she been thinking?

  She hadn’t. That was the short answer. She hadn’t thought at all. She’d reacted. To Van. Di took another drink of her coffee, remembering her reaction to him. The man got to her. There. She’d admitted it. They’d only had one blind date a year before. It had been a double date with mutual friends, so they hadn’t really been alone, but there had been a dance. One damn dance that had led to another. Just the memory still made her more than a little breathless.

  She closed her eyes on a ragged inhale, remembering. The band had played something slow and bluesy. The singer had sung seductive lyrics that had vibrated down her spine . . . or maybe that had been Van’s fingertips. The thin material of her black dress had been no protection against him. His heat had surrounded her, and he’d smelled like sin.

  The next thing she’d known, he’d steered them into a secluded corner, behind some potted plants leaving Di with no idea about how she’d gotten there. Not that she’d cared because his lips had been on hers and his hands everywhere. No soft, coaxing words; just raw need.

  Her mind had disengaged from her body. His hand had found its way to the back of her knee and had curved her leg around his hip, which had pressed his impressive erection against her core. And then his talented fingers had skimmed her dress up to her hip, and he’d found the evidence of her desire, hot and wet. Undeniable, irrefutable truth of how he’d affected her.

  Di’s phone ringing shocked her eyes open. She sucked in a deep breath and dragged a hand through her hair
as she walked over to the counter where her phone sat. Not recognizing the number, she cleared her throat and pressed the answer button. “Hello?”

  “Call it off.” Van’s words growled through the phone line and touched every sensitive nerve ending in her body.

  “Hello, Van.” Wow. Look at her, sounding calm when she felt on the edge of imploding.

  “You don’t have to do this, Di.”

  “Worried you’ll lose the bet, I see.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the money,” he bit out.

  “So, what’s the problem?” Di asked, calm still lacing her words.

  Nothing but Van’s breathing filled the silence. Di waited. Would Van admit the thought of her dancing in front of a club filled with men did something to him? Her heartbeat escalated.

  “Di . . .” His voice was seductive, soft. Di waited, barely breathing. She had to bite her lip to keep from moaning. “Don’t,” he finished at last.

  “Don’t what, Van?” Di said, angry now. “Don’t dance in your club? Don’t remind you that you wanted me once? What, Van? Say it. What do you want from me?”

  “It’s not my club.”

  “So you say, but your name on the building speaks volumes.”

  She heard him exhale. “This is why there couldn’t be anything between us. You made your mind up about me based on circumstantial evidence rather than actually getting to know me.”

  His words stung. “Go to hell.”

  “Already there, love.”

  Silence again. She paced her kitchen. “I guess there’s nothing left to say then, except that it’s about to get a lot hotter. I’ll be at your club Friday night.”