wanting illicit tales of lust and love, not cars and insurance. Hiding her disappointment, she helped herself to the last spicy wedge of relleno, waiting for the rest of the story.
“Suddenly,” Sandee said, her voice dropping to a dramatic low, “Hank opens the back door and shoves this old guy’s limp body into the car! I yell, ‘What the hel—?”’ Sandee blinked. “Anyway, I yell some stuff, then Hank yells back, ‘Cool it. You drive this car back to your place. I’ll meet you there.”’
Corinne almost choked on the relleno. “You—” She coughed. “You drove some dead guy back here?” She looked around, half expecting to see a leg sticking out from underneath a chair.
“He wasn’t dead.” Sandee rapped her lighter against the thick glass top of the coffee table, the tap, tap, tap adding dramatic suspense. “I get to a stop light near the Strip and Mr. Back Seat suddenly comes to life, hops outta the car and runs like hell. The light turns green and I floor it. Last thing I need is Mr. Almost-Dead flagging down a cop and pointing at Hank’s car, which yours truly is driving!”
Corinne waited. But instead of explaining further, Sandee began adjusting her top so both boobs bulged the same bulge amount. This was a woman who knew her priorities.
“So,” Corinne finally said, “is that the end of the story?” Although with Sandee, one never knew the real story.
Sandee, satisfied she was bulging appropriately, stopped her adjustment and leveled Corinne a look. “And the end of Hank! He keeps calling, calling, but I want nuthin’ to do with a bump-and-run dude. Especially when he endangered me over an old Studebaker!”
Corinne only heard the words “bump and run.” The term Sandee had used on the phone. “What’s does, uh, ‘bump and run’ mean?” Corinne took a quick, involuntary breath in anticipation of the answer. It had to be as fiery as the color of Sandee’s hair.
“It’s…” Sandee lowered her gaze, suddenly preoccupied with one of the sequins on her fuchsia-pink sandal. “It’s nuthin’ really.”
Just like her cousin to avoid the question when she was up to no good. Definitely “Sandee Trouble,” but Corinne didn’t care. She was aching to know. “Bump and run” had to be better than any chapter in How to Make Your Man Howl. Probably a book in itself! “Tell me more,” she whispered, almost losing her voice in her thrill-drenched state.
“I gotta split town,” Sandee said matter of factly.
Not exactly the “more” Corinne wanted. But before she could elaborate, Sandee began speed-talking again.
“After that crazy stunt Hank pulled, I gotta put some distance between me and him, which is where you come in. You can stay at my place—there’s a garage for the Ferrari. All I ask is you fill in for me at work.”
Corinne scuffed one stiletto-heeled foot across the rose-pink carpeting. “Fill in?”
“I’m so new there,” Sandee said, waving her hand as though this was the itsiest-bitsiest favor in the world, “nobody even knows me! Just show up on time, do the gig and split. I’ll be gone only a week or two—just enough time for Hank to cool his burners. And speaking of lover boy, he probably won’t show up at work, but if he does, just tell ’im to get lost. Considering we only had a few dates, he’ll easily believe you’re me. Tell ’im you got a hankerin’ to be blond if he asks. And he wouldn’t dare show up here ’cause my neighbor is The Phantom. You know, that hunky, mega-body star wrestler.”
“Oh, good,” Corinne said, her voice breaking on “ood.” Mega-body star wrestler? This was so dangerous, so delicious, she shivered. “I could use the money.” And the adventure. Heck, maybe she’d get a tattoo, too. Hello Angelina!
“Yeah,” Sandee agreed, arching an eyebrow. “This could work.”
Work. What was this job? Knowing Sandee, it could be anything from lion tamer to exotic dancer. Corinne better fess up about her minimal job experience so Sandee didn’t over-estimate her cousin’s abilities. “The, uh, only thing I’ve done for the past five years is payroll invoices for Universal Shower Door.”
“Perfecto!” Sandee stood, tugged on the bottom of her shorts, as though that did any good, then picked up the tray and sashayed back into the kitchen. “Shower doors are a lot like modeling. Not much between you and the world.”
“Modeling?” Corinne gulped. “I, uh, haven’t had a whole lot of experiencing doing that…”
Sandee paused at the door to the kitchen and flashed a grin. “It’ll be a breeze, sweetie,” she cooed before disappearing.
From the kitchen, Corinne heard the refrigerator door click open and shut. “I’ll take you there, show you what’s what.”
“Where’s there?”
“Boxing ring.”
3
“HERE TO SEE MY WOMAN,” Leo mumbled, shooting a smug look to the squat dude playing security guard at the MGM Grand back entrance. After years of being a Vegas detective, Leo knew all the front, back and sideways doors to the swankiest places—and all the front, back and sideways lines to get into them. Tonight was an amateur boxing match, so security wasn’t tight. No need to pretend he was a promoter or a manager. Just play a swaggering, cocksure boyfriend.
The guy grinned. With that puffy face and missing tooth, not a pretty sight. “Thought Red was Hank’s gal.”
Red. Jackpot! Hank? That was a surprise card.
Leo spat an expletive. “She’s always full of surprises,” he grumbled, shoving past Squatty as though Leo were going to straighten this out, pronto. He strutted down the dark hallway, recalling the dressing rooms were in this general vicinity, all the time listening for following footsteps. None. Cool. The enraged boyfriend act had always been a good fallback for surprise cards.
After the warmth of the Vegas summer air, the chill of the air-conditioning was like a jolt. Sharpened Leo’s senses. And attitude. The clothes helped. Tonight he’d dug through his closet and picked a pair of faded jeans…he had to cool it with the Twinkies. He’d had to suck it in to get the zipper up—didn’t help that Mel watched him, cackling.
Leo had thrown on a black ripped T-shirt that showed off some of the old brawn. Now that he was 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,
