On Thin Ice (30 page)

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Authors: Susan Andersen

BOOK: On Thin Ice
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The stolen key was all but burning a hole in his pocket where it rested next to his thigh as Lon strode purposefully down the hallway. He cursed himself the entire way.
Christ, he was stupid! He'd had the gun right in his hand, but had he pulled the damn thing out of its hiding place between the mattresses long enough to see what he was dealing with? Hell, no, that might have offered the opportunity for a solution and Lon Morrison never did
anything
that constructive. There was a certain amount of damage control, he'd realized after the fact, that could be done to make a handgun inoperative. None of it would do a damn bit of good, however, if he didn't even know what the friggin' make was.
Consequently, as a direct result of his earlier panic, he now had probably seventeen to eighteen minutes tops to safely get himself in and out of Karen's room before she realized her key was missing and linked it to him. And that sure as hell didn't bear contemplating. Put the key's disappearance together with his inability to get it up for her this morning and it didn't take a genius to figure out the sort of conclusion she was going to draw.
He had the key in the door when room 424 down the hallway opened. Hastily extracting and pocketing the key he stepped lively to the center of the corridor and took ground-eating strides away from 428. He nearly tripped over Connie Nakamura as she awkwardly maneuvered her way out the doorway, an ungainly collection of luggage in both hands and under one arm. Believing in the attack-is-the-best-defense school of self-preservation, he made a small production out of checking his watch.
“Well, send up the rockets, Nakamura's gonna make the bus on time.” Not offering to help, he lounged against the wall and watched her struggle with a sliding shoulder bag, a hat that had a tendency to tip over one eye, and three various-sized pieces of luggage. She had such an expressive face he could simply look at her all day long . . . but then he recalled his time constraints and shoved away from the wall, reaching out to relieve her of the largest two pieces.
“What are you doing up here, Morrison?” she demanded after a small, ungracious struggle. Collecting her dignity around her like a ragged cloak, she hitched her purse up onto her shoulder, straightened her hat, and grabbing the remaining suitcase, marched down the hallway to the elevator. Lon ambled along in her wake, grinning at the rigid set of her back. God, she was so easy to rile. By the time they'd arrived at their destination however, he'd recalled the seriousness of his predicament, and it had effectively wiped the smile from his face.
He looked at her levelly when she turned to face him at the elevator. “What am I doing? Well, I'll tell you, my little China Doll,” he said and reached out to touch her hair.
And promptly got his hand slapped away. “I'm Japanese, you jerk.” Connie's eyes flashed and her chin went up. “Or maybe it's all the same to you. Maybe you're one of those people who think we all look alike?”
“No.” Lon stepped closer. “Shall I tell you what I am, my little Japanese Doll? I'm a dead man. And the little details tend to slip by dead men.” The elevator arrived and Lon slid Connie's bags inside. She stepped into the car and he followed, turning to punch the door-open button. Turning back, he trapped her against the back wall, hemming her in by the simple expedient of placing his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head. “And since I'm probably not gonna live out the week anyway, I may as well get the answer to something I've been wondering about for quite some time now.”
He slid his hands into her hair, tilted up her face, lowered his head, and kissed her to within an inch of her life.
And she let him. She let him break the seal of her lips with an easy twist of his own. Let him explore her mouth with a hot, supple tongue. Let him move in close and surround her hips with his thighs, flatten her tiny breasts with his chest. For maybe a minute, she allowed him to do it all.
Then she came to her senses. Nipping sharply at his tongue, she shoved him away.
Lon straightened and stepped back. Watching her intently, he saw her scrub at her mouth with the back of her hand. He also saw that her nipples poked at the soft surface of her sweater where nothing had poked a minute ago. He touched his tongue to the back of his hand and smiled. Disconnecting the door-open button, he punched the floor for the lobby and stepped back out into the hallway. She watched him the whole time in silence, tracking his movements with uncertain ebony eyes.
“I knew you'd taste that good,” he said quietly just as the door was closing. Then he shook himself out of the minor spell she'd put him in, turned, and loped back down the hallway to Karen's room. Kneeling by the side of the bed moments later, he carefully studied the pistol in his hand.
He had to struggle briefly with the temptation to simply make off with it. But if she'd got ahold of this one she could get ahold of another, and better the devil you knew, as they said . . .
Using the bedspread, he removed any possible prints from the grip and returned it to its resting place. He reviewed the options open to him as he climbed to his feet and let himself out of the room. And allowed himself a small smile.
Maybe, just maybe, there was a slim chance after all that he'd live to torment little Connie Nakamura again.
 
 
There were odd, disquieting rumblings in her head. Subliminal disturbances she couldn't quite put a finger on. With the sweet, demure smile she had perfected years ago, Karen shunned all offers of company, sitting instead in a small pocket of isolation amidst the babble of different conversations surrounding her. She ignored the fluctuating noise level as she stared blindly out the window of the bus.
Her reflection was a dim, wavery shimmer in the rain-streaked glass and it drew her attention over and over again from the dreary, waterlogged scenery beyond. If she could only capture what she saw mirrored there, if she could only study it, dissect it, she felt as if it would perhaps provide her with the answers she sought. Repeatedly, she attempted prayer, but her concentration was fractured and the words kept slipping away.
There was a conspiracy stirring; she understood that much. She could smell it. Lonnie, who was supposed to be
her
soldier, thought he was man enough to plot against her with that mealymouthed little Sasha Miller. Against
her.
It was laughable and if he thought for one moment that she'd allow him to get away with it, he was sadly deluded.
There was a sharp pain in her head and Karen briefly squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to alleviate the escalating pressure. Pressing her forehead against the cool windowpane, she focused on the words of the Twenty-third Psalm, fighting to string them together amidst the rumbling and mumbling in her brain. Bit by bit she felt the pain recede and her power restore itself.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
She had thought Lon was someone she could count on. Yes, he'd had his reservations; and yes he'd had his hesitations; but she had led him so gently, so seamlessly, to the path upon which she had wanted to see him place his feet. The path he'd trod for her once before. By rights he should be doing her bidding, marching to her orders, but instead that woman-child kept nagging at him and distracting him and . . .
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the path of righteousness for
his
name's
sake
.
Yea,
though I walk through th
e
valley
of the shadow of
—
“What?” Karen turned her head to address the person muttering in her ear. She had to make a conscious effort to erase the scowl from her face, but for heaven's sake she
detested
it when people failed to speak clearly. And regardless that the individual words were too indistinct to discern, she didn't appreciate the vaguely menacing tone one bit either.
No one was there.
She glanced around.
The Lord is my shepherd;
I
shall
not
want.
Oh, God, oh God.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
This wasn't the first time lately she'd thought she'd heard a voice speaking in her ear. It was Sasha Miller's doing. She'd never had these problems before little You-Promised-Me-You-Wouldn' t-Sell-Drugs-Miller started her whispering campaign in Lon Morrison's ear.
Her
Lon Morrison.
Before she'd poisoned Mick Vinicor against her. And just what
was
the story behind that relationship, anyway? One day they were this big, hot item—it was enough to make you retch—and the next they appeared to be on the outs. Yet Miller still checked into his room with him in every town they came to, and he still watched her like a lover. But like a frustrated lover, Karen didn't think Sasha was supplying him with sex.
Well, no matter. After Denver, Karen would be more than happy to do that for him. She'd show him what a real woman could do.
She knew now what her Lord wanted her to do. It was a direct contradiction to the Commandments that guided her life, and it was that, she thought, which had at first confused her. But hers was not to question—the answers would be provided in His own good time. In the meantime she was a Christian Soldier and she would do what she was bid.
Then everything would be hers.
Both men, the drugs, the power.
Everything.
A tiny smile tilted up one corner of Karen's mouth as she returned her attention to the scenery beyond the rain-streaked glass as they left Wyoming and crossed the border into Colorado.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want
.
N
INETEEN
As soon as Mick handed her the key to their room, Sasha veered away from the line awaiting room assignment and went looking for Connie. She found her in a secluded corner of the Denver hotel lobby where she was standing all alone gazing off into space. Coming up silently behind her, Sasha gripped her friend's shoulder with gentle fingers and leaned around to murmur into her opposite ear. “You still talking to me?” she asked.
Connie jumped and whirled around. “Holy shit, Sasha,” she said testily when she'd caught her breath. “Announce yourself next time, will ya? You about scared me to death.” Then, “Sure I'm talking to you,” she responded, but her voice was stiff and she found it difficult to hold her friend's gaze. The image of Lonnie as she'd last seen him in the Cheyenne hotel elevator flashed through her mind, and she found herself in the unexpected position of feeling uncomfortable in Sasha's presence.
God. How did she handle it? Only a little over a week ago she would have made an immediate beeline for her friend to regale her with every single detail of the encounter and talk out all the confusion that Lon's actions ultimately caused.
She bit back a nervous laugh. Not much chance of
that
now. Sasha was way too volatile these days to make it a viable option. Not that Connie blamed her, exactly—she didn't. Hell, she'd be volatile too if half the stuff that had happened to Saush happened to her. But that didn't make it any easier to tell her that Lonnie, Sasha's oldest friend and most recent adversary, had kissed Connie silly in the elevator. It was just all so awkward.
To say the least.
“I only wondered,” Sasha continued doggedly, picking up on Connie's tension if not the reason behind it, “because it feels as though nobody's talkin' to nobody anymore.”
“Well, hey, whose fault is that, Saush?” Connie's tone was unconsciously defensive. “I'm not the one who went and sat with the techs in the back of the bus.”
Quick tears rose in Sasha's eyes, and pride being the only thing she felt she had left to her, she averted her head to prevent Connie from seeing, quickly dashing them away with a surreptitious wipe of her fingertips. God, hadn't she run out of the damn things yet? Feeling isolated and estranged from everyone who'd ever mattered to her, she turned back, tilted her chin up, and said with stiff dignity, “I won't keep you, Connie. I merely wanted to apologize for my attitude earlier. As you quite rightly pointed out, there was no excuse for taking my hangover out on you.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
Connie caught the sheen of tears in her friend's gray eyes as she turned and reached out a beseeching hand to Sasha's departing back. “Saush, wait,” she said unhappily. This was ridiculous; they were the best of friends. The hell with awkward.
She took off after her.
But it was too late. She called out as the elevator door began to close, but Sasha either didn't hear or chose not to respond. Her face was austerely composed, her eyes fixed with unblinking attention on the lighted number panel above her head, as the doors that separated them slid silently closed.
 
 
Lon's fingers were stiff with the need to hurry. One by one he picked live ammunition out of the bullet chambers and tumbled in blanks in their stead. He'd only had time to exchange two-thirds of them when he was interrupted by the sound of the bathroom door opening.
Whispering a curse under his breath, he shoved the gun back into its hiding place, swept the live ammunition off the comforter into his palm and tossed it, along with the box of blanks, into the pocket of his jacket on the chair next to the bed, hoping to hell he wasn't going to clatter like a baby rattle when he put the damn thing on. He threw himself onto his back in the middle of the bed, stuffing his hands behind his head in a pose of nonchalance he was far from feeling just as Karen strolled into the room.
And immediately knew he was in trouble. She looked just as beautiful, just as desirable, as ever. His heart was thumping double-time, adrenalin was pumping through his veins, danger was in the air, and there was a woman in front of him wearing next to nothing. He should have been hornier than a sailor on shore leave. Yet, he looked at her and knew that there was no way in hell he was going to be able to perform for her.
Ah, Jesus, this was just what the situation called for. First this morning and now
again.
If he didn't get aroused, her suspicions sure as hell were going to be. He'd never been fussy before—if it was warm and wet, he was its man. So why did his damn dick have to pick
now
to develop a conscience?
Karen sat down on the bed beside him and reached out a hand to stroke his hard stomach. There was a little half smile tugging at the corner of her lips and he could see she was on the verge of speaking. But before she could say a word he'd shaken her off and rolled to his feet.
When in doubt, pick a fight.
Pacing restlessly, he prowled to the window, pulled back the drape, and looked out. Dropping the curtain, he turned back to face her. He shoved his hands into his pockets and rolled his shoulders. “Let's go out.”
“Don't be ridiculous.” Karen frowned at him. “There's not enough time before tonight's program.”
“Bullshit,” he said testily and prowled the circumference of the room. “We've got a few hours yet before we have to be at the arena. Time enough.”
She didn't like being contradicted but she took a deep breath and humored him. “Okay. Then how about this? You know we don't dare be seen together.”
“Oh, screw that, Karen.”
“Lon,” she began, but he cut her off impatiently.
“Dammit to hell,” he snarled. “I'm sick of being cooped up in here. If I'd wanted to have this many restrictions placed on my life I coulda stayed in jail.”
“I have been trying to be patient,” she said in long suffering tones, “but I've had quite enough of your foul language.” Then the strained tolerance in her voice disappeared and she added in her usual autocratic manner, “You will refrain from swearing in my presence.”
He was across the room in two strides to loom over her. Grabbing her chin in his hand, he jerked it up and leaned down until they were eyeball to eyeball. The muscles in his jaw jumped erratically.
“Don't
tell me what I can or cannot say,” he snapped. “Now, grab your friggin' coat and let's go.”
“No,” she stated adamantly. “We can't be seen together.”
“Have you rented your car yet?”
“Yes, but—”
“Drive it two blocks to the north and pick me up there,” he instructed her crisply. “And that takes care of that problem. We'll go to the other side of town where no one on earth is gonna know us.” Releasing her chin, he turned away.
And spotted a bullet in the carpet beneath his jacket, whereupon he nearly had a heart attack. But glancing back at her face, he realized her attention was fixed too intently upon him to have noticed it as well. He casually crossed to the area and holding her gaze, he picked up his jacket, sat down, and lounged on his spine. He hooked the neck of his jacket over the arm of the chair, which allowed the bottom edge to puddle on the carpet over the gleaming bullet, and beneath its cover, dangled his arm over the side and swept the bullet into his hand. He slid it into the pocket and raised an eyebrow at her with all the insolence he could muster.
He'd been pretty sure her incessant need to maintain control would make it impossible to take a direct order from him. To his gratification, he discovered he was correct. Karen's chin went up.
“I'm the one calling the shots here, Mr. Morrison,” she reminded him coolly. “Not you. You seem to have a problem remembering who's in charge. Now, it's too dangerous to be seen together and I'm
not
going anywhere with you.”
“Then I'm outta here, baby.” He looked her up and down. “You sure you don't want to change your mind and come along with me? This is your last chance.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and regarded him coldly. “I believe you know what you can do with your last chance.”
“Fine.” He slapped the chair's arms, gathered up his jacket, and rose to his feet. “I guess I'll just have to go rustle up someone who's a little more fun than you. That should take about ten minutes.”
He heard something hit the door seconds after he closed it behind him, making him wince. It probably wasn't especially bright to piss off a woman with a gun. But at least he was spared having to come up with an excuse for why he was once again unable to perform.
 
 
Sasha stood in the shadow of a piece of scenery and watched Mick. She couldn't have said why, precisely, but then she hardly recognized herself or any of the things she did these days. Full of pain and anger, she tried to remember the last time she'd laughed, couldn't, and wondered if she'd ever laugh again. The soundtrack the music director had made mocked her night after night as she glided into the spotlight. Most likely the big phoney smile she worked to paste in place fooled no one either.
She tried to keep her eyes on the set mover in his big rubber boots, but her gaze kept sliding past him to the man with whom he was speaking. Mick. Dammit, what was wrong with her? For over a week now he had been trying to talk to her, to get her to forgive him, and she had turned a deaf ear to it. Now that he'd stopped, now that his words were impersonal and he looked at her with the same polite courtesy he'd accord his maiden auntie, she wanted to make up. God, it was so crazy, but she wanted to hear him say “I'm sorry” just one more time and wanted to say in return “yeah, okay, you're forgiven; just, please,
please
don't lie to me ever again. And hold me. God, Micky, hold me, I've missed that so much.” She'd never known how safe his arms had made her feel until it was taken away.
But those words were never going to be said. Mick was leaving when this whole mess was over and she had too much pride to try to convince him to stay.
There was a concerted groan from the audience and Sasha knew whoever was on must have fallen. Whose performance was this? By concentrating on the music for a moment it came to her. Oh, sure, Karen Corselli. She shrugged. It happened to all of them at one time or another.
It took her by surprise when Karen sought her out at the conclusion of her own performance. She was walking down the back hallway on her way to the line skaters' locker room to change into her street clothes when the blond skater fell into step beside her.
“His.”
“Hi, Karen.” Sasha racked her brain for something further to say, but she really didn't know the other woman all that well and with an inward shrug finally gave up the attempt.
“I suppose you know I fell tonight,” Karen said glumly.
“Afraid so. I didn't see it, but I heard the crowd. I'd tell you ‘it happens' but since I've never been able to shrug it off lightly myself . . .”
“Exactly. Thanks anyhow.”
I
'
d
like to tell you it happens,
Karen mimicked with silent viciousness.
To you, maybe
.
As for me, I did it on purpose, you namby-pamby little incompetent. And don't think the necessity didn't gall me
,
either
Her thoughts hid behind guileless eyes as she turned toward Sasha. “Um, I've got a favor to ask.”
“Fire away.”
Karen almost laughed.
Oh,
I
shall, eventually.
“Would you stay after the show and go over the ice with me? I know you always check these rinks out thoroughly.”
“Oh, Karen, I don't know—”
“Please,” Karen put a soft hand on Sasha's forearm and looked earnestly into her eyes. “If I'd simply fluffed it on my own, I'd shrug it off as bad luck and walk away. But there was a divot in the ice and I want to mark the spot in order to avoid it for the rest of the engagement. I know you know where every flaw is located. Please, Sasha.” Abruptly her head turned aside. “What?”
“Beg your pardon?” Taken aback, Sasha craned her own head in an attempt to see what was going on.
“Huh?” Karen turned back to her. Then a flush climbed up her throat and onto her face. “I'm sorry, you must think I'm such a fool. I thought I heard somebody say something.” She turned redder yet, scared by the voices that kept whispering in her ear and lethally furious that Sasha Miller of all people had been a witness to her witless behavior. “So will you?” she forced herself to plead sweetly. “Please? You don't have to worry about catching the bus; I've rented a car.”
Sasha really didn't want to, but it was the blush that got to her. Karen had always struck her as such a chilly and composed woman that to see her all flustered like this was kind of disarming. She grimaced. What the heck—what would it hurt to give her a half an hour of her time? Besides, she could use the time herself since her hangover had prevented her from going over the ice this afternoon.

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