Neck & Neck (15 page)

Well, she’d taken drink orders from obnoxious men and hauled around overfilled trays of cocktails and removed groping hands from various parts of her body and dodged salacious demands. She’d continued to do her job, the same way she did it every night. Her lousy, demoralizing, pain-in-the-ass job. Her crap job that paid a lot more than she could make anywhere else claiming, or maybe lacking, the sort of skills she claimed, or maybe lacked. The way Ginny figured it, the only thing she was qualified for at this point was waiting tables and greeting discount store customers. And where that second might make her feel more like a human being and less like a piece of meat, it didn’t pay enough to raise a kid to be anything more than a waitress or discount store greeter. So tonight, as always, she’d done her job.

What she
hadn’t
done was care that Russell Mulholland never came through the door. She’d barely noticed he never came through that door. In fact, she’d been relieved he hadn’t come through that door.

Then she told herself not to flatter herself. Why had she been thinking Russell would walk into Minxxx a second night in the first place? There were dozens of other places in this part of town alone he could have chosen instead. There were plenty closer to where he was staying downtown, too. Not that she’d made a point of finding out where he was staying. She just remembered seeing his picture in the paper the other day where he’d been in the lobby of the Brown Hotel, that was all. Everyone in Louisville knew where Russell Mulholland was staying during Derby.

And even if he had come into Minxxx a second night, who said he’d come back because he wanted to see Ginny? Or, rather, Amber, since there was no way he’d bother coming back here to see Ginny. He might just want another lap dance from Mindy or Bunny or Cerise again. Not that Ginny had actually noticed which of the dancers he’d paid the last time. She just happened to remember, that was all. She had a very good memory, as evidenced by that Brown Hotel thing. She couldn’t have cared less who Russell Mulholland paid to squirm in his lap. Just like she couldn’t have cared less whose table he chose to approach.

So why did heat splash through her belly when she saw him take a seat at one of hers?

A seat all by himself, too, she noted further, wondering where his companions of the other night were. The men had tried to look like a trio of friends out on the town, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out the other two guys had been there as security. Ginny shot her gaze quickly around the club. Nope, not a single guy there who looked like he was working for Mulholland.

Interesting. But she wasn’t sure how.

She thought about handing off the table to someone else. Then she reminded herself how much he’d tipped the other night. Not that Ginny liked to think she had a price—except when it came to Maisy—but she wasn’t stupid, either. She’d be leaving in thirty minutes and passing the table to someone else anyway. And in that thirty minutes, provided she didn’t screw up, she could probably make enough from Mulholland alone for another textbook or two for her daughter.

Then again, she’d screwed up royally the other night by slipping out of character long enough to make clear to the billionaire that she wasn’t the kind of girl he thought—and would have paid—her to be. Both Lenny, the owner of Minxxx, and Eddie, the manager, made clear to the girls almost nightly that the customer was always—
always
—right. No matter what the complaint or how unjustified, the bar’s operators would always—
always
—find in the favor of whoever was putting the money in the cash drawer. But Russell Mulholland hadn’t complained about Amber. He’d tipped her outrageously instead. Ginny still wasn’t sure what to make of that. Other than that maybe he was one of those guys who got turned on by verbal abuse. In which case, ick.

She pushed the thought away, along with all the others, and emptied her brain so she could play Amber to the hilt. Amber, who wasn’t the brightest bulb on Broadway, but who had a heart as big as all outdoors.

Cue the schmaltzy Hollywood music.

As she made her way to Russell’s table, though, instead of a swelling symphony of heart-tugging strings, the music that erupted in her brain was more suited to a seventies’ porno flick soundtrack. Damn. She hated disco.

Ignoring the music—for lack of a better word—she wove through the tables between her and Russell, double-checking her others as she went. One thing she liked about Mondays was that there were considerably fewer patrons, and they thinned out pretty well by midnight, since so many guys had to get up early to go to work. Ginny only had three other tables going at the moment, so, all in all, things were pretty well under control.

Until she came to a halt on the other side of the table where Russell was sitting, at which point almost nothing—at least where she herself was concerned—seemed in any way under control. Because those blue, blue eyes were assessing her in a way that was different from the way the other men in the club assessed her. Yes, she could tell he thought she—or rather, Amber—was sexy. Yes, she knew he was undressing her—or rather, Amber—with his eyes. Yes, she could see that he wanted to make her—or rather, Amber—another one of those offers she might find it harder tonight to refuse.

But he was also looking at her in a way that indicated he was just as curious about what was going on above her neck as what was going on below it. And not just where her mouth was concerned, either. Russell Mulholland, she could tell, wanted to know what was on her mind—and in it—too. He was trying to figure her out.
Her
, she realized with no small amount of shock. Ginny. He was trying to figure Ginny out. Because there was something about the speculation in his eyes that made it clear he knew she wasn’t Amber, not really.

But then, Ginny was kind of curious about him tonight, too. Because Saturday night, he’d looked like one of those yachtsmen who whipped up a shaker of martinis while someone else sailed the yacht, something that had made it easier for her to dismiss him as shallow. Tonight, however, he looked like an ordinary guy. In place of the khakis and navy blue blazer, he was wearing faded blue jeans paired with a gray T-shirt and black jacket. He looked like the kind of guy who might do anything for a living, or be anyone under the sun. Like the kind of guy who
didn’t
make it a habit of going to strip clubs. Like the kind of guy who would never grab a woman’s ass without asking permission first.

Not that Ginny had ever been a good judge of men’s appearances, as evidenced by the fact that every man she’d ever been involved with had turned out to be at best thoughtless and at worst vicious. But she’d heard the urban legends about how there might actually be decent men in the world. Somewhere.

“Mr. Mulholland,” she said by way of a greeting, not bothering with the phony Southern accent that usually upped her tips a couple of percentage points, since he already knew it wasn’t real.

“Miss, ah, Amber,” he replied with a smile that—oh, dammit—made the heat in her belly surge higher.

She peeled off a cocktail napkin from the short stack on her tray and set it on the table in front of him. And she hoped she didn’t sound too sarcastic when she said, “How fortunate for us to have you grace our little club for a second time.”

He waited until she looked up from her task before saying, “Well, it’s not because of the service, that’s for sure.”

She opened her mouth to reply to that, but he hurried on before she could get a word out.

“And it’s not like there’s a dearth of, ah, gentleman’s clubs out there.”

He said
gentleman
the same way Ginny did. With derision and rancor disguised as bitterness. Again, she opened her mouth to comment—still not knowing what she could say that wouldn’t compromise her position—but again, he continued before she had the chance.

“It wasn’t easy choosing which club to visit tonight. There are so many with such intriguing names. Minxxx and Foxxxy and Vixxxen and Chixxx and Trixxxie’s. Any more triple
X
s, and I’d think I was in the land of moonshine.”

“You are in the land of moonshine,” she told him, finally finding an opening. Better still, it was an opening that allowed her to say something that wouldn’t cost her her job. “Just go south for about an hour, turn left, and drive for a few hours more. Can’t miss it.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yep.”

Damn. So much for not costing herself her job.

He looked stunned for a minute, then started to laugh. Ginny wasn’t sure what was so funny, so she just continued to stand there looking down at him, one eyebrow arched expectantly as she waited to see if he would (A) take her advice and leave or (B) ignore her advice and leave. Either would be fine with her.

“That makes you two for two, Amber,” he said once his laughter subsided.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Both times I’ve encountered you, you’ve told me to shove off.”

“And?”

He sighed heavily but continued to smile. “And I’m not accustomed to being turned down even once, let alone twice. Not by anyone. But especially not by a beautiful woman.”

Then his record was still reasonably intact, Ginny thought. Because under the wig and the layers of cosmetics, she wasn’t a beautiful woman. Not that she was going to tell him that.

When she said nothing in response to his comment, he added, “But then, I’m going to be two for two, as well. Because for the second time, I’m not going to take you at your word.”

As much as she wanted to reply to that, Ginny figured it was probably best not to. Not because she feared she would say something that would jeopardize her job again. But because it suddenly seemed kind of tempting to say something that would jeopardize herself.

So she only asked, “What can I get you to drink?” Belatedly, she remembered to add, “Sir.”

He studied her in silence for a moment, then said, “What do you have on draft?”

The question surprised her, because, again, it made him seem like such a typical guy. “
What do you have on draft?
” was the most frequently asked question at Minxxx. Well, after “
You wanna earn a quick twenty bucks, babe?
” she meant.

She rattled off the four brands of beer—three overpriced domestics and one overpriced import—that they had on draft, and was amazed yet again when Russell ordered the least expensive, most plebeian of the bunch. She mumbled, “Coming right up,” and turned to make her way to the bar, fielding a couple of requests for refills on the way, and wondering what had happened to turn Russell Mulholland from a shallow, cognac-sipping yachtsman into a regular, beer-drinking guy. Then she decided it would probably be best to concentrate on the drink orders and not ponder Russell Mulholland. Pondering too often led to preoccupation. And preoccupation too often led to passion. And that way lay madness.

She stopped twice on her way back to his table to deliver other drink orders, and each time, she felt his gaze on her. Sneaking glimpses of him from the corner of her eye, she saw that he never once seemed to take his eyes off of her. Other patrons of Minxxx did that, too, from time to time, so the open appraisal was nothing new. What was new was how his open appraisal didn’t give her a major wiggins the way other guys’ did. And not just because his didn’t involve licking his lips or grabbing his crotch or mouthing offensive commands. He didn’t look like he was just appraising her body. He looked like he was trying to figure her out.

Good luck with that one,
she thought. Even Ginny had trouble with that.

She set his beer on the purple cocktail napkin that was decorated with Minxxx’s disturbing line-drawing logo of a woman’s headless, limbless, naked torso, then started to turn away, as she always did after delivering a drink. Except that where she usually smiled vapidly at the customer and drawled out some Southern-fried platitude like, “
There ya go, sugar dumplin’,
” on her way, this time she said nothing, knowing it would be pointless and, for some reason, uncomfortable to do so.

She should have realized Russell Mulholland wouldn’t let her get away that easily. “You know I lied to you a little while ago,” he said before she’d completed her first step.

Reluctantly, she turned around to look at him, but she said nothing, since any reply the comment invited would doubtless lead to trouble.

“When I told you I had trouble choosing which club to visit tonight,” he clarified. “It wasn’t any trouble at all, really.”

She remained silent, again unsure of what she could say that wouldn’t lead them down a path they probably didn’t need to travel.

Russell didn’t seem as disinclined to the voyage as she, however, because he continued, “I knew the minute you turned me down that I’d be coming back here again.”

At that, Ginny did know what to say. “Why? To give me a second chance to turn you down?” At this point, she didn’t care anymore whether or not her job was at stake. “Wow, that’s really nice of you, Mr. Mulholland, but turning you down once truly was a lifelong dream come true for me. And that tip you left after my turning you down was just icing on the cake. Really, I think you’ve done enough for l’il ol’ me.”

“Not to give you a second chance to turn me down on my offer,” he told her. “To give you a second chance to take me up on my offer.”

“Your offer to have sex with you in exchange for money?” she asked innocently. “Golly, that is just so—”

“My offer to have dinner with me Wednesday night,” he interrupted her. “Sex with me afterward would be entirely up to you, but I refuse to pay you for it.”

Well, that certainly brought her up short.

“You never let me tell you what my offer was the other night,” he pointed out. “You simply assumed it involved something salacious.”

“Yeah, well, it’s easy to make assumptions like that in a place like this, when every offer you receive involves something that’s illegal in all fifty states.”