JUDGING ELLIE

by Catherine Snodgrass

  Ellie winced. "That’s what I’m afraid of."

  Chapter 2

  * * *

  Pounding drumbeats shook the dance floor. Couples swayed to the beat, closed their eyes, and lost themselves in the music. Despite the ban against smoking, thick clouds of cigarette smoke tinged the air blue, an electric haze charged by furiously spinning strobe lights. Too many hot bodies in a crowded club made the atmosphere stifling. The Lost Oasis was open for business, and business was booming.

  Kurt Duncan lounged against one mirrored pedestal table in the bar and surveyed the crowd in a predatory fashion. Couples jostled for space, trying to stake out prime locations for the evening. He examined each new face carefully. It was almost 10:05 pm. She should be arriving soon. The usual time.

  Kurt scanned the packed dance floor and bar, his focus flicked from face to face. Not her. Not yet. Where is she, damnit?

  The club’s clientele varied, locals looking for a change from the usual hick desert bars, excited to check out a new venue. Marines crowded in, eager to get away from the monotony of the nearby military base, enjoying the music and the chance to dance with women who weren’t in uniform. They were all young, energetic, and looking forward to partying until the small hours of the morning. Their energy made him feel old. He was only thirty-two.

  He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrored surface of the table and grinned. The hairpiece was a perfect nondescript shade of brown, meant to stay in place in a hurricane. Dark brown contacts and matching beard applied with spirit gum completed his club-hopping persona. The patterned silk shirt was a nice change, but green was definitely not his preferred color. He’d had enough green in his wardrobe for the last ten years.

  The worst thing about the evening’s attire had to be the lifts in his shoes. They added an inch or so to his height of five-foot-eleven inches, but they made his arches ache. He never knew how women could stand to wear high heels for hours at a time, though he loved the look of a long silky leg and calf-tightening high heels. Having had to don heels a time or two in his career, Kurt would have to say women deserved a medal for wearing them.

  He knew most people described him as an imposing man. Kurt didn’t understand where they got that from. It had to be attitude. Despite his broad shoulders, he wasn’t bulky or overly muscled, but whipcord lean like a gymnast, each muscle rock hard and strong. Oddly enough, people could never quite remember his exact eye color or shade of hair. A definite plus in his business and Kurt preferred it that way. It meant he was doing his job, and his job was to blend in, never look the same. As a Naval Criminal Investigative Service officer, he had to find criminals and get the goods on them. Most times that meant going undercover.

  Kurt enjoyed his work and believed that what he did was important for the integrity of the military, as well as the civilian community. In many ways, his job was an intensely personal quest for justice. Investigating crimes and felons was difficult and often dangerous, but he craved the thrill of the hunt and the challenge of finding the perpetrator before he himself was discovered.

  Where have the years gone?

  It seemed like yesterday he was a sophomore at University of Southern California, depressed over having lost another acting gig. He was ready to chuck it all when the school’s Marine Corps recruiter snagged him for a cup of coffee. New options opened up to him, appealing not only to the patriot in Kurt, but the thrill of challenge. College, Officer’s Candidate School, Basic School, and he was a second lieutenant. He wanted challenge and he found it, then he drifted to something even more intriguing—something his theatrical training seemed made for.

  It happened when he was attached to a provost marshal unit during operations in Somalia and became involved in investigating crimes committed by military units stationed in the area. It was like putting puzzle pieces together. No, better than that—uncovering the pieces, then assembling them. Kurt couldn’t get enough. After six years of active duty, he resigned his position of Deputy Provost Marshal and his commission as a captain in the Corps, then took a job as a civilian investigator for the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, NCIS.

  It was the best of all his worlds. He could serve his country, be involved with the Marine Corps community without having to answer to much of the bureaucracy that defined the military structure, and flex his acting muscles.

  It led to some great adventures. That’s also how he’d met his closest friends, Zach and Claudia Taylor. Odd how the world maneuvered people together.

  "What can I get you to drink?" The waitress interrupted his trip down memory lane as she inched her way among the dimly-lit tables. She twisted and narrowly avoided getting bumped by two giggling women with enormous margarita glasses.

  "Whatever’s on tap." Kurt searched in his jeans pocket for some money. "Thanks. Keep the change." He handed the harried woman a handful of bills and she sidled off as fast as the limited space would allow.

  One of the margarita drinkers eased up to his table, tracing dagger-length silver fingernails along its edge.

  "Don’cha know it ain’t good to drink alone?" Each word slurred. Her eyes were glassy. "We think a good lookin’ guy like you should have some company." She offered up an inebriated grin and angled her chest so her generous cleavage was exposed to its best advantage.

  Her companion leaned heavily on Kurt’s left arm, sloshing her red concoction out of its glass and forming a puddle on his table’s chrome surface. The air was suddenly redolent with the sickly sweet smell of strawberries and tequila.

  "Yeah, baby, you look like you could take care of us both, no problemo."

  She lurched at Kurt’s silk shirt, yanked up the material, and exposed his stomach. Both women gasped, giggled, then pursed their lips as they oohed and aahed.

  "Yum, yum," Fingernails said. "A six-pack." She reached over to stroke Kurt’s stomach.

  With viper-like reflexes he intercepted her wrist, holding it immobile.

  "Sorry, ladies, I’m already taken." He added a phony smile, turned on the charm, and stroked the molester’s hand with his thumb. "And she’s very possessive."

  He slipped on his role of the regretful, but appreciative, boyfriend. It settled over him like a comfortable shoe, well-worn and familiar.

  "Too bad, hon. You look like more man than one woman could handle." They both cackled like witches over a cauldron.

  After several more refusals, the two women pouted and made obligatory noises of disappointment, then wove unsteadily back to their table, drinks in hand.

  Kurt sighed. Undercover work wasn’t sitting in a car with a sack of donuts, waiting for the perpetrator to show. Sometimes, things got a little unseemly.

  He smiled to himself. Jess Alderman would love to hear about this little undercover incident. Instead of finding the femme fatale of the desert, the intrepid hero ends up getting harassed and groped by a pair of drunken bimbos. Some things just weren’t covered in NCIS training classes.

  Six young Marines at the bar began a boisterous beer chug. One sunburned contestant gulped what looked like a gallon of beer in a yardarm. His buddies pounded the bar in time with each gulp and broke into a roar when the last of the foamy brew slid down his throat. Kurt thought of the hangover to follow and winced. It hadn’t been long since he had been at bars like this one, playing the same stupid games with his buddies and paying the price the next morning. Thank God he’d gotten beyond that point in his life.

  The waitress reappeared, bringing a frosted pint glass of beer and a small dish of pretzels. She smiled as she set the glass on top of a bar napkin inscribed with the palm tree logo of the Lost Oasis Dance Club.

  "Enjoy, hon. Give me a holler if you need another." She sidled her way toward the next table, order pad ready.

  Kurt took a pull of his beer and made a face. Flat. Damn. He started to raise his hand to signal the waitress for another when he saw her step into the club’s entryway, red hair shimmering in the club lights like a flame. It had to be her. The descripti
on was too perfect to be anyone else. He smiled.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  "I can’t believe it took us so long to get here," Susan shouted over the music. She pulled Ellie through the crush of people toward the short flight of stairs leading up to the bar that overlooked the dance floor. "If you hadn’t been so pokey earlier getting dressed, we would have been here before the crowd."

  "Cinder-Ellie was almost late getting to the ball," Jeremy quipped behind them.

  Ellie stumbled. "Will you slow down?" she yelled at Susan’s shoulder. "You know I can’t see a damn thing."

  Jeremy assisted her from behind with a helpful hand to her bottom. She twisted away from Susan and swatted hard, hitting only air.

  Jeremy shrugged his hefty shoulders and offered an unrepentant grin as if to say, "Hey, don’t blame me for trying."

  They pushed their way up the broad stairs to the bar, weaving between laughing, shouting customers. Susan seemed to know half the crowd, and kept pointing and waving at people Ellie couldn’t see clearly. The light was incredibly dim. It felt like being in a walk-in closet with four hundred strangers.

  She plastered a smile on her face and silently cursed Susan for convincing her to leave the house without her glasses. Contacts were sounding better and better. She stepped carefully over a pair of long male legs that threatened her progress. She glanced up at their bearded owner, ready to offer an apology.

  "Over here!" Jeremy hovered protectively by a nearby chrome table overlooking the dance floor. With a sweep of his arm, he motioned them over.

  "Where do we sit?" Ellie squinted around. All the chairs were taken. Just her luck. The high heels were killing her feet. They throbbed with every beat of her heart.

  "I’ll snag some after I get us a few drinks." Jeremy’s fading voice indicated he was already making a beeline for the bar.

  "Isn’t the music great?" Susan danced around the edge of the table and leaned over the railing that separated the bar from the short drop to the dance floor. "I can’t wait to get out there."

  Her swaying bottom and exuberant expression attracted the attention of the bearded man sitting by himself at the next table. Ellie was embarrassed for her friend.

  "Susan," she pushed out through clenched teeth. "Stop wiggling. You look like a three-year-old with a bad case of the itch."

  Susan ignored her and continued to bounce to the beat of the band. The jumpsuit showed off her body like a second skin.

  "Drinks are here." Jeremy returned triumphantly, carrying three beers and a small bar tray loaded with shot glasses brimming with a gold liquid. "Drink up, ladies! A toast to our birthday girl—wishing her a successful evening."

  He raised his shot glass, threw the contents back into his throat, then slapped the empty glass down on the table and took a long swig of beer. "Aaah. Tequila," he said with a sigh of the deeply satisfied. He leaned close to Ellie’s face and gave her a sweet, slightly strained grin. "Happy birthday, Ellie."

  She and Susan took their shot glasses and clinked the rims.

  "To adventure," Susan said with a grin.

  Ellie raised her glass. "To adventure, and to men who’ll keep us in the style to which we’d like to become accustomed."

  She tossed back the tequila. Before the flaming liquid could completely incinerate her throat, she took a long pull at her beer.

  They stood at the table laughing and drinking shots of tequila while a new band set up on stage. It wasn’t long before Ellie started to feel lightheaded. Still, it did feel good to be out of her normal, boring lifestyle; to pretend she was someone else for a change. She felt free to act on her whims and be impulsive for a change.

  "You’re right, Jeremy. I am Cinder-Ellie, and that makes you my fairy godfather." She laughed and fluttered her fingers at him playfully. One hand swung wide and knocked her new black purse off the table onto the floor. She ducked down to pick it up. When she stood again, purse in hand, Jeremy and Susan were halfway to the dance floor and the growing crescendo of the new set.

  "Wait!" she shouted. "Where are you—"

  "Excuse me." A strong Texas drawl drifted over her shoulder. "Since your friends left you, would you like to come over to the bar and sit with us?"

  Ellie opened her eyes wide and tried to focus on the blurred face. He seemed to be a Marine by the look of his short, cropped hair. He was wearing a God-awful shirt in clashing colors of red, purple, and yellow that seemed to have palm trees patterned all over it. Unfortunately, her eyesight wasn’t poor enough to block out the incompatible colors, so she tried to concentrate on his face instead.

  "Come on over and sit with us, ma’am." He tugged at her elbow. "My buddy and me are saving a seat for you."

  She wavered. Her feet were starting to really complain, and after two shots of tequila and a beer, a sit-down sounded welcome. He wasn’t familiar to her, and even if he did work somewhere in her office, no casual acquaintance could possibly recognize her in her current get-up.

  "Thank you, I will." Ellie flashed a tentative smile in his direction.

  She’d show Susan and Jeremy. If they could have fun, so could she. This guy wouldn’t be any different than the Marines she worked with every day. Most of them were good guys, all in all. Adventure, right? That was the plan for the evening.

  He grabbed her hand with his hot, sweaty palm and pulled her along through the tables to the bar. Finally, they reached the bar. There was indeed a stool waiting for her there, but it was surrounded by a crowd of Marines playing a game of quarters with jiggers of rum.

  "Here she is, guys!" her escort crowed. "I told you I could get her to come over here. Now, Clark, you pony up the ten-spot you owe me."

  Ellie stopped dead in her tracks. "You bet them you could get me to come over here?"

  She was horrified at the thought of being the object of a wager. This was a horrible mistake. She should have waited at the table for Susan and Jeremy.

  I can’t believe this.

  "You don’t get the cash until she sits on your lap, McConnell," one of the men shouted with a drunken leer.

  "C’mon, honey." McConnell snagged her wrist. "Come sit on daddy’s lap."

  The group started whistling and catcalling, urging McConnell to pick Ellie up and toss her over his shoulder.

  "Where I’m from, a girl like you needs a strong man to keep her in line." Her captor tugged again on her waist.

  She set her jaw, braced her heels, and yanked herself free of his grasp. "No way, jerk face."

  Finding an opening in the tables, she scrambled away from the bar, trying to get as far from the gamesters as possible. McConnell shouted after her. She hastened her step, praying he wouldn’t catch her.

  Ellie ran blindly, weaving between the tables and people as they loomed out of the darkness. A rail and flashing lights told her she had reached the steps leading down to the dance floor.

  Where was her table? Where were Jeremy and Susan? She couldn’t see! She started down the steps and reached the edge of the mass of gyrating dancers.

  The noise was tremendous—screaming guitars and thunderous drums. The cigarette smoke was pervasive, and her eyes watered from the unfamiliar, bitter stench. Obviously no one enforced the no smoking ban here. A thousand different perfumes and colognes underlaid the smoke, each one vying for dominance, all blending together in a heady mix that smelled of sex and sweat. Panic threatened to overtake her.

  "Jeremy… Susan!"

  Shouting over the noise was impossible. She turned left, right. Faces and bodies pressed up against her, each one an indistinct mass. Fear rose. She was blind without her glasses. Where was Susan?

  A strong, warm hand grabbed her upper arm.

  Jeremy. She sighed with relief and turned to him with a smile.

  "I thought you’d never find me. I’m sorry I swatted at you for putting your hand on my butt—"

  "That wasn’t my hand on your butt." A hint of laughter edged the warm masculine voice. "But I suppose I could o
blige if you’re interested."

  Ellie froze, her smile plastered in place. She realized that the masculine shape in front of her was too tall for Jeremy—way too tall. She fought to come up with a cutting put-down, like one of the heroines in her romance novels.

  Nothing came to mind, and she took a giant step away from the male heat that surrounded her. The high red stilettos refused to cooperate with her body’s demands. She found herself falling backwards for the second time that evening.

  The man grabbed her waist and yanked her upright, clamping her firmly against his hard thighs. She clutched his massive shoulders, overwhelmed by the speed at which he had moved and horrified at the thought of sprawling in front of everyone on the dance floor. Oddly enough, in that moment, she noticed how clean he smelled. It cut through the haze of smoke and booze, slightly spicy and exotic. Sandalwood?

  Her heart raced in time with the beat of those drums, her legs trembled, but overlying everything was a strange twist of desire low in her body. His firm hips pressed against hers creating a flash of heat that made her gasp. She peered at his face. It was the bearded man from the bar. The one who had been watching Susan dance.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Hey, buddy, she’s with me." McConnell and his pal Clark stood behind her rescuer, their stances aggressive.

  The man straightened slowly, rising to his full height, which was considerably above that of the two Marines. He turned toward them, keeping Ellie clasped protectively to his chest.

  "I think this lady has had enough of you and your drinking games." His words were calm, measured, and no nonsense.

  Ellie nodded in agreement.

  "Listen, baby," McConnell pleaded above the lead singer’s ear-shattering crescendo. "We were just kidding. Come on back to the bar with us and we can get to know each other. Hands off, I promise. No more fooling around." He swayed as he spoke, a victim of his excesses.

  "No." Ellie prayed her voice was firm and no telltale quiver gave away her concern. " I’m not interested. Go away."