to a best bud. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll live.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dallas sighed long and hard, then scratched at his clean-shaven head. “Gonna be tough. I really did love her. Still do.”
“What now? Walking away won’t be easy. I think it’ll hurt like hell.”
Bryce had walked away from lust. The last infatuation and breakup hadn’t fazed him either. Catherine, a good-looking curvy accountant, had sought better-fertilized pastures when he’d flat out admitted having no interest in marriage. Ever.
“Hurts now.”
“Go after her, Coop. Talk to her. Get this mess straightened out. You’ll stay together if you love each other. If not, at least you tried.”
Seventeen years old when he entered college, Bryce had headed down the devil’s lane to keep one coed a lover. Pussy-whipped, he’d let her talk him into streaking through Stanford’s campus on a sultry night. The nineteen-year-old, rich, daddy’s little girl was into nearly everything unconventional for Bryce’s logical-working mind. They’d engaged in high-powered sex under a temporary platform at an outdoor political rally during her mother’s bid for mayor. But Bryce was too selfish for the kinkiness of ménage à trois, too possessive to share his lover’s body with either gender. He knew when their relationship had ended, meant to stay buried in the darkest caverns before they reached hell’s castle. And he would not go as far as marriage to keep her.
How far would he go for Rio?
They had a relationship now. He knew it as sure as tomorrow’s sunrise. Well, maybe. He’d embarked on the subtle chase along a curvy lane. Yet they were veering sideways on an entirely different path. She hadn’t responded until the dance and her acute reaction was as overwhelming as drowning in luxury for the first time. Totally seductive, fiercely unsettling.
Funny, they hadn’t spent a minute alone together, not one second. But, deep inside, Bryce knew they were a perfect match. They belonged side by side, on each other, wrapped in each other—in bed.
“I’ve got another set to do,” he heard Coop say.
“I’ll take it. Tips go to you, my man,” Bryce insisted. “Go ahead. Get out of here.”
“Sure?”
Damn right, he was sure. “No problem.” They bumped knuckles and Dallas was gone for the night.
Galaxeé closed the door to the office. “I’m beat. Drunk.”
“Should’ve thought about that after the third martini,” Rio said. She shuffled a few invoices together and stuffed them inside an accordion folder. In the last few hours, she’d completed a good bit of work.
“Think I need a cab.” Galaxeé fell into her chair, knees spread apart, dress drooping between them, sitting like a two-bit streetwalker.
“I’ll call Randy or I’ll take you home myself.”
“Nah. Randy’ll want more than I can give tonight. Don’t wanna hang around to wait for him, either.” She had the weirdest-looking smirk on her face, lopsided. “I locked down the place tight. Waiters are gone. There’s no sense in you driving to West Hell and back. Call me a cab. I can’t read the numbers on the phone.”
“Jesus, Galaxeé. You really need to stop drinking. You can’t get loaded when I’m not here.”
“No problem. I won’t. Even when I do get a buzz, which only happens on Fridays, the peroxide-blond heifer would watch over me if you asked her anyway.”
“Don’t start with me.”
“Perino’s kissing ass every damn time I look around.”
“It’s her nature to be kind.”
“Well, it gets on my last nerve. She’s sneaky, and I refuse to put my hands on her when I know she’s hiding a secret. Tonight, her aura was blue-green then jumped blood-red. Hell of a combination.”
Rio wished Galaxeé would lighten up. She was taking this fortune-telling too far. Blue-green and blood-red fits better in an abstract painting.
Rather than argue, she dialed the usual cab service. They’d called one a few times for a tipsy patron. No one left the club stinking drunk without assistance. She’d take them home herself if necessary. “Couple minutes. I’ll walk you down to the curb.”
“I do not need help,” Galaxeé snapped. “Later.” She stood, snatched the red-fox jacket from the hanger, left it clanking its own melody, and marched out of the office, sweeping the floor with her fur.
“Call my cell when you get there.”
Rio tried to glare a hole through her back. Her partner hadn’t stumbled, tripped or bumped into a wall. Or slurred her words, come to think about it.
She listened to each step on the staircase. Even. Smooth. Steady. What game was this woman playing now?
Galaxeé hadn’t mentioned any problems with Randy. Their relationship had seemed stable and secure during the four months of complete and utter bliss they’d shared. She’d say if they’d had a situation, wouldn’t she? They were best friends.
Minutes later, Rio looked down at her watch. Quarter to three. Surely, Galaxeé was safely on her way to her cozy West Denver home.
Then, she heard a noise and looked up. Someone was making his or her way deliberately up the stairs.
“Galaxeé?”
Without an answer, Rio grabbed the phone base and rolled the stool back toward the corner of the room. As the footsteps closed in, grew louder and louder, her heart pounded just as noisily. Galaxeé had said she’d locked down the club. Had she been too drunk to remember? Rio knew she should’ve checked the doors before her partner left the premises.
Swallowing first, she forced out a whisper. “Who’s there?”
The desktop phone unit contained a panic button: five-second notification. Five seconds for an intruder to kill her. Five more seconds and she’d die of a heart attack. The police would find her on the floor, unable to help, unable to bring her back to life. They’d arrive five minutes too darn late.
She should’ve listened to Galaxeé and bought a pistol for protection when she spent late nights in this big building. She should’ve had Cockroach stay with her until she’d finished working. She should’ve left with Galaxeé!
But, darned if she’d go down easily. She owned this club. She’d put everything she had into this place. Killer’s was her life!
Silently, Rio replaced the receiver. She stood and snatched up the letter opener, drew it back over her shoulder. Whoever thought they’d get away with her murder may get a dinner, but she’d sure get a sandwich.
I’ll leave a permanent mark on their behind.
As the footsteps drew closer, her heart worked to burst out of her chest. She’d bleed on everything—stain the floor, the walls, and even change the color of the expensive red dress she still wore.
She
