Authors: Susan Andersen
On Thin Ice (7 page)
She thought she was probably a better friend to him than he was to her. He knew how it would affect her to be petted by some stranger; he knew better than anyone else in the world, and yet he had asked it of her anyway.
But then again, to be fair . . . he was desperate. Lon wouldn't have asked it of her if he wasn't and that was something she understood.
God, more than anything she would like to be able to talk it over with Connieâwhy she was doing this stuff she didn't want to do and how it made her feelâbut how could she? Connie wouldn't understand. Hell, she barely understood it herself. Acting the tease, playing these stupid games, made her feel like a cross between a high-priced hooker and what's-her-name in that old TV spy spoofâAgent 99. She didn't know whether to be ashamed of herself or fall over laughing at the absurdity of it all.
At the moment she didn't feel much like laughing.
On the disgraceful side of the scoreboard was her behavior with J. R. Garland, who was the talent agent responsible for most of the performance hiring for the West Coast branch of the Follies. She'd been doing her damnedest to sweet-talk him into promising Lon a job when he was paroled from prison, vamping the old guy to beat the band. It was a balancing act of flirtation and letting it be subtly understood that she didn't intend to compromise her morals any more than she was currently doing simply to ensure her friend's employment. There were definite limits here. She might be linked to Lon by a lot of years and even more shared history, but she wasn't sleeping with any man for his benefit. And Lon knew better than to expect it of her.
On the comic relief side were the moronic espionage games of Lonnie's that she'd been playing. Calling him from a pay phone when there was a perfectly good telephone in every hotel room she'd ever stayed in; burning his letters as soon as she'd read them. For heaven's sake, who did he imagine would possibly care what the two of them talked or corresponded about?
Well, she'd done her part and she had honestly believed she'd never again have to lie to Connie if queried as to her whereabouts at any given time. When the Follies left San Francisco where J.R. was based, she had thought she'd seen the last of her role as the intelligence-impaired coquette.
Which is why she'd about died this afternoon when she received the telephone call from a jovial J. R. Garland, telling her he was in town for business and insisting that she join him for a late supper.
Sasha shuddered, tugged on the microscopic skirt of her black cocktail dress in an attempt to obtain a little more coverage for her thighs, and tossed back a slug of the Baileys Irish Cream the waitress placed before her. She didn't feel particularly good about herself at the moment, and she
swore
that this was the end of it. No more. Tonight had been the very last time she was putting herself through this bullshit. If Garland opted not to hire Lon after this, that was too damn bad. Lonnie'd gotten himself into trouble without any help from her; he could darn well . . .
swore
that this was the end of it. No more. Tonight had been the very last time she was putting herself through this bullshit. If Garland opted not to hire Lon after this, that was too damn bad. Lonnie'd gotten himself into trouble without any help from her; he could darn well . . .
“Hi, I thought that was you,” a voice, soft and low, interrupted her thoughts. “Mind if I join you?”
Sasha's head jerked up. Standing in front of her booth was Mick Vinicor, looking too damn energetic for words. God above, where did he get all that vitality he perpetually exuded? It made her weary just looking at him. She opened her mouth to tell him yes, she did in fact mind, that she would just as soon be left alone; but he was already sliding in next to her, sitting much closer than was necessary. “Make yourself at home,” Sasha said dryly and took another sip of her drink.
He grinned, flashing those impossibly white teeth at her. “Thanks, don't mind if I do.” A waitress appeared as if by magic. Must be nice to be a virile male sometimes, Sasha thought sourly. Mick ordered a beer, flirted with the waitress a moment, and then leaned back so he could view Sasha from head to toe.
Her coat was tossed behind her, carelessly spread open across the banquette, and she was wearing a little nothing of a lace dress that was cut low in a sweetheart neckline between her breasts. The garment was lined from bust to hem but her shoulders and arms glowed lightly golden through the tight black lace of the long sleeves, and scallops of sheer lace edged past the sheath lining to play teasing games on her thighs. Christ. You'd think the impact would have lessened after watching that face and body for the past several hours. And yet . . .
Mick swallowed dryly but forced a cocky grin and an insouciant tone as he sprawled back, arms stretched out along the banquette. “Killer dress.”
“What, this old rag?” Sasha retorted, and both her voice and her face were entirely void of expression. She watched him coolly over the rim of her cocktail glass.
Okay, so she wasn't going to give an inch. He'd already pretty much acknowledged that she would be a formidable opponent. “Yeah, it's a beaut. You just get back from a date or something?”
He knew where'd she'd been, of course. He'd retrieved the call from the recording in time to follow her to that restaurant downtown where he'd watched from the bar as some old fart had pawed her all night long. It made him grit his teeth every time he thought of the way she'd just sat there and let him. Hell, not only let him, but had smiled while she was allowing it. Smiled and laughed.
“I don't really want to talk about my evening, Mick, if you don't mind.” She drained her drink. “This hasn't been the best night of my life.”
That caught him by surprise. He hadn't expected her to admit to any weakness. But before he could take advantage of what might be the only moment of vulnerability she'd ever display to him, she was already getting ready to leave. She pulled her coat off the banquette to drape over her shoulders and collected her purse; then she began to edge around to the far side of the banquette. Due to her skirt's propensity to climb into the indecent zone with every incautious movement she made, that was necessarily a gingerly process, and Mick took advantage of her creeping progress to reach across the table and wrap his fingers around her wrist. “Wait,” he said, staying her. “Don't go.”
Sasha froze in place, experiencing that same zap of awareness she'd felt the night he had held her hand too long backstage. She gazed at him warily. “Why?”
“Why?” His thick brows drew together. “Hell, I don't know.” And he didn't. He knew he wasn't going to get any more out of her this evening. She was gun shy and not at all receptive to sexual advances, and it was for damn sure she wasn't going to tell him squat.
And it wasn't as if he required her assistance anyhow. He could get all the information he needed on the old sleezebag she'd met without holding his breath waiting for her cooperation. Hell, that part was child's play: he'd sent the son of a bitch's name in to be processed the minute it had come off the recorder, and by tomorrow afternoon whatever secrets the old guy possessed would be in Mick's hands.
Yet still he retained his light grasp on her delicately boned wrist. “You're pretty,” he finally said. “You look like you've had a rough night. I'm lonely.” He shrugged as if to say, take your pick. “So what do ya say you let me buy you a drink?”
His fingers relinquished their grip but lingered to stroke the table next to where her hand rested. “I'm not on the make, Sasha,” he assured her. “I just want someone to flirt with for a few minutes.” When she stiffened slightly, he held up his hands, palms out in entreaty, and hastily added, “Or if you don't feel much like flirting, I'd still like someone to talk to.”
Sasha sagged back in her seat. “All right.” She was wired up and unlikely to fall asleep any time soon, anyway. Why go up to her room when she'd only end up tossing and turning for the next several hours? She straightened and gave Mick a slight smile. “You must think I'm crazy,” she murmured as she tossed her coat off her shoulders. Mick signaled the waitress and Sasha gave her order. When they were alone again Sasha turned back to Mick.
“I did something tonight I'm not very proud of,” she admitted, “and it's left me feeling a little raw. I'm sorry, though, if I've taken it out on you.”
Again she caught him by surprise . . . and left him confused. He didn't understand this. He had her pigeonholed as a conscienceless bitch. She might
look
soft as a satin boudoir pillow, but she had to be cold as death and harder than diamonds to deal poison the way she'd been doing without batting an eye. He'd be mighty interested in learning how the old man she'd met tonight fit into all this. He must be some piece of work to have this little operator running scared. Mick forced his voice to be low and empathetic when he said, “Don't worry about me; I've got a hide like a rhinoceros. You want to talk about it?”
look
soft as a satin boudoir pillow, but she had to be cold as death and harder than diamonds to deal poison the way she'd been doing without batting an eye. He'd be mighty interested in learning how the old man she'd met tonight fit into all this. He must be some piece of work to have this little operator running scared. Mick forced his voice to be low and empathetic when he said, “Don't worry about me; I've got a hide like a rhinoceros. You want to talk about it?”
Sasha swallowed an involuntary snort of laughter. “God, no. I've already made up my mind I'm not ever going to get sucked into a situation like tonight's again. All I want to do now is forget it ever happened.”
Mick obliged her by changing the topic, but he was about as disconcerted as it was possible to get. What the hell was going on here? She wasn't acting at all the way he'd expected and it left him consumed with curiosity. He wanted nothing more than to learn all her secrets. He
would
learn all her secrets; he planned to seduce them out of her one by one.
would
learn all her secrets; he planned to seduce them out of her one by one.
Maybe not tonight.
But soon. Perhaps tomorrow, because by then he should have the leverage he needed to start prying them out of her.
Just as soon as he got the information he'd requested on J. R. Garland.
Â
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It didn't turn out to be quite that simple. In point of fact, the information he received merely added to the confusion. Jesus, what a screwed-up case this was shaping up to be.
Garland was a damned talent scout. Period. He had no arrest record and there was absolutely nothing that connected him to the drug world. So why had Sasha Miller sat there and allowed him to put his hands all over her, to pat and stroke her like some damn pet Pekinese? Garland wasn't a drug czar to whom she had to toady up, and clearly she hadn't allowed it for its entertainment value.
Or, hell, maybe that's exactly what she'd done. What did he know about the way she got her kicks, when it came right down to it?
He needed to know more about her in order to figure out what made her tick. So far she hadn't done one damn thing that fit into any mold he was accustomed to seeing. So he sought information in the good old time-honored street hump way.
He broke into her room again.
Except for the one communication from Garland, she hadn't received or made a single telephone call since he'd first placed a tap on her phone in Sacramento. So today he ignored the phoneâhe'd done his work there alreadyâand went straight to the closet.
Her luggage, stacked on the shelf above the hangers, was empty. Mick checked for false bottoms, but the dimensions were the same inside and out on all the pieces. He felt for false linings.
It was just plain old standard issue baggage.
He riffled through the clothing on the hangers, checking pockets, running his hands swiftly over the fabric, feeling for concealed hiding places. Nothing.
Same with her shoes; there was nothing stuffed in the toes, and the glittery little evening bag tossed in the corner of the closet held only a forgotten lipstick and some change. He swiveled the lipstick open and sniffed it.
Then promptly swiveled it closed again and replaced the cap. Why was he wasting time? She was only down to lunch with some of the other skaters; he didn't have a hell of a lot of time here. He crossed over to the dresser.
His hands wanted to linger in the lingerie drawer but he sternly refused to allow them. Swiftly, he moved from drawer to drawer, perusing the contents without disturbing their order.
When the dresser failed to yield any secrets, he checked under the bed, felt between the mattress and the box springs, patted around the television set in the enclosed armoire. He examined the backs of the hotel artwork and inspected the carpet for loose spots that may have been pried up.
Clean as a freakin' whistle.
He was in the bathroom, poking with his pen in a jar of some kind of cream, when he heard a key in the door.
Son of a bitch! Wiping off the pen, Mick stuffed both it and the Kleenex in his jean's pocket and looked around. Jesus, he was never going to live this case downâif it wasn't one fucking thing it was another.
He climbed into the bathtub behind the white curtain and pressed up against the enclosure under the showerhead. It was just the frosting on his cupcake that the damn thing had a leak. Throughout the next several tense moments, maddening drops of water plopped with the regularity of a metronome onto his forehead and then slowly rolled down to drip off the tip of his nose.
Sasha and another woman entered her hotel room. Mick could hear their feminine voices as they walked straight past the bathroom.
“It's here somewhere,” he heard Sasha say as drawers rattled open. “I know it is. The last time I wore it was . . . ah! Here it is.” There was a muffled thump. “What do you think . . . will it work?”
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