Anticipation

“Triple E’s in a box,” Matt said. Matt had a serious obsession with large breasts.

“Notice she’s a blonde.” Tim pointed out the obvious. “And she even comes with prerecorded messages, personalized just for you.”

Matt snickered. “We know how important deep conversation is to you.”

“If you don’t like Sheila, we can return her for you. She had a sister in the box next to her,” AJ said.

He looked the box over. “On no. I’ll keep her. I have a feeling Sheila and I are going to get along just fine.”

FIVE DAYS LATER, Nick set up his laptop on the small table in the corner of the hotel room. He put his underwear in the dresser, hung his shirts and slacks and stored his suitcase in the hotel closet. He crossed the room to the box sitting on one of the chairs next to the table.

“Okay, Sheila, my love, time for you to come out of the box.” Nick opened the box, laughing. He wasn’t giving AJ, Matt and Tim the upper hand with this joke. No way. He’d brought the lovely Sheila along. Now he planned to blow her up, take a digital photo of them together and e-mail it to the guys.

Sheila turned out to be five foot three and all plastic woman. Nick shook his head. He’d managed to make it to almost thirty without firsthand knowledge of a blow-up doll. The lovely Sheila should at least put on a shirt. That’s all he needed, to be arrested for Internet porn involving a blowup doll. He pulled a button-down out of the mirrored closet, crossed the room and slid one of her arms into the shirtsleeve. He grabbed her hand to pull it through.

“Ohhh, Nicky, would you like me to talk dirty to you?” said a tinny, pseudo sexy voice with a distinct Australian accent, startling him.

He’d forgotten. The well-endowed Sheila came with personalized recorded messages. Apparently the key to conversation with Sheila was squeezing her hand.

What the heck. He might as well hear what she had to say. Nick squeezed again.

“Oh. Nicky, you’re so big.”

He laughed and listened to the next message.

“Nicky, big boy, I’d really like you to put your big rod inside me.”

“Nicky, you make me so hot.”

“Nicky, I’ll do whatever you want me to do. I’m your personal love slave.”

“I’ve been so lonely without you, Nicky. Come to Mama.”

“Oh, Nicky, you’re too much man for me. Maybe I should invite my hot, horny friend over, too.”

“You’ve been a very naughty boy, Nicky. Do you need a spanking?”

Okay. Sheila’s prerecorded messages offered a little something for everyone. He pulled her other arm through the shirt and smoothed it over her shoulders, encountering a switch on the back of her neck. He flipped the switch and Sheila, the Aussie lass, took off like a plastic doll possessed, vibrating wildly from the waist down, her triple-E’s bobbing like water balloons in a juggling act. Laughing, Nick reached beneath the blond hair and turned her off.

Sheesh. He had to hand it to his buddies, when they bought a blow-up doll, they bought the top of the line.

And despite all of her attributes, Sheila didn’t do a thing for him. It’d been so long since he’d had any kind of contact, if you discounted Polly’s breasts brushing against his back, he was relieved Sheila wasn’t doing a thing for him.

He set his digital camera up on the table and positioned Sheila into a seated, semireclined pose in one of the chairs. Setting the timer, he ran over and perched on her lap, one arm draped around her shoulders. The camera went off and he checked the shot. Excellent. In no time he downloaded it to his laptop, added the caption “I think I’m in love” and sent it to AJ, Tim and Matt. He grinned. Those jerks would roll on the floor.

He was in control and decided he’d head to the bar downstairs for a burger and a beer.

SERENA CHECKED HER weapon in her purse before she left the stall of the hotel bar’s bathroom. That was one of the challenges of going undercover in a short skirt, thigh-high boots and a form-fitting top—it didn’t leave many options to carry concealed. Now she just had to find her man.

She entered the dimly lit bar, typical for a hotel lounge. As plans went, hers was pretty loose. She’d hang out in the bar, as if she was waiting for someone and pray that no one mistook her for a hooker—only because she wouldn’t be able to blow her cover by arresting any potential john that propositioned her.

She’d noticed a karaoke sign when she’d come in. If she didn’t find a guy fitting Slick Nick’s description, she already planned to get up and perform the old Devo song, “Whip It,” in hopes of catching Mr. Paddle-Me’s attention. And if that didn’t work, next she’d go to Boy George’s “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” In the past Serena’s success came in having a loose plan and then punting—or improvising—as the situation unfolded. Although Captain Worth had argued with her more than once that she should always have a contingency plan, her way had worked just fine on all her other cases.

She hoped it didn’t come down to karaoke because she couldn’t sing, couldn’t dance and she didn’t look like a dominatrix. Not that she supposed there was a set formula for how a dominatrix looked, but she was fairly certain on most days she didn’t fit the bill.

She knew she looked like the girl next door with her honey-blond hair, snub nose and freckles. She looked like a girl you could trust and confide in, which was a big bonus in catching crooks, because for the most part, crooks couldn’t keep their mouths shut and they always thought she was the perfect person to spill their guts to.

After nine years, it still cracked her up, the look on the criminal-du-jour’s face when she whipped out her cuffs and started reciting the Miranda.

She slid onto a stool at one end of the bar, which afforded a sweeping view of the room without leaving her back exposed, and ordered a wine cooler. Lesson number one in bar crawling: Never order a drink with a wide mouth on the glass. It was too easy for a scumbag to slip in a date-rape drug. Martini glasses were the worst.

“Buy you a drink?” A guy with red hair slid onto the stool next to her. He had the look of a regular about him. She’d worked undercover long enough to recognize the signs—the casual nod to the barkeep, the ultracasual dress. And she’d found it sort of amazing that even hotel bars had a retinue of regulars, just like freaking Cheers.

“I’m covered, but thanks.” She made sure she sounded friendly and nonthreatening.

“Mind a little company?”

“Not at all. I’m waiting for my friend and it can be a little intimidating sitting in a bar alone, if you know what I mean.”

“Especially a pretty girl like you.” Cheeser. She pasted on a smile and managed not to roll her eyes. “I’m Stephen…with a ph.” His smile said he thought that was a clever line. She’d bet the farm it wasn’t the first time he’d used it.

“Serena. It’s nice to meet you, Stephen.”

“Serena and Stephen. Bet you can’t say that five times fast.”

Oh, boy, he was a live one. Small wonder he was alone. “I’d better not even try it.”

“You know, tonight’s karaoke night.”

“I saw the sign when I came in. Are you a performer?”

Stephen preened a bit. “I’ve been known to take the mike a time or two.” He pressed his knee against hers. “I’m really good in a duet…if you’re up for it…later.”

Heaven forbid. She shook her head, angling for shy and modest instead of horrified. “I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like that before.”

And if luck ran her way, she wouldn’t tonight. She basically sounded like a cat yowling in heat when she sang. Not pretty.

“I bet you’re a fast learner and I’d love to give you a lesson or two.”

“That’s a generous offer, Stephen.”

“Drink up and order another one. It helps take the edge off before you perform.”

“I think I’d better take it slow. What kind of songs do you like to perform? I’m sure you have favorites.”

Typical man. Ask him a question about himself and he was off and running. She just had to look interested and interject the occasional “hmmm,” “really” or “oh, that’s interesting,” and he’d drone on endlessly about his karaoke prowess.

Stephen was in the middle of a performance recount, when Slick Nick arrived. Serena spotted him the moment he walked into the bar. Six feet and a few inches, black hair, cut short and brushed back—a good cut, an expensive cut, not the twelve-buck, walk-in-off-the-street cut that she splurged on for herself. Nice clothes. Thirtyish. Obviously in good shape. He carried himself like a man comfortable in his own skin, assured, as if he was used to people looking at him.