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But deep, deep down, she did care. Too much. “Fine,” she said again, squaring her shoulders, “you’ll stay out of that club?”
“Good. And yes, I’ll stay out of the club.” His eyes sharpened. “Will you?”
She huffed and turned her head deliberately, staring at the neon sign across the street. “No.” Then she pivoted, striding around him with a smug lift of her chin. Over her shoulder she called, “My father loves strip clubs, and I’ve never actually been inside one.” Her lips curved into a bright, mock-innocent smile. “So, this is my learning adventure today!”
Before Paulo could respond, she shoved through the pub’s heavy doors and headed for the club. The afternoon sunshine spilled across the street, catching on the tinted windows and peeling paint of the building. People milled around the block, giving the place an oddly casual air. Fish and chips first, lap dances later—it was practically a tourist itinerary.
“Let’s go check it out,” she announced.
Chapter 35
If Madelaine were honest with herself, she was far more interested in seeing the inside of the strip club than in analyzing whether her father would hide there. The curiosity burned hotter than she’d expected.
“Employees use the staff entrance,” a bulky man in black jeans and black T-shirt said, planting himself in her way.
Madelaine stopped, tilting her head back to meet his stare. He wasn’t quite as tall as Paulo, but his muscles looked like they’d been sculpted out of meat hooks. Still, something told her Paulo could flatten him without breaking a sweat.
“Oh, I’m not an employee,” she replied sweetly. “I’m here to do business with the manager.”
The man’s eyes dragged down her figure, leaving a trail of slime in their wake. “Mr. Bartkowski isn’t available. Interviews are tomorrow night.” His smirk deepened. “But come back later. You’ll get hired on the spot.”
Her mouth opened, a tart retort ready to go, when Paulo’s voice cut in, low and lethal. “Get out of her way.”
The man stiffened, until his gaze landed on Paulo. Recognition dawned like a thundercloud. His whole posture shifted from arrogant misogyny to terrified submission. “Mr. Ruffino!” he stammered. “I apologize, sir. An honor to have you here.”
“I need to speak with Bartkowski.” Paulo’s arm slid firmly around Madelaine’s waist, pulling her against his side. “Get him. We’ll wait inside.”
The doorman practically tripped over himself rushing through the doors.
Madelaine stepped into the dim interior, blinking as her eyes adjusted. Unconsciously, she leaned closer to Paulo as she absorbed the blackness of the walls and ceiling.
“Huh,” she muttered with interest. “It’s just as awful as the movies make it look.” She peered around, her arm and shoulder not moving from Paulo’s side. “The chairs are actually that tacky shade of red, and I don’t even want to guess when the carpets were last cleaned.”
Several men nearby chuckled, but she ignored them. Her eyes landed on the empty stage, glowing under pink neon, poles gleaming in front of the shimmer of cheap bead curtains. Music played faintly, a lazy thrum that promised to get louder once the night crowd rolled in.
“I wonder what it’s like to dance on that stage,” she mused aloud.
Paulo’s arm tightened around her, pulling her even closer. “You’ll never find out,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, his tone both possessive and exasperated.
Her lips curved. “Why not? I bet the tips are great if you’re good.”
“Madelaine,” he groaned, half in warning, half in frustration. “Don’t go there.”
She smirked up at him, her eyes dancing. “Too late. I’m already picturing you as the bouncer with the little flashlight.”
His growl vibrated through her side, but the heat in his gaze told her she’d scored a direct hit.
Before she could reply, a short man with a round belly waddled out from a shadowy doorway, rubbing his hands together. His smarmy grin spread like grease across his face.
“Mr. Ruffino!” he exclaimed, thrusting his hand out eagerly. “Such an honor to have you in my establishment!”
He pumped Paulo’s hand, completely ignoring Madelaine. Fine by her. She wasn’t interested in touching him anyway, not when she could easily guess where those hands had been. She shuddered inwardly. They’d probably been wrapped around something best left unmentioned. Ick.
While the “menfolk” launched into whatever business language men in smoky strip clubs used, Madelaine slipped away. The stage and neon lights were one thing, but what fascinated her most was the back room.
There, a group of women were gathered around worn dressing tables, prepping for the night ahead. They were still in street clothes for now, but even then, the ladies were stunning, every bit as mesmerizing as they’d be on stage. Wigs in every shade and style sat on counters waiting, along with bags of makeup and racks of glittering costumes.
“Who are you?” one woman demanded, eyeing her suspiciously.
