Page 8 of Strip Search

“I’m going to need some proof that you are who you say you are, and a damn good reason why I should violate your sister’s privacy before I do that.”

“Can we talk in private?” Jackie put her hand on my arm.

Pure lust flooded me, and I was surprised by the force of it. I’ve had full lap dances with tits in my face that didn’t get me as hard as her full pink lips and the light touch on my skin just had.

“Come with me.” Because my dick seemed to be in charge of my brains, I led her into a VIP booth instead of my office.

Chapter Four

Jackie Mitchell

“Do I have to pay you a hundred bucks and buy a two-drink minimum?” I followed him to a room with a stripper pole and a couch. The space was small and he filled it up.Try not to make a fool of yourself and drool all over him. But every hormone I had woke up and screamed, “Hell yeah!” each time his eyes met mine.

“Depends,” he drawled, swinging a circle around the pole with more grace than a man of his bulk should have been able to do. “Do you want me to dance?”

The answer should have been no. I was here for my sister. But this was Vegas, right? I was also here to have a good time. And Miles Carvello looked like Good Time was his middle name. After all, I’d missed Darcy Ross gyrating in his boxers. I deserved a little eye candy. I was taking too long to answer and Miles’s dark brown eyes got even darker. If he pulled off his shirt, I was a goner. Swallowing hard, I tried to take my eyes off his muscles and the outline of tattoos peeking over his tight white T-shirt. I had a thing for tough guys, what could I say?

Focus, Jackie. Business first. Pleasure hopefully later.

“Do you want to see my ID?” I asked as he took a step closer to me.

He stopped dead in his tracks. “You’re not twenty-one?”

“Thanks for that. I meant to convince you I’m legit so you can give me Lisa’s information.” I fumbled in my purse for my driver’s license and business card.

“Lisa who? Oh, right. Broadway.”

My head was spinning. Why would Lisa leave a career in New York to dance in a second-rate club for dollar bills stuffed into her underwear? I knew she had medical bills, but she was on a payment plan. “Do exotic dancers make a lot of money?” I sat down on the couch, sinking into it slightly. It was surprisingly comfortable. I wanted to kick off my sandals and relax. The rum and Coke I’d had at the Spearmint Rhino mellowed me out more than I had expected.

“Depends,” Miles drawled.

“On what?”

“How good of a salesperson they are.” Instead of joining me on the couch, Miles pulled up a chair. Turning it backwards, he straddled the seat and folded his arms on top.

That was not the answer I was expecting. He must have sensed my confusion because he elaborated.

“My best dancer was a Harvard MBA.”

“Oh, come on,” I scoffed.

“I find the nice, quiet college girls are the wildest.” His grin was full of sin and his knowing once-over made me wonder if he had been in the crowd watching me go wild on my twenty-first birthday.

I cleared my throat. “Why was she the best stripper? Was she a classically trained dancer?”

Shaking his head, Miles said, “Because she could do math.”

“I hate math.”

“Most people do. But if you do four VIP sessions in an hour, how much do you make?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

“I take half.”

“Half? That’s bullshit.” I only took fifteen percent of my client’s salary. Fifty percent was ridiculous.

He smirked. “My building. My booze. My protection.”

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