Backstage at The Naked Truth two weeks later, adrenaline pumped through Hayley’s blood like the fizz in a shaken-up champagne bottle. She was all set to explode, and only hoped the excitement would spill out in a fantastic performance rather than a quick dash to the bathroom to hork out her guts.

Right now, it was a fifty-fifty toss-up.

She reminded herself she’d felt exactly the same when, at age eight, she’d anticipated dancing her first ballet solo. Then, she’d ended up loving the thrill of performing and the audience’s applause.

That dressing room had been filled with girls in pink and white tutus, tights, and toe shoes. Tonight, the dressing room at The Naked Truth held a dozen women in sultry makeup, varying stages of undress, and costumes ranging from black leather dominatrix to cheerleader.

Tonight, Sunday—usually a slow night at strip clubs—was the weekly A&A Night. Amateurs & Auditions.

Their client’s wife wasn’t here. She was booked to dance Monday through Saturday. The winner of tonight’s audition would receive a contract for the same week.

It was Hayley’s goal to become that winner.

If she could manage not to puke onstage.

The scent of warring perfumes and hair sprays didn’t help her stomach. And they irritated the contact lenses she was still getting used to.

Over the past days, she’d visited two other clubs with Kari, Evelyn, and Donna, a retired stripper they’d recruited to prepare her. In the audience, she’d analyzed the dancers’ performances and used visualization to imagine herself onstage. The PIs said visualization helped them prepare for undercover work. And that’s all this was, after all. An assignment.

Yes, she’d be naked for a few minutes. But really, her nudity was simply an undercover disguise.

“Yeah, I’ll just keep telling myself that,” she muttered nervously. And she’d keep mum when she spoke to Gran.

The woman who shared a mirror with her, a fresh-faced blonde in a sexy nurse costume, chuckled. “Strip virgin?”

Hayley nodded. “You?”

“I dance every few weeks as an amateur. I’m an accountant, and it’s fun to let loose.” She winked, false eyelashes brushing her cheek. “Let it all hang out. How about you?”

“I’m auditioning for a job here.” On A&A night, the club welcomed both auditioning dancers and amateurs.

“Cool. You’ve got a good look going.” She studied Hayley appraisingly.

“You think so?” Hayley gazed doubtfully at her own reflection.

A reflection she barely recognized, in a form-fitting mockery of a business suit. Complete with a chopped-off jacket that left her midriff bare, a micro mini that barely cleared her bum, and a pair of shiny black stiletto heel platform sandals that terrified her.

Her makeover and training had been both humiliating—dancing in ballet shoes was one thing, but when it came to five-inch heels she’d been reborn as a klutz—and strangely affirming, like when the others told her she was gorgeous.

“Oh yeah,” the nurse said. “Guys look at a girl like you and all they can think about is getting your hair down and glasses off, and undoing those buttons.”

If Hayley hadn’t been so nervous, she’d have grinned. Normally, she did wear glasses—real ones not fakes like now, her buttons were buttoned, and her hair was pinned up in the same ballerina’s bun as tonight.

Normally, she dressed to avoid crude gazes and comments, the kind she’d heard from boys and some of the other girls when she was an overly curvaceous adolescent. The kind her old boss’s boss had made when he propositioned her.

Tonight, though, she wanted men to find her sexy.

An unfamiliar concept. Yet she could accept it because she was choosing the situation, rules were in place to protect her, and she’d be in control.

A dancer burst into the dressing room, fresh from the stage and wrapped in a beach towel, flushed and giggling. Others had returned in tears, some cool and collected, several crowing about what a great time they’d had.

As a striking black woman in a sparkly silver costume headed for the stage, Hayley pressed a hand over her tummy. “I’m after her. I think I’m going to be sick.”

The nurse-dancer touched her arm reassuringly. “You’ll do great. It’s all about attitude. Got any friends in the audience you can dance for?”

When she’d peeked out into the club earlier, Hayley had been reassured to see there were a fair number of women. A lot of the A&A dancers had brought their own cheering sections. In fact, one of the amateurs had said this was part of her stagette.

“A couple,” Hayley said. Evelyn and Kari had come to lend moral support. Donna wasn’t there. They’d feared someone at The Naked Truth would recognize her from her days of dancing as Roxy Brown, and blow Hayley’s cover before she’d even gotten started.

“How about your boyfriend? Mine’s out there. He loves seeing me dance.” Another long-lashed wink. “Makes both of us horny.”

“I’m not dating anyone.” She hadn’t since she’d left Victoria. There, she’d gone out with a government employee who worked one floor down, but their relationship had been more about convenience than passion.

Unfortunately, the men she attracted didn’t satisfy her crazy craving for adventure. She didn’t want to settle down with a perfectly nice guy and have a perfectly nice home and kids.

Well, yes, she did yearn for that stuff—love, a home, a family—but she wanted more. Something with an edge, a fizz, a tingle.

A man like Ry Montana.

Thank heavens he wasn’t in the audience tonight, or she’d never have the guts to go onstage. She’d made Evelyn and Kari promise not to tell the male PIs when she was debuting.

The middle-aged Asian woman who was coordinating A&A night called out, “Penny Catalina? You’re on in five.”

“That’s me.” Hayley’s voice squeaked. After brainstorming dancer names from cheesy to outrageous, she and her coaches had played the old “what’s your stripper name?” game: put together the name of your first pet and the street you lived on as a kid.

Donna said Penny was friendly and approachable, which customers loved, and Catalina added a California-girl appeal.

The costumed nurse hugged her. “Knock ’em dead, Penny. And have fun!”

Carrying her own towel, Hayley walked from the dressing room on trembling legs. Close to the stage, the music she’d barely been able to hear over the female chatter turned out to be the Police classic “Roxanne.”

She closed her eyes and let the rhythm fill her. She’d always loved music. All types of music. Donna had advised, “When you start out, concentrate on the music. Become the music.”

Each dancer put together her own CD of four songs, totaling about eighteen minutes. Hayley had asked, “What kind of music?” and Donna had said, “Customers’ tastes are all over the place, from country to rock to rap. Pick something that makes you feel sexy.”

Eighteen minutes on stage. It seemed like an impossibly long time.

Past the curtain, applause, cheers, and whistles sounded. A few seconds later, the black woman came through the curtain, wrapped loosely in a white towel and carrying her sparkly silver costume.

She gave Hayley a big grin. “That was awesome. Go for it, girl, the audience is great.”

Hayley should have smiled back, should have said thanks, but at the moment she needed all her concentration to keep from throwing up.

The DJ said, “Next up is Penny Catalina.”

Oh, shit.

What had she been thinking? No way could she do this.

She’d have to withdraw.

But the agency had invested time and the client had invested money in preparing her. Equally important, she had to prove to herself, and to Ry, that she could do this. She might not win, but she damn well wasn’t going to chicken out.

On wooden legs, Hayley forced herself to walk toward the curtain. I’ve done this before, in my ballet days. Gone onstage. Performed. Soloed. I was good, really good, and I loved it.

The DJ said, “Penny’s a strip virgin, and she’s auditioning for a job here at The Naked Truth. Please give her a warm welcome.”

Her music started. Donna had told her to begin with a piece she totally loved.

It was Irene Cara’s “What a Feeling” from Flashdance. Hayley had danced to the 1980s movie dozens of times in the privacy of her living room. Donna said she’d never seen anyone strip to it before, but she’d approved it because the beat was good, the lyrics were great, and, most importantly, it really spoke to Hayley.

And it did, as always. First it was the lyrics, speaking of a dream and fear, that led her forward, one step then another, past the curtain and onto the stage.

She froze, disconcerted by the stage lighting and by the audience’s clapping.

They were waiting for her to perform. Waiting to love her, or hate her.

She did what Irene Cara told her to in the song, and closed her eyes, letting the music wind its way into her.

The song started slowly, which was good because her knees were trembling, her ankles shaky in those ridiculously high heels. Still, she managed to step forward, the shoes almost forcing her hips to sway and her chest and bum to stick out as if she was flaunting them.

Keeping her head high was second nature, but she had to concentrate on the stripper walk Donna had taught her, and on not falling off the platform shoes.

Gradually, as the music, the lyrics, the emotion of the piece seeped into her, she loosened up and really began to feel what she was doing so that the movements started to feel natural. She was a fit, beautiful woman, dancing to music she loved, bringing her own sensuality to life.

When Irene Cara sang about taking your passion and making it happen, Hayley smiled.

She had a passion for excitement, and yes, right now she was making it happen.

Beaming with pride and the thrill of the moment, she opened her eyes. It took a moment for them to adjust, and then—Oh, my God. There really was an audience out there.

She faltered.

The stage at The Naked Truth was teardrop shaped, with a semicircle of seating right beside it, then a mixture of tables and horseshoe-shaped booths going back and up in tiers so everyone could see. And the place was packed.

She felt like a rabbit, pinned by the intent gazes of more than a hundred hungry wolves.

“Go, Penny!” a female voice shouted. Kari, bless her heart.

A male wolf whistle sounded from the back of the room, and Hayley forced herself to move again. To breathe. To try to recapture that connection with the energy of the song.

She should work the whole stage, but she was too nervous so she stayed in the center. Away from the ring of men sitting by the edge in what Donna jokingly referred to as Gyno Row.

Stop thinking, Hayley told herself. Pretend this is simply another practice session.

This time she didn’t close her eyes, but let her gaze go unfocused, which wasn’t hard to do given the odd lighting, her contact lenses, and the fake glasses she wore.

Swaying in what she hoped was a provocative fashion, she followed her choreography and began to unbutton her suit jacket. She and Donna had shopped consignment stores and selected a charcoal and white pinstripe a size too small, then shortened the jacket and skirt.

Under the jacket, Hayley wore only a black lacy bra, also a size too small. Her breasts almost tumbled out the top.

All the buttons undone now, she held the sides of the jacket together with her hands, keeping her whole body moving in a sultry dance. The shoes forced her to move slowly, and Donna had told her to draw out every motion and make it sensual, seductive.

To revel in her own physicality, her sexuality, her female essence and power.

“If the thought of dancing for all those guys turns you on,” the ex-stripper had said, “then milk that, ride it, use it.”

Mmm. At the moment, the idea of all those eyes—eyes she was avoiding—was more scary than arousing.

“But if it’s intimidating,” Donna had gone on, “then think about one special guy, one you’re really hot for, and dance just for him.”

She arched her back, threw back her head, and imagined Ry, with his devil-may-care grin. And a hot, smoldering fire in his eyes.

The fire of arousal. From watching her.

Teasing him, she flirted the front edges of the jacket back and forth to reveal, then conceal, her lace-clad breasts. Feeling the heat of his gaze, the skin of her chest quivered with awareness each time she brushed it.

Deliberately, she let a finger drift across her breast and felt her nipple tighten. Seducing Ry, and seducing herself in the process.

The audience was getting into the act, with cries of approval and, “More! Take it off!”

She ignored the plea. Instead, undulating to the music, she released her jacket and reached up to free the pins holding her hair in its bun. Then she pulled off the elastic and silky waves slid loose. Her hair had always been a mousy light brown, but now it had platinum and gold highlights and she knew they’d catch the light.

Imagining Ry watching, longing to run his fingers through her hair, she tossed her head slowly and luxuriously. The soft, sensual brush of hair against her face made her crave its touch on her shoulders, the tops of her breasts.

She slid the jacket partway down her arms, holding it tight across her chest. Teasing Ry.

The Irene Cara song was ending, which meant…Hayley took a deep breath, then thrust the jacket away from her, let it slide down her arms, and tossed it aside, leaving her in her bra as the music faded away.

Voices cheered and Kari called, “Way to go, Penny!” as the music segued into “Brick House.”

Hair and jacket during the first song, they’d all decided. Glasses and skirt during the second one.

She concentrated on the upbeat music, the cocky way it made her feel. Flaunting her near-naked torso, Hayley touched one earpiece of the fake glasses, then whipped them off and tossed them aside.

The next moves they’d choreographed centered around the two poles near either side of the stage. Until two weeks ago Hayley had never taken a pole dancing lesson, so this was all new to her. Her hands were still building calluses.

She realized that nervousness had made her quicken her pace. In her head, she heard Donna saying, “Slow it down, Hayley. Slow is sexy.”

Yes, sexy. Her body was sexy, her movements were sexy. Her man was watching, getting turned on. Hayley moved toward the pole as if it were a lover. As if it were Ry.

A nice idea, but the shoes threw her off balance and she stumbled. Quickly she added a hip thrust to try and disguise her clumsiness. Thank God for those ankle straps.

When she reached for the pole, her hands were damp with sweat. Wishing she could wipe them on something, she realized she’d almost forgotten an important step in her routine.

The tiny pin-striped skirt had to come off.

She ran her hands over her slowly grinding hips to dry her palms, and let the music carry her. Like the song said, she was stacked, and she wasn’t going to hold anything back.

Slowly, teasingly, she slid down her zipper. Imagining Ry’s burning gaze on her, she flirted the skirt down a little to reveal the bare skin of her tummy and the lacy black band of her thong as her hips pumped a sultry rhythm.

Donna had told her to get a few coats of fake tan, and under the black light her skin looked healthy. Besides, the tan helped hide the bruises from learning to pole dance.

Though she’d always kept in shape, the workouts she’d gone through over the last two weeks had made her more toned than ever. Oh yeah, she was sculpted, voluptuous.

She gyrated proudly to the music. Ry, seeing her like this, would be so turned on, he’d be hungry—almost desperate—to see more of her. To worship her body with his eyes.

To imagine making love to her with his hands, his tongue, his erect cock.

The thought sent shivers of arousal through her. She let the skirt slide down, proudly stepped free of it, and kicked it away, leaving her in a bra, thong, and stripper shoes.

Oh yeah, she was a brick house, and she was going to let it all hang out and bring her man to his knees with lust.

Finally, she dared to really look at the audience.

“Share it with them,” Donna had told her. “Bring them in. Seduce them. Use your eyes and your smile. Those are your two most important tools.”

Okay, she had tits and ass, musicality, and dance skill. Now it was time to add eyes and smile. The way Kat Dancer did.

She caught a glimpse of Kari and Evelyn, both waving enthusiastically, and flashed them a quick smile.

But no, if she was going to feel sexy, she couldn’t focus on them. She needed a man, one she could pretend was Ry.

There, at the back of the room. He sat in a dimly lit corner, which helped the illusion that he could be Ry. Of course, the PI would never wear that suit and tie, the slicked-back hair, or glasses. But she could pretend, and that would make it easier to fall into the sexy fantasy that she was dancing for her own hot man.

She shot him a saucy wink and her most tempting smile, then turned toward the pole.

As she twined around it—forward and back, in and out, up and down—she worked it as if it were a hard male body. Ry’s body.

He’d be watching. Imagining the same thing. She tossed her hair, sent him a steamy glance full of promise.

She wished she could relax into the music and her own sexuality, her imagined seduction of the hot PI, but pole work was too new to her. Donna had kept things simple and Hayley had picked up the moves quickly, but they still took concentration.

And so did remembering to switch from one pole to the other, so everyone in the audience got a closer view of her moves.

As she did a flying spin around the pole, followed by vertical splits with one leg on the ground and the other stretched up the pole, she was so focused on her routine that she could almost forget her body was all but naked.

But when the music changed to George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” and she switched poles again, the choreography she and Donna had worked out called for her to tone down the athleticism and make the pole work even raunchier. To make every guy in the audience feel like he was bad to the bone and wanted to make her squeal, just like the song said.

Thank God for the music, the choreography, the numerous practice sessions. The beat of the music was irresistible, her moves fit it perfectly, she felt almost natural as she turned her back to the audience, spread her legs, and bent from the waist to grip the pole.

She ground her hips in time to the music, thrusting her bum toward the audience. Working it, grinding out an invitation.

And in her mind, Ry was watching, wanting to fuck her, almost exploding with need.

And damned if she wasn’t flushed and tingling with arousal too.

Having that kind of power over a man like Ry Montana. What an erotic thought.

Almost in a trance, she moved to the other pole and gyrated, imagining herself a sex goddess in Ry’s eyes. Feeling the burn of his lust, like actual heated fingers caressing her skin.

She imagined Ry’s gaze, his fingers curving around her bare butt cheeks, squeezing her firm flesh. Trailing down the outside of the thong, and between her legs.

She writhed and twisted against the imaginary pressure. Felt the throb and pulse of need in her pussy. Tossed her hair and shot a smoky glance over her shoulder, letting him see what he did to her.

Then she straightened and took the center of the stage, running her hands through her hair, then down the front of her body, lingering as they brushed over her bra-clad breasts.

This experience had become surreal. Yes, she was vaguely aware of the audience, of individual faces and expressions, of a sense of collective appreciation and even lust, but she was distanced from them.

All except for that man at the back, who she’d designated as Ry.

It was as if she moved in a parallel reality, dancing only for herself, for the music, for Ry.

Each motion of her body thrust her breasts into her hands and she wanted to moan with pleasure, and the need for his touch.

She slipped one strap down her shoulder, then the other, then undid the front clasp. Only her hands held the bra in place as she tossed Ry a teasing glance.

The audience cheered, whistled, begged her to take it off. She knew one of those whistles came from Ry. So she sent him a sultry wink and let the bra drop.

But immediately she replaced it with her hands, feeling the firm plumpness of her breasts, the nipples taut with arousal. The breasts that had embarrassed her as a teen now felt glorious.

The music changed and she heard the opening bars of her final number, Pink’s sexy rendition of the Divinyls “I Touch Myself.” A song that, right now, seemed absolutely perfect for the way she felt, dancing for Ry and feeling his gaze on her.

Releasing the bra, she raised her hands, twined them in her hair, and gyrated in her thong.