Hot and Bothered (10 page)

Someday
, she kept thinking. Someday she would have it all: the career, the fame, the love.

He fondled her breast, and Cherry listened to the music outside, where someone had changed the record to a Beatles album. She wondered when they'd be in town.

“Georgie,” she murmured. “When you gonna come outside and play?”

He stopped toying with her, his hand dropping to his lap, where his package had deflated.

“I told you before,” he said. “I don't have any need to go out of this room for the time being.”

“Baby, I understand why you'd want to stay in the hotel, but it's been a couple days now since you got word about how the boss back East thinks you skimmed money from the casino.”

“A couple days isn't anything, Cherry,” he said glumly.

“Nicky said everything was copasetic so . . .”

He gripped her arm. “Are you saying I'm afraid to go anywhere?”

There was that voice again—the one he'd used the night Nicky had spoken with him about the skimming and just before he'd smacked her.

“I'm not saying anything,” she said calmly. “You're my brave man, Georgie.”

With as much grace as she could muster, she stood from his lap, turned around, and rolled her eyes. He'd become such a snore, and it wasn't only because of his temper. She could easily take care of that by purchasing some ingredients for brownies at the market and seeing what would happen if she slipped Milk of Magnesia into them. Of course, she'd have to split out of state after that because George would whoop her. But Tommy would help her escape like he always did when she got into a spot of trouble, like she had two years ago on that night when one of the
Viva Las Vegas
crewmen had gotten handsy with her at a hotel room party and Tommy had turned from a shy, sweet kid into a punching machine.

Cherry sashayed across the room and pulled open an armoire, taking out one of her Jackie Kennedy sheaths, stepping into it, then slipping on a pair of heels. She didn't need the panties.

“Why're you dressing up?” George asked.

“I want to mingle with your guests since you don't have a mind to.”

“I'm about to have them kicked out.”

“And then what, Georgie?” She smiled sweetly at him. “Are we going out to a nice, late dinner? A nightclub? Because it's been forever with both.”

“I told you that—”

“You want to stay in. I know, I know. But I'm not the kind who camps out in a room and listens to what's happening outside.” She headed for the door.

“Baby . . .” he said, and he sounded as if she was the only consolation he had right now, as if he would perish if she didn't stay and keep him company from his demons outside the room.

He should've thought of how lonely self-imposed exile might be when he'd slapped her.

Before he could protest, she pulled open the door, letting in The Beatles as well as the bustle and fun of a party in full swing.

More silk drapings hovered over the undulating, dancing crowd. Arabian-style moldings decorated the walls and ceiling. The bar, the curved sofas, and the pool table were choked with people, and the huge pillows scattered all over the floor had guests lying on them, smoking, drinking, and dropping acid.

As Cherry shut the door behind her, she spotted Tommy slumped on a sofa where a girl with pale lipstick, flowers painted on her cheek, and butterfly-like fake eyelashes was staring up at him, clearly on a trip.

Tommy, himself, had assumed his destiny these past few months, resembling the artist he'd always told Cherry he was. He had one arm propped on the back of the sofa as he angled away from the hippy chick, and he was holding a smoke-wisped cigarette, a line of ash at its end so long that it was about to drop off into a glass ashtray he'd placed on the ridge of the furniture. His eyes had a hardness to them now, but he kept telling Cherry it was because he was older and had seen things in the city he hadn't seen as a bellboy. Cherry wanted to know what demons had been driving
him
, but he'd never talk about it with her.

She walked into his line of sight, and for a moment she thought she saw that gaze brighten into the blue she remembered from his bellboy days, before he'd quit and become a waiter at a sleazy bar so he could “see reality” and do his painting on the side.

“Let's split,” she said to him.

He'd heard that too many times, and he took a drag off his cigarette. The girl next to him touched his face.

“I love you,” she said.

Tommy ignored her. “George is still bummed out?”

“Wouldn't you be if someone was talking about punishing you for skimming money?” Wow. She'd just defended George. “He's not in the mood for a good time, but I am. His so-called friends don't scare me.”

“That's because they're not mad at you.”

“Well, they could be. Who knows? Maybe they've talked about kidnapping me to draw him out of that room.”

“You wish,” Tommy said. “At least it'd fulfill your need for drama.”

Cherry frowned at him. “What's with you?”

“Tonight?” He leaned forward, and the girl next to him shadowed him, still gaping and batting those eyelashes.

From the way he moved, Cherry guessed he'd drunk himself into restless broodiness. And, from the way he talked to her, she did more than guess.

“Listen, Cherry,” he said, pointing that cigarette at her. “I thought you would've gotten it in your head by now. George is a destructive force. That asshole hit you—”

“I can handle what he did.” She looked around to see if anyone was listening, but the music was too loud, the partygoers too occupied with themselves.

“Then why do you stay?” Tommy asked, his voice cracking. Then he shook his head. “Don't tell me. You want to be discovered and be in the movies or a Vegas show because of someone who supposedly has connections. Or maybe your desire to collect males goes deeper than that. Maybe you want a daddy to take the place of the real one you left back in California.”

Cherry gasped. A snap of acknowledgment broke inside her chest. She'd always been that daddy's girl, and Tommy could be right about her missing the love and attention. But that wasn't for anyone but her to say.

The girl next to Tommy rubbed her cheek against his long, black sleeve. “I love you.”

“Tommy,” Cherry said, grasping his other arm. “Let's just go. Please?”

He didn't move, and she had the feeling that he was taking a stand, that their relationship had turned lately. He was tired of being her lackey.

When she tilted her head and softened her voice, she wasn't putting on an act like she put on for all the others.

“Please, Tommy. I don't want to stay inside, not with George.”

He stared straight ahead, as if he were having an argument with himself, and when Cherry touched his shoulder, it was over.

He gently guided the hippy chick all the way back onto the sofa, where she stared at the ceiling with her lips in an O. Then he put out his cigarette.

As Cherry gave a happy hop, turning toward the exit, she caught a glimpse of George across the room, framed by his door, watching her.

She left him standing right there.

That was the last she ever saw of George. Witnesses said they saw him leaving the party, looking as if he had lost something or was following someone outside. But he never returned to his suite. When Cherry spoke to the authorities, she said she had no idea where he'd gone, and why would she? She'd been living it up with Tommy at a Golden Nugget craps table until dawn, and the men running the games remembered her distinctly. She'd parked there all night, winning.

Meanwhile, the desert outside of Vegas stayed quiet, never telling anyone whether George Diluccio, Cherry's most dangerous conquest, was buried under its sandy surface, compliments of the Donati family.

When Rochelle was lobbying for a night on the town, she hadn't exactly had this place in mind.

She sat in the backseat of the limo with Gideon and Harry, looking out the tinted window at the neon glare of the Pink Ladies Gentlemen's Club. Judging by the blushed adobe walls, scraggly cactus, and the jolly, breast-loaded neon cowgirl, this was a destination of real class right here north of the Strip.

Gideon had actually made this suggestion, telling her that if she wanted to go out after she completed her rescheduled media interviews, she should do it here. First off, the Pink Ladies was a party place where she could show those creepers that she could still have fun in spite of them. Second, she'd even get a good meal, which the owner, Jesse Navarro, would cook for her personally in the kitchen.

But then Gideon had offered the piece de resistance, a suggestion that made Rochelle think he'd been reading Cherry's book on the sly: Why not make it easy for the press to connect her and Cherry in their articles, taking the media attention off the creepers and onto the subject of the book itself? After all, Cherry was rumored to have frequented this spot back in the sixties when the Pink Ladies had been a supper club called Pierre's.

Rochelle had acknowledged the wisdom of his words, but more important, she was surprised by his media savvy. Playing on Cherry's image
would
spin the public's attention in the direction of the book and hopefully overshadow the creepers.

If he was reading the book, was he getting more from it than merely Cherry's story? What kind of other insight was in store for him?

She wasn't sure she liked the possibilities.

Still gazing at the Pink Ladies, she made small talk. “The parking lot doesn't look too full.”

Harry said, “It's early yet. Places like this start to hop way after dark.”

“Too bad Suzanne's back at the mansion working overtime. She'd get a kick out of this. Once, when we were in New Orleans on Bourbon Street during a tour, she jumped onstage and flashed the audience. Can you believe that?”

Gideon didn't answer, so Harry did it for them both.

“Grandma Gone Wild,” he said with a smile.

Rochelle looked at Gideon, but he was definitely
Le Bodyguard Serieux
. His all-business demeanor sent a flicker of frustration through her. Their amorous activities weren't sitting as well with her as she'd hoped, and it wasn't because she'd encouraged him to break his body-guarding creed. It was just that right now he was
so
close yet so far, and having a little of him hadn't eased any of her desires. In fact, she wanted him more than ever, and having him so near with Harry acting as a block between them was getting to her.

But when had she turned into this slobbering lust monkey anyway? Time to cool it.

The driver had gotten out of the limo and come around back to open the door. Rochelle held steady while Harry slipped on his light black jacket to cover his holstered gun and exited first. He looked around outside, even though the odds of another creeper being here were astronomical.

As Rochelle and Gideon waited in silence, she sighed, not meaning to. He was just . . .
so
near. And she wasn't only talking about his current proximity—she'd come
this
close to having Gideon this morning, almost getting that closure with him.

She was about to break the quiet with another small talky tidbit about—God she didn't even know what she wanted to say to him at this point—when her phone dinged.

She didn't even look at it, already knowing it was her dad, rescheduling yet again. But her mood lifted as the familiar roar of a pickup came along.

Gideon reached under his light jacket, as if flexing for his firearm, but Harry leaned down into the car and spoke in a calm voice.

“It's just the cousins.”

Buzz's red Sierra pickup jerked to a stop next to them, and Jonsey spilled out of the passenger's side, his blond hair fighting its way out from under his cowboy hat.

“Bring on the trouble!” he yelled while heading for the limo, sticking a hand inside to help Rochelle out.

She grasped onto him, swinging her legs toward the door, her blue Jimmy Choo leather heeled sandals hitting the blacktop before Jonsey pulled her to her feet. He kissed her on the cheek and cupped the back of her head with both hands, smoothly avoiding her sleek over-the-shoulder ponytail.

“You good, cuz?” he asked.

“I'm good, cuz.”

He let go of her. “Where're those creepers? Boy, I haven't had a decent fight since—”

“Jail,” Tucker said mildly, slamming the pickup's passenger door behind Jonsey. He was dressed in his biker boots, holey jeans, and a tight, untucked white T-shirt whose sleeves were high enough to barely hide a gothic web tattoo trailing from his shoulder to the top of his biceps. His dark hair was unruly, coming to his neck. “Jonsey, we already talked about this. Me, Buzz, and the guards will handle any creepers.”

Buzz came around the front of the truck, pushing up his cowboy hat and revealing his short, dark hair. “Amen to that, Tuck. You hear him, Jon? Because if you get rough, I'll be the first to fry your ass.”

Jonsey laughed. “You'll have to catch me first—after I do my damage.”

Rochelle grinned at him while adjusting his hat in playful fondness, appreciating his protective nature. Jonsey was the young pup of the brothers, not yet out of his twenties, but he'd always tried to keep up with the big boys.

By now, Gideon had exited the limo to stand by Rochelle's side. Shivers rolled down her, and she reveled in them. She did her best to hide it from him and her cousins, who were already clapping Gideon on the back in a fine hello.

“Just like the old days!” Buzz said, already pulling Gideon toward the door. “We used to have some times here even before Jesse bought the place, didn't we?”

“Now, Buzz,” Gideon said, slapping him on his shoulder and disengaging, “I'm on duty.”

Buzz gave Gideon's arm a rough squeeze. It was clearly the male version of a thank-you for what Gideon had done for Rochelle today.

She was sure the gesture would've been a whole lot different if he'd known what happened afterward in that bathroom, though.

Harry had already gone inside the club, no doubt to check things out, although Jesse Navarro had told Gideon he'd secured everything beforehand. Since Jesse seemed to be a good friend of Gideon's, Rochelle had every faith she was walking into somewhere as convivial as her own mansion.

For the most part.

Jonsey went to the door, resting his fingers on the handle and giving Rochelle an amused look.

“I'm so happy I'm here for Rochelle's first time,” he said.

She almost choked. He had no idea how truly close by he'd been for her first time—the cousins had been just inside the ranch house, not so far from the old barn where she and Gideon had . . .

Yeah.
Not thinking about it
.

Jonsey opened the door and ushered Rochelle and Gideon inside, where they were met in the near darkness by a raucous Beyonce song followed by the smell of perfume over grilled meat.

As Buzz and Tucker moved past her, Rochelle's eyes adjusted to the sight of a main stage that held poles with dancers wrapped around them, straddling the metal, licking their way up while pushing a hand down their clothes-challenged bodies. Mirrors reflected every move around the room like a carnival while men sat at the edge of the stage and at tables, enjoying lap dances, and . . .

Eating meals? People actually
did
come here to eat Jesse's carne asada?

Hmm.

Rochelle eased a curious look at Gideon. Carne asada or not, this guy was certainly the cock of the walk for bringing her here, where girls were dressed in negligees, bumping and grinding. Wasn't he afraid he was sending her the wrong message, just asking for another round of horniness from her?

He still looked stoic. “It's not what you're thinking.”

“And what would that be?” she asked over the music.

He waited until Buzz and Jonsey whooped their way to a table, followed by Tucker, who already had his intense gaze on a lap dancer dressed like a schoolgirl. From the way she smiled at him, they had to know each other. Buzz and Jonsey obviously had their favorites, too—a pair of ladies dressed in baby doll nighties with kitten ears fixed to their heads. One of them even greeted Buz with a scratching motion.

Through it all, Harry stood by, a total statue of discretion.

Gideon leaned close to her. As he talked, she could feel every word stirring her hair, his breath against her ear, warming it. “This place is safe, like I told you. I would've suggested the Rough and Tumble, but we've already had one creeper there.”

“And who knows how many others might show up randomly?” Like Dillinger, if he was inclined to mess with her.

“This is the first time I've ever thought of the Rough and Tumble as anything but a friendly haven.”

He seemed rather down about that, as if the saloon meant more to him than it appeared to her—as if it was a kick-back place he could go to without any worries weighing him down.

Interesting.

“Loosen up, pardner,” she said, testing him. “You're so tense. How is that possible after what we did today?”

And
that
didn't go over very well.

When she saw his jaw tighten, she teasingly put a hand over her mouth and spoke around it.

“Am I not supposed to mention it?”

“Rochelle . . .”

“Because I thought it was good to get that tension out of us. You see, now we don't have to think about it anymore.”

What a joke, because she sure was thinking about what'd happened this morning, his mouth all over her, rocking her to small cries and pleasured moans.

As he planted his hands on his hips, looking straight ahead, his jaw rock solid, he became a different Gideon, definitely not the one she'd been with today. He'd gone back to the near stranger who was only here to do a job.

She got the message loud and clear, but what came with it was even worse—that never-ending embarrassment she always seemed to feel around him. And it was flying in her direction like a stream of red that was about to splash over her.

Why couldn't she ever make the right move with Gideon?

But she didn't get defensive about it. She didn't fuss. She merely smiled, as if she'd been kidding him and wouldn't do it again.

“Who knew,” she said, “that you'd be the one to grow up with such a stick up your butt?”

He didn't answer, but she wasn't about to hang around for a response anyway—not when she was alive and free, without a creeper in sight. Not when she should be having fun.

There was just something about escaping possible death or injury that'd pumped her up tonight, and even if she knew she was on an adrenalized roller coaster thanks to the attack today, she plowed into the depths of the Pink Ladies, leaving the embarrassment behind.

As usual.

***

Gideon knew it was going to be a long night.

He could feel the restlessness in Rochelle that had been building all day, and it'd all started after the creeper attack. It hadn't helped that he'd just now brushed her off when she'd gotten too friendly, and Lord knew he couldn't afford friendly, especially after their kiss-and-tickle session this morning.

Obviously, he was going to be doing more than watching for creeper threats tonight. It looked like he'd be babysitting the biggest kind of pain-in-the-ass client—a partier.

But since he'd helped create her, he was gonna stick by her.

She flagged down Aria, a waitress wearing a pink cat suit, then expansively gestured around the room, no doubt ordering a round of something or other for everyone. And even though Rochelle was going to fit in pretty damned well after treating the crowd to booze, she sure looked out of place in that sophisticated black, red, and white designer sheath she was wearing.

Next to him, Harry loudly muttered under the music. “Want to explain anything to me about that private, flirty interaction you just had with our client?”

“She did the flirtin'.”

“True, but don't come crying to me when she gets blasted. She walked off pissed at you, so she's all yours once we get out of here.” He'd told Gideon he appreciated the extra hours, but
no
guard, including Harry, liked a drunk client.

The other guard walked over to Rochelle and the table where her cousins had already summoned Trixie and Delilah, the two dancers who were wearing little cat ears and purring on Buzz's and Jonsey's laps. Tucker was texting on his phone, avoiding the ardent gaze of another dancer who was dressed like a Catholic boy's wet dream and whose stage name was Mary Agnes.

Gideon had seen the boys in here a time or two. Buzz and Jonsey usually came together—probably so the older brother could keep the younger one in line—but Tucker always walked in alone, hanging out toward the back of the room until Mary Agnes would sashay over to him, huddling with him in the shadows until he went home just as alone as he'd arrived.

Gideon could relate. How much easier would
his
life be right now if he'd had nothing to do with Rochelle, who was, by the way, flapping a handful of bills at Trixie and Delilah, clearly asking for a dance?

He felt someone walking toward him and glanced over to find Jesse Navarro, whose granite-muscled arms were crossed over his black-shirted chest. The low colored lights bathed the sun he'd shaved into his crew cut.

“You got everything in hand?” he asked.

And he wasn't enquiring about the creeper.

Gideon merely frowned.

“Thought so.” A few beats of a Lita Ford song chugged by. “I should thank you for bringing your client in. My cash drawer's gonna be
muy
lovely tonight.”

Rochelle posed for a picture with Trixie and Delilah as the kitties danced for Buzz and Jonsey. The flash lit up everyone's smiles, then they all high-fived.