Heaven, Texas (Chicago Stars #2)(7)

She nearly lost her nerve. Only the thought of what her employer would say if she fled from the house without having accomplished her mission stiffened her backbone. Gracie Snow didn’t run! This job was the opportunity she’d been waiting for all her life, and she wasn’t going to turn cowardly at the first sign of adversity.

She gingerly removed her suit jacket. Bobby Tom gave her an approving smile, as if she’d just done something amazing. The ten feet that still separated them seemed like a million miles. He hooked the ankle of his cowboy boot over his opposite knee, and his bathrobe fell open to reveal a very naked, powerfully muscled thigh. Her jacket dropped from her fingers.

“That’s the way, honey. You’re doin’ real good.” His eyes sparkled with admiration, as if she were the most talented dancer he’d ever seen instead of the most inept.

With a series of clumsy bumps, she wiggled closer, trying to ignore the exaggerated boos that were beginning to come from the audience.

“Real nice,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen an act quite like this.”

With a final thrust of her hips, she arrived at his side, minus only a jacket, and forced her stiff lips into a smile. Unfortunately, as she leaned forward to whisper her predicament into his ear, her cheek hit the brim of his Stetson, knocking it askew. With one hand, he righted it while, with the other, he swept her into his lap.

The loud music covered her startled exclamation. She was temporarily stunned into speechlessness by the feel of his hard body beneath her own and the solid wall of his chest pressed against her side.

“You need some help, honey?” His hand went to the top button of her blouse.

“Oh, no!” She clutched his arm.

“You’ve got an interesting act, sweetheart. A little slow getting going, but you’re probably still a trainee.” He gave her a grin that held more mirth than lechery. “What’s your name?”

She gulped. “Gracie—That is, Grace. Grace Snow. Miss Snow,” she amended, in a belated attempt to put some psychological distance between them. “And I’m not—”

“Miz Snow.” He rolled the words around in his mouth, savoring them as if they were a particularly fine wine. The heat from his body was muddling her brain, and she tried to get out of his lap.

“Mr. Denton—”

“Just the top one, sweetie. The boys are getting restless.” Before she could stop him, he had opened the button at the collar of her white polyester blouse. “You must be new at this.” The tip of his index finger explored the hollow at the base of her throat, making her shiver. “I thought I’d met all of Stella’s girls.”

“Yes, I—I mean, no, I’m—”

“Now don’t be nervous. You’re doin’ just fine. And you’ve got very nice legs, if you don’t mind my sayin’ so.” His nimble fingers opened the next button.

“Mr. Denton!”

“Miz Snow?”

She saw the same amusement in his eyes she’d noted earlier when he was giving Julie the football quiz, and she realized he had slipped another button open, exposing her pale peach demibra with its plunging center and scalloped edging. Her naughty underwear, a foolish indulgence for a homely woman, was her most closely guarded secret, and she gave a small gasp of dismay.

A raucous cheer went up from the crowd, but it wasn’t in response to her pale peach demibra. Instead one of the women standing by the pool had whipped off the top of her bikini and was twirling it around her head. Gracie saw right away that this woman needed something with more support than a demibra.

The men clapped and hooted. She reached for her blouse to clutch it together, but Bobby Tom caught her fingers, trapping them gently in his palm.

“Candi, there, seems to be gettin’ ahead of you, Miz Snow.”

“I thought—Perhaps—” She swallowed hard. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. In private.”

“You want to dance for me in private? That’s real sweet of you, but my guests would be disappointed if I got to see more of you than they did.”

She realized he had unfastened the button at the waistband of her skirt and was lowering the zipper.

“Mr. Denton!” Her voice was louder than she had intended, and the guests standing nearby laughed.

“Call me Bobby Tom, honey. Everybody does.” The corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were laughing at some great private joke. “Now this is interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever known a stripper who wore panty hose.”

“I’m not a stripper!”

“‘Course you are. Why else would you be taking off your clothes in front of bunch of drunken football players?”

“I’m not taking off my—Oh!” His nimble ball handler’s fingers were divesting her of her garments as effortlessly as if they were made of tissue paper, and her blouse fell open. Summoning all her strength, she pushed herself from his lap only to feel her skirt slide over her half slip to her ankles.

Mortified, she reached down to snatch it up. Her face was crimson as she yanked it back into place. How could a woman who prided herself on organization and efficiency have let something so appalling happen? Clutching her blouse together, she forced herself to face him. “I’m not a stripper!”

“Is that so?” He pulled a cigar out of the breast pocket of his robe and rolled it between his fingers. She noticed he didn’t seem at all surprised by her announcement.