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…
“Sorry,” he mumbled around the toothpick, feeling about as unsorry as he’d ever felt in his life.
With a second squeal, she realized her bottom half was still unveiled, so she shifted the sign so it covered her thighs. It was a strain, but he maintained steady eye contact, unsure what she’d do next with that cardboard square. He didn’t have to wait long. As her chin quivered, she raised the sign to again cover her face, as though too humiliated for him to see her emotions.
He meant to not look further, to give her some room, some respect. But he’d been born a man, not a saint. It would have been easier to stop the sky from falling than stop his gaze. It fell languidly over flushed skin, noting the shadow indentation along her collarbone, and how her pulse throbbed in that sensual hollow at the base of her neck. Her breathing was rapid. He lowered his gaze another notch. Her breasts heaved with her shaky, uneven breaths.
The lady was nervous.
And, unless he’d lost his every last male instinct, excited.
Her reaction threw his into overdrive. He shifted his stance, determined to get out…after all, a thoughtful man, a gentleman, would leave.
Unfortunately, he’d never been either.
His gaze traveled to the curly triangle between her legs. Some distant corner of his mind registered that the color didn’t match the hair on her head. The thought faded, replaced by more pungent memories. He dragged his tongue along the inside of his cheek, remembering the sweet, wet tang of a woman’s perfume….
You’re here for business, buddy, not a body inventory.
With an aching reluctance, he lifted his gaze back to the big number “1” that blocked her face.
Corinne’s knees trembled. Partly out of fear—the only man who’d ever seen her with her clothes off was Tony. And, to be totally honest, she also trembled with excitement. Criminey, she’d never been in the same room—much less, naked—with a guy who looked like a rugged Mel Gibson with a surly, sexy attitude like Billy Idol.
Her knees had gone beyond trembling—they were wobbling. She tightened them, pressing the balls of her feet deeper into the toes of the high heels she’d practiced walking in all day. I should have locked the door! Too late now. At least if she kept her knees rigid and remained standing, she’d be all right. Don’t topple over, don’t topple over. She didn’t even want to think of the view she’d give—sprawled in an extremely unlady-like pose underneath ceiling lights that could double as interrogation lamps.
She peeked over the top of the board and caught the top of his unruly, chestnut-brown hair. It was wild, untamed—like him, no doubt. Throw those piercing green eyes into the mix and he made the term “bad boy” seem mild. She’d never been this close to such a man. She could almost feel his heat, his need…
…his staring at her body
