Authors: Susan Andersen
On Thin Ice (5 page)
And that laugh.
God, what a gut grabber that was.
Somehow all his expectations had gotten knocked for a loop, in the space of a few measly minutes. Where he'd expected a demeanor that coolly invited all comers to drop dead, she'd instead been all flustered apologies, soft hands, and big eyes.
Mick shook himself like a wet dog. So what? So she was pretty and had big, curious eyes. Big deal. Plainly the woman knew how to run a con even better than he did. That didn't mean he had to be first class A-I chump and fall for it, did it?
Arriving at the area that passed for the wings, he stood back out of the way, arms crossed over his chest, and surveyed Sasha's firm little butt in its skimpily cut, glittery red briefs while she was bent over tugging her skate laces into place. He watched her lift her head up to grin at something a stagehand said to her and told himself sourly that her apparent friendliness was probably all part of the scam.
“And NOW, ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE give a BIG WARM WELCOME to OLYMpic Silver Medalist, SA-SHA MILLER!
Sasha tossed aside her jacket and the Nikes she'd just exchanged for her skates, slid her palm along Connie's as they passed each other when the line skaters streamed off the ice, removed her guards from her blades, and stepped up onto the ice. Propelling herself into the arena proper, she glided around the rink, head back, arms raised, and laughed with pure joy while the crowd applauded. God above, she loved this.
Every single show, it never failed that her initial appearance on the ice managed to provoke an identical response from her; and the musical director, who knew a commercial sound when he heard one, had been quick to cash in on it. He'd ordered a recording made of her contagious laughter and it played back now over the loud speakers, climbing to the topmost seat in the house, making people smile in reaction. Making men shift in their seats.
The opening strains of “Angel from Montgomery” poured out of the loudspeakers and Sasha launched into her routine. Mick left his post against the wall and came up to the arena entrance to watch her performance.
Because the music in Bonnie Raitt's song was too slow throughout to sustain a long program, the musical director had recorded it in abbreviated form. Sasha glided with lazy ease, swooping and spinning languorously.
Then the music changed. It segued into Richard Marx's “Playing with Fire” and the tempo and style radically altered. The little fringed scarf tied around Sasha's hips came off, exposing the almost thong-cut panty of her costume, and she began to move her hips and shoulders in subtle rhythms to the music. Mick, watching from the wings, found himself swallowing dryly before the song was halfway through.
Connie Nakamura came up to stand beside him. Interested as always in catching people's reactions the first time they saw Sasha perform, she studied his features carefully. Vinicor's face was perfectly expressionless, but she noticed his Adam's apple make several slow slides up and down his throat.
“She's something, isn't she?” she finally demanded with typical enthusiasm. “It's funny, because there are only so many moves a skater can make, so hers shouldn't look all that different from what everyone else is doing. And yet”âher eyes on her friend's performance, she pursed her lips and shook her fingers as if they'd been scorched, a gesture with which Sasha was very familiarâ“when Saush does it, it's pure sex appeal.” Then she turned her attention back to Mick once again.
“You should've seen her with her old pairs partner,” she said. “I saw them once at a Pan American competition and they were so hot I kept expecting steam to rise up off the ice. I have never seen a program like it . . . before or since.”
“Yeah?” Wondering how much she would willingly volunteer, Mick raised an interested brow in her direction before his attention was drawn once again to the woman in the arena. “So where is this partner now?”
Connie's smile faded and she shifted slightly away from him. The space she opened up between the two of them was infinitesimal in distance, but Mick recognized it for what it was: a sudden mile-wide gulf. If he hadn't already known about Miller and Morrison, her posture would have alerted him that there was a story here and caused him to go digging for it.
“He's . . . retired,” she replied repressively and turned her attention back to the performance out under the lights. Sasha Miller was her closest friend and there was no way on God's green earth that Connie was going to resurrect that old scandal for the delectation of some guy she'd just met this afternoonâmacho babe or not. If the new manager wanted to know about Lon Morrison bad enough, she wasn't fool enough to think a dozen different people around here wouldn't be more than happy to supply him with all the sordid details. But it wouldn't be from Connie Nakamura's lips that he heard it.
The music reached a crescendo and Sasha exited the rink, flushed and happy. There wasn't anything quite as stimulating as performing in front of a receptive crowd and she was flying high. It had been a dream of hers to skate for
Follies on Ice
since she was a young girl and she still had to pinch herself sometimes to accept that the dream had actually come true. The downsideâthe unrelenting pressure of constant travel, the occasional fatigueâsimply didn't matter once she hit the ice.
Follies on Ice
since she was a young girl and she still had to pinch herself sometimes to accept that the dream had actually come true. The downsideâthe unrelenting pressure of constant travel, the occasional fatigueâsimply didn't matter once she hit the ice.
Connie was standing by the new manager and Sasha flashed them a smile as she got out of the new act's way. Stopping to apply her blade guards, she stepped off the ice, gathered up her Nikes, and slipped into her wool-and-leather letterman's jacket.
She loved this coat. It represented everything she'd missed out on back in her Kells Crossing high school days. She used to watch the girls who wore their jock boyfriends' jacketsâor better yet, the ones who had earned their ownâand she'd always felt so envious and excluded. She hadn't had time for extracurricular activities back then; her schedule had been devoted exclusively to skating. She'd loved it more than anything in the world, but it made her different from the rest of her classmatesâand being different is not a lot of fun for a teenager. Particularly in a small town.
More important than having an adolescent wish realized, however, this coat was significant to her because she'd bought it the day her mother died. Carole Miller was in her thoughts every time Sasha put it on.
Connie was responsible for the purchase. Sasha had been knocked flat by the news of her mother's death, and unable until the following morning to get a flight out of the city they were currently playing, she'd nearly climbed the walls, not knowing how to deal with her grief. She'd holed up in her hotel room, alternately crying and staring into space, until Connie had come knocking at her door.
“C'mon,” she'd insisted the moment Sasha had opened it. “You know those jackets you're always raving on about? We're gonna go downtown and get you one.”
“Maybe another time, Connie,” Sasha had retorted listlessly, starting to close the door again. “Today's not a good day to go shopping.”
Connie had blocked the closing door. “Ah, now that's where you're wrong,” she'd disagreed firmly, barging in and bundling Sasha into a coat. Gathering up her friend's purse and room key, she'd placed them in Sasha's hand and then held her off at arm's length, her hands gripping Sasha's shoulders while she looked her straight in the eye. “Today is the best possible day to buy yourself something you've been wanting to buy forever. I think your mom would get a real kick out of knowing you were treating yourself to something special in her honor.”
And so Sasha had bought this deep red wool jacket with its camel leather sleeves. Two cities later, Connie had found an athletic supply house and bought her a thick wool letter S, arranging to have it applied to the front. For her birthday a bunch of the skaters had gone together and custom ordered a woolly silver FOLLIES ON ICE to put on the back. Jack the bus driver had bought her a skating patch for the sleeve. It was like no other coat anywhere in the world and she loved it.
She loved the woman who over her protests had dragged her out to make the purchase. It had been possibly the worst day of her life. But warm memories, which the coat inspired every time she slipped into it, was like an ongoing healing process, so she was grateful she'd allowed herself to be coerced.
Pulling the coat closed against the backstage chill, she joined Connie and Mick. Connie gave her a one-armed hug and whispered, “Good program.” Then Sasha turned to Mick. Thrusting out her hand she smiled up at him. “Hi again. I didn't stop to introduce myself when I ran into you earlier,” she said. “I'm Sasha Miller.”
Mick gripped her hand, giving it a firm shake. “Mick Vinicor.”
His fingers were hard skinned, dry, and warm, and Sasha blinked at the jolt that went through her at their touch. “Yeah, I . . . uh . . .” She cleared her throat. “I know.” She gathered her wits. “That is, Connie told me about meeting you this afternoon.” She realized he was still holding her hand and slipped it free. Unconsciously working her fingers, she opened and closed them at her side.
Jeez, what was this? She suddenly felt and was acting like a damn high school girl. But he was standing very close, giving her his undivided attention, and for some odd reason she couldn't seem to draw her eyes away from his.
She cleared her throat again. “Uh, listen, sometime before we leave Sacramento I need to sit down with you for a few minutes and go over a few things.”
“Sure.” Mick nodded agreeably and took a step back, giving her a little space. “What sort of things do you have in mind?”
She drew a deep breath and quietly expelled it, feeling on safer ground with some distance between them. “Just the usual business stuff that Henry used to take care of. Like making arrangements for me to have first day access to the arenas where we perform. It's important to me to be able to check out the ice in a new place and I'm hoping you'll continue where he left off.”
“No problem.” Without warning he once again closed the gap between them. Standing close, eyelids developing a sudden carnal heaviness, he looked down at her. “I'm in room 415; stop by anytime. We'll . . .” His gaze fastened on her mouth, his tongue slipped out to touch his lower lip. Then his eyes rose to meet hers. “ . . . talk.”
Connie choked. When Mick turned his head easily in her direction and Sasha, with a little more effort, dragged her gaze from Mick's to look at her, she coughed a few additional times and waved a hand at them. “Swallowed wrong,” she explained, pressing the tips of two fingers to the hollow of her throat. “Well, hey!” she said brightly the moment she got herself under control. “I'd better go change my costume. I'll, uh, talk to you two later.” Without awaiting a response, she turned to go.
“Wait, Connie, I'll go with you.” Sasha turned to Mick. “See you, Mick; I look forward to working together,” she said and moving as fast as her delicate blades would allow, hurried to catch up with her friend.
Connie flashed her a sidelong glance but waited until they reached the locker room before saying anything. Then she turned to face Sasha, fanning her cheeks with her fingers. “I've said it before and I'll say it again. That man is potent,” she declared.
Swallowing, Sasha nodded her agreement. That was the God's honest truthâmore potent than anything she'd ever before come across.
“At first when he was standing so close and looking at youâthe way he was looking at youâI was a little jealous. I mean, I saw him first after all.”
“Yeah, but you didn't say dibs.”
Connie laughed. “Yeah. And just as well, I think, too. I have a feeling that fella is way more man than I'd know how to handle.”
Sasha grabbed Connie by the wrist and dragged her over to the frayed couch in the corner of the room. “And you think I can?” she demanded, collapsing onto the dusty cushions. “Even supposing that I wanted to . . . God, Connie, he probably comes on like that to every woman he comes into contact with.”
“No, I don't think so, Saush.” Connie sat down next to her. “I stood there talking with him for a while and there wasn't so much as a
hint
of anything like that. Not with me, not with Karen this afternoon, and not with Brenda, Lois, Mary, or Sara, all of whom came up for introductions about the time you were coming off the ice. God, when he said âwe'll . . . talk,' I about swallowed my tongue. I think what he was really saying was, âcome to my room and I'll rip all your clothes off and do stuff to your body so nasty it'll make you scream.' ”
hint
of anything like that. Not with me, not with Karen this afternoon, and not with Brenda, Lois, Mary, or Sara, all of whom came up for introductions about the time you were coming off the ice. God, when he said âwe'll . . . talk,' I about swallowed my tongue. I think what he was really saying was, âcome to my room and I'll rip all your clothes off and do stuff to your body so nasty it'll make you scream.' ”
Sasha licked her lower lip. “It wasn't just in my mind then,” she said slowly. “I thought maybe I was exaggerating the . . . vibrations.” She rubbed her hands down her thighs and gripped her knees. “Wow,” she whispered. “He's good. I mean, I'm used to those guys who drool all over me after they've seen me perform, and I know how to handle them. But he's a lot more subtleâwhich makes him about a hundred times more effective.” She turned her head to look at Connie. “I take it it's safe to assume he watched the âPlaying with Fire' number?” Dammit, how many times had she been through this, through the multitudinous come-ons from men who thought she was what she skated?
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