do that. Sure. One of these days soon.
“Alex wanted me to tell you he beat the top boss on Dragon of Doom 3.”
“He didn’t download the cheats, did he?”
“Nope. Worked it out on his own. Couldn’t disappoint Uncle Rick with his rules for every flippin’ thing, including video games.”
“Good for him. I’ll check it out when I’m over next. This weekend, maybe?”
“What are you, thirty? You act like an old married drone. When I was your age, it was a different woman every weekend. If Gloria hadn’t gotten pregnant, I’d have—”
“You’d have begged her to marry you. She’s the best thing that ever happened to your sorry ass.”
Maybe that was what was missing in Rick’s search for a wife—a woman who made him feel the way Trudeau felt. The man nearly glowed when Gloria came into a room, even if it was just to rip him a new one, which she had to do from time to time. The man was in sore need of female guidance.
Truth was that Rick wanted what Trudeau had—a settled place in the world, a wife and kids to work for, someone to help him sort out what mattered from what didn’t. Something Brian had never had the chance to have.
“So now that I’m in,” he said, getting back to work, “I’ll be checking out all the shops, verifying IDs, seeing who’s connected. Looks like some of the photography customers came from the wife, not Darien, and are straight photo shoots, nothing crime related.”
“Interesting. It’s good you’re inside. We can figure this out a hell of a lot faster.”
“That’s the idea.”
“And on that other thing, you’ll be surrounded by naked women, West, so drool a little. Pretend you got a pair.”
“The equipment’s intact, not to worry,” he said. His reaction to Sawyer was proof. He grimaced, especially because he got a rush when he thought about getting back to her now.
He hung up with Mark and headed into Jade’s, determined to keep his mind on the job and forget how hot Sawyer was, no matter how many ways she reminded him with her twisty hip-walk and her teasing smile and flirty remarks and her tight backside, and that great set of—
Stop it.
Maybe he’d learn something from her, like he’d said, though he hated how personal portraits got. Samantha Sawyer sure knew what she was doing in the studio. She’d turned the shoot with that lowlife Balistero into a tender moment. And Rick couldn’t see her shooting porn, not from what he’d seen so far.
On the other hand, sociopaths were skilled liars, so he’d stay on guard. Remain clearheaded, neutral and completely controlled. Evaluate all evidence, examine all options, ask and answer all questions.
And stay way clear of dessert.
“IS THE BOOKKEEPER spelled T-A-B-O-R or E-R?”
“O-R,” Samantha said on a sigh. “I promise I won’t quiz you later.” Since Rick had returned from his lunch break, he’d asked a million questions about the center, dragging the twenty-minute orientation into a ninety-minute ordeal. It was as if he thought he’d have to run the place without her. Just now he’d honed in on the fact that Darien loaned Samantha his bookkeeper.
“Let’s get going, Rick,” she said, “so I can introduce you to the other shop owners.” The day was nearly over and she’d promised to help Valerie after work.
On the way out the door, Rick paused to rattle the loose counter. “I’ll bolt this first thing tomorrow.”
“The construction crew should handle it, but thanks.” He was obviously trying to reassure her of his usefulness. His tone had changed over lunch. When he’d left, there had been flirtation in the air, but he’d returned all facts and figures.
Which was best, she realized as the time passed. Rick’s role as her assistant—and a photographer at that—was far more important than any sex they might share. Samantha would find her fantasy lover elsewhere.
She led the way to Healing Touch, Mona’s massage studio, where there was an AC problem. The delicate bell over the door tickled Samantha’s ear as always, pouring calm through her. She associated the sound with her once-a-month gift to herself of a Mona massage.
Mona’s was the smallest shop, consisting of a tiny reception area, two small massage rooms, a restroom and overlarge closets—Darien and his storage space.
Mona emerged from the first massage room. “Hello,” she said, smiling at them. Short and curvy with open brown eyes, she moved in an eddy of palpable warmth that Samantha loved. Her massages melted worries and fears, along with knots and kinks, and it was worth every word of her usual lectures about Samantha accepting herself as she was to experience Mona’s tension-melting skill.
“This is my new assistant, Rick West. Rick, Mona Munro. We’re here to deal with your air problem.”
“An assistant already? How wonderful.” Mona shook Rick’s hand, then slanted Samantha a look. She hadn’t believed Samantha would actually hire anyone. She thought Samantha was clinging to the excuse of being too busy. If you’re going to break out, sweetie, break out.
“I act fast when the time’s right,” Samantha said, returning her look. Now she had an assistant. Soon, she’d find a man. Hit a brunch at the Phoenician or cruise a singles watering hole and reel one in. No problem.
“It’s this way.” Mona led them to the second massage room.
Samantha breathed in the lemon–ylang-ylang of the candle burning on the counter beside the CD player in the cozy, golden-hued room that featured a massage table covered in saffron sheets.
“The air just sinks. No movement,” Mona said to Rick, waving her arms through the air above the table.
Rick looked up, studying the register, arms akimbo. “I’ll see what I can do.” He scooped off his shoes and climbed onto the table, reaching up to twist something on the vent, which made his forearm muscles tighten and glide.
And look at that backside, so tight and round. Why, Handyman Rick, I think my wiring needs tightening, my pipes need, well, what pipes need. Fix me quick with your special tool. Samantha sighed.
Rick banged the vent slats with the heel of his hand.
“So, an assistant and a handyman,” Mona murmured.
Samantha looked at her friend, Rick’s body rising between them. “He’d do whatever I need him to do,” she said.
“Oh, well. That’s wonderful.” Mona grinned.
Samantha blushed and changed the subject. “So how’s Mr. Regular?”
It was Mona’s turn to blush. “Still regular.” Chuck Yardley, aka Mr. Regular, came for a massage five days a week, feigning rugby strains, but really to get to know Mona, who refused to budge on her no-dating-clients rule.
Samantha understood her reluctance. Sleazy massage parlors gave legitimate therapists
