“I don’t think—”
“I can see that. Don’t worry, I’m smart enough for both of us. Can I have the address, please?”
She heard him swear under his breath, then the shuffle of paper on the other end of the phone.
“It’s called Monkey Shine,” he said, reading out an address on Sunset Strip. “He wants to meet at nine tonight.”
“Fine. I’ll meet you there at eight-thirty,” Claudia said, underlining the address and time on her notepad.
“You really want to do this? Even though I’m giving you an out?” Leandro asked.
Claudia lifted the phone away from her ear and stared at the receiver. What planet was this guy from? Some place where women still met their men at the door with pipe and slippers in hand?
“News flash—having a penis doesn’t make you more capable of doing anything except urinating while standing up,” she said. “I’ll see you at eight-thirty. Don’t be late.”
THE LITTLE GRUB flexing his extortion muscles had picked a suitably sleazy locale to begin his apprenticeship, Leandro decided. Monkey Shine had grimy painted-over windows out front and a neon sign with several letters burned out. Inside wasn’t much better—sticky carpet, the stink of stale beer and cigarettes, and lighting so dim he could barely see his hand in front of his face.
Booths lined the left-hand wall, a bar the right. He made his way to the latter on the basis that the illuminated Jack Daniel’s sign above the glass rack offered marginally more light. He was early—Claudia wasn’t due for another ten minutes—but he’d wanted to check the place out first. If it was beyond the pale, he’d meet her at the door and lay down the law. He was sure she could hold her own in the boardroom or on the studio floor, but this was different. This was shady underbelly stuff, and she was so small he could pick her up and carry her around in his shirt pocket. He didn’t want to be responsible for her getting hurt.
Ordering a Miller, he narrowed his eyes and scanned the room. There was a doorway at the back with a sign hanging over it announcing that pool tables and toilets could be found on the other side. It was a seedy place, but it didn’t seem to have more than its fair share of bums, drunks, louts and hookers. He figured he’d have trouble convincing Claudia she should go home without bullet holes or a forensic body outline to support his case.
He’d just taken his first mouthful of beer when something sharp and hard hit him on the back of the neck. Frowning, he shot a look to the ceiling to see if the sky was, indeed, falling, then flicked a look over his shoulder. The second peanut caught him just below the eye, and he jerked his head back instinctively.
She was seated in the shadows of the third booth from the door, and Leandro shook his head as he slid in opposite her.
“Had to check it out on your own, didn’t you?” he said.
“Great minds think alike,” she said.
She was wearing a sleeveless black turtleneck sweater, and he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the way the thin knit clung to her breasts. She might be small, but her breasts looked more than enough to satisfy any man.
“Fancy that, my breasts are in the same place they were last night. A miracle,” she said dryly.
As always with her, he found himself smiling.
“You’re a sexy lady. I’m only human.” He shrugged.
“Subhuman, you mean,” she sniffed.
“There’s nothing sub about me, babe,” he said with a cocky grin.
She eyed him steadily. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He took a mouthful of beer, noticing that she was nursing a cola and something.
“Did you talk to Alicia?” he asked.
“Tried. She started crying the moment I said the words Wes and videotape in the same sentence. I think she’s been holding out on us,” she said dryly.
“How so?”
“It was an Academy Award winning performance—innocent-damsel-in-distress stuff. I felt like Dr. Mengele by the time I’d confirmed the facts. Wish I got that kind of performance from her on set.”
“You think they were crocodile tears?” he asked skeptically. “She’s seventeen, on her way up. Pretty legitimate to be freaked out that one moment of weakness might ruin it all.”
She wrinkled her nose, tilted her head to one side. “In my experience, women who do the whole sex tape thing are not wilting flowers. But I reserve my judgment until I see the footage. Maybe Wes had to lay a trail of bread-crumbs to coax my innocent little Bambi to the bed. But I think not.”
Leandro eyed her over his beer.
“You’re a real hard-ass, is that it?” he asked.
“I’m a realist. And, unlike Alicia, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with sex how you like it. The stinger for her is that she’s got a profile, but maybe this will teach her to be a little smarter in the future. Shoot, watch, erase. I’ll get a T-shirt made for her.”
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about,” he said.
Her near-black eyes glinted in the dim light. She looked mysterious and sexy and forbidden.
“I’ve seen Sex, Lies and Videotape,” she said, shrugging one shoulder negligently.
“Hmm,” he said, grinning at her. “And the rest.”
Suddenly she slid along the booth seat and stood, crossing to his side.
“Shove over,” she said.
He stared at her. “What…?”
She rolled her eyes. “So the con man has somewhere to sit. I don’t want to rub elbows with him. He might have cooties,” she said.
“Right.”
He felt like a real dumb-ass as he slid along the bench seat to make room for her. What had he thought was going to happen? That she was about to give him a little demonstration of sex how she liked it?
The booths were designed for intimacy, and he found himself brushing against her as she sat beside him. Her scent enveloped him, and he inhaled surreptitiously.
“Bulgari,” she said matter-of-factly. “Drives men nuts.”
He let out a crack of laughter. She never missed a trick.
“You sure it’s the perfume?” he asked.
She turned her face toward him, and he admired the sweep of her cheekbones and the heart-shaped fullness of her mouth. Her nose was straight and proud, a delicate, feminized version of his own Greek prow, and her teeth flashed white against the plum of her lipstick.
He was as
