Joyride

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.

That same sign that someone was handing her now. For a moment, she surveyed the crowd, as though sizing them up. Again, not your typical ring-card girl tactic. These long-legged babes thrived on the thrill, the flash. In all his years in Vegas, he’d never seen one of them sum up a crowd as though trying to figure out if they were friends or foes.

Then those red lips flashed a smile that was more telling than anything he’d seen up to this point. That smile was pure, real. Hell, her whole face smiled, betraying an internal sweetness that struck him harder than a left hook. It was like watching Elizabeth Hurley go Pollyanna.

The girl lifted the number high over her head and began walking across the ring, waving the number as though nobody had ever learned how to count. She seemed a bit stiff-legged, then eased into a long-legged stride that made Leo’s heart pound with every step. Maybe she’d appeared nervous a moment ago, but this lady was getting into it. He could hardly believe her confident strut and the way her tushie swayed. And what was she doing now? Prancing? That little bombshell was prancing around the periphery of the ring, waving the sign, making the number “1” about the sexiest, steamiest number he’d ever seen in his life.

He blew out a puff of air and fumbled in his T-shirt pocket for another toothpick. Damn, he was out. He needed something to chew on. He rubbed his palms briskly together, wishing he could quell this burst of nervous energy, one of the side-effects of post-traumatic stress. If he were at home, he’d go outside and continue some remodeling task on his old Air-stream trailer, his saving-grace hobby this past year. But he wasn’t home, he was stuck here, so he planted his hands on his knees, the act somewhat grounding.

Focus your mind on business. He glanced at her hair, how the lights reflected off its fake blond dye job. She might have a Pollyanna, pure-as-driven-snow smile, but that hair color wasn’t natural—a little secret he now shared with “Red.”

This lady was a con.

Just like she’d changed the color of her hair, she’d change her story if he cornered her. He’d been here before. And Leo could out-con a con anyway. He’d just never dealt with one who made packing a bikini more lethal than packing a weapon.