Her Private Dancer. Cami DaltonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Prologue

      TRACE MCGRAW FORCED his mouth into a smile as he tilted his spandex-covered pelvis toward the elderly woman, who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Rosenthal, his grandmother’s eighty-nine-year-old roommate at the Happy Vale Assisted Living Center. No sir, his second night on the job wasn’t turning out to be any less embarrassing than his first. Especially, with Mrs. Rosenthal’s twin staring at his package and all but licking her chops.

      The look-alike briefly turned to the woman next to her and shouted over the wailing country-western song, “Ooh-wee. Get a gander of this one, Marge. Is that a gun in your drawers, cowboy,” she crowed to Trace, “or are you just happy to see me?” The old woman nudged her friend with her elbow then laughed mischievously.

      Colored lights flicked wildly around the room while a haze of smoke hovered above the all-female audience. The din of their cheers and whoops of approval almost drowned out the bass beat pounding from the speakers like a dozen tribal drums. Trace surmised that unfortunately, the friend, Marge, had still been able to hear since she removed a five-dollar bill from her purse and said, “I don’t know, Delores. I think we’re gonna need a better look.” Then she wiggled her eyebrows.

      After his first performance last night on board the Mirage, a casino ship out of Miami where twice a week the women of south Florida ruled the high seas, Trace knew what to expect. Even still, he wasn’t quite prepared for the speed and dexterity with which good old Delores moved. Before he could even blink, Delores had snatched up the money and started reaching for his costume.

      Trace bit back a curse, but held his pose, not moving so much as a tassel on his fringed chaps. The fringed chaps that blatantly highlighted the bulge in his black briefs. Not easy considering the look in Delores’s eyes, but Trace couldn’t blow his cover now no matter how much he wanted to slap his hands over his groin and run back to the dressing room. Or jump off the ship. That would be fine, too, three-mile swim back to shore and all.

      Five nights a week, the Mirage left port for international waters where the ship threw open its casino doors then aimlessly wandered the Atlantic for a few scheduled hours of gambling, drinking and watching Vegas-style reviews. Glitzy productions complete with showgirls. During the regular cruises, that is. On the Ladies Only nights, the entertainment distinctly veered into dangerous territory. At least for Trace McGraw, newest member of the dance troupe, the Ladies’ Knights. Miami’s answer to Chippendales.

      He almost sneered at the apropos comparison, but somehow kept his stupid smile plastered in place. Damn, he hated this cover. And this story. And his editor, Manny….

      Trace cast a quick glance at the other male dancers on the floor, and wondered if they’d ever felt the same bone-deep humiliation he was experiencing. Obviously not, if the guy dressed as Tonto and gyrating away with some woman’s hand down his thong was anyone to go by. Disgusted with just how far down his career