“How does she do that?” Ry’s colleague Tom asked disbelievingly. “Man, if my wife could move like that…”

Ry, who’d been paying for the latest round of drinks for their group of six, looked up quickly.

On stage, the stripper, clad in a barely existent red sequined thong, hung upside down on the pole, platinum blond hair cascading toward the stage. Both hands gripped the metal rod, her long, shapely legs spread in a perfect split, and her breasts, huge creamy melons with rosy nipples, defied gravity.

Kari, the younger of the two female PIs who worked at The Private Eye, teased Tom, “If your wife could do stuff like that, she wouldn’t be with you.” She shook her head in wonder as she studied the dancer. “That is pretty amazing.”

“Upper body strength,” another female voice said, so softly Ry could barely hear her over the driving beat of a Bif Naked song. “Flexibility, control, and lots and lots of practice.”

Surprised, Ry glanced over at Hayley Croft, seated across the table from him. He’d almost forgotten the PI agency’s admin assistant was there. Overlooking Hayley was easy to do, she was so bland—like tonight, in her gray jacket and pale blue buttoned-up shirt, her glasses and tightly pinned-up hair.

Her innocuousness made her the perfect person to spell off the PIs on straightforward surveillance jobs. She could sit in a coffee shop or on a park bench for hours and no one would notice her.

She’d surprised him—surprised all of them, he was sure—when she’d joined the PIs at the 4-Play strip club tonight.

The agency’s client’s wife had taken up stripping when her husband lost his job, and she’d refused to give it up once he found work. She’d withdrawn from him and from her suburban girlfriends. The guy worried she was having an affair, or was into the drug scene.

It was Ry’s case, and he’d started with basic surveillance. The wife’s life appeared to consist of home, the grocery store, whichever club she was dancing at, and short trips out from the club between shows to the bank, have coffee with other dancers, shop for clothes, and so on.

When he’d reported this to the client, Paul Mortimer, Mortimer had authorized an expenditure for surveillance inside 4-Play, the moderately upscale Vancouver strip club where his wife would be working this week.

At this morning’s weekly agency meeting, Ry had reported he intended to make a quick visit to 4-Play to scout out the scene. Unsurprisingly, Tom and Ravi, the two other male PIs, had figured Ry needed a hand—or, rather, two more sets of eyes. Then Evelyn, the head of the agency, and Kari, had insisted on coming along because they were curious. Ry didn’t remember anyone asking their admin assistant if she wanted to go, yet she’d turned up.

And buttoned-to-the-neck Hayley was actually watching the stripper. Raptly. With a flush on her cheeks and eyes wide behind her glasses. Prim and proper as she always seemed, she must be embarrassed, yet she didn’t glance down or away.

He looked back to the dancer, who was flirting the sides of her thong up and down her curvy hips. A moment later she was naked, but for bright red, very high shoes with platform soles and stiletto heels.

“Oh my God, it’s Stripper Barbie,” Evelyn muttered, and Kari let out a splutter of laughter.

Ry had to grin. The woman, with her platinum hair, obvious boob job, and full Brazilian wax, did look rather like a plastic doll. Her smile was artificial too, and her performance was more like nude gymnastics than an erotic dance that connected with the music and her audience.

She grabbed a large white towel, tossed it to the stage, and got down on all fours. Crawling, twisting, writhing this way and that on her hands and knees, her stomach, her back, she flaunted her body. Her legs spread, flashing longer and longer glimpses of her naked crotch.

Even if he’d been alone at the club, Ry would have had no desire to join the half dozen men in the front row for a closer view. He sure as hell had nothing against pussy, but this dancer wasn’t doing it for him. Maybe because, though she was attractive and athletic, she was only going through the motions.

For him, he’d rather have a woman with a less perfect body and a lot more genuine enthusiasm. Besides, he was a man of action, not a voyeur. If he wanted a woman, he found one and took her to bed.

When the stripper’s last song ended and the DJ said, “Let’s hear it for the stunning Vivi LeDare,” the audience gave her a decent round of applause. But no cheers or whistles.

A male staff member came onstage and wiped down the stripper pole, then the DJ said, “Now you’re in for a sexy treat, so please welcome Kat Dancer.”

“That’s our subject,” Ry muttered to the others. Jennifer Mortimer, in real life.

He’d seen her in day clothes and seen her promo photos, but neither had prepared him for the woman who prowled onto the stage to the sound of “Black Velvet.” She wasn’t much over five feet, but she had attitude and commanded attention as she went into a seductive dance nicely matched to the music.

Clad in a black bodysuit made out of some gleaming velvety material, her body was compact but definitely curvy. Normally, Jennifer wore her black hair in a simple ponytail, but now shiny waves rippled over her shoulders and down her back almost to her waist. Her makeup exaggerated her eyes, tilting them at the corners in a way that was vaguely catlike.

Her dance had a feline feel too, going from slinky to playful to arrogant, always very sensual. And always, she played to her audience, drawing them in with her eyes and smile as she seductively peeled away one piece of her costume, then another.

Ry’s attention shifted as a busty redhead clad in a lacy minidress over a pink bikini strolled up to their table with a flirtatious smile. “Would anyone like a private show?”

“Thanks anyhow,” Ry said. Since they’d arrived, a dancer had made a similar offer every few minutes.

She winked at him. “Next time, sugar.”

“Don’tcha think I should get a lap dance?” Tom said. “Like, in the name of research?”

Kari snorted. “Your wife would kill you.”

Ry and Ravi exchanged grins. Everyone knew Tom was joking. He was devoted to his wife. But he liked to play the goof, a little rough around the edges. It worked for him as a PI. People revealed things to him that they wouldn’t to a more articulate, sophisticated man. Ry only wished he’d drop the role when it was just the PIs together.

Ry turned back to the stage. Kat Dancer, now wearing only a black lacy bra and G-string and shiny black high-heeled boots, was working the stripper pole. Her moves weren’t as gymnastic as Vivi LeDare’s, but to him they were more seductive.

She seemed totally involved, as if the music rippled under her skin, thrilled through her blood, and drove her movements. And always, she connected with her audience, drawing them in with teasing smiles and come-hither gestures.

He could just imagine those lonely guys dreaming of her keeping them company.

Damn, she was good. Good enough that arousal stirred in him.

All the same, she was a stripper. Not that he had anything against strippers; they were doing a job just like everyone else. But the fact that it was a job—even if Kat honestly enjoyed the music and the performance—made the situation too impersonal to be a real turn-on for Ry.

If she’d been his lover, dancing for him like this because she wanted to, he’d have been as hard as that stripper pole by now.

But she wasn’t. And in fact, she was his client’s wife.

He glanced away from the woman onstage, and again noticed Hayley. Well, wasn’t that interesting. Her body was moving as if she, like the dancer, was feeling the music.

A tendril of light brown hair had escaped her normally tight knot. The way it clung to her flushed cheek told him her skin was damp. Her lips were open, then they closed and he saw her swallow hard, her throat rippling above the buttoned-up neck of her tailored blouse. Her tongue came out, licked her lips, then rested between them, tip showing.

She lifted a hand and with one finger pressed her glasses farther up her nose.

Then, with a quick wriggle, she slid out of her jacket. The movement arched her back, made her breasts press against the cotton of her shirt. Her head moved restlessly and she stretched her neck. Then graceful long fingers stroked her throat in a gesture that was innately female and sensual. Not the kind of gesture he’d ever seen Hayley make before.

Or maybe she had, but he’d never looked closely enough. A PI was supposed to be observant, so how come he’d never noticed that her hair wasn’t plain brown but more the color of butterscotch, her fingers and neck were lovely, and her rack was pretty damn impressive?

She stared at the stage, oblivious to his scrutiny. Her lips were parted, a natural pink, moist and gleaming in the dim light. Her hands thrust into her hair, loosening more tendrils. Then she unbuttoned the top couple buttons of her shirt, leaving her hand resting on that slender throat, just by the hollow where her pulse beat.

She looked…turned on.

And hot. Hayley Croft actually looked hot.

And he, who’d never paid much attention to her before tonight, was getting seriously aroused.

Not by Kat Dancer onstage—who was now down to just her G-string, boots, and that shifting, shimmering black hair—but by straitlaced Hayley.

Freaking bizarre.

Doubly so, since she was probably a lesbian, getting all turned on by another woman.

Maybe she felt his gaze because she glanced around, catching him staring.

She gave a start, and the color on her cheeks deepened.

He should’ve looked away, but couldn’t. If the woman had any experience with men, she’d read the pure lust in his eyes.

If she was a lesbian, maybe she wouldn’t see it. If she was a feminist, she’d probably want to slap him.

Instead, something flared in the golden-brown eyes behind those dark-framed glasses.

An answering heat.

No. Must be his imagination. Light reflecting off her lenses.

She’d never shown the slightest interest in him. Never unbuttoned a button, nor sent him a flirtatious glance. It was the female stripper, not a male PI, who turned her sexual crank.

“Informative as this is,” Evelyn said in a dryly humorous tone that made both him and Hayley start, and turn to the older woman, “what exactly are we learning about our subject?”

“That she’s one damned fine stripper,” Tom said, gaze glued to the stage.

Ry glanced over to see that Kat had discarded the G-string to reveal a narrow strip of black pubic hair. She collected a white towel and flicked it onto the floor.

“Oh, yeah,” Kari said. “She’s a really talented dancer, and really into it. I admit, I wasn’t expecting to see such a high quality performance.”

“She sure knows how to perform,” Hayley said in that soft, barely there voice, “but she’s not that skilled a dancer. I doubt she’s had formal training. What she’s got going for her is great choreography, knowing how to use her body, and feeling the music.”

They all turned to look at the admin assistant.

“How do you know all that?” Ravi asked the question that had been on the tip of Ry’s own tongue.