hers, was in control. Rock-bottom husky with a rough edge that sent involuntary chills rippling through Corinne. Jeez, she’d never lost it like this with any man—even her fiancé! She tightened her knees even more to ensure she remained standing upright. She glanced down and caught his feet. Big—was what they said about big feet true?—encased in a pair of worn sneakers. Above that, she saw a few inches of well-washed, roughened denim. Big, rough, with enough bad boy to make her never want to be good again…
The board was quivering uncontrollably, like the rest of her body. She gripped the edges harder, praying her sweaty palms didn’t lose their hold. That red nail polish she’d borrowed from Sandee was probably melting under this sexy guy’s scrutiny.
She cleared her throat. “Well, I’m the only something here.” Forget sassy and sexy…it took all of Corinne’s strength to sound somewhat normal. “And I need to get dressed.” Like that’s a news flash.
“Mind if I look around?”
“Haven’t you seen enough?”
A low, throaty chuckle was her response. Rather than the insidious feeling she’d experienced standing near naked in front of Tony and his bimbo, this man’s sexy chuckle said way more than words. Said he found her desirable. Her skin flamed hot. Probably a lovely shade of needy, I-haven’t-had-sex-in-two-months, take-me-now-now-now pink. Hell, with such visual clues, the sign might as well say, “Caution! Love-starved woman.” She tightened her knees harder.
Had Leo seen enough? Hell, no. A long buried primal urge wanted to see, taste, feel more so damn bad he thought he’d internally combust. Had to stop scoping out the babe, finish scoping out this room, and leave. “My buddy’s wife—she works here—thought she left her purse in one of these rooms.” A reasonable excuse considering lots of women worked here—from show-girls to waitresses. Plus women always related to the purse thing.
“Make it fast. I have to get—”
“Dressed. I know.”
Damn shame considering she looked mind-melding hot in nothing but a pair of heels. He scratched his chin and forced himself to look around. One black rayon workout bag. One silver-beaded purse. For a fleeting moment, he wondered about the different sides of her personality—a no-frills workout bag and beaded evening purse. Athletic and glamorous? Not your typical Vegas showgirl-model type.
Forget the babe. Check out the room. Nothing else indicated anyone else had been here. He debated whether to ask if she’d seen another girl, someone called “Red,” but decided that might show his hand. Time to split.
“Not here,” he croaked. “Wrong room.” Fighting the urge for one last look at pink flesh, he backed out the door.
After shutting it, he leaned his head against the wall and blew out a gust of pent-up angst. He pulled the broken toothpick from his mouth—when had he bitten it in two? Damn he’d lost it in there. Wrong room? Wrong reaction. That blast of white-hot need tearing through his insides was the last thing he needed…
…and the first time he’d experienced it since his wife had betrayed him nearly a year ago. “To hell with Elizabeth,” he murmured, pushing off the wall. If any thought sobered him up, fast, it was of his ex. Focused back on work with a cold-edged intensity, he retraced his steps, scanning the halls for any stray long-legged redheads even while sensing he wouldn’t find her out here.
“Find Red?” asked the security guard as Leo walked past him into the hot, steamy Vegas air.
“Nah.” He stared up at a cloud that floated over the moon’s face just like the sign had covered the lady’s.
“Like you said, man, she’s always full of surprises.”
“Yeah. I said that.” The cloud eased past the moon, slipping into the inky blackness. Surprises. He pulled another toothpick out of the pocket on his T. Something had been wrong in that dressing room—but what? He slipped the pick into his mouth and began working it as thoughts tumbled over each other. No clues as to anyone else being there…the lady had definitely been alone…
Mentally, he grazed her image again…up her long, sinewy legs—the kind that made a pair of heels not just great, but killer. His mental journey halted on her navel, wondering what it’d be like to tongue that teasing indentation, before mentally moving up, past those luscious breasts…
If he had to ID her, he’d describe her body more than her features, which had been hidden behind a sign most of the time. Although during those fleeting moments when he’d been forced to make eye contact, he’d caught those curvy lips, slicked with that same searing red as her nails. Pert nose, the kind that probably crinkled real cute when she laughed.
If she ever laughed. That broad seemed pretty damned serious, and scared, for a showgirl. And then there was that mane of glossy blond hair, so shiny it almost looked metallic.
He whipped the toothpick out of his mouth. Blond hair? He grinned. Hell, there was his clue. If he hadn’t been riding his hormones back there, he’d have put two and two together and realized he’d found his mark. The curly hairs between a lady’s thighs never lied.
That lady’s were a delectable crimson.
CORINNE STARED AT herself in the full-length dressing mirror. “I think the plastic wrap hid more,” she murmured, staring at the black string bikini that covered the essentials, but barely. Thanks to those wedgie cup-things in the top, her breasts had leaped across the alphabet, from “Bs to Ds” as Sandee had said. Corinne wasn’t just hanging out, she was spilling! It’ll be good when Sandee gets back, Corinne thought anxiously, because playing sex bomb is out of this girl’s depth!
The bikini bottom was almost worse than the top. The triangle that covered her privates was smaller than one of the cocktail napkins she found stacked all over Sandee’s apartment. The rest of the bikini was string. Stretchy rayon strings that crossed her thigh and tied in bows on her hipbones.
She’d tied those bows so tight, she could feel the double-knotted, supertight knots boring into her hips. She’d checked out the ring earlier and even though she’d be strutting above people’s heads, she didn’t want some bozo running up and pulling one of those strings. Exposing herself to one stranger was plenty—but exposing herself to a roomful of strangers? She wouldn’t just tighten her knees, she’d tighten her whole body. The first living human being to experience rigor mortis. She’d have to be carried off the stage, like some kind of bikini-clad mannequin.
“And for the rest of her life, Sandee would have to hear about it,” Corinne said, giggling nervously.
The giggle escalated to a laugh. People thought she was Sandee Moray, not Corinne McCourt. Even if the worst happened, people would think it was Sandee who’d been carried out, not Corinne. Extroverted, wild Sandee—no one would believe it!
“That’s me,” Corinne said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Extroverted, wild Sandee!” A thrill raced through her, zinging her insides. When in her entire boring life had she ever been given carte blanche to act as wild and sexy as she wanted? To be a bonafide sex bomb? Never! Tonight, it wouldn’t matter if someone pulled a string—or if the whole damn bikini fell off—because after Corinne left Vegas, no one would ever know it had been her.
Realizing she would survive the very worst that could possibly happen filled her with a giddy confidence.
Looking at her reflection, Corinne stepped to her right, then pranced
