owned the skirt before Sam.” Claire looped the purse strap over her shoulder. “I want to find out more about its origin for my next research project.” She took a deep breath. “But first I have to make it through this one.”
“Knock ’em dead,” A.J. said as Claire moved toward the door.
“And tell us all the juicy details when you get home,” Sam called after her.
Claire just hoped there was something to tell. What if wearing the skirt had no effect on the men around her? What if they were all as oblivious to her as Mitch Malone had been? What if this research project was an abysmal failure?
Then the elevator doors opened on the main floor and Franco whistled at her.
“Be still my heart,” he cried, clasping his hand to his chest. “Damn girl, you almost make me wish I was straight.”
“So I look all right?” she asked, performing a slow twirl around the foyer.
“There’s only one thing missing.” Franco picked up a small shopping bag next to the door and handed it to her. “Here.”
Claire pulled out a rose silk scarf. “It’s beautiful.”
“The perfect finishing touch,” Franco replied, taking it from her and tying it in a jaunty knot around her neck. Then his gray eyes got misty. “I feel like Glinda the Good Witch, ready to send you off on the yellow brick road.”
“I’ll settle for a yellow taxi,” she replied, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Franco.”
“Off with you now, Dorothy.” He pushed her out the door. “And watch out for those flying monkeys!”
MITCH SMELLED TROUBLE.
He stood at his post near the front entrance of The Jungle nightclub, his eyes slowly scanning the large room. The place was filling up fast tonight, with the men outnumbering the women two-to-one. White wicker ceiling fans stained to a dull brown from thirty years of smoke whirled overhead. The slight breeze they gave couldn’t counteract the humid night air that blew inside every time the door opened.
Like most nightclubs, the lights in The Jungle were dimmed low enough to obscure facial features and the music was loud enough to prevent in-depth conversations. A few people danced on the wood parquet floor and the bartenders kept up a stream of steady business.
Mitch could sense the restlessness in the crowd tonight. Typical for a Friday, when everyone was ready to blow off steam after a long workweek. The man he’d been assigned to watch, Dick Vandalay, stood behind the bar training a new bartender. A young kid who looked like he might wet his pants if Vandalay yelled at him again.
A heated expletive shifted Mitch’s attention to the dance floor, where a scuffle had just broken out. By the time he got there, the two women had each other by the hair. The man they were fighting over just stood off to the side with a drunken grin on his face.
“Break it up,” Mitch said, pulling the women apart.
“Hey, keep out of this,” the man said. “I was just starting to have some fun.”
Both women lashed out at each other with skinny arms and bony fists. Mitch held them just far enough apart to keep them from doing any serious damage.
“If this is the kind of fun you want,” Mitch told the man between clenched teeth, “then go somewhere else to have it.”
The man took a step toward him. “Make me.”
The unmistakable challenge in his tone made both women stop struggling and shift their focus to Mitch. He let go of them and faced the man on the dance floor. “If you’re smart, you’ll just turn around and walk away.”
But Mitch knew there was little chance of that happening. This guy was like too many of the men he’d seen while living on the streets. Too macho to keep out of trouble until they were in it neck-deep. He glanced over at the bar and saw Vandalay nod.
Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a beefy fist shooting out toward his jaw. Mitch twisted just in time to avoid the blow. Then he delivered a swift kick to the back of the man’s knees, causing him to crumple to the floor.
Mitch’s early education in street fighting was only enhanced by the combat moves he’d been taught when he’d gone into law enforcement. This loser wasn’t going to win this fight. Mitch just hoped the guy would be smart enough to figure that out before Mitch really had to hurt him.
No such luck.
By the time Mitch had scraped the guy off the floor and dumped him in the back of a taxicab, the two woman who had been fighting were back on the dance floor once more, with two new guys.
Donna Cummings, a blond waitress with an eternal wad of gum in her mouth sidled up to him. “You look like you could use a drink, Mitch.”
He rubbed his knuckles. “I could use a night off, but I’ll settle for a drink. Make it the usual. In fact, make it a double.”
She grinned. “One grape soda coming up.”
Mitch walked back to his post at the door, sensing that it was going to be another long night. He’d rather be watching a Clint Eastwood marathon on television. Anything but hanging around a bunch of lonely, desperate people trying to find love.
What really disgusted him was that he used to be one of them. Trolling the bars for women had been one of his favorite hobbies. His friends had joked that he must be related to Sam Malone, the famous womanizer on Cheers. But in the last year or so, that lifestyle had lost its appeal.
He’d successfully avoided the flirtations and not-so-subtle invitations of the women patrons of The Jungle during his first two weeks on the job. By now most of the regulars knew he was off-limits. Although Donna, recently married and ready to confine everyone she met to that institution, still tried to play matchmaker.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him a drink. “Did you see the blonde at the bar? She’s cute.”
“Too skinny for my taste,” he said.
“You’re too picky,” Donna said. “Why don’t you try to find a nice woman, Mitch? Someone who can make you happy.”
“Women are like potato chips,” he said with a smile. “I can’t stop at just one.”
She rolled her eyes. “Potato chips?”
“Maybe I should have said M&M’s.”
“Maybe you should quit trying to con me, Mitch Malone. I think you’re one of those old-fashioned romantics, the type I never see in this place anymore. You actually want more from a woman than her body.”
Mitch shook his head. “Donna, you’ve got me all wrong. I’m a connoisseur of the female body. The only reason I work here is because of the view.” He motioned to the scantily clad women on the dance floor. “I get a great show every night.”
Donna folded her arms across her chest. “Then why don’t you ever take one of them home?”
“I would, but my place is a mess.”
She
