Hot Contact

Disappointment twisted a knot in her anticipation, choking it off.

Scott welcomed a couple dressed as pro wrestlers then pointed them toward the bar. “Why don’t you just call him at the P.D.?” he asked Arianna.

“It doesn’t suit my purposes.”

He turned to her, his brows raised, a smile flickering. “So you weren’t telling me the truth when you asked me to include him on the guest list. It’s personal, not business.”

“It’s business, in a personal way,” she offered, along with a smile. The business was her own.

“He likes beautiful women. He would like you a lot, Arianna.”

“Flatterer,” she said in return. She didn’t want Detective Joe Vicente of the LAPD to like her, however. The one time they’d met, last December, she’d felt a pull toward him that seemed reciprocated, but he hadn’t followed up on it. Neither had she. Mutual attraction. Mutual reluctance. She’d been glad then. He would’ve been hard to say no to, but she definitely would’ve said no.

“Have I told you how stunning you look in that flamenco costume?” Scott eyed the large red rose tucked behind her ear in her low-coiled hair. He winked. “I wouldn’t mind a private performance.”

She gave him a sultry look—or she hoped it was sultry, but she was wearing a mask, so she wasn’t sure he could tell. She knew he had no interest in a private performance; he had a beautiful wife whom he adored. But Arianna raised an arm anyway, assumed a classic dance pose and clicked her castanets above her head. Her ruffled skirt brushed her knees in front and her ankles in back. She’d wanted to draw Detective Vicente’s attention tonight. A wasted effort now.

With a laugh she tugged on Scott’s long white barrister’s wig then walked away, wandering out to the backyard bar by the pool, stopping here and there to talk with other guests as she went. She had the bartender add another toothpick full of olives to the drink she would baby all evening, then went in search of a quiet spot to consider her next move. How could she get Joe Vicente’s unofficial help?

She moved along a path around the pool, past the cabana and into a dense profusion of fragrant vegetation, following the sound of trickling water to its source—a rock waterfall in a hidden grotto, humid and verdant.

She stopped when she saw a man dressed in black standing next to the falls, lost in his own world, a tall, lean man with dark hair, wearing high boots, snug pants, loosely flowing shirt and a dashing hat, tipped forward rakishly. A mask hid half his face. Zorro. He carried himself well, his posture perfect, with a hint of the arrogance Zorro was known for. She expected him to draw his sword and slash a Z in the air at any moment.

Intrigued, Arianna straightened her satin mask and took a step toward him. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be a complete waste, after all.

Joe’s nose twitched as a spicy scent assaulted him then radiated to the far reaches of his body, creating a sudden, intense heat. He searched for the fragrant flower source but saw instead a woman approaching him—tall and dark-haired, with a body better than dreams could usually conjure up. Her costume was exotic-looking. Skinny straps, low cut, fitting each amazing curve snugly and ending in ruffles that undulated with every step. Long legs, high heels. Red and black, satin and lace. A rose behind her ear. Red lips. A small beauty mark at the corner of her mouth. Black mask trimmed in lace. Dark, unfathomable eyes behind it.

She looked like sex, if it had a human name.

“Buenos noches,” she said with a perfect accent, her teeth white against the red lipstick.

“Buenos noches.” He guessed her age as thirty. She wasn’t wearing a ring.

“May I join you?” she asked.

He held out a hand to help her negotiate the final steps leading to the substantial rock ledge where he stood. Her breasts were covered only by a layer of smooth lace, her nipples pressing against the fabric. He managed to shift his focus to her face as she pulled her hand free.

“Thank you,” she said, then looked around. “This is beautiful, isn’t it? I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“You are. Thank you.”

She smiled.

Joe tried to place her. There was something familiar about her. Her voice? Her body? With that kind of self-assurance, an actress, he decided. Could he have seen her in a movie? Joe knew most of the criminal attorneys in the L.A. area. None of them looked like her. If she would take off her mask…

“So, you’re not wearing your cape, Zorro,” the woman said.

“It’s not a black-tie event.”

Her laugh was light and musical and seemed to have magic powers. The burn in his stomach cooled to a simmer. “Do you dance?” he asked.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

“I mean as you’re dressed—flamenco.” He wanted to see her in motion, to smell her spicy perfume as her body heated up. It had been so long since he’d felt anything remotely close to lust, he almost didn’t recognize the signs—how his breathing turned shallow and his pulse pounded and his body went on alert, as if a caution sign had been placed in front of him, a sign he wanted to plow through. Caution be damned.

“I dance,” she said, confidence in the lift of her chin, the move emphasizing her slender neck.

He waited. She didn’t offer to perform. Tension hovered between them, although it was more anticipation than uneasiness.

“How do you know Scott?” she asked, breaking the silence.

He’d started to get swept into a fantasy. Her question brought him back to earth. “Professionally. You?”

“The same.”

That nagging sense of familiarity returned. Had Scott defended her? A case that generated media attention?

She gestured toward the path leading back to the pool area. “I think perhaps I interrupted you, after all,” she said, her expression as apologetic as her mask would allow. “I’ll go.”

“No.” He caught her by the hand then didn’t release her. He hadn’t realized how little he’d spoken. Obviously he had made her uncomfortable. “I had a rough day.” Week. Month. Year. “I thought I dreamed you up.”

Her dark gaze held him captive. “I’m quite real.”

“I can see that.” He didn’t know what else to say. She was like a beacon in the fog of his world. He wanted to follow the light, to let it shine on him, to brighten his existence. Pure selfishness, he admitted, since he had nothing to offer her or any woman except dead emotions, a screwed-up mind, an ulcer, probably, and the short fuse of a man long deprived of uninterrupted sleep. Plus a job in jeopardy. Oh, yeah. He had a lot going for him, all right.

Take back your life. Again the lieutenant’s words assaulted him. Suddenly he wanted his life back. No, not back, but better.

The woman continued to study him. He didn’t break eye contact. Couldn’t. Something about her demanded that he look deeply into her eyes, to allow her to look into his, not an easy feat with masks on. Finally she set her martini glass aside and took a step toward him.

“Dance?” she asked, soft and low, as music filtered in from hidden speakers.

He took her into his arms. Her body felt lithe and limber as they moved to the slow rhythm. He pulled the rose from her hair and dragged it across her cheek. Her eyes glittered darkly. He went hard with need.

One strap of her sexy dress slid off her shoulder and down her arm. He hooked a finger into the fallen strap and dragged it onto her shoulder. She didn’t protest nor did she encourage him toward more. He let his finger slide down the strap until it met fabric. Her breast cushioned his hand; he felt her breath stop then tugged her toward him, his gaze on hers, lowered his head, brought his mouth close—

“Well. I see you’ve met,” Scott Simons said into the magic moment.

Joe swore.

Two

The stranger’s single, explicit curse flattered Arianna, but before she could decide why, he took a step back from her. Regret and relief assaulted her simultaneously. She was aroused, more than she’d been in a long time, and she’d known him for ten minutes! She should be grateful that Scott had come along….

But she wasn’t.

“Everyone has unmasked,” Scott said, grinning as if something momentous was about to happen.

Arianna glanced at the man dressed as Zorro. Would he take off his mask? He seemed reluctant—or maybe he was still caught up in what they’d just experienced. She’d danced with him because she’d recognized something even his mask couldn’t hide—a kindred spirit. Battle weariness. Like her. So they’d distracted each other from whatever demons haunted them.