her one last smile, he turned away and started for the door.
“Oh, dear God,” she gasped.
He turned back to her, performed a quick visual inspection. Had she only now realized she was injured in some way? “What?”
“In all the excitement I completely forgot,” she murmured. Her frightened gaze collided with his and she gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. “I don’t eat chocolate ice cream.”
Chapter 8
The insistent throb of the music from the Metro Link nightclub kept a rhythmic pace with her confident stride as Tasha made her way to the entrance. Black thigh-high leather boots and skintight, cheek-baring silk shorts gave the illusion of legs that went on forever. Legs toned from all those five-mile runs, making every guy she passed stop and stare.
The strappy halter top showcased her flat belly and the contour of her spine, covering nothing except her breasts, and even then the gossamer-thin, lacy fabric scarcely left much to the imagination. A small leather bag, hardly large enough to hold some cash, a couple of loose cigarettes and her car keys, hung from a long, delicate gold chain that draped over her shoulder. The bag bounced against her hip with every step she took. An ankle-length jacket that was as sheer as air and designed from black netting so thin and fragile that it felt like a midnight fog against her skin completed the daring ensemble.
She possessed all the bait and weapons required for a manhunt.
At the main entrance she paused for the bouncer to wave his security wand around her body. She opened her purse to show her keys when the wand passed over it and hummed a warning.
She smiled wickedly at him. “Baby, you don’t have to worry about me,” she crooned. “The only thing I’m packing is a raging desire to find just the right guy.”
His slick bald head stilled, his eyes level with her waist when the wand hummed another warning at the top of her right boot. He looked up at her, one eyebrow cocked in question.
“It’s just my cell phone,” she insisted. She reached into her boot and tugged out the slim communicator that had triggered the metal detector. “See.” She waved it in front of his face before slipping it back into her boot. “Anything else you need to see?”
He straightened, glanced at the crowd lining up behind her and then back at her. He wanted to see more. No doubt. The gleam in his eyes gave away his every thought.
“Come on, man, we don’t got all night,” his co-worker groused. He waited impatiently, the official Metro Link stamp in his hand. A veteran on the job, she surmised. One who wouldn’t be impressed by a half-naked woman and a sexy come-on line.
The guy with the wand waved her through. “Have a nice night,” he offered, his tone chock-full of innuendo.
She leaned close to him and whispered, “Believe me, baby, I will.”
“Let’s go,” the other guy grumped.
Tasha squared her shoulders and gave him a look that said, Buddy, you need to get laid, and held out her hand. He glared at her then smacked the stamp in place. An eerie ML glowed on her skin between her wrist and knuckles. She flashed him a “bite me” smile and moved on.
Heavy-metal music blasted from the surround-sound system as she strode into the crowded club. The maximum occupancy posted was five hundred, and she’d bet Martin’s Jag that they’d long passed that limit. Patrons were jam-packed into every available square foot. A long, sleek bar of black-and-mirrored glass flowed along one wall. Up front the crush of the crowd made it difficult to distinguish one couple from another on the dance floor. It more accurately resembled a sea of body parts, all connected somehow like a scene from a gruesome horror novel as they gyrated to the beat.
A laser light show splashed across a screen high above the band jamming on the stage. Booze and beer abounded like manna from heaven, and she quickly spotted a number of other less-than-legal stimulants. Leather, lace and tattoos. Smoke, heat and sex. Women with men and all variations in between. It was all out there. Just like Sodom and Gomorrah.
So this was his favorite haunt, she mused, scanning for her target. Tall, blond and deadly liked it trashy. Well, she could play any way necessary. Backup knew where she was at all times. The handy dandy tracking-monitoring device looked just like a skin patch, the kind people used for kicking the nicotine habit or for birth control. Skin colored and shaped like a small round bandage. Rafe “Maverick” Scott, one of the two men Lucas had assigned as her backup, had instructed her to place it under her left breast. The device would send out a constant signal providing her location as well as her cardio stats. If her heart rate escalated to panic level Maverick would come to her rescue.
But she wasn’t going to need that kind of backup tonight.
She did a double take, her gaze landing on Mr. John Doe himself.
“Mmm-hmm,” she muttered under her breath. “You are one amazing Y chromosome.” For a killer, she added.
John Doe sat on a stool about center of the long bar, those ice-blue eyes scanning the dance floor like a hungry panther ready to pounce on his dinner.
Looking for a little action, big boy? Taking her time as she crossed the room, she took stock of his numerous physical assets. Whoever had estimated his height and weight had done a stellar job. Those broad shoulders tested the seams of his black shirt. Powerful thighs filled out a well-worn pair of jeans. Black ankle boots, the kind made for walking and climbing, soft leather uppers, ribbed soles. For stealth and traction. Smart.
He wore a watch, but no other jewelry that she could readily see. The slight bulge at his left side about midway of his torso would indicate a shoulder holster. She wondered how he’d managed to get in here with a weapon. Official ID, perhaps? Just something else she’d need to check out.
The couple sitting next to him got up and headed for the dance floor, presenting the perfect opportunity for her. “The gods are watching over me tonight,” she murmured.
She slid onto the stool next to J.D., John Doe just sounded too cliché. “Great band,” she said when he glanced in her direction.
He didn’t respond.
Okay. She crossed one leg over the other, offering up a length of thigh for his perusal. He never even looked her way. She leaned toward him. “What time it is?” she asked, ensuring she spoke loud enough for him to hear her.
He held up his wrist so that she could see the face of his watch. She splayed her fingers over his muscled forearm and drew it closer to her face. He tensed and pulled free even before she was ready to let go.
Not the reaction she’d hoped for, but a reaction nonetheless.
She leaned close again, ensuring that her shoulder rubbed against his. “Thanks. What’s your name?”
Again nothing.
Five minutes passed with her sitting there gazing out over the mass of swaying, twitching bodies and him doing the same. Not one word was spoken.
Time for drastic measures.
She hopped off her stool, standing as close to him as possible. “Hey!” she shouted at the bartender. “How about a beer?”
A
