Joyride

From the kitchen, Corinne heard the refrigerator door click open and shut. “I’ll take you there, show you what’s what.”

“Where’s there?”

“Boxing ring.”

3

“HERE TO SEE MY WOMAN,” Leo mumbled, shooting a smug look to the squat dude playing security guard at the MGM Grand back entrance. After years of being a Vegas detective, Leo knew all the front, back and sideways doors to the swankiest places—and all the front, back and sideways lines to get into them. Tonight was an amateur boxing match, so security wasn’t tight. No need to pretend he was a promoter or a manager. Just play a swaggering, cocksure boyfriend.

The guy grinned. With that puffy face and missing tooth, not a pretty sight. “Thought Red was Hank’s gal.”

Red. Jackpot! Hank? That was a surprise card.

Leo spat an expletive. “She’s always full of surprises,” he grumbled, shoving past Squatty as though Leo were going to straighten this out, pronto. He strutted down the dark hallway, recalling the dressing rooms were in this general vicinity, all the time listening for following footsteps. None. Cool. The enraged boyfriend act had always been a good fallback for surprise cards.

After the warmth of the Vegas summer air, the chill of the air-conditioning was like a jolt. Sharpened Leo’s senses. And attitude. The clothes helped. Tonight he’d dug through his closet and picked a pair of faded jeans…he had to cool it with the Twinkies. He’d had to suck it in to get the zipper up—didn’t help that Mel watched him, cackling.

Leo had thrown on a black ripped T-shirt that showed off some of the old brawn. Now that he was kicking Twinkies, he was starting to lift weights again. Dom was watching Leo closely. Leo could smell real work coming up. Real work meant being in shape—no brawn, no detective job. Sometimes the world was black-and-white.

He’d let his beard grow the past few days—it went with the “here to see my woman” look, but damn, this new beard itched. And tonight he hadn’t bothered to comb his thick brown hair. Bushy hair, bearded face gave him an edge…a guy needed that edge to swagger backstage at a boxing match. Either you fit in or you were out. Black or white.

Leo scratched his chin. He checked the hallway to the right. It looked familiar. Years ago he’d busted some punk on a drug charge back here. If Leo remembered correctly, the hallway led straight to the dressing rooms…in one of which he’d find the “oversized redhead” who stole the old guy’s Studebaker. He’d forgotten to ask which part of the redhead was “over-sized”—the hair, the…?

Whichever, he’d never known a young oversized redhead—or brunette or blonde—to bump and run. One of the older scams. A favorite of the quick-for-the-buck con who had a few connections and didn’t like it messy.

The Studebaker owner, an old guy named Willy, had said he’d been bumped on the outskirts of Vegas and after pulling over to exchange insurance information, he’d been sucker-punched. When Willy came to in the back seat of his car, he’d seen “Red” driving the car belonging to the guy who’d punched Willy out. Besides the pretty face and fire-engine hair, he’d caught a look of some “mile-long, bronze legs.”

That didn’t exactly narrow down the suspects considering tan, long-legged redheads were a dime a dozen in Sin City. Hell, his ex had been one. His stomach flinched as though he’d been punched. Don’t think of Elizabeth. You went through the last year of hell because she distracted you on a job—don’t let her do it again.

He forced himself to mentally switch gears, recalling the incidents that led up to his playing angry boyfriend backstage at the MGM. The old guy, Willy-something, had jumped out of the car at an intersection, then called the police and filed a report…but luck had been on his side. Two nights later, here at the fights, he’d seen the redheaded bump and runner, wiggling her bikini’d bumpers around the ring, holding up the numbers for each round.

Bingo. Easy collar.

Leo would check the dressing rooms, corner the “oversized redhead” and Dom would give Leo the chance to lead a real case again.

Pretty pathetic to steal a Studebaker over, say, a Beemer. No matter how long he’d been in this business, he’d never figured out people’s tastes. Leo stuck a toothpick in his mouth and strutted down the hallway. Before being shot, he’d been a two-pack-a-day man…until his stay in the hospital when he grumbled for a cigarette and some cocky intern asked if Leo wanted to spend the rest of his life breathing or wheezing. Leo tried to snort some surly response—but ended up coughing instead. That was the day Leo switched from cigs to picks.

As he headed down the MGM Grand hallway, a mix of cheap cologne, sweat and chlorine stung his nostrils. Leo opened the first door. Dark. He tried the second. Boxes, stacked chairs. He tried the third.

A naked blonde in black stiletto heels gasped. Her gray eyes widened, the color reminding him of dark, turbulent clouds. Of how his life had felt these past long months. Fighting to keep his gaze even with hers, he mumbled, “I’m looking for—”

The rest of his sentence was drowned by a shriek as she grabbed a square of white cardboard and held it over her face.

Now, instead of staring into a pair of eyes, he was staring at the number 1, painted in black on a glaringly white square, at least two-feet wide.

To hell with eye contact. He dropped his gaze. Those breasts weren’t the usual fake round numbers one normally saw in Vegas. These were full, pert. Like ripe pears. The pink buds tightened as though touched by his gaze. Damn. He hadn’t touched a woman’s body in so long, his hand twitched as memories of stroking satiny, perfumed skin gorged his senses.

He shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. He meant to finish his question, ask about the redhead, but he couldn’t stop staring. Maybe because it was so surprising to see a woman with natural curves, with skin that glowed fresh and pink with no damn tan lines. The kind of skin that smelled faintly like pineapple or apples, and felt like silk under a man’s tongue…

“Don’t look!” she squealed, shifting the “1” to cover her breasts, which he didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d already seen. Hell, memorized. And in his mind, stroked and fondled…

“Sorry,” he mumbled around the toothpick, feeling about as unsorry as he’d ever felt in his life.

With a second squeal, she realized her bottom half was still unveiled, so she shifted the sign so it covered her thighs. It was a strain, but he maintained steady eye contact, unsure what she’d do next with that cardboard square. He didn’t have to wait long. As her chin quivered, she raised the sign to again cover her face, as though too humiliated for him to see her emotions.

He meant to not look further, to give her some room, some respect. But he’d been born a man, not a saint. It would have been easier to stop the sky from falling than stop his gaze. It fell languidly over flushed skin, noting the shadow indentation along her collarbone, and how her pulse throbbed in that sensual hollow at the base of her neck. Her breathing was rapid. He lowered his gaze another notch. Her breasts heaved with her shaky, uneven breaths.

The lady was nervous.

And, unless he’d lost his every last male instinct, excited.

Her reaction threw his into overdrive. He shifted his stance, determined to get out…after all, a thoughtful man, a gentleman, would leave.

Unfortunately, he’d never been either.

His gaze traveled to the curly triangle between her legs. Some distant corner of his mind registered that the color didn’t match the hair on her head. The thought faded, replaced by more pungent memories. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, remembering the sweet, wet tang of a woman’s perfume….

You’re here for business, buddy, not a body inventory.

With an aching reluctance, he lifted his gaze back to the big number “1” that blocked her face.

Corinne’s knees trembled. Partly out of fear—the only man who’d ever seen her with her clothes off was Tony. And, to be totally honest, she also trembled with excitement. Criminey, she’d never been in the same room—much less, naked—with a guy who looked like a rugged Mel Gibson with a surly, sexy attitude like Billy Idol.

Her knees had gone beyond trembling—they were wobbling. She tightened them, pressing the balls of her feet deeper into the toes of the high heels she’d practiced walking in all day. I should have locked the door! Too late now. At least if she kept her knees rigid and remained standing, she’d be all right. Don’t topple over, don’t topple over. She didn’t even want to think of the view she’d give—sprawled in an extremely unlady-like pose underneath ceiling lights that could double as interrogation lamps.

She peeked over the top of the board and caught the top of his unruly, chestnut-brown hair. It was wild, untamed—like him, no doubt. Throw those piercing green eyes into the mix and he made the term “bad boy” seem mild. She’d never been this close to such a man. She could almost feel his heat, his need…

…his staring at her body as though he had every right to peruse every inch of her nakedness…

Corinne groaned inwardly and leaned her head against the white board she held in front of her face, torn between covering her body or her face. But if she lowered this board, he’d see her look of utter humiliation. And at this very moment, seeing her emotions felt way more revealing than his seeing her uncovered body.

She recalled several days ago when she stood in the foyer of her home, wrapped in see-through plastic. She had been teetering in these same damn heels then, too. But she’d made the mistake of staring into the man’s eyes, the man she was supposed to marry, and saw within his self-absorbed, cold gaze that he didn’t really love her…

A man she couldn’t go back to, which was her only alternative if she didn’t pull this Sandee-gig together. Pull her wits together in front of this stranger, which is exactly what Sandee would do. No squealing for him to leave, no grabbing for her robe, which right now Corinne hadn’t the vaguest where’d she’d tossed it. She sucked in a fortifying breath. What would sassy, sexy Sandee say at a time like this? “May I help you?” Corinne squeaked.

He paused. “I’m, uh, looking for…something.”

His voice, unlike hers, was in control. Rock-bottom husky with a rough edge that sent involuntary chills rippling through Corinne. Jeez, she’d never lost it like this with any man—even her fiancé! She tightened her knees even more to ensure she remained standing upright. She glanced down and caught his feet. Big—was what they said about big feet true?—encased in a pair of worn sneakers. Above that, she saw a few inches of well-washed, roughened denim. Big, rough, with enough bad boy to make her never want to be good again…

The board was quivering uncontrollably, like the rest of her body. She gripped the edges harder, praying her sweaty palms didn’t lose their hold. That red nail polish she’d borrowed from Sandee was probably melting under this sexy guy’s scrutiny.

She cleared her throat. “Well, I’m the only something here.” Forget sassy and sexy…it took all of Corinne’s strength to sound somewhat normal. “And I need to get dressed.” Like that’s a news flash.

“Mind if I look around?”

“Haven’t you seen enough?”

A low, throaty chuckle was her response. Rather than the insidious feeling she’d experienced standing near naked in front of Tony and his bimbo, this man’s sexy chuckle said way more than words. Said he found her desirable. Her skin flamed hot. Probably a lovely shade of needy, I-haven’t-had-sex-in-two-months, take-me-now-now-now pink. Hell, with such visual clues, the sign might as well say, “Caution! Love-starved woman.” She tightened her knees harder.

Had Leo seen enough? Hell, no. A long buried primal urge wanted to see, taste, feel more so damn bad he thought he’d internally combust. Had to stop scoping out the babe, finish scoping out this room, and leave. “My buddy’s wife—she works here—thought she left her purse in one of these rooms.” A reasonable excuse considering lots of women worked here—from show-girls to waitresses. Plus women always related to the purse thing.

“Make it fast. I have to get—”

“Dressed. I know.”

Damn shame considering she looked mind-melding hot in nothing but a pair of heels. He scratched his chin and forced himself to look around. One black rayon workout bag. One silver-beaded purse. For a fleeting moment, he wondered about the different sides of her personality—a no-frills workout bag and beaded evening purse. Athletic and glamorous? Not your typical Vegas showgirl-model type.

Forget the babe. Check out the room. Nothing else indicated anyone else had been here. He debated whether to ask if she’d seen another girl, someone called “Red,” but decided that might show his hand. Time to split.

“Not here,” he croaked. “Wrong room.” Fighting the urge for one last look at pink flesh, he backed out the door.

After shutting it, he leaned his head against the wall and blew out a gust of pent-up angst. He pulled the broken toothpick from his mouth—when had he bitten it in two? Damn he’d lost it in there. Wrong room? Wrong reaction. That blast of white-hot need tearing through his insides was the last thing he needed…

…and the first time he’d experienced it since his wife had betrayed him nearly a year ago. “To hell with Elizabeth,” he murmured, pushing off the wall. If any thought sobered him up, fast, it was of his ex. Focused back on work with a cold-edged intensity, he retraced his steps, scanning the halls for any stray long-legged redheads even while sensing he wouldn’t find her out here.

“Find Red?” asked the security guard as Leo walked past him into the hot, steamy Vegas air.

“Nah.” He stared up at a cloud that floated over the moon’s face just like the sign had covered the lady’s.

“Like you said, man, she’s always full of surprises.”

“Yeah. I said that.” The cloud eased past the moon, slipping into the inky blackness. Surprises. He pulled another toothpick out of the pocket on his T. Something had been wrong in that dressing room—but what? He slipped the pick into his mouth and began working it as thoughts tumbled over each other. No clues as to anyone else being there…the lady had definitely been alone…

Mentally, he grazed her image again…up her long, sinewy legs—the kind that made a pair of heels not just great, but killer. His mental journey halted on her navel, wondering what it’d be like to tongue that teasing indentation, before mentally moving up, past those luscious breasts…

If he had to ID her, he’d describe her body more than her features, which had been hidden behind a sign most of the time. Although during those fleeting moments when he’d been forced to make eye contact, he’d caught those curvy lips, slicked with that same searing red as her nails. Pert nose, the kind that probably crinkled real cute when she laughed.

If she ever laughed. That broad seemed pretty damned serious, and scared, for a showgirl. And then there was that mane of glossy blond hair, so shiny it almost looked metallic.

He whipped the toothpick out of his mouth. Blond hair? He grinned. Hell, there was his clue. If he hadn’t been riding his hormones back there, he’d have put two and two together and realized he’d found his mark. The curly hairs between a lady’s thighs never lied.

That lady’s were a delectable crimson.

CORINNE STARED AT herself in the full-length dressing mirror. “I think the plastic wrap hid more,” she murmured, staring at the black string bikini that covered the essentials, but barely. Thanks to those wedgie cup-things in the top, her breasts had leaped across the alphabet, from “Bs to Ds” as Sandee had said. Corinne wasn’t just hanging out, she was spilling! It’ll be good when Sandee gets back, Corinne thought anxiously, because playing sex bomb is out of this girl’s depth!

The bikini bottom was almost worse than the top. The triangle that covered her privates was smaller than one of the cocktail napkins she found stacked all over Sandee’s apartment. The rest of the bikini was string. Stretchy rayon strings that crossed her thigh and tied in bows on her hipbones.

She’d tied those bows so tight, she could feel the double-knotted, supertight knots boring into her hips. She’d checked out the ring earlier and even though she’d be strutting above people’s heads, she didn’t want some bozo running up and pulling one of those strings. Exposing herself to one stranger was plenty—but exposing herself to a roomful of strangers? She wouldn’t just tighten her knees, she’d tighten her whole body. The first living human being to experience rigor mortis. She’d have to be carried off the stage, like some kind of bikini-clad mannequin.

“And for the rest of her life, Sandee would have to hear about it,” Corinne said, giggling nervously.

The giggle escalated to a laugh. People thought she was Sandee Moray, not Corinne McCourt. Even if the worst happened, people would think it was Sandee who’d been carried out, not Corinne. Extroverted, wild Sandee—no one would believe it!

“That’s me,” Corinne said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Extroverted, wild Sandee!” A thrill raced through her, zinging her insides. When in her entire boring life had she ever been given carte blanche to act as wild and sexy as she wanted? To be a bonafide sex bomb? Never! Tonight, it wouldn’t matter if someone pulled a string—or if the whole damn bikini fell off—because after Corinne left Vegas, no one would ever know it had been her.

Realizing she would survive the very worst that could possibly happen filled her with a giddy confidence.

Looking at her reflection, Corinne stepped to her right, then pranced a little in her heels. “If I feel like prancing, I can.” She shook her butt. “If I feel like shaking my bootie, I can.” She shimmied and tossed her head back. “If I feel like doing the come-get-me shimmy I can!” Suddenly, Corinne stopped as a realization hit her. Maybe she’d been inconspicuous because she’d never felt the freedom to be anything else. Tony had been so possessive, so jealous, that she’d retreated into herself, always trying to figure out how to please him. Blaming herself if he got mad or moody. Reading all those stupid books because she felt responsible for their relationship…books with stupid titles like Making Your Man Happy and 101 Ways to Get Your Guy to Say “Yes!”…were just concrete signs of her insecurity, her putting Tony’s self-centered ego before her own self-esteem.

Hell, if there was any book that had helped her with their relationship, it was How to Make Your Man Howl because it made her stay home that day and face the truth.

Corinne smiled knowingly, and a little sadly, at her reflection. “Being forced into this crazy situation—pretending to be Sandee—is probably the best damn thing that ever happened to mousy, Inconspicuous Corinne!” she whispered, feeling the truth right down to her core.

Knock knock. “Five minutes, doll.”

Had to be Robbie G, the guy who managed this part of the MGM. Sandee had said he expected her to be punctual and sexy. Corinne was definitely the former, and she hoped the latter. “Be right there,” she called out in her best sexy-as-Sandee voice.

She breathed deeply and gave herself one last once-over. Bikini bottom was tied. Breasts were spilling. Makeup was bright, unsmeared. And to top it off, she’d brushed and teased her blond mane into a wild, frothy hairdo that would fit a “Sandee.”

She swiveled and strutted to the door. “I’m the one who should’ve been nicknamed ‘Tiger,”’ she murmured, ready to face the crowd.

But more than that, ready to face the rest of her life.

4

FOR LEO, AFTER SPENDING most of the past year alone, sitting in the midst of this loud, frenzied crowd was like jumping from the frying pan into the inferno. Before the accident, he’d have felt comfortable in this scene. Dug the noise, energy, and if not on duty, he’d have savored a cold beer and cursed at the fight like the rest of ’em.

And he’d have had Elizabeth at his side. His wife, the woman he adored. Hell, worshiped. His buddies had always good-naturedly jibed him, joked that Leo was “whipped” whenever he ducked early out of a card game or a drink at the bar. But he loved every moment of it ’cause he knew they were so jealous, their organs were green. Jealous because he, Leo Wolf-man, was the luckiest bastard on the planet Earth. Great career, gorgeous sexy-as-hell wife, loving home.

But now, looking back, he wondered if any other guy in the history of civilization had ever been such a sucker.

Here he was, nearly a year and a half later, sitting in a crowd before the start of a fight, wishing that gnawing feeling in his gut would shrink, go away. Ever since he’d been shot, he’d carried this feeling like some kind of invisible wound. It’d been with him so long, it was a part of him, like an arm or leg. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he had crazy thoughts. Wondered if he lost that gnawing pain, would he lose the will to live? Weird that some nagging, troubling feeling would have the power of life or death. As though if it weren’t there, he’d have nothing to ground him.

His shrink had said such a feeling was normal after an extreme trauma. Called it part of his “suffering” from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Suffering.

He’d finally asked her to stop using that term. He hated it. Made him sound vulnerable for crissake. Something he’d never been—until that drug dealer shot him point-blank. When Leo fell, wondering if the fire in his chest would be the last thing he’d ever feel, his gaze had met Elizabeth’s. And in that horrible moment, he’d seen the truth.

She didn’t love him.

The shrink had turned the tables on Leo with that one. Made him stop saying that. Explained ad nauseum that addicts like Elizabeth had problems. That she had loved something else more than anything in the world. More than her family. Or her health.

Or him.

He tore the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it on the cement floor, as though he could rip the memories out of his head and throw them aside. He’d never trust a woman like that again. Marriage and families were for other men, not this one.

The buzz of the crowd intensified. A fighter strode jauntily down the walkway, a towel draped around his head like some kind of backstreet sheik. A small entourage, walking with the same cocksure strut, moved with him. The sheik’s noblemen, claiming their right to fame with “We Got the Power” baseball caps adorning their heads and raised fists asserting that power. As the swarthy fighter ducked into the ring, a shudder of noise swept through the crowd. Then a second boxer, surrounded by his entourage, wearing “Kick A” T-shirts, strode down the opposing ramp, accompanied by loud rap. A woman in the row in front of Leo stood and yelled, “Kill ’im, Ralphie!” Her bloodthirsty ferocity clashed with her shiny beige stretch pants and silver-sequined tube top.

The woman’s cry was like a cry to battle for the crowd, who unleashed a cacophony of screams and boos, as though someone had taken the lid off their primal urges.

Leo’s own primal urge kicked in with a seismic jolt when the leggy blonde, the one he’d just seen naked, stepped through the parted ropes. As she leaned over, he caught a view of cleavage that made his mouth go dry. For a moment, he felt lost in the dark crevice between those fleshy mounds. And underneath that piece of black nothing called a bikini top, he knew were hidden those rosebud nipples.

She straightened. From where he sat, four rows back, he could almost catch the flash of gray in her eyes. Or maybe his mind was playing tricks. Maybe he wanted to be closer, wanted to again probe those stormy eyes, figure out her story. His gaze wandered. She looked damn hot in that nothing bikini…even hotter without it. Her hands momentarily bunched into fists. Nervous? A Vegas showgirl, or here called a ring-card girl, who was accustomed to flashing her wares in front of hundreds of people? But then, back in that dressing room she hadn’t seemed like your generic ring-card girl, the way she shook holding that sign in front of her face.