Joyride

“Bam!” Sandee snapped her fingers. “Like a megaton of bricks. So after the second-date dinner—steak and candlelight, Cuz, none of that cheap stuff—when he takes me for a ride outside town, I figure the guy’s gonna pop the question.” Sandee took another sip of her Mai Tai while wriggling her perfectly plucked eyebrows at Corinne.

“So?” Corinne asked, feeling thirteen again as she listened to her wild, sexy cousin tell forbidden tales.

“So he pops all right!” Sandee slammed down her bottle. “Pops the rear end of some shiny antique car! Now we’re off the side of the road, it’s dark, and Hank and some old dude get out to exchange insurance info.”

Corinne was wanting illicit tales of lust and love, not cars and insurance. Hiding her disappointment, she helped herself to the last spicy wedge of relleno, waiting for the rest of the story.

“Suddenly,” Sandee said, her voice dropping to a dramatic low, “Hank opens the back door and shoves this old guy’s limp body into the car! I yell, ‘What the hel—?”’ Sandee blinked. “Anyway, I yell some stuff, then Hank yells back, ‘Cool it. You drive this car back to your place. I’ll meet you there.”’

Corinne almost choked on the relleno. “You—” She coughed. “You drove some dead guy back here?” She looked around, half expecting to see a leg sticking out from underneath a chair.

“He wasn’t dead.” Sandee rapped her lighter against the thick glass top of the coffee table, the tap, tap, tap adding dramatic suspense. “I get to a stop light near the Strip and Mr. Back Seat suddenly comes to life, hops outta the car and runs like hell. The light turns green and I floor it. Last thing I need is Mr. Almost-Dead flagging down a cop and pointing at Hank’s car, which yours truly is driving!”

Corinne waited. But instead of explaining further, Sandee began adjusting her top so both boobs bulged the same bulge amount. This was a woman who knew her priorities.

“So,” Corinne finally said, “is that the end of the story?” Although with Sandee, one never knew the real story.

Sandee, satisfied she was bulging appropriately, stopped her adjustment and leveled Corinne a look. “And the end of Hank! He keeps calling, calling, but I want nuthin’ to do with a bump-and-run dude. Especially when he endangered me over an old Studebaker!”

Corinne only heard the words “bump and run.” The term Sandee had used on the phone. “What’s does, uh, ‘bump and run’ mean?” Corinne took a quick, involuntary breath in anticipation of the answer. It had to be as fiery as the color of Sandee’s hair.

“It’s…” Sandee lowered her gaze, suddenly preoccupied with one of the sequins on her fuchsia-pink sandal. “It’s nuthin’ really.”

Just like her cousin to avoid the question when she was up to no good. Definitely “Sandee Trouble,” but Corinne didn’t care. She was aching to know. “Bump and run” had to be better than any chapter in How to Make Your Man Howl. Probably a book in itself! “Tell me more,” she whispered, almost losing her voice in her thrill-drenched state.

“I gotta split town,” Sandee said matter of factly.

Not exactly the “more” Corinne wanted. But before she could elaborate, Sandee began speed-talking again.

“After that crazy stunt Hank pulled, I gotta put some distance between me and him, which is where you come in. You can stay at my place—there’s a garage for the Ferrari. All I ask is you fill in for me at work.”

Corinne scuffed one stiletto-heeled foot across the rose-pink carpeting. “Fill in?”

“I’m so new there,” Sandee said, waving her hand as though this was the itsiest-bitsiest favor in the world, “nobody even knows me! Just show up on time, do the gig and split. I’ll be gone only a week or two—just enough time for Hank to cool his burners. And speaking of lover boy, he probably won’t show up at work, but if he does, just tell ’im to get lost. Considering we only had a few dates, he’ll easily believe you’re me. Tell ’im you got a hankerin’ to be blond if he asks. And he wouldn’t dare show up here ’cause my neighbor is The Phantom. You know, that hunky, mega-body star wrestler.”

“Oh, good,” Corinne said, her voice breaking on “ood.” Mega-body star wrestler? This was so dangerous, so delicious, she shivered. “I could use the money.” And the adventure. Heck, maybe she’d get a tattoo, too. Hello Angelina!

“Yeah,” Sandee agreed, arching an eyebrow. “This could work.”

Work. What was this job? Knowing Sandee, it could be anything from lion tamer to exotic dancer. Corinne better fess up about her minimal job experience so Sandee didn’t over-estimate her cousin’s abilities. “The, uh, only thing I’ve done for the past five years is payroll invoices for Universal Shower Door.”

“Perfecto!” Sandee stood, tugged on the bottom of her shorts, as though that did any good, then picked up the tray and sashayed back into the kitchen. “Shower doors are a lot like modeling. Not much between you and the world.”

“Modeling?” Corinne gulped. “I, uh, haven’t had a whole lot of experiencing doing that…”

Sandee paused at the door to the kitchen and flashed a grin. “It’ll be a breeze, sweetie,” she cooed before disappearing.

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…