by Claire Adams
It was no wonder I remembered riding the elevator up to his penthouse suite – his lips plunging over mine, the taste of him deep in my mouth.
A cold blast of panic shocked my eyes open again. I could just make out my crumpled dress, dangling over the open bedroom door. Outside, in the middle of the suite's living room, one red heel leaned against my spilled purse. Casino coins were scattered around the carpet.
"You make me want to believe in luck," Fenton had said.
The slot machine had spat out coins, as I had tried unsuccessfully to catch them in the small hem of my dress. He had knelt in front of me and scooped the coins into my purse.
"You don't?" I had asked him.
"No. I want to earn what I get. That way I know it’s mine," Fenton had said.
"Then, why do I make you want to believe in it?"
"Because if I can't say I feel lucky to have met you, then I don't know how to explain this." Fenton had wrapped me up in a searing kiss, the coins spilling out of my hands and open purse.
He was close behind me in the king-sized bed. I could feel his heat. I peeled back the covers and cringed when I realized I was wearing nothing but my black lace underwear and bra.
Could be worse, I thought, I could be naked.
Not wanting to know how far I had let things go last night, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the large master bedroom. I thanked hotel maintenance for a bedroom door that did not squeak. Even though my exit was silent, I glanced back to make sure Fenton was still asleep.
The square cut of his jaw was relaxed in sleep and I noticed the dark crescent his eyelashes made against his cheeks. He was stunningly handsome, even without his laser blue eyes open. My eyes wandered over the stark muscles of his arm and my cheeks warmed again. Fenton Morris was a dangerously attractive man – asleep or awake.
A small sigh escaped me as I tried to remember what had happened with him in that wide bed. My brain was still fogged over, some patches thicker than others, and I could not remember anything past the elevator. It was a shame I was in no shape to enjoy him properly.
What are you saying, Kya? I asked myself.
There was no way I regretted not savoring every second of wild sex with Fenton Morris. He was business, nothing else. I would have room for fun when I had reached my goals. I grabbed my other stray red heel off the bedroom floor and straightened my shoulders. It was time to get dressed and get back my professional dignity.
My phone had skittered a few inches away from my purse and, before I took one step out of the bedroom, it rang. I had turned the volume all the way up before entering the nightclub, where it still had not been loud enough. Now, the ringer was deafening.
Fenton woke up and stretched, his long legs tugging down the sheet as he straightened them. I could have stepped out and shut the door behind me, but I was caught staring at the trail of dark hair that tapered from his belly button down below the thin border of the sheet.
"Good morning, beautiful," he said.
"You're naked." I snatched my dress from the top of the bedroom door.
"I always sleep naked. You should try it some time." Fenton stretched again, then sat up, his washboard abs standing out in sharp relief. "How about now? It’s too early to be going anywhere."
He held out one wide hand. His thick black hair was rumpled and his smile fuzzy and sleepy. I felt a tug low in my belly and pressed my dress against my body to ward off the temptation.
"Don't you have training to be doing?" I asked. "I've got to go. I've got to go to work."
"I thought I was your work," Fenton said.
"I'm not that kind of girl," I told him. "Whatever happened last night, you can rest assured our relationship will be nothing but professional from here on out. I have a reputation for integrity, no tricks or dirty deals. I hope you, sir, can say the same."
Fenton ran a hand through his black hair and frowned. "I fight clean. One of the reasons I stay away from endorsements. What I do, I do for myself and my reputation. So tell me, Ms. Allen, what do you honestly think I tricked you into coming here?"
I clutched the black dress to my chest and straightened my shoulders. "No."
"And, did I force you to drink champagne into the wee hours of the morning?"
"No."
"Then, come back to bed," Fenton said. "There's nothing wrong with admitting we're attracted to each other."
I ducked behind the open door and quickly yanked on my dress. "Whether or not I find you attractive is not the point. I make it a professional point not to get involved romantically with my clients. It sets the wrong tone for our business dealings."
Fenton chuckled and hitched himself back on the bed to lean against the long headboard. "Yes, please, save us from setting the wrong tone. I much prefer my business dealings to be uptight and nervous."
I zipped up my dress and bumped the bedroom door open again. "I am not nervous. My behavior last night was inexcusable and I am sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. I don't sleep with clients."
"That's too bad. I was in the market for new vitamin supplements," Fenton said.
My cheeks burned, but this time it was not desire. "I probably drank too much champagne so I could put up with your rudeness."
His hearty laughed shook the whole bed. "Oh, keep your panties on, Ms. Allen. Remember, you're trying to set a business tone here. By the way, your little lace slip is over there on the mirror. I like it. What's the word? Demure. Like another layer of sexy."
I stomped over to the mirror and brandished my one red heel at him. "I don't know what kind of women you are used to, Mr. Morris, but where I come from, women wear more than scraps underneath their dresses."
"You're right. You will take a little getting used to," Fenton said. "How about we start with breakfast? You could order room service. Business breakfast? Has a nice tone to it."
I wriggled into the lace slip, too angry to care that his laser blue eyes watched every inch as I pulled it up. I tugged my black dress into place and ignored the molten feeling his look caused. Fenton was offering me a chance to pitch him the endorsement deal, something I was sure I had lost just minutes before. The only problem was my body betrayed me. The hangover was gone, but the desire was not. I wanted to kiss that smirk right off Fenton Morris' face.
"Like I said, I have to go. How about we plan on lunch?" The dignity of my offer disappeared as a casino coin dislodged from my bra and dropped to the floor.
His hand snaked out and caught my wrist. As he reeled me into the wide bed, I wondered if he could read my thoughts. The kiss was searing hot, his lips hungry. I was off balance and had two choices – tumble into his arms or straddle his lap. I threw a leg over, hoping to level the playing field.
Fenton rubbed his hands around my waist and down the curve of my back, pressing me down onto him. I gasped when the thin sheet did nothing to block his obvious arousal. I pushed up on my knees, unlocking our lips and accidentally bringing my breasts to his mouth. He growled, the guttural friction of the sound making my nipples tingle.
"Sorry," he said, releasing me. "I just wanted... Never mind, bad timing."
I sat back on his thighs, unable to break from the magnetic pull of our bodies. "I didn't mean to lead you on," I said. "I don't do that."
In the other room, my phone rang again. I hesitated, not sure of the shattered look in Fenton's blue eyes.
"Go ahead and talk to your boss. And, by the way, Ms. Allen, I do not take advantage of drunk women."
"You mean, we didn't sleep together last night?" I asked, halfway across the room.
"We slept, but that was it. For now," Fenton said.
Chapter Four
Fenton
I imagined the punching bag was Mario Peretti. He was razor thin and fast. I would clip him and then come back around to finish him off. He would never see the combination coming. I concentrated on the new moves, but kept missing the hard hits. Even a quarter of an inch off was too much for me. I ground my teeth and tried a
gain.
It was her taste on my lips that threw off the punches. I had only meant to tease her, shut up her nervous chatter. Instead, when I grabbed Kya and kissed her, it hit me harder than a TKO. I had expected shocked and pliable, but she was stronger than she looked. Kya kissed back.
The punching bag bumped me, and I thumped my fists together. I needed to shake her off. Mario Peretti was a whirlwind fighter. I needed a clear head. He jumped fast between strategies, and I had to keep moving, watching what was coming. I never saw Kya Allen coming. I had pursued her at the nightclub, thinking I had the upper hand. Now, she deflected every attempt I made to focus. As I circled the black punching bag, all I saw was her little black dress.
She had still struck me as prim and proper when I saw her walk past the bouncer and into the nightclub. Gone was the crisp work shirt and pencil skirt. It must have been in her walk, the way she held her head so high. The Country Club Princess slumming it amongst athletes most people still confused with cage fighters.
I was going to look my fill and be done with her. Kya was slender, but curvy, with a sway to her hips when she walked that I'm sure she never noticed. Many men did. There were taller women, flashier dresses, longer legs, and more skin on display, but when Kya Allen walked by, heads turned. I liked that. She had an unidentifiable quality that made men take a second look.
Some people call it class. Kev called it a challenge. Kya was the kind of woman that had enough confidence she could make anyone work for her attention. She had mine and I enjoyed every minute of it. Then, I saw that clean-cut, khaki-wearing guy buy her a drink.
I had gone up to the bar before I knew what to say. So, I let my reputation talk for me with some terrible line about wanting her on my arm. I had been shocked when it worked, when her arm slid through mine. That was it – only shock. Maybe attraction. Maybe a bit of heartburn from too much steak at dinner. She did not notice and I swept her through the nightclub, still seeing heads turn.
I could have been done with her then. She admitted she wanted me to sign an endorsement deal. I should have dropped her, like all the other money-grubbers that sniffed around my hard work. Instead, she made me laugh and I asked her to dance. It was more of a challenge and her green eyes lit up. Kya did not turn away from a challenge.
I gave up on the punching bag. Kya dancing, her copper curls thrown back, was all I could see. She had moved everything– her fingertips dancing up to the lights, down the swaying hypnotic plunge of her hips, to her small feet in red snakeskin heels. And, the feeling of her tight waist in my hands. I flexed my fingers inside my gloves.
How did I let her get to me?
"You gotta shake her off, whoever she is." My coach, Aldous Antoine, crossed his arms over his barrel chest. "There's only one way to get a woman out of your workout."
"I already ran this morning," I said.
"I'm talking circuits. Sit-ups, lunges, push-ups, high kicks. Thirty each. Then, run in place for two minutes. Go," Aldous said.
I swore at him, but dropped to the floor and counted the sit-ups out loud. Aldous watched his watch, and I knew if my pace slackened, he would increase my running time. It was a nasty workout, more punishment than training. Though, if anyone knew how to get a fighter in the right mindset, it was Aldous.
The first circuit finished, and I ran in place.
"Get your knees higher. Don't make me add burpees," Aldous said.
I would have talked back, but the circuits started to work. The heart-pumping, full body movements made it hard to think about anything else. No snappy comebacks, no pretty women in tight black dresses. I groaned out loud.
Aldous lifted one eyebrow. "She in there good, huh? Well, then what you need is a sparring partner."
My coach flagged down one of his friends at the far end of the gym. The silver-haired man nodded and brought over a young fighter.
"You part of the touring school?" I asked.
"Yeah. I can fight," the kid said.
"You can fight or you hand out fliers at the fights?" I asked.
The young man scowled and his ears burned red. By the time we got in the ring, he was ready to give me all he had. He bounced around more than moved his feet. I rolled my eyes at Aldous.
"This sparring or a middle school dance, sweetheart?" I asked.
The kid lunged forward with an off-balance right hook. I tapped him on the back with a sidekick as he went by, and he stumbled hard.
"I'm not the one who was sucking face at the nightclub last night," the kid said. "Though, I guess I can't blame you, that girl looked tasty."
I sent one kick to his sternum and when he stepped back, I kicked his other knee. He bent forward and a quick chop broke his nose. "That's no way to talk about a lady. Next time, watch your mouth or more than blood is gonna end up in it."
I grabbed a towel, mopped my face, and the back of my neck. Aldous jumped in with the kid's coach. They helped the kid up so they could assess the damage. I knew from experience that Aldous would set the broken nose himself. I stepped out of the ring.
A nondescript man nodded at me from the far corner of the gym. Medium height, medium brown hair, brown eyes, but there was something direct in his stare, something disconcerting. I stalked over and he flicked a business card into my hand.
"Matt Smith. We've met before," he said.
"Sure. What are you selling, Matt Smith? You some kind of reporter?" I asked.
"No, not a reporter." Matt Smith's expression never changed. He seemed used to not being recognized and just waited.
"Some agent wanting me to sign off on, let me guess, granola bars? Vanilla yogurt?" I asked.
"No, Mr. Morris," he said.
"Look, Mr. Smith, I don't remember meeting you." I flung the towel over my shoulders and hung on to the ends with both hands.
"Mr. Morris, I'm a private investigator," he said. "You hired me to find your sister."
I wiped the sweat out of my eyes with a clean corner of the towel. "Oh, right. I didn't recognize you. Thought you wore glasses." I looked at the business card he had handed me and recognized the name of his company. "You gotta admit that 'Matt Smith' sounds like a fake name. Though, I suppose fake names are helpful in a business like yours."
"Yes, fake names can be helpful," the private investigator said.
"You really spent ten years working missing persons in Arizona?" I looked the average man up and down. "You don't look more than, what, thirty?"
"I'm older than I look. After Arizona, I retired. Worked as a bail bondsman. Finding people is a special knack I have. Now, I work on referral only. Kevin Casey gave you my number and here we are," Matt Smith said.
"Do I even want to know what my slime ball manager needed a private investigator for?" I asked.
"Like I said, I specialize in finding people." He shrugged and said no more.
"Yeah, well, whatever you did, you impressed him. And, I'm assuming I can expect the same level of nondisclosure?" I asked.
"As I told Mr. Casey outside, I have no reason to discuss my work with people who are not involved."
I hopped from one foot to the other. My legs were cramping, and instead of talking, I should have been stretching. I considered asking the private investigator to wait while I cooled down. He probably would have shrugged his shoulders and waited with the same unreadable calm expression on his face.
"I understand if you've changed your mind," he said. "As long as my retainer is paid, there is no reason you need to know information you no longer find valuable."
"I've got your valuable information right here," my young sparring partner yelled. "You broke my nose and that is a fact. A fact I'm sure the police are going to want to know."
"The police will be interested in knowing a MMA fighter broke your nose while you willingly sparred with him?" Matt Smith asked.
The young kid scowled behind his wads of gauze. "Yeah, it's funny, but just wait until you say something he doesn't want to hear."
Matt Smith stepped back as t
he kid reenacted the entire fight. When it came to the kick to the sternum, the kid got too into his acting and the wads of gauze blew out of his nose on to the ground. I laughed as the kid swiped them up before stalking away.
"Sorry about that," I said. "What were you saying about my sister?"
"Look, if you're not ready to hear it, then just say so. You can always reach me at that number," the private investigator said and turned to go.
"No, don't listen to him. What, are you afraid I'm going to punch you?" I asked. "I keep my fighting in the ring."
"Except for that police officer," Matt Smith said.
"Of course, you would know about that."
"Good business practice to run background checks on my clients," he said. "Never know what trouble a client can be after the contract is signed. Best to know ahead of time."
"Speaking of knowing," I said. "You were going to tell me about my sister."
"Ah, yes, Ms. Dana Maria Morris. She is currently working in Las Vegas, though she does not have a permanent address." Matt pulled out a small black notebook.
"Then, how do you know she's here in Vegas?" I asked.
"I've, ah, been to her place of work."
"But she's gotta be sleeping somewhere. She got a man?" I asked.
"No, I'm sorry to say, from what I've seen, she has been living out of her car," Matt said.
My fists crushed the white towel. "And, what kind of work is she doing these days?"
"Dana Maria is also known as Pixie Dust. She is an exotic dancer in the back of O’Malley's Casino," he said. His eyes widened, as if expecting a blow from me at any moment.
He was right. I did want to punch him in the mouth, but I knew he was telling the truth about my older sister.
“So, my sister is here in Vegas," I said.
"Yes." Matt handed me a slip of paper. "Here's the name of the place she works. First shift is tonight sometime after eleven."