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But it’s not his impressive figure or the chiseled line of his square jaw that stops my heart. It’s his steely gray eyes that hold as much haunting sadness as I feel. And he’s sitting right in front, staring up at me as if daring me to chase his unfathomable troubles away.
I shiver as our gazes lock.
Something about this man screams danger. Death. And I wonder if he might not be the grim reaper himself, come to escort one more Turner family member to the afterlife. If so, I’m not so sure I would mind.
His server appears to deliver the finest bottle of Russian vodka we keep in stock, and when she leaves the bottle, I know he’s here for one thing and one thing alone. To numb the deep and terrible pain that darkens his soul.
I take one lap around my pole, leaning away from it as I make a slow circle, starting my dance. But I find it almost impossible to focus with him watching me. I can feel his eyes tracking my movement, and it makes my skin prickle.
And when I make it around to his side of the stage once again, I know he’s the one I’ll be dancing for. Dipping low, I spread my thighs as I move to the song’s seductive rhythm, offering him a fantasy world in which his sadness does not exist.
His eyes drop, following the curves of my body to the peak of my thighs, the way my ass rests lightly on the backs of my heels. And as I lean forward onto my palms, his eyes dart back up to find mine.
God, he’s striking. The intensity of his gaze. It’s smoldering, lighting my body on fire just by focusing on me. He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he clasps his rocks glass casually in his large hands. And I wonder what they might feel like wrapped around my body.
Excitement blossoms in my belly, catching me off guard. I never have sexual thoughts about the men who watch me. If anything, my feelings toward them hover somewhere between pity and disgust.
But this tall, dark stranger has my heart thrumming an unsteady beat. To distract myself, I return to my pole, reaching high above my head and taking a running start so I can spin my way down it.
I hook one knee around the cool, smooth surface, using it as leverage so I can arch back. And when I find my anchor point with my eyes, once again, it’s the sad-eyed man watching me. Muscles tight with anticipation, my pulse ringing in my ears, I almost don’t notice as the song delivers its last resonating notes.
A hint of disappointment trickles into my gut as I catch Zoe’s subtle message to get the hell off stage. Releasing my pole, I don’t dare look back at the eye-grabbing, distinguished gentleman. Instead, I walk deliberately back down the catwalk toward the quick-change dressing room backstage.
3
HEIDI
I’m already stripped completely naked and changing into my next outfit when Howie walks in, his bearing all business as he approaches me.
“Heidi, you’ve been purchased for a private dance. A Mr. Federov. He’s paying top dollar, so make sure you give him his money’s worth. Put on your white outfit and go to room fifteen.” Then he turns his attention to Amber without another word to me.
My stomach sinks as I change tracks, collecting the lingerie Howie ordered me into. I would usually brush off my disappointment as my typical response to lap dances. They’re too personal for my taste, and though Lady Venus has strict rules about the lines customers are not allowed to cross—and the bouncers to reinforce those lines—it still makes me uncomfortable.
But tonight, I find my physical response stems more from the fact that I won’t likely see the sad-eyed man again. My pole will be taken by a different girl, so even if he sticks around long enough for me to return, I’ll be dancing in a different spot.
Though I haven’t said a single word to him, I find I want to understand better what loss he’s suffered to show such pain in his eyes. And to see if I can’t relieve his pain in some small way because it might just help me forget my own.
Working my white fishnet stockings up to my thighs, I hook them deftly, then finish my look with a pair of feathery high heels. An angel costume to match my stage name. Though without the wings, I think it tends to make me look more like a slutty bride. Not that Howie gives a crap what I think in that regard. Not to mention, no client wants to have angel wings smacking him in the face. So, really, I’m an angel only in name.
Finding my off switch for my pride, I take a fortifying breath and head back to the black-velvet-curtained alcoves Howie calls rooms. Small numbers hang from the curtain rods above my head, marking which room is the one I’ve been designated.
I give a smile of acknowledgment to Peter, the bouncer who stands with his hands clasped in front of him at the far end of the hall. He’ll be the one who comes running if this Mr. Federov gets handsy and I need help. His bulging arm muscles, broad chest covered by a skin-tight black T-shirt, and thick neck are visually intimidating enough that, typically, just his presence in the hall deters any misbehavior. He gives me a curt, silent nod.
Then I turn to slip inside alcove fifteen, parting the curtain just enough so I can enter before I pull it closed behind me. Mr. Federov will already be here, waiting, an intentional choice we adhere to for each of our clients. The anticipation of a dancer’s arrival makes the reward that much sweeter.
I can feel his eyes on my back even before I turn to face him, and my instincts raise the hair on the back of my neck, warning me that I’m in the presence of danger. But Peter is just down the hall, I remind myself. Then I turn to face the man who purchased my private attention.
My breath catches as my eyes meet the steel-gray eyes from before. It’s the same sad-eyed man who was watching me on stage. His gaze follows me with an undiminished level of haunting intensity, the emotion behind them making my heart hammer. I dread experiencing the loss I see so clearly in the depths of his soul.
He’s older than I had realized from my place on stage—his dark hair flecked with silver that’s more prominent at his temples, though not quite enough for me to call it gray. I would place him in his mid-forties. And though I don’t normally go for older men, I have to admit he’s even more attractive than I first thought.
The brooding intensity of his demeanor makes my stomach tremble. He makes me nervous, but in an oddly good way. I don’t quite know what to make of my physical reaction to his presence. I’ve had boyfriends before. I’m not completely naive when it comes to men. But this heat that consumes my body now is something else entirely.
In the dim, red-tinged lighting, he looks somehow more treacherous than he did when I was on stage, though his posture is relaxed, his arm slung casually across the back of the red vinyl bench where he sits. The small enclosure of the alcove suddenly feels far smaller than usual. And yet, his penetrating gaze compels me to come closer.
The curving booth-like seat surrounds a circular platform in the center of the room, where I typically prefer to dance. But tonight, a sense of daring rises inside me as I fall prey to my curiosity. I want to touch him.
“Evening, Mr. Federov,” I say softly, my voice almost breathy with the quick pace of my heartbeat.
