Private Dancer (10 page)

The crowd broke out in spontaneous applause, but Bev wasn’t in any position to appreciate their enthusiasm. She felt like a whirligig in a high wind. She was twirling madly toward the railing when a man appeared out of nowhere, a phantom in a yellow shirt carrying a tray of drinks. As luck would have it, he was serving the redhead when Bev clipped him from behind.

“Look out!” someone cried as the waiter lurched forward. The tray of drinks tipped, drowning the redhead in pastel bubbles.

Bev broke away from her partner and grasped the ship’s railing, aghast as the tray and drinks sailed down the deck on a tidal wave of pink foam. Luckily the glasses were plastic. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “The boat rolled or something. Did you feel it too?”

Bev turned to her partner, but he’d already spun off, probably in search of a better dancer. Clinging to the rail, she watched the redhead stalk off too, sputtering and crying, to change her clothes. And then, the next thing she knew, Arthur Blankenship himself was clasping her hand and asking if she was all right.

Bev knew she had to take advantage of the moment. “I’m fine,” she said, smiling at him gratefully. In fact, she was dizzy as a top, her vision was oddly fuzzy, and she had a faintly metallic taste in her mouth. At least the ship seemed to have stopped rolling.

She clung to Arthur’s hand for several moments, forcing herself to gather her wits as the dizziness finally began to subside. “Sorry about your friend,” she said, glancing in the direction the redhead had gone. “Lovely girl. Your niece?”

Arthur flashed a quick, pained smile. “Just met her.”

“Really? Very attractive,” Bev murmured, releasing her death grip on his hand. “Very
young
.”

“Jailbait,” Arthur agreed absently, already caught up in the dazzling effect of Bev’s strategically padded and underwired bodice. “Did you get wet?”

Bev summoned a provocative smile. “I’ll never tell.”

His eyes glinted hungrily, and Bev felt a moment of giddy triumph. He was lusting after her! And so quickly. That was pure, unadulterated male lechery in his eyes. She glanced down at her overflowing bustline and knew the reason why, but she hardly cared what his motives were at that moment. After years of feeling like a female eunuch, it seemed like the impossible dream. She’d actually had two men hot and bothered in less than a week’s time!

Oh, this
is
fun, she thought. She’d been right about detective work. It could be glamorous and exciting. Not only that, the “bait” idea was working better than she’d dared to hope.

Arthur cupped Bev’s elbow, spiriting her away from the scene of the crime as a crew of housekeepers appeared to mop up the spilled drinks. Bev glanced over her shoulder as they escaped, feeling a little guilty about the mess.

Once they’d found a quiet spot on the aft section of the deck, Arthur clasped her hand again. “My friends call me Tony,” he said, playing with her fingers.

“Tony?” Bev didn’t recall that alias from his police file, but then, con men changed names as often as their underwear. Probably more often in Arthur Blankenship’s case. “My friends call me B.J.,” she said, still a little breathless from their flight.

“I’ll bet they call you other things too, B.J., like beautiful.”

“The man’s a poet.” She laughed softly, the pleasure more real than feigned. Actually, Arthur Blankenship, the man of a thousand names, was much more attractive in a smarmy sort of way than Lydia Covington had given him credit for. Lydia hadn’t mentioned how near black his brown eyes were or the way his teeth flashed when he smiled.

“Did you notice? It’s a new moon tonight,” he said.

They turned to look out at the water, and in the moments that followed, Bev lost count of the number of compliments Arthur lavished on her and simply allowed herself to laugh and enjoy them. She’d never been the type men went crazy over, and even though she knew it was all part of his come-on, it was still a heady experience.

“Something to drink, ma’am?”

A waiter paused beside Bev and she absently took a glass of champagne from his tray. “Thank you,” she said, her eyes fixed on Arthur.

“Wrong guy.” Bev felt a nudge from behind as someone whispered the words harshly in her ear. She nearly dropped her champagne. Who’d bumped her? The waiter?

He was gone by the time she got herself turned around. Puzzled, she searched the area and saw a man signaling to her through the crowd. Then she did drop her champagne. It was Sam Nichols in a yellow calypso shirt!

Bev gaped at Nichols’s angry countenance as Arthur pulled her away from the spilled champagne.

“Are you all right?” Arthur asked. “You keep dumping drinks on the floor.”

“I’m fine,” Bev said haltingly. Her head was swimming with questions. Where had Nichols come from? How had he found her? “I’m sorry,” she told the bewildered con man. “There’s something I have to do. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sam was moving among the guests with the drinks, but Bev could feel his eyes on her as she approached. There was no doubt that he was angry. The scar on his face was white, pulled tight by the tension in his jaw. Because of his size, he looked a little silly in pedal pushers and a calypso shirt, but any urge Bev might have had to laugh was smothered by caution. She didn’t want to die.

“Thank you,” she breathed, taking a drink off his tray as she reached him.

“Over there. “ He jerked his head toward a windscreen of fluttering palms near the stern of the ship, and then he left her, continuing to move through the crowd.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered a moment later as she joined him behind the potted palms.

His glare nearly melted the sarong off her body. “You’re drunk as a skunk,” he said incredulously. “And where the hell did you get that dress? Off a dead streetwalker?”

Bev bristled. This from the man who preferred low-cut dresses? “Well, thank you, Sam,” she said tightly. “Arthur happens to think it’s a lovely dress.”

He jerked her around and pointed to the silver-haired man she’d been flirting with. “That’s
not
Arthur, you little idiot.”

“It is so!”

He turned her another forty-five degrees and pointed toward a small, bookish man with silver hair and wire-rim spectacles. He was standing alone, observing the crowd. “
That’s
Arthur.”

“It can’t be—” Bev caught herself. She’d been about to say he didn’t fit the description Lydia had given her. But, of course, a con man wouldn’t. Arthur had obviously disguised himself with glasses and a more intellectual look.

“I think you’d better hightail it down to your cabin,” Sam said, his hands tightening on her arms. “Before I lose my temper and do something that embarrasses both of us.”

“What?”

His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Let’s put it this way. I’ve never taken a woman over my knee in my life. I’ve never even thought about it ... until tonight.”

B
EV LOCKED THE DOOR
of her cabin and looked around in vain for a chair to prop up against it. Turn her over his knee? What rock had that man crawled out from under? Hadn’t he heard of Gloria Steinem? Didn’t he know that women were no longer bought and sold at slave auctions?

“Apparently not,” she said, pacing the length of her tiny cabin. If he laid a hand on her, even one finger, she would—She folded her arms tightly and rocked forward, trying to think. Panic flashed through her anger, stopping her cold. What would she do? He was so damn big. He’d picked her up and set her down on her own kitchen countertop as though she were a bag of groceries.

She kicked off the slingbacks, her insteps aching. Life had become so complicated now that she had Sam Nichols to contend with again. He probably thought he was going to run the Covington case, but she had no intention of letting him push his weight around. As long as she was the bait, she would call the shots. If he wanted to take over, let him wear the falsies and lure Arthur Blankenship back to the United States.

She sank down heavily onto the bed, blotting the dampness from her neck as she considered her broom closet of a room. She’d booked so late she’d ended up with the last available cabin on the lowest deck. There were no windows, the air-conditioning didn’t work, and it was so near the engine room, the constant drone made it difficult to think. And then there was the heat.

Perspiration was beading on her upper lip and in the cleft between her breasts. What she needed was a quick shower and some time to cool down before she had to face Mr. Tough Guy again. They’d established a pattern of catching each other off guard, so the next dance was hers.

She’d just about peeled herself out of Tina’s sarong when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her cabin. Someone twisted the doorknob, and she knew it was Sam. That man didn’t have the manners God gave a donkey. Couldn’t he knock?

“Just a minute,” she said, thankful she’d remembered to lock the door. “I’m changing.”

The doorknob jiggled again, a soft click sounded, and the door swung open. Bev grabbed a blanket off the bed to cover herself as the sarong slid to her ankles. Sam Nichols was leaning against her doorjamb, holding a toothpick between his thumb and forefinger. “These things come in so damn handy,” he said quietly, his blue eyes flashing over her.

Bev wanted fervently to be angry with him, but he looked so outlandish in calypso gear, she couldn’t get a good grip on her outrage. “I said I was changing.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.” He flicked the toothpick aside, seeming only mildly interested in the fact that she was wearing a blanket. “Especially since we’re going to be sharing this cabin.”

“I beg your pardon?”

For the first time that evening, Bev realized that his blousy shirt had no buttons. It tied at his waist and flowed open above to reveal swirls of panther-black chest hair, layered muscle, and ... was that another scar?

“You’ve got yourself a bunkmate, Lace.” The undersize door frame forced him to duck as he entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Bev shook her head several seconds before the words made it out of her mouth. “I most certainly do not! Even if I were to entertain the possibility of such an arrangement—which I wouldn’t—there is barely room in this cabin for me.”

He leaned back against the door and folded his arms, the very portrait of an immovable object. “You’re looking at a stowaway, babe. If you hadn’t pulled that cute number with the cruise lines, I’d have my own cabin, and you’d have that bunk all to yourself. “ He nodded at the room’s only bed. “I like the outside. How about you?”

“But there must be somewhere they can put you up? The crew’s quarters?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I’m a stowaway.” He raised his arm and tweaked the voluminous yellow sleeve. “I swiped this clown suit, and if they catch me impersonating one of their waiters, I walk the plank.”

“What a delightful idea.” She hitched the blanket up around her and stepped out of the sarong, bending to pick it up.

“Don’t even think about blowing my cover,” he said, letting his eyes coast over the most prominent point of her rather vulnerable position. “Or I may have to take that disciplinary action I mentioned.”

Bev unbent immediately, glaring at him. “Don’t be absurd! And don’t you dare threaten me.”

“Behave yourself, Lace, and I won’t have to.”

Their eyes locked. Bev felt her breath quicken as she held her ground. If this was another test of her mettle, Sam Nichols had better be prepared to back off. She would die where she stood before she’d let him do such an appalling thing.

“No man lays a hand on me and lives to talk about it,” she said, breathing the words. “How could you be so base?”

“Me? Base? I wasn’t the one drinking Caribbean

Kickers like they were water, dancing like Carmen Miranda, and knocking waiters on their butt.”

“Caribbean Kickers?” Bev touched the patch behind her ear. “You mean the punch was—”

He nodded. “You were bombed, Lace. Admit it.”

Bev sighed in exasperation. Did he have to be so blunt? At least now she understood why the boat had been rolling under her feet. And she also realized that Sam Nichols was doing it to her again. He was stirring up the banked coals, stoking the fire. She wasn’t frightened anymore. She was angry, aflame. It felt good.

Sam saw the fire too. It was dancing in her gray eyes like quicksilver, molten flashes of mercury. It made her beautiful, and as hot as a Caribbean night. It drew him, that fire ... but what drew him more was the earlier stirring of emotion he’d seen in her eyes. Fear, he thought, wondering if he was right. He rarely bothered looking below the surface. Most people weren’t worth the effort, and he usually didn’t like what he saw. But in this case he was fascinated by the deep whisperings of apprehension in her eyes. She was scared out of her mind about something. Was it him? Or just life in general?

“Just for the record,” she said, her voice taut. “I don’t care what you think of me or my tactics. I don’t need your help, okay? I don’t need anything from you. I may have messed up tonight, but I can handle this case—and I can do it alone.”

Her show of bravado might have fooled someone else, but she had just confirmed Sam’s suspicions. B.J. Brewster, only daughter of L.A.’s toughest private eye, was riddled with self-doubts. He was tempted to probe, but something told him her anxieties were rooted in concerns much more personal than detective work. On some level Sam could relate to her fears and the courage it took to face them. He’d done battle with his own demons for years—and the demons had won. She hadn’t given up yet. She was still fighting.

As far as the work went, he could have reassured her on that score. She was still wet behind the ears, but with a little more experience, she could handle anything she put her mind to. Her instincts were good, she just didn’t know it yet.

He felt a softening toward her and abruptly forced it away. It was one thing to want her, but
liking
her, that was crazy. That was dangerous as hell. He had enough to deal with, keeping his physical drives under control.

“Whether or not you could handle the case on your own is beside the point,” he said. “I’m here and I’m staying. That’s the way your dad wants it.”