On Thin Ice

by Susan Andersen

  Just like he hadn’t even attempted to do.

  And that she should so cravenly desire any such thing made her grow angrier still. “I’m moving out,” she snapped and might as well have added, “as any idiot can plainly see,” for that was what her tone of voice suggested.

  “No!” His denial was instinctive and from the heart, but he immediately caught himself. That’s not the way to go about it, you jackass. His face lost all expression, and mind clicking furiously, he backtracked. “I’m sorry,” he stated with cool, professional authority, “but I’m afraid I can’t allow you to do that.”

  Bent over the bottom drawer, Sasha slowly straightened. The face she turned in Mick’s direction was a study in regal displeasure. “Excuse me?” Glacial gray eyes met shuttered blue.

  “Come over here and sit down,” he commanded and the authority in his voice was such that she obediently rose to her feet before she could think it through. He reached out to assist her, but she jerked her arm out of his grasp, shoulder pivoting away and hand snapping up like the lever on a one-armed bandit to escape his touch. His hand dropped to his side. Sasha walked stiffly past him and took a seat at the table. Mick sat down in the chair facing her.

  She met his eyes disdainfully. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

  “Well, actually . . . I can.” And he was going to, by God. If he let her walk out on him now it was unlikely that she would ever give him a second chance to make things right between them. He was in love and he’d fight like Satan himself to hang on to her and the life they’d had for the past few weeks. His one and only hope to do that, as he saw it, was to keep her here with him where he could work on repairing the damage every single chance he got. “I’m putting you under protective custody,” he informed her.

  “What?” She snapped upright. “Protected from what? You can’t do that.”

  “Yeah. I can. Listen—” he reached out and captured her clasped hands in one of his, hanging on despite her attempts to pull them away. “—I’m not doing this to bust your chops, darlin’. I think you’re in danger.”

  She made a sound of derision and rolled her eyes.

  “I’m not kidding, Sasha. Wasn’t there anything that struck you as the least bit unlikely about your accident?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she started to say, but then her voice trailed away. God, she desperately wanted to hold her silence, but after a minute she reluctantly admitted, “There was no moisture rot in the sole of my boot.”

  Mick’s eyes were intent. Dammit, he’d known it—his instincts very rarely failed him. “Explain,” he demanded, and she did.

  He scratched at his upper lip with the edge of his thumbnail. “So what you’re saying is that screws drop out frequently and skates do lose their blades . . . but only if their soles have been softened to the point of rot by the constant spray of ice?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your boot hadn’t reached that stage yet?”

  “No. The leather was still actually in pretty good condition. It shouldn’t have happened.”

  Mick simply gazed at her for several silent moments before he said softly, “Amy Nitkey has hair the color of yours and she was wearing your jacket when she was struck by a hit-and-run driver.”

  “No!” Sasha sat rigidly, her hands cold beneath Mick’s, staring at him across the table. He seemed to be all massive shoulders and fierce blue eyes. “It’s a coincidence,” she insisted. “There’s no reason for anybody to wish me harm. No. You’re just saying this to scare me.”

  Mick’s grip tightened. “I hope to hell you are scared; a little fear is a good thing if it keeps you cautious. But you know damn well that’s not the reason I’m bringing this up.”

  “Bull. Your sick little spy games have been exposed and you just want to intimidate me . . .” She sucked in a sharp breath as his grip on her hands abruptly turned brutal. Pain shot up her arm from her ground-together knuckles. His eyes were snapping with fury and, suddenly afraid, she drew back as far as his reach would allow. She didn’t know what he was capable of, not anymore.

  “There is a motive, damn you,” he said through clenched teeth, “and it’s a pretty fucking compelling one, too. Morrison gave you his word that he wouldn’t sell smack.”

  “You’re crazy,” she whispered. But it made sense. It made an awful sort of sense. Mick didn’t respond and she again tugged against his grip. “Let go, Vinicor. You’re hurting me.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly and released her, watching her rub her sore knuckles. He was hanging on to his professional persona by his fingernails already, and the resentful set of her full lower lip as she stared back at him made him lose his grip. “I can’t believe you think I’d deliberately try to intimidate you!” His hands curled into fists on the tabletop. He knew that what she’d discovered this afternoon was pretty incriminating, but hadn’t these past weeks counted for anything?

  Her mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you’d believe I’d think anything else! I thought I was living with one person and it turns out I’m living with someone entirely different. How the hell did you think I’d take it? My God, you have a suitcase with a false bottom, you own a gun, you electronically eavesdropped on my personal conversations. You even stole my underwear.” She shuddered. “That’s so perverted. And those are just the things I know about. I feel so . . . dirty . . . like I’ve been violated, and I didn’t even recognize some of that stuff in your case.” Her eyes widened in horror as an awful thought suddenly occurred to her. “Oh, please, Mick,” she whispered hoarsely, “tell me you don’t have me on film somewhere, too.” That thought led to something even worse and she whimpered as her eyes darted involuntarily to the bed.

  “No!” He reached out for her, but she drew back sharply and he brought his hands up to roughly skin his hair off his forehead instead. “I wouldn’t do that to you, Sasha,” he avowed, staring at her. “I swear to God I wouldn’t. I love you!”

  “Don’t say that!” She shot to her feet. “Don’t . . . you . . . say that to me. Not now, when I can’t believe a word you say. Oh, God.” She looked around wildly. “I’ve got to get out of here.”

  “I’m sorry; I can’t let you leave. Not until it’s time to go to the arena. Go take a bath or something. I’ll give you some breathing space.” He stood also, and suddenly he was the stern authoritarian once again. “It’s uncertain at this stage just who’s so determined to see Lon Morrison recruited again. So I’m cautioning you against speaking of this to anyone. It’s to be discussed with no one, do you understand?”

  Sasha gave him a look of acute dislike. “As if Connie would ever be involved in the sale of drugs.”

  “You discuss it with no one,” he repeated flatly. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said through clenched teeth. “I understand.”

  “Good. Keep it to yourself.”

  The first thing she did when she reached the line women’s locker room that evening was drag Connie into a corner, pour out everything that had happened in the past few hours, and then burst into tears.

  “That snake.” Connie pulled her into her arms for a comforting hug, turning them so Sasha’s back was to the room. “Damn all men, anyway. You can’t live with ’em and you can’t shoot ’em.”

  “He said I wasn’t to tell an-anybody—that it could be d-dangerous for me if I did. And I want so badly to think that’s just another one of his damn lies, but, oh, God, Connie, I’m so afraid he might be right.”

  “You know I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Yeah, I do, and I just had to talk to you about it or bust.” Sasha stepped back and swiped the tears from her face with her fingers. Taking a deep breath, she gave her friend a shaky smile as they started to walk back to the lockers. “God, I must look such a mess—I’m probably gonna need a bigger trowel than usual to put on my stage makeup tonight.” Then her weak attempt to smile gave way. “What’s the matter with me, Connie?” she asked in a miserable littl
e voice pitched so low only her friend could hear. “Why can’t I find a man who doesn’t spend all his time lying to me?”

  Connie gripped her by both arms. “There’s nothing the matter with you,” she insisted fiercely. “Not a damn thing. It’s them—it’s because they are men.” At Sasha’s impatient movement, she said, “What? You think I’m kidding?” Raising her voice, she queried of the room at large, “Ladies, how can you tell if a man is lying?”

  “If his lips are moving,” promptly called back a line skater from across the room and Connie arched one eyebrow at her friend. “See? It’s in the genes.”

  “Yes,” Sasha murmured and her lower lip, which still had a tendency to tremble, firmed up. “Yes, you’re right. It’s got nothing to do with me at all. Men are just egg-suckin’ dogs.”

  She must have said the last sentence louder than she realized, because a line skater some feet away set down her lipstick brush and looked at Sasha with incredulously raised eyebrows and a pitying smile that curled up one corner of her mouth. “Good grief, honey,” she said in amazement, “don’t tell me you’re just now figuring that out?”

  SIXTEEN

  Karen wondered how difficult it would be to acquire a gun. It couldn’t be all that troublesome, she reasoned, for it had always been her experience that one could generally obtain just about anything, given a little patience, a judicious bit of subtle question asking, and a discriminate use of sexual favors. Indeed, when it came right down to it, it was all a matter of knowing where to look . . . and if one wasn’t quite sure where that might be, well . . . one simply began with a man.

  She slept with three before she found out what she needed to know.

  Men. They were such treasures . . . and so incredibly easy to manipulate. The one and only male who had ever challenged her was Lon Morrison, and if she ever truly put her mind to it she could readily manage him, too.

  When it came to the average male, the barest essentials needed to obtain whatever knowledge she sought were so obvious it was laughable. She had her body and skillful hands and lips and an ingenuous way of asking a billion question while she was driving her prey wild demonstrating just how skillful her body parts could be. It was merely a matter of doing what she did best until all his brains were throbbing in his little head; then she slipped in the one question she really wanted answered. And if he had the solution, it was hers.

  Men. Dear Lord, you had to love them. It was a rare day indeed when one of the little darlings even realized they’d been asked for specific information.

  Lon was different. And ever since they’d first rejoined forces following his release from prison, she had been more or less faithful to him. He was exciting and a formidable opponent, and the rush of exerting her influence over any other man just seemed so pale compared to the vibrancy she felt whenever she scored off Lonnie.

  However she’d been forced to stray in this instance, and, really, it was his fault that she had. Him and his oh-so-precious little Miss Miller. Good gravy, was the tiny twit made out of spun glass or something?

  One could only assume so, given the way Lon came running every blessed time she had the teensiest problem.

  Karen and Lon were in the arena before the show, in a poorly illuminated alcove off a remote back corridor. She ran a tapered fingernail lightly up and down the thigh seam of his costume and reveled in the power that pumped through her veins. Reveled in the risk they took of being seen together, when usually they were so cautious. And in the knowledge that she was shortly going to have him right where she wanted him, smack in the palm of her hand.

  Finally.

  “So,” she said casually. “Are you in the mood to earn a little spending cash?”

  She’d known for a couple of weeks now that he was more than ready, but it had amused her to keep him dangling. She had been half tempted to wait until he broke down and asked her, but what the heck . . . she could be generous.

  Recognizing her obvious manipulation for what it was, Lon’s stubbornness and pride reared up onto their back legs now, but he knocked them to their knees and shrugged. He’d already made the decision; so let her believe it was her machinations that had convinced him if it made her happy. What the hell difference did it make in the long run? “Sure,” he agreed indifferently. “Why not?” Then he felt a little sick. Jesus, what had he done? This was all wrong.

  “Okay, then,” she said crisply and cannily kept all of the smugness she felt out of her voice. “Here’s the way it will be...”

  She had barely begun her recitation of how she wanted the buy handled when footsteps passed by. Karen simply drew deeper into the alcove and dropped her voice into a whisper, not bothering to ascertain the passerby’s identity.

  Which was a mistake. For, one moment she was laying down the arrangements, directing Lon’s future movements, and the next she was speaking to thin air. Lon had dashed out of the alcove. “Saush,” she heard him say. “Wait up.”

  The footsteps halted and Karen seethed. Over the tenderness in his voice when he inquired, “Are you okay? I saw you go by and you looked so pale.” Over the knowledge that Lon would risk exposing their relationship if it would save his darling Sasha a millisecond of discomfort. Good grief, it was sheer luck alone that Miller didn’t see her lurking here in the alcove. And then Karen’s resentment burned nearly out of control over the way Lon’s voice hardened when he demanded, “It’s that bastard Vinicor, isn’t it? I knew he was no good for you.”

  Karen was getting sick and tired of this nonsense. And stuck in the alcove fuming while her lover fawned over another woman, she began to wonder just how difficult it would be to obtain a gun.

  Mick knew damn well as he slid into bed beside Sasha that he wasn’t going to get away with it, but he thought it was worth the attempt. What the hell—you never knew until you tried. He didn’t really expect that she’d welcome him.

  Neither did he expect that she’d threaten his life. But as he rolled toward the center of the bed and reached for her, that was precisely what she did.

  “Get out, Vinicor.” Her hand splayed out against his bare chest to hold him off and Mick, ready to snake an arm around her waist to pull her to him, felt a tiny smile flick the corners of his mouth. If she thought that was going to discourage him . . . Then something cool and very, very sharp pressed against his neck. He froze, his very breath suspended mid-lung.

  “I might be forced to stay in the same room with you,” she said in a gritty, furious voice, “but I will be damned if I have to put up with you in my bed as well.”

  Slowly and cautiously, Mick rolled onto his back and reached for the switch on the bedside lamp. Flicking it on, he turned back and saw its light reflecting off the skate blade Sasha held in her hand. It was one of a pair she kept protected by blade guards in a felt sack in her skate case, and he knew its finely honed edges were more than capable of slicing his throat from ear to ear. “Jesus Christ, darlin’,” he said incredulously.

  “Get out.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, all right, I’m going.” He slid out of bed and climbed to his feet, where he stood and stared down at her.

  Sasha stared back. Her hand, clutching the blade by the heel mount plate, was shaking badly, and she steadied it on her updrawn knee as she scooted her rear against the wall and leaned her back into the headboard that was mounted directly to the wall behind her. “You’ve got regular balls of steel, haven’t you, Special Agent Vinicor?” she said through stiff lips, and then wished she’d used a different anatomical feature to describe his gall. He was naked as the day he was born and she longed desperately not to be aware of it. “Did you think you could just climb right in and cuddle up as if nothing had happened?” she demanded indignantly.

  Mick shrugged. “It was worth a try,” he said. “You must have thought I would, too, or you wouldn’t have come to bed prepared with that.” He watched her carefully. “Come on, Sasha, the room’s only got one bed and it’s cold in here.”

  “Tough.” She flung a
pillow at him, which he caught in one hand and then didn’t even have the decency to hold in front of himself. It dangled at his side. “Put some clothes on,” she suggested. “And there’s an extra blanket in that bottom drawer.” God, the arrogance. The sheer, unmitigated arrogance of the man.

  She turned off the light and then lay stiffly alert, attuned to every little rustle he made in the darkness as he settled down on the floor. She didn’t fool herself into thinking for an instant that he couldn’t take the blade away from her if he were truly inclined. Her defenses were feeble compared to his capabilities, but using the blade as a deterrent was the only thing she’d been able to think of. She remembered well the night of Amy Nitkey’s accident when she’d been uncertain whether she could trust him and how he’d promised to keep his hands to himself. She also remembered the pack of lies he’d fed her the next morning and had known for a fact that given the slightest opportunity, he’d climb right in and make himself at home tonight just as he had then if she didn’t do something to prevent it.

  Damned if she would allow him to get away with that again.

  He turned over suddenly and she knew, even though the darkness was nearly impenetrable, that he was staring up at her. Her hand tightened on the mount plate and she grew tense, waiting for him to make a move.

  “I really do love you, you know,” he said in a low, intense voice. “That was never a lie.”

  “I thought it would be a walk in the park to just move in, trip you up, and haul your pretty butt off to jail,” his voice said in the darkness a few nights later.

  Sasha tensed. Damn him. It had been like this ever since the first night. During the daylight hours he was all business, coolly authoritative and just the slightest bit remote. But come nightfall . . .