by Jan Hudson
Eyes as big as silver dollars, Chris gaped up at the man gyrating in the spotlight on the platform in front of her. His dark, muscled body glistening with oil, he wore nothing but a tiny little loincloth with beads and two feathers in his long black hair.
“Geronimo!” a woman beside her screamed, waving a folded bill.
When he grunted and gave two thrusts of his pelvis, Chris groaned, “Oh my Lord,” and dropped her face in her hands. She would have left then except that she was wedged in by frenzied females waving money at the dancer, while begging him for kisses. There were soon so many bills tucked into the edges of his loincloth that he looked like a porcupine. Still he bumped and ground . . . and kissed.
It was disgusting.
Waiters had to stand by to keep the eager women’s hands off the “Indian.” At last the drumbeats began to die down as Geronimo raised his arms in the air and the spotlight faded.
Maybe she could get out now, Chris thought as she gulped the coffee that had mysteriously appeared before her. No such luck. The crowd was thick around her and music with a slower tempo took over.
“Ladies, here he is. The new star of Le Boeuf . . . that yellow-haired god, the Viking!”
The women went wilder than before—screaming, jumping up and down, climbing on tables. All Chris could see through the frantic arms and legs of the crowd was a tall man standing on a stage across the room. Posed in the spotlight with, a huge sword, he was garbed in furs and had on a helmet with horns sticking out the sides.
When he started to move, a redhead in a miniskirt beside Chris flung her arms out wide and yelled, “Come spear me, baby.”
Coffee spilled all over the front of Chris’s jersey. “Damn!” she muttered, trying to sop up the mess with a red cocktail napkin.
Disgusting. Simply disgusting.
How could grown women act like such idiots?
And what kind of man would subject himself to such a degrading display? She wanted to dig a hole and crawl in.
Chris could tell that the dancer was coming closer to her because of the folded bills waving in the air. When the waiters dragged off one of the exuberant patrons blocking her view, Chris caught a glimpse of a fur jockstrap and a navel with an unusual crescent-shaped birthmark beside it.
She sucked in a startled gasp and her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Her jaw dropped open and she sat paralyzed as the image seeped into her brain.
Chris shot to her feet. Flinging aside frenzied females, she bulldozed a path to the edge of the circular dais and stared up at the nearly naked blond giant in the horned helmet who was thrusting his hips at a brunette holding a twenty-dollar bill.
“Jon . . . Paul. . . Ponder!” Chris shouted. “You get down from there this minute!”
She climbed onto the stage with blood in her eye as the startled dancer turned to face her. He paled as if he’d seen a ghost.
Fists on her hips, Chris glared up at the young man who topped her by a good ten inches. “You’re going to get your clothes on and get out of this place. Right now.” She had him by the arm when two brawny waiters dragged her off the platform.
At five four and a hundred and ten pounds, Chris was no match for the pair who tried to hold her back, but she fought them like a lioness. “Let me go, you apes,” she ground out between clenched teeth.
“Ma’am, you can’t touch the Viking,” they said, clearly trying to soothe her while struggling to keep her off the stage.
“That’s no Viking,” she spat at them. “That’s my son!”
“Sure, lady,” one of them said as they hoisted her up, feet kicking and dangling a foot off the floor, and hauled her out of the crowd.
“I demand to see the manager. Immediately!”
* * *
Amused, Nick Russo sat in a dark corner of the manager’s office and watched the cute little dynamo, in a dirty blue jersey and tight jeans that cupped a well-shaped backside, tear a strip off Sal Milella. Part of her hair was still pinned in a lopsided topknot that wiggled every time she shook her finger in Sal’s face, and the rest of the honey-colored ringlets cascaded down her back in wild disarray.
“Are you going to explain to me, Mr.—” she snatched up the nameplate on the desk, read it, and slammed it back down—”Mr. Milella, exactly why you employ mere boys in this sleazy dive? You ought to be ashamed of yourself. You ought to be arrested.”
Looking bewildered, Sal glanced from Nick to the spitfire leaning across his desk and back to Nick again as if to say, “Help me. What is this crazy lady talking about?”
She whirled, following the manager’s gaze. “And just who are you?”
Nick rose and walked toward her. Even with her eyes shooting sparks, she had the sweetest face he’d ever seen. “I’m Nick Russo,” he said, his voice deep, soft. He extended his hand and smiled.
As she automatically took his hand and looked into a pair of smoke-gray eyes that drooped under thick black lashes in a natural bedroom look, Chris felt her brain turn to tapioca pudding.
Black-haired with a touch of gray at the temples, he was about five eleven, with wide shoulders filling out a custom-tailored charcoal suit. Beneath a classic Roman nose, his full lips were slightly parted in an off center smile that creased his left cheek and played havoc with her knees.
He was the sexiest man she’d ever seen in her life. Sexy with a capital S. It billowed off him in waves, pulsated from his hand to hers, did strange things to her heartbeat. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t think. She could only stare, mouth agape, at the man before her.
“And who are you?” he prompted.
“I’m Chris Ponder. I came to tow your car.”
He frowned. “You?”
His comment broke the spell she’d been under, and her anger returned, saving her from making a complete ninny of herself. “Yes, me,” she said, jerking her hand away. “But you made me wait, and that’s when I saw Jon prancing around on that stage with nothing on but a little bit of rabbit fur and horns. And he’s just a boy. He has no business being in an establishment like this. He told me he had a job in a beef place.” She made a disdainful sound. “I thought he meant a restaurant. I didn’t know he was the beef.”
Nick’s frown deepened. “Who’s Jon?”
“Jon Ponder. Known around here,” she said, turning to glare at Sal, “as the Viking.”
“Ponder,” Nick said. “Your brother?”
“No, not my brother. My son.”
His black eyebrows shot up. “You don’t look old enough to have a son his age. “You can’t be more than twenty-five yourself.”
Chris sighed in exasperation. “Look, I’m thirty-four years old. I’ll show you my driver’s license if that will help. Actually, Jon is my stepson, but I’ve been his mother since he was five.”
For some reason, Nick felt a pang of regret as he studied the pert nose and the huge, dark-lashed blue eyes. If Jon was her stepson, there had to be a father. But what kind of a husband would let this delicate little angel-face drive a tow truck alone In Houston at this hour of the morning? Didn’t the fool know it was dangerous? Nick clenched his fists. Already he didn’t like the man. “And your husband? Where is he?”
“I’m a widow, Mr. Russo, not that it has anything to do with this. I’m Jon’s legal guardian.”
Nick frowned, glanced at Sal, then back to her. “How old Is Jon?”
“Eighteen.”
“And he still needs a guardian?” Nick asked, amusement replacing concern.
“If you ask me, he needs a keeper,” Chris said with a bobble of her head that shook the precarious topknot. Her eyes narrowed. “He may be in college, but when I get him home I’m going to blister his fanny so that for the next week he’ll have to carry a pillow if he wants to sit down.”
“I see.” Nick fought back a chuckle at the idea of Chris trying to spank the strapping Jon Ponder. He outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. “Sal,” he said, turning to the manager who looked decidedly uncomfortable,
“why don’t you get the young man, and we’ll straighten this out.”
“Sure thing, Nick,” he said and hurried out as if he were relieved to escape.
Chris turned to study the dark man, who seemed to be giving her the once-over as well. His hands were broad, with long fingers and manicured nails. He wore no rings, but she’d bet ten dollars he was the kind of macho Italian male who wore a gold chain hidden beneath that white silk shirt and red paisley tie. Probably had a hairy chest, too, if the dark shadows along his jaw were any indication.
What was she doing thinking about his chest! She forced her eyes away from him and studied the plaster patterns in a corner of the ceiling.
So he was handsome, so he was sexy—if you liked men who wore shiny, hand-made shoes and gold watches that cost more than her car. Which she didn’t. Nick Russo was way out of her league. He was one of those slick ones with soft words and a slow hand who knew all the right moves.
Definitely not her type. Even if she were in the market. Which she wasn’t.
Quiet strength and power radiated from him. It was as evident as the expensive cologne he wore. Kind of intoxicating. Yet there was an edge of hardness to him. Mr. Milella had sure jumped to his tune. Who was this man to be giving the manager orders?
Never one to wonder when she could ask, Chris turned and asked, “Mr. Russo, just how are you connected to Mr. Milella and this”—she waved her hand around—”this place?”
“We’re family. Sal is my nephew, my older sister’s son. I give him advice from time to time.” A slow smile exposed white, even teeth and the slash of a dimple along his left cheek.
It was a mistake to look at him, for Chris felt her knees begin to go weak again. It was the smile that did it, a smile so blatantly seductive that her face flushed under his gaze and she went warm all over. What was happening to her? She didn’t like the effect he had on her. She didn’t like it a damned bit. She had to get Jon and get out of this place. Fast.
“I see.” Trying to keep her mind off the man who continued to stand within touching distance, she began to hum “The Eyes of Texas” softly as she nonchalantly studied the laces of her grubby Nikes. She could almost feel his hands on her, his lips . . .
The door behind her opened and Chris jumped as if she’d been shot.
“He left already,” Sal Milella said.
Chris expelled the breath she didn’t even know she was holding. “He did?” she squeaked, then cleared her throat and tried to smile at the two. “Well, I’ll just run along too. Bye, now,” she said with a wiggle of her fingers and began backing to the door.
“Wait,” Nick said.
She froze.
“What about my car?”
“Your car?”
“Yes, remember that’s what started all this. My car’s in the parking lot, and I need it towed home. It’s a very valuable automobile.”
In her rush to get away, she had forgotten about the car. “Oh, sure, Mr. Russo. No problem. I’ll hook it up and treat it like a baby.”
Thrusting her hand toward the manager, she said, “Good night, Mr. Milella. It was very nice to meet you.”
“And you, too, Mrs. Ponder,” he returned graciously.
She could handle this, Chris thought as she went through the door Nick held open for her. It was just another job. Nick Russo was just another handsome man. He wasn’t the big bad wolf. She was acting like a first-class idiot. She’d tow his car and that would be that.
But for all her efforts at trying to reassure herself, she couldn’t shake the gut-level feeling that Nick was a threat to her well-ordered life.
Le Boeuf was almost deserted as they walked through the big room on the way to the door. Patrons were gone and lights were on. The air smelled of a lingering melange of drinks and perfumes. A bartender was counting cash from the register and only the drone of a vacuum cleaner in a far corner disturbed the quiet. It was almost eerie after the raucous frenzy she’d witnessed earlier.
Eerie, too, was the feel of Nick Russo’s hand resting at the small of her back as he steered her toward the exit. For him, it was probably an unconscious gesture; for her, it was unnerving. A thousand little snakes wiggled up her spine and her stomach contracted. The only thing on her mind was getting out of this place and away from this man. She didn’t care if he elevated her blood pressure and made Raoul Bova look like an also-ran. She knew from bitter experience that you couldn’t trust his type. The whole scene gave her the willies. She quickened her pace to escape his touch and pushed at the heavy door with both hands.
It didn’t budge.
She pushed again. Harder. Still it didn’t open. Panic scrambled up her throat and ended in a little squeak. She threw her hip against the thick, unyielding wood. Nick Russo grabbed her by the shoulders and she went rigid. Gentle hands moved her aside, and she opened one eye in time to see the dark-haired man smile and turn the key that had been in the lock all the time.
She managed a feeble, self-conscious sound and a twist of her lips that she hoped passed for a chuckle. “How dumb of me not to notice.”
His smile widened as he looked down at her. “Not at all.”
When he pushed open the door, she scooted around him and sucked in a blessed breath of air to be free of that place and put some distance between them.
Outside, the parking attendant snapped to at the sight of Nick. “I stayed to keep an eye on your car, Mr. Russo. She’s a beauty.”
“Thanks, Eddie,” he said, peeling a bill off a wad thick enough to buy the Astrodome and handing it to the grinning young man. “She’s a real find. Perfect shape. I lucked into her at an estate sale and picked her up for a bargain. I’m not sure why she quit on me tonight, but I’ll have her running like new in a few days.”
Following the rapt gaze of the two, she saw an ancient limousine sitting alone in the almost empty parking lot. Gleaming black and chrome with a tire well behind the front fender, it looked like something from an old movie.
“That’s your car?” Chris asked.
He nodded and they walked toward the heavy automobile. “A 1939 Rolls Royce Wraith. Mint condition. I bought it and drove it here from Galveston, but it started acting a little jumpy a few blocks away. I decided to have it towed until I have a chance to look at the engine. Cars are like women.” A slow grin spread over his face. “They respond best to easy handling.” His fingers caressed the distinctive feminine hood ornament as his gaze slid over Chris. “The Spirit of Ecstasy,” he said, voice husky, index finger tracing the graceful curve of a chrome leg. “Think you can handle it?”
Her eyes grew wide and she swallowed. “Handle what?” she asked slowly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Nick gave a deep chuckle. “Towing the car . . . for a start.”
Suddenly, Chris became animated. “Oh, sure. No problem. Let me get the truck, and I’ll have you hooked up and hauled before you can say ‘Jack Robinson.’“
She fled to the wrecker and jumped into the cab. Gripping the wheel, she forced herself to take deep breaths. Was he making a pass or was it her overactive imagination? In all the years she’d been driving Hub Lovell’s tow truck, she’d never gotten herself into a situation like this. Some folks, Jon included, thought it was dangerous for her to drive a wrecker, but she’d never run into serious problems. Well, she reconsidered, maybe a few hair-raising situations here and there. But nothing she couldn’t deal with.
Nick Russo was a different matter altogether. She’d never encountered a smooth-talking hunk with bedroom eyes and a seductive smile that made her want to dissolve into a grease spot on the pavement. If she got out of this intact, she was going to ground Jon Paul Ponder until he was thirty.
Somehow she managed to maneuver the truck over to the ancient limo, get out, and work the hydraulics until the eagle claw had grasped the wheels and she had raised the boom, lifting the Rolls. Nick Russo watched her with an odd bemusement that made her nervous. Very nervous.
When she had secured the car wi
th wheel straps, she tossed her gloves into the truck and climbed in. “Where to?” she asked when he had settled into the passenger seat.
“River Oaks,” he replied, and named an address in the most exclusive area of Houston.
“It figures,” she muttered under her breath as she pulled away. His type always lived in mansions in River Oaks with gardens and swimming pools; she lived in a decrepit monstrosity in the Heights without so much as a petunia. And the closest thing she had to a pool was the puddle on the kitchen floor when the plumbing leaked from the bathtub upstairs.
“Did you say something?”
“Uh, no. I was just thinking about my plumbing. How long have you lived in Houston, Mr. Russo?”
“I moved here from Chicago about eight years ago.”
“You still have family in Chicago?” she asked, trying to find a safe topic of conversation to keep her mind off the sheer presence of him filling the cab.
“Yes, I still have family in Chicago, but most of them have moved to Houston now. The business opportunities were better here. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Tell me about Chris Ponder, lady wrecker driver. Are you from Houston?”
“No, I’m originally from Texarkana. I came here to go to the university and never left. My parents still live in Texarkana though. My dad worked at the pickle plant, but he’s retired now. I have a younger brother who’s an engineer in Sacramento.” Chris knew she was babbling, but she didn’t care. She’d tell him her life story if it would fill the time until she could get rid of him. “My brother’s name is Andrew, and he and his wife, Carol, have three little girls.”
“How long have you been driving a tow truck?”
“About four and a half years. I usually work on weekends or when it rains.”
“When it rains?”
“Sure,” she said. “Everybody needs a wrecker when the streets flood. You’d think people would learn not to drive into high water, but they never do. I make my best money when we get a couple of inches or more.”
“Isn’t it a dangerous occupation for a woman?”