Dance for the Billionaire (3 page)

Her legs felt barely able to support her as she stumbled to her dressing room.

What the hell had just happened?

***

“Come here,” Russell beckoned one of the waitress as the song came to an end.  “Tell that dancer I’ll give her £1000 to give me and my friend here a private lap dance.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman apologized.  “She doesn’t give private dances.”

“Tell her I’ll pay £5,000, then.”

The waitress’s eyes widened at the sum.

“Okay, I will tell her,” she agreed, “but she might still refuse.”

“She won’t refuse,” Russell said arrogantly.  “That’s more money than she’s ever seen in her life.”

The waitress hurried to do Russell’s bidding.

“I bet she refuses,” Dominic warned the other man.

“You wanna bet?”

“Actually, let’s make it an official.  If she accepts, I will pay for the lap dance.  If she refuses, you sell me the property at the price I offered today.”

“Deal!” The man confidently pumped Dominic’s hand and then slouched back against his chair with a smile.

Dominic felt confident too, although he had pretty much sealed his fate with the all-or-nothing offer.  The woman had a look that was out of place even in the classier-than-average strip joint.  He sensed that she wouldn’t be tempted unless the sum was large enough for her to quit.

The waitress came hurrying back to them and Dominic barely resisted the urge to punch the air in triumph—from the look on her face he knew she wasn’t returning with a positive answer.

“I’m sorry, sir.  She said that she’s not interested.”

“Bloody stupid bitch!”  Russell snarled in disbelief.

“I’ll be at your office at noon tomorrow.”  Dominic didn’t lose any time in reminding the older man that they’d had a deal and he’d lost.

“Fine!”  The man stood up and stormed out, seeming to have forgotten that Dominic had accompanied him to the club in his Hummer.

Jubilant, Dominic sat back and savored several sips of his cognac—his chauffeur was only a phone call away.

The waitress who had delivered the message was passing again, this time with an empty tray and heading towards the bar.  Dominic raised his hand and called her over.

“Tell her I said to name her price.”

“Sir, I don’t—”

“Just ask her, please.”  He gave her the smile his mother called his lethal weapon and the woman smiled in return.

“Okay,” she agreed, but didn’t look hopeful.

Less than five minutes later she hurried back to him, looking pretty much the way she’d done when she’d given Russell the bad news.

Prepared for another refusal, Dominic was stunned when she informed him, “She said £50,000 in cash.

“No problem,” he assured the woman, with another warm smile.  He
had
read the dancer correctly—she was looking for nothing less than quitting money.  If she’d asked for twice the sum, he would have still agreed to pay it.

The waitress blinked in surprise at his response.  “She also wants to check the notes before she gives you the dance.”

“By all means,” he agreed.  He was liking the dance’s style more and more.  “What time does she leave the club?”

“She leaves at one.”

“Tell her that I’ll have the money ready by time she’s finished.”

Dominic pressed some notes into the woman’s hand, then stood up and walked out of the club, pulling out his mobile phone and speed dialing his chauffeur’s number as he approached the door.

“Alvin,” he said, when the man answered after the second ring.  “Tell Rogers I need four of the brown envelopes from my desk drawer.  Bring them here to me at Armstrong’s in an hour’s time.”

“Yes, boss.”

Dominic smiled and shook his head.  He had given up asking Alvin to not call him “boss”.  “Mr. O’Brien” would sound less formal, but it was better than being called “sir”, he’d decided and accepted that the man would never call him by his first name although they were almost the same age.

If Alvin Thomas wondered what his employer was doing at the elite strip club, he knew better than to ask.  He quickly confirmed the instructions and hung up aware of the short time window.

***

“He agreed!”  Tiffany burst into the tiny dressing room, grinning as if she’d won the lottery.  She opened her hand and revealed several crumbled fifty pound notes, her grin widening until it almost split her face. “And my God!  Look, he gave me all of these!”

“He’s insane!” Chantelle gasped.  Her ridiculous demand of £50,000 had been a joke she’d expected him to laugh off.  “Are you sure he’s right in the head?”

“He looks fine to me.  Too bloody fine!”  Tiffany closed her eyes and faked a moan of satisfaction.  “Honey, if I was a dancer I would give him a lap dance for free!”

Chantelle laughed as the woman graphically demonstrated the kind of lap dance she wanted to give the man.

“You should be on stage, girlfriend!  I’ll have to tell Colin that you’re wasting your talent.”

“Shit!  I better get back before he comes looking for my ass!”  The woman laughed and raced out of the room, stuffing the notes she had quickly and skillfully folded into a neat rectangle up under her large breasts, where Chantelle suspected it would stay hidden until the woman’s next break when she could discreetly slip it into her purse.  Waitresses usually shared tips, but the sum the man had given Tiffany was more than her week’s wages.

As the door closed behind the woman, Chantelle’s legs gave way as reality stepped in.  She felt blindly behind her for the chair she’d been sitting on and sat down again, heavily.

Mother of God!  £50,000!

She had been tempted by the offer of £5,000.  It would have meant giving both him and the shorter, older man at the table a lap dance.  It would have also meant that she could have taken some time off in the weeks before and during her final exams, using the money instead of working.

But then she’d remember her body’s strange reaction to the younger man and changed her mind about getting that close to him.

She would be just fine, she decided, as long as she kept to the study timetable she’d devised.

Then Tiffany had returned and told her that the older man had left in a huff and Mr. Sinfully Handsome was asking Chantelle to name her price.

She had automatically quoted the sum she prayed she’d win each week when she played her single line of numbers on the National Lottery.  Most players wanted to hit the jackpot; all she’d ever hoped for was enough to get her alcoholic mother back home to Jamaica in the care of her grandparents and have enough remaining to take care of living expenses for her and her three sibling until she graduated and found a job.

On her opening night, she had convinced Colin that she didn’t need to strip completely—that a  miniscule bra and thong would be classier than being completely nude.  He hadn’t been thrilled, saying that he wouldn’t have hired her if he’d known that she had a problem getting naked.  She’d assured him that she would strip if she had to, but begged him to let her try it her way first.  The men had, of course, loudly voiced their displeasure at the end of the song.  But most had cheered enthusiastically when she’d given an encore performance.  Pleased with the crowd’s response, Colin had paid her £500 net instead of gross, from that very first night.

Chantelle had used the unexpected extra money to buy her siblings some of the little luxuries they had been denied over the years without complaining.  Grateful to finally own one, her brother had been willing to have an iPhone 3 or 4, but she’d insisted on buying him the latest version.  He looked after his possessions and was likely to have it for quite some time.

Colin was a gem of a boss.  He wasn’t married or in a relationship as far as she could tell.  Some of the women hinted that he may be in the closet, but Chantelle wasn’t so sure.  He treated his employees well—often giving advances to them when rent or a bill payment was due which they couldn’t meet.

Her fellow dancers hadn’t been as welcoming.  One of the dancers had called Chantelle ‘a stuck-up cow’ for not wanting to give lap dances.  Most of the others seemed to have the same impression, but they had thankfully not been quite so vocal about it.  For them, as it was in her case, the job was a means to an end.  They failed to understand why she wouldn’t use the chance to maximize her earnings.

What she couldn’t tell them was that she was serious about pursuing a career in the male-dominated world of architecture and didn’t want anything to jeopardize her plan now that she was so close.  Heaven forbid, she shook a potential business colleague’s hand in greeting as she moved up the career ladder later in life and be recognized as the woman who had once danced on his lap!

Her student loan had gone towards paying household bills and keeping her brother and sisters fed and clothed.  Her evening job at Waitrose had been physically exhausting and as a result had affected her studies.  Dancing at the club had enabled her to be at home with her siblings six evenings a week and provided the extra money to pay for the course materials and expensive text books she needed for her degree, instead of spending hours in the library using their ‘Reference Only’ copies.

The job at the club had changed her life for the better.

Now, just one lap dance could make her dreams come true.

Please, please, please, please, God!
she prayed fervently, yet felt guilty about bothering Him about such a matter.  It felt wrong to pray about it, clad in nothing but a robe and three strategically placed tiny triangles of material held together by flimsy straps.

But, if He answered her prayer, this would be her last night in the club.

It was too much to hope for and yet she found herself praying desperately.

***

The dancer walked slowly into the room, her smooth skin glowing with youth and vitality.

My God, she’s even more beautiful close up!

Dominic barely restrained the urge to get up and touch her as she closed the door behind her.

She placed a handbag on the small table by the door and stood staring across at him.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She quirked a beautifully-arched eyebrow, widened her stance, then placed her hands on her hips and continued to stare at him.  After a long pause she finally answered, “Grace Jones.”

“That’s not your real name.”

“Does it matter?”  Again the raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” he insisted.

“Sorry.  If it was important you should said so
before
you paid the money.”

Dominic smiled and shook his head.  She was confident for someone of her age—she looked about nineteen, but likely had to be over twenty-one to work in the club.

“Okay,” he conceded.  “You win this round of negotiations.”

“Is there a special song you’d like?” she asked, coming a little closer.  But not close enough for him to reach out and touch her.

“Private Dancer.”  It was clichéd and overdone, but it fit the moment.

The rules disallowed the clients touching the dancers.  Dominic swore under his breath.  He would have a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself.

She pressed a few buttons on a panel on the wall and the introduction of the song filtered through the speakers in the private booth.  She hesitated fractionally, as if she was nervous, then gave a little shake of her head and undid the tie of her robe.