Read Heather Graham for Free Online Page B

but it just seemed true that you could take the girl out of the bayou, you just couldn’t take the bayou out of the girl. A good Catholic bayou girl went to church.
    And she went to Mama Lili Mae’s.
    “Cindy, you’re on,” April Jagger called to her, something of a warning note in her tone. April was tall, lithe, stunningly beautiful. Her skin was such a silky shade of black that almost everyone in creation felt the temptation to touch it. No one did. April was married. She danced at the club, and that was that. Dancing made her good money. She had a one-year-old baby girl and intended to move far away from Louisiana within the next few years. April hadn’t had the opportunity for a college education herself, but she was smart. Her father had died in a storm working on another man’s boat; her mother had raised eight children alone. April and her husband, Marty, one of the four male dancers at the club, had already invested their incomes well.
    “Honey, you’re on!” April persisted.
    Duval got ticked when his girls didn’t make their cues on time. He could be a tough boss. Harry Duval, like a lot of his girls, had grown up the hard way, half in the bayou, half in the streets. Somehow, Harry had come out one striking-looking man. There was white blood in him and there was black blood in him, and he was copper-toned with surprising green-gold eyes and strong, well-molded features. He kept himself up, too. At six-something, he was tall and powerful. He’d never beat a girl, not that Cindy had heard, and modern day as it might be, lots of guys who ran clubs still beat their women. He paid fair; when his girls kept men “company,” he expected a commission. And no girl had to take on any john. Working for Harry might be sad, and Cindy had enjoyed her years of education enough to know that she was damned sad; but life being what it was, she had responsibilities, and Harry kept her supporting those responsibilities.
    “I’m going; I’m on my way,” she promised April. Usually, they would have joked. They would have made some silly comment to one another. Not tonight. They were both white-faced. Gina had been murdered.
    “You okay, honey?” April asked her.
    “Yeah.”
    April shivered fiercely. “I’m not. I mean, you think a girl has met a decent guy, and...my God, do you think he could have done that to Gina?”
    “You mean Jon?”
    “Yeah, I mean Jon.”
    “No. No, I don’t,” Cindy said.
    “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.”
    “Yeah, sure. But—”
    “But what?”
    Cindy shrugged. “Gina was keeping lots of company; she had lots of friends.” Again, she hesitated. “Gina was a magnet. People fell for her, loved her. She made people mad because they loved her sometimes. Friends turned enemy and the like.”
    “Well, you be careful, do you hear? I’ve got Marty, and I won’t be leaving here without him, I can promise you.”
    “I’ll be careful. Very careful,” Cindy promised, shivering herself.
    “Get going!” April urged.
    Cindy hurried from the dressing room hallway to the stage wings. She was somewhat breathless when she heard the announcer.
    “Here she is, gentlemen—and you ladies out there enjoying the fine, sweet jazz sounds of Annabella’s—a little bit of ever-lovin’ fluff from home-grown waters, Miss Delilah Delite!”
    The voice booming huskily over the speakers introduced Cindy. Some of the girls used their own names, or stage names that played off their own names. She did not. On stage, she was a different person.
    The lights were down as she took her position by the long, phallic dance pole stage center. The music started with a slow gyration. She followed it with practiced undulations of her body, letting her Grecian costume—held together in strategic locations with Velcro—flow sensually.
    Full house tonight. Men were packed into the tables right by the stage. All men. Women did frequent the club, many of them, as a matter of fact. Some nouveau riche,