by Peggy Webb
“That devil.” She held the skimpy costume in front of herself and looked in the mirror. She looked like a hooker. Wasn't that just like Rick McGill to select clothes appropriate for one of the girls in his houses of ill repute?
Good grief. She lowered the toilet seat cover and sat down, trying to think what to do. Obviously he expected her to be appalled by the clothes. It was his way of letting her know what he really thought of her.
Well, if he thought she was 'that kind of girl,' why disappoint him? Why not give him his money's worth and then some?
She put on the stockings and lingerie then squeezed into the tight skirt and skimpy halter. Next she dug into Velma's bag of goodies and painted a slash of red across her lips. Using the same red lipstick, she made her cheeks look like two stop signs. There was nothing she could do with her hair. It was as thick and shiny as a Kentucky Derby winner's tail, and it absolutely defied taming. She shook her head and fluffed her hair out in wild disarray. The love-for-hire look. That's what she was after.
She started toward the door, then took one last look at herself. She'd forgotten about the naughty zipper on her skirt. Taking hold, she jerked it upward until it had bared her thigh almost all the way to indecency.
There, she thought. She was ready. Grinning, she pushed open the door and walked into the bedroom.
Rick McGill almost fell off his chair.
By getting that sleazy outfit he had hoped to put Martha Ann Riley back in her proper place—current playgirl. But she wouldn't stay. Even in those hooker clothes she looked like somebody's kid sister playing dress up.
What was even worse, with that chin lifted high and those blue eyes blazing, she elicited an admiration that bordered on adoration. By George, he'd better be careful or he was going to get caught in his own trap.
He tried to look cool and Humphrey Bogartish and totally unaffected.
“Well, sweetheart. How do you like the outfit?”
“I love it!” She twirled around, making sure she showed him everything she had. She noted with satisfaction that his breathing got heavy. “It's just what I would have chosen for myself.”
She stopped in front of him, close enough so that her legs were brushing against his. Then, bending at the waist and leaning over in the manner of a practiced hooker, she pressed her red lips against his.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She even toyed around in his mouth with her tongue.
By George, if it was an act, it was her best yet. Those hot red lips moved over his until he thought nothing could keep him from throwing her across the bed and hiking up that sleazy skirt. He already knew what was under there—that fool G-string he'd bought.
Whatever had possessed him? When her tongue slid into his mouth, he had to grip and chair arms to keep from making a fool of himself.
It wouldn't do to make love to her in his condition. He might lose his head—and his heart.
Fortunately for his sanity, she ended the kiss and walked back across the room. She had A-number-one, first-class hips. When she spun back around, he noticed her lips were pouty from the kiss.
Smiling, she put her hand on her skirt zipper. “What do you think? Is the zipper high enough?” She inched it up a fraction.
“I believe so.” Was that his voice, he wondered. He sounded like a bullfrog in heat.
“Of course, I don't want to be too bold. My condition, you know.”
“Yes.” In his condition, speaking was a minor miracle.
“But I do think this zipper could come up some more.” She gave it another tug. Rick caught a glimpse of the black lace G-string. “I believe if you've got it, you might as well flaunt it. Right?” She spun around and flaunted it.
“I believe the zipper's a little too high.”
“What did you say?” She posed, hands on hips, legs spread apart, showing just a glimpse of black lace.
“I said I think...” He got out of his chair so quickly, it scooted backward. “Have you seen the view from the window?” He turned around and studied the horizon as if his life depended on it. “You can see the Mountain of the Rising Sun over there in the east.”
“Where?”
She came across the room, gloating at the success of her plan. Rick McGill had gotten more than he had bargained for all right. He was so uptight, he looked as if he would twang if anybody touched him. She edged around the table and inched around in front of Rick. She pressed her hips provocatively against the front of his jeans.
He was twanging, all right, she gloated. Throbbing too. The only trouble was, so was she.
Under the guise of getting a better view of the mountains, she moved out of contact with him.
“Where did you say that mountain was?” She couldn't have seen it if she had walked into it nose first.
“Over there.” His arm rested on her shoulder as he pointed.
“Ahhh, yes.”
They stood that way for a while, blindly viewing a mountain while their nerves screamed and their minds beat against the restraints they had set.
Rick cleared his throat.
Martha Ann coughed.
“Well...” he said.
“Yes?” She was so glad for a break in the tension, she forgot where she was standing. She turned quickly and found herself practically in his arms.
For a moment they both stood looking at each other, paralyzed.
If I kiss her now, I am lost, he thought.
If he touches me now, I can't be responsible, she thought.
He stepped backward. “I should be going.”
“Oh.”
“To take a bath.”
“Of course.” She flicked her tongue over her dry lips.
He had to get out of that bedroom. Fast. Never breaking stride, he called to her over his shoulder. “I’ll bathe and change and pick you up in about an hour. Then we'll go and find your husband.”
The door banged shut behind him.
She groped her way to the bed and collapsed. Her heart was still beating so hard, she could hear the blood pounding in her ears.
Good heavens. She had almost wound up giving herself to a man who owned whorehouses. She pressed her hand to her forehead and groaned. That just proved that she didn't have a lick of sense about men. Goodness gracious. Was Lucky O'Grady worth all this?
She lay back against the pillows for a while, letting her breathing come back to normal. What she needed was a good stiffening of her resolve.
She picked up the phone and dialed her sister.
“Evelyn? Is that you?”
“Of course, it's me. Is that you, Martha Ann? You sound funny.”
“It's these tight clothes. I can hardly breathe.”
“What tight clothes? You're not making one bit of sense. Martha Ann, what are you up to now?”
“I'm here in Las Vegas. We're going to look for Lucky.”
“I know that. You didn't have to waste a long distance phone call just to tell me that. Do you know how much these prime-time rates are? Good heavens, Martha Ann! I’ll bet you could buy lunch for what this call is costing. Why—”
“Evelyn!”
“What?”
“I'm in terrible trouble.”
“Oh, no!” There was deathly silence on the line as the Riley sisters tried to read each other's minds.
“It's not what you're thinking, Evelyn.”
“How do you know what I'm thinking?”
“I always do. You're thinking I've lost my purse again.”
“Have you?”
“Goodness no. I've just about lost your virginity.”
Evelyn laughed. “I lost that a long time ago—to Lucky.”
“Well, your reputation then. Evelyn, I think I'm falling in love with Rick McGill.”
“You call that terrible trouble! Why, good heavens, Martha Ann, I call that good news.”
“He's a scoundrel.”
“He's handsome.”
“He owns bordellos.”
“Somebody has to.”
“What am I going to do?”
“Just listen to your heart. I always did.... And Martha Ann...”
“What?”
“In spite of the way things have turned out, I've never regretted it.”
By the time Rick knocked on her door, Martha Ann was as scrubbed and decent as she could make herself in the risque costume. She had washed the bright red lipstick off her face and lips, and she had closed the zipper so that no thigh was showing except below the bottom of the skirt.
She had also strengthened her resolve. Evelyn needed her. No matter what it took, she would go out there and find Lucky.
Rick noticed her toned-down look. Although he had never believed for a minute that she really had liked the sleazy outfit, he was glad to see changes. They helped ease his conscience over buying the ridiculous costume in the first place.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
“Lead me to the tables.”
“Do you think that's where he’ll be?”
“I know that's where he’ll be. If there's a big game going on, Lucky will be right in the middle of it.”
o0o
The elevator whisked them downstairs to the casino. It was decorated with purple carpet, pink marble columns, a life-size statue of Elvis, and as many chandeliers as there was space on the ceiling. Las Vegas's idea of elegance, Martha Ann thought. Still, the gaudy scene tugged at her.
She had grown up near Vegas, had spent many hours in front of the felt-covered tables. Her future had once hinged on the roll of the dice. She felt a familiar surge of adrenaline, a clamoring of excitement, an itch to try her luck.
“Do you gamble?” she asked Rick.
“Yes. But not with money.”
“Oh.”
“Why don't we walk around the casino and see if we can spot Lucky?”
“We’ll be less conspicuous if we play.”
“Fine. I have nothing against a game or two.”
They walked to the roulette wheel, and Rick plunked down a dollar. One spin of the wheel, and his dollar was scooped up and added to the hotel's treasury. He lost four more in quick succession.
“I don't seem to have the touch.”
“A spin of the wheel is a quick way to lose money.”
Rick glanced around the casino. The sounds of gambling were all around him—the clink of money against the slot machines, the occasional buzzing when one of the machines gave up a small portion of its wealth, the calling of the croupiers, the excited high-pitched chatter of the gamblers.
“It seems to me that all of it is a quick way to lose money.” He took her elbow and steered her away from the roulette wheel. “Maybe I'll have better luck with keno.”
“Ugh.”
“Was that a comment on the game or on my skills?” Rick grinned.
“Keno is too tame for me.”
One eyebrow arched upward. “You play?”
“Some.”
“Mrs. O'Grady, you never cease to amaze me.”
“You have to remember that I had a little exposure to gambling when I was growing up.”
“Just what every growing girl needs.” He chuckled with appreciation. “Tell me, Mrs. O'Grady, if you had a stake—say one hundred dollars—what would you do with it?”
“Turn it into a fortune. Anyway if I hit a winning streak, Lucky might come to us. He never could resist a hot game.”
“This I gotta see.” He peeled off five twenties and handed them to her.
“You can add it to my tab.”
“I'm willing to gamble. If you lose it, I'll put it on your tab. If you win, I'll call it even.”
“What will you get out of that deal?”
“Pleasure, my dear. Pure pleasure. And that's a bargain at any price.”
He led her to a table where a large crowd of people were cheering on a tall man in a Stetson and cowboy boots. With every roll of the dice, he came up a winner. His spirits were high, his money pile was growing, and his shooting hand was hot.
Martha Ann Riley took him on. She sidled up to the table as cool as you please, never batting an eyelash at the stares she got in her outrageously provocative outfit.
The lady was pure class, Rick decided. His conscience hurt him over the outfit. Tomorrow he'd make amends.
At first Rick got in the game himself. He wasn't a gambler, but he didn't mind losing twenty or so if he was having fun. He called it entertainment.
Soon, though, he pulled out to watch Martha Ann. She was good—better than good—she had the touch. Her stack of winnings grew higher and higher. She was fun to watch and fun to be with. Her exuberance seemed to infect the whole table.
“Roll 'em, lady,” they yelled.
“Atta girl.”
“Break the bank!”
“Heeere she goes. Hot dang!”
By the time she pulled out, she was flushed and laughing.
“Let's cash in,” she said.
“You're still winning.”
“I always quit while I'm ahead.”
“Smart lady.” He fingered the chips she had handed him. “How much do you think we won?”
“We?”
His smile was devilish as he looked at her. “You couldn't have done it without me, sweetheart. I was your head cheerleader.”
“If you're going to be my cheerleader, we need to get you some new clothes—tights and a tank top and a couple of pom-poms.”
“I draw the line at tights, but I'll show you my pom-poms if you like.”
She punched his arm. “You're terrible.”
“I try.”
The easy friendship took them both by surprise. Somehow she had forgotten her role as pregnant wife and he had abandoned all pretense of being a rogue. It felt good to both of them.
“Do you know something? You're not as bad as you make yourself out to be, Rick McGill.”
“Tell me more. I love to be fawned over.”
“I don't fawn, but I'm not above giving a little compliment now and then.”
“Go to it, sweetheart. I want my head to get big enough to wear one of those Stetsons.”
She laughed. “You'd look awful in a Stetson. You're not the type.”
“What type am I?”
“My sister says you're a blond Clark Gable.”
“You have a sister?” He knew good and well she had a sister. He merely wanted to hear the truth from her. Though why the truth was important, he couldn't say. Nor did he want to know.
“Yes.” Careful, she told herself. She was supposed to be her sister. In a manner of speaking. She put her hand on her forehead to see if she was coming down with an attack of something disastrous. Something called I-can't-lie-to-this-man-anymore. “Her name is Evelyn.” She watched his face to see how he took that news.
“Nice name,” he said without a flicker of emotion.
Good, she thought. She'd told the truth, and nothing terrible had happened.
Rick handed their bundle of chips to the cashier on the other side of the window and turned back to Martha Ann. “Is your sister married too?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact she is.”
“What's her name?”
“I already told you—Evelyn.”
“I meant her married name.”
He handed her a big wad of bills, and she could swear there was a devilish twinkle in his eye. As a matter of fact, he looked like a big cat toying with a mouse.
How much did this man really know, she wondered. After all, he was a private eye. The best according to rumor. What was to prevent him from checking up on the Riley girls?
Oh, help. Had this rogue, this unscrupulous keeper of bordellos known all along that she wasn't married to Lucky O'Grady? If so, then he wasn't a wife-chaser after all.
Of course, there was still his ill-gotten wealth.
The money rustled in her hand as she folded the crisp new bills. Who was she to talk? Here she was holding a handful of gambling winnings and condemning Rick McGill for his money-making methods. Good grief, was s
he turning into a hypocrite?
“Martha Ann?”
“What?” Her head jerked up, and she found him staring at her in a most disconcerting way.
“I asked you what your sister's married name is.”
There was nothing she could do except go on pretending.
“Her husband's name is... Charles Madison Mitchum... the third.”
“Hmmmm. I know some Mitchums from Tupelo. Is he—”
“He's not from around there. His family is from... New York. They're in the... import-export business. James is out of town a lot.”
“I thought you said his name was Charles.”
“It is. James Charles.” Oh, help. What had she said?
He was grinning like a possum at a picnic.
“Look, this isn't helping to find my own husband.”
“Ah, yes. Lucky. Why don't we walk down the Strip and check the other casinos?”
He took her elbow, and they wound their way past the gaming tables and the milling mob of tourists toward the revolving front doors.
“By the way, Martha Ann, does Lucky know he's going to be a father?”
“Well... no. I barely know I'm going to be a mother.”
Rick grinned. “Is that so? Just found out, did you?”
She waved her hand airily. “Of course, I suspected it. Women know these things almost instinctively. But I didn't really know it until... that day in the creek.”
He reached down and patted her stomach. “I'd say that baby knows how to make an entrance.”
“Michael's a smart kid.”
She grinned. It didn't seem to matter what sort of crazy carrying-on Rick McGill was doing, she always found his company to be exciting, stimulating, and altogether wonderful. She sighed. She supposed she was one of those women who were destined to fall in love with a man, not because of what he was but in spite of what he was.
They walked together down the street. Blazing neon signs cast red, blue, yellow, and green shadows over their skin. Rick reached down and caught her hand. He didn't hold it captive like a fragile and unwilling bird: He linked his fingers through hers in a simple let's-be-friends fashion that was totally endearing.