by Dawn Atkins
He turned back to the women reading magazines.
“Yep. That’s me,” said the one in the silver tube top. “Nevada Neru. Choreographer. The other two are back there, if you want a signed flyer.” She pointed at the back of the shop where two hairdressers were at work on women and a manicurist was doing someone’s nails.
“Thanks,” he said, grabbing a flyer. The club’s name—Moons—rang a bell. Had there been a drug bust there? Arrests? The photo looked like Samantha’s work. He’d already noticed the salon walls held framed pictures labeled Photo by Bedroom Eyes, Hair by Shear Ecstasy. Good advertising, he guessed. Samantha had a good concept. Too bad she’d established it in a mobster’s lair.
“Bring a friend,” the choreographer added, winking. “Your mother, even. It’s a very tasteful show.”
“Great.” He nodded, folded the paper and tucked it behind the camera in his pocket. Though Sylvestri had declared Bedroom Eyes prime, the salon seemed to have its share of racy clientele. He’d keep his eyes and ears open. Where there was smoke, there was fire.
“Can I help you?” the first hairdresser called to him. Tall, thirtyish, she held up a square of foil. Metal stuck out all over the head of her customer, a redhead, who looked wired for sound.
“If you’re Blythe, yes,” he said, pushing deeper into the fog of hair spray. “I’m Samantha’s assistant, Rick West.” He extended his hand.
“Welcome to Shear Ecstasy, Rick.” Blythe met his gaze as firmly as she shook his hand.
“Thank you. So, how’s your plumbing?”
“Whoa…pretty bold.” The words came from a dark-haired beauty in the next chair who seemed to be getting a strip of hair glued onto her head. The hairdresser banged her on the head with a comb. “Ouch.”
“He really means plumbing,” the hairdresser with the comb said. “I’m Heidi.” Her smile was as no-nonsense as Blythe’s. “Forgive Jasmine. She can’t resist a double entendre.”
“I had to pour Liquid-Plumr down the shampoo sinks first thing this morning, but since then no prob,” Blythe said.
“How about if I check it out?”
“If you have the right tool,” Jasmine said. “And I just bet you do. Ouch.” Heidi had popped her again. “Jeez, I’m just having fun. You don’t mind if I have a little fun, do you, Rick?”
“Not at all,” he said. Assuming it was legal.
“The builders left some toolboxes in the back, I think,” Blythe said. “Those guys are forever here and gone.”
“I’ll see what I can find,” he said, grateful for an excuse to snoop around. He found a pipe wrench in a toolbox among painting supplies in a utility room, then checked out the bathroom, the tiny kitchen and the supply room. The only thing he found of note were a bunch of newly installed cupboards.
Out in the salon, he made a big show of running water in all four sinks, then moved a chair out of the way so he could crawl underneath and pretend to work while he eavesdropped.
“I told Jackson no way on the extra show,” a woman yelled from under the dryer. The redhead, he thought, had been shifted over there. Extra show? Sex party maybe? “Duke’s birthday’s coming up and all.”
Duke? Dunmore maybe? Yeah. There had been a drug bust at Dunmore’s club. A few months back. Rick would ask Mark to track down the details. He banged on the U-joint to sound busy, listening hard.
“You’d think the incident was a promotion, not a…you know…incident.” This from Heidi. Whispered.
“Jackson’s had to beat the guys off with sticks ever since,” hair-dryer woman said.
“Beat them off? I didn’t think Jackson swung that way.” Jasmine again. “Ouch.” Heidi had whacked her, no doubt.
“We know Jackson doesn’t have much energy these days,” Jasmine said in a teasing tone. “You’ve worn our boy right out. He’s too tired to even boss us around. I had to make my own dental appointment last week.”
Could Jackson be their pimp?
Heidi giggled, sounding like any woman in love. In the ordinary world, these ladies would be talking about dates, boyfriends and cocktail parties. Maybe to them that’s all it was. Strip clubs were just entertainment, prostitution a victimless crime.
But hooking wasn’t a simple exchange of sex for money. Girls didn’t aspire to be call girls on junior-high career day. Hookers had no legal protection, no assurance of physical safety. With every trick, they risked their health, their dignity, their lives. High-end call girls who were smart could get out, but there were tremendous traps in that life. Drugs and exploitation and raw ugliness.
He had no interest in arresting these girls. He wanted the creeps farther up the food chain. He hoped the pros could get a fresh start—rehab, college or solid jobs. He gave money to United Way for programs that offered just that.
“And what’s with the internship, Heidi?” This from the redhead. “Wink-wink, right? That’s not really what your brother the mayor needs me for, is it?”
“Sure it is.”
“Then he’s paying me up front.”
“It’s a job. I’m doing you a favor.”
“And, considering my other skills, you’re doing your brother a favor, too?”
“I told him nothing. What you two do in the privacy of town hall is completely up to you.”
Interesting…Heidi was helping a town official with sex? Hmm.
“You about done down there?” Blythe’s voice startled him and he jerked up and bumped his forehead. “Yeah. Finishing up.” He twisted the joint, then scooted out. “Everything’s tight. No leaks.”
“Good, because I need to wash Autumn out.”
He pushed to his feet and returned the wrench to the toolbox. He looked around a little more, counted the cupboards, estimating square footage, then headed out.
In the archway, he stopped dead to watch Jasmine doing a backbend, both palms on the floor, one leg straight in the air. “How do they look?” If she meant her breasts, they looked amazing.
“Very natural,” Heidi said. “As if it’s part of you, as I promised. The better extensions are worth it.”
He still wasn’t sure they weren’t talking about her breasts.
“What’s up?” Samantha’s voice from behind made him jump. She’d come from the service entrance.
“I was just…checking things out,” he said.
Jasmine did a complex flip and rose with an erotic shimmy.
“Oh, I bet.” Samantha winked at him.
“I was. Really. The plumbing.”
“Like I said, I bet.” She pushed his arm. “I’m teasing, Rick. She’s gorgeous and you’re human. I hear their cabaret show is incredible. You should take your girlfriend maybe.” She patted the flyer sticking up from his pocket. “The girls will sign that for you, if you want.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your girlfriend would disapprove?”
Shit. She thought he was cheating on his girl, ogling strippers like a chump. He hated that. “I wasn’t…That wasn’t…”
“Yes?”
“Oh, never mind.” Better leave it alone. He joined in the applause for Jasmine, who now bowed.
“So, Blythe, you met Rick?” Samantha said. “He tells me he’s been checking things out.”
“Evidently,” Blythe said, winking at him. Damn. They all thought he was a dog. Then Blythe narrowed her eyes and came at him, shoving her fingers into his hair. “You have nice texture, you know,” she said. “And it’s thick, but you wear it too short for your face.”
“He was in the army,” Samantha explained.
Heidi tilted her head to the side. “Spikes would help.”
“Exactly what I was thinking.” Blythe squirted a blob of foam in her hands, then rubbed it into his hair.
He tried to signal help me with his eyes, but Samantha just grinned. “Blythe’s a genius at matching people with the right do.”
“But I don’t have—”
“A do?” Blythe said. “Relax. I know. Men don’t have a do, the
y have a look and yours needs something.” She tugged his hair upward, then turned him by the jaw to the mirror. “How’s that?”
Four heads swiveled toward him and eight female eyes joined his in the mirror, where he saw that his hair stood up as if he’d stuck a finger in a socket.
“Very hot,” Samantha said.
“Very Brad Pitt,” Jasmine said.
“Very electrocution,” Rick said.
“He needs bleached ends,” the choreographer said. “Much more dramatic.”
“Oh, excellent,” Blythe said. “Honey-blond, don’t you think?”
“Or platinum-flax,” Heidi said, tapping her lip.
Nevada turned to scrutinize him. “Does he need a part?” She shoved his hair down on one side, her eye-popping rack bobbing right under his nose.
“Detracts from the dangerous glare he has,” Samantha said.
“I have a dangerous glare?” he said faintly. He was drowning in female attention—eyes digging in, fingers in his hair, boobs under his nose, and Samantha’s wry smile just inches away.
“And you’re ripped, too,” Autumn said, running her eyes down his chest, making him damned uncomfortable. “You should wear tailored clothes.” The other women nodded.
“Ever consider dancing?” Nevada said. “We’re thinking about adding some male numbers.”
“I don’t dance,” he said. And he certainly didn’t strip.
“We could teach you,” Jasmine said.
“Don’t say no, say maybe,” Samantha said. He could tell she was enjoying his discomfort. “Valerie has some great G-strings, remember.”
“I’ll give you a discount on the bleaching,” Blythe said, “since you work for Samantha.”
“I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got.” His masculinity was taking enough of a beating. Yesterday, he’d fluffed velvet pillows and dressed dolls in panties, and now he had strippers trying to turn him into a metrosexual. The nail girl was even eyeing his fingers.
“Don’t you need me in the studio?” he said to Samantha, desperate to escape this hellhole of beauty.
“I’ll just bet she does,” Jasmine purred.
“Think about the spikes now,” Blythe said.
“Sure. You bet.” He barreled out of the shop, then waited for Samantha to catch up with him. “That was brutal. I thought they were going to hold me down and pierce an eyebrow.”
“It’s not too late,” she teased. “But they were right about the bleach and the spikes.”
“I don’t think so.” He ran his fingers through the goo, trying to make his hair lie flat. “You enjoyed watching them ganging up on me, didn’t you?”
“It was fun to see you off balance a little.”
“You’ve seen me that way before.”
“I know. And I liked it.”
So had he. And that was the bitch of it. He caught her smile and returned it like a fool.
6
RICK HELPED SAMANTHA with two shoots and made a few marketing calls for her, but managed to leave early for his Healing Touch appointment. He wanted to scope out the shop and examine Mona’s schedule for names that might pertain to the case.
He’d already looked over the empty second floor of the building being renovated for Sylvestri’s electronics business. One of those “Crazy Darien Gives Away the Store” places. Stolen stuff maybe? Rick didn’t know yet. So far, all he’d found was a ton of construction debris.
The bell over the Healing Touch door tinkled when he entered. In seconds, Mona stuck her head out of one of the massage rooms.
“Sorry I’m early,” he said, hoping she had more work to do on the client inside so he’d have snooping time.
“You can change into a robe in there.” She pointed to the bathroom. “Then if you’ll lie facedown under the sheet in the other massage room, you can relax until I get there.”
“You want me to take off…to get…” Naked? He swallowed hard, mortified despite himself. He sure as hell wouldn’t do much relaxing lying there buck—
“Leave your underwear, if that makes you more comfortable,” she said, as cheerful as a nurse.
“However you usually do this,” he mumbled. He had to sound open to something extra, in case she propositioned him. Plenty of therapists offered “full release” for the cash. He hoped Mona was as legit as she seemed.
“Strictly up to you.” He was pretty sure she was laughing at him.
As soon as she closed the door, Rick headed for the appointment book. Right now, it seemed she was working on Alfred Costa. Hmm. He was connected and high up. Rick dashed for the dressing room to look through Costa’s things. The oak locker was only latched, not padlocked, so Rick riffled through the pockets of Costa’s hand-tailored suit, finding a thick money clip, a wallet with driver’s license, credit cards, business cards for an import business—yeah, right—and what looked like one of Samantha’s bedroom shots of a cute brunette.
Hidden in Costa’s Italian loafers was a trim holster with a snub-nosed .22. He took down the serial number to see if it had been used in a crime.
That done, he had time to examine the rest of Mona’s shop and take photos of all Mona’s appointments. He noticed the name Chuck Yardley nearly every day. Who needed a daily rubdown? He’d get the task force to check the guy out.
A male voice rose from behind the closed door. Must mean Costa’s massage was over. Rick ducked into his massage room and listened against the door, stripping fast. He’d forgotten to grab a robe from the rack in the bathroom, but what the hell.
After a bit of chatter, Rick heard the bathroom door open. Costa getting dressed, no doubt. That meant Mona would pop in here any minute.
Rick slid under the sheet, facedown, nervous as hell. Maybe he was as uptight as Mark claimed. A woman was about to run her fingers all over his body with slippery oil and he only dreaded it. He rested his forehead against the top of the doughnut-shaped pad. The hole seemed to be for his nose. Useful, he guessed, but it made him feel as helpless as something getting prepped for barbecue, or some mortifying exam.
There was a tap on the door.
He lifted his head to say, “Come in.”
Mona entered. “All set?”
“I guess.”
“This isn’t a root canal, hon.” She chuckled, then moved away. Music swelled into the room—a wispy female voice singing something foreign. “I can’t promise you’ll forget your name or where you are like Samantha suggested, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” He heard the wheeze of a squeeze bottle, her hands sliding together, and he braced to stay alert.
He had to stay on his toes, remain poised to pick up any clues whatsoever—hell…
Mona’s hands on his back felt like live heating pads. Lord God that felt good. Warmth rushed through him. He closed his eyes and let his mind just go.
She began to rub slowly, humming to the music, grinding out the knots and twists he hadn’t realized were there. Tension rolled off him like water off oil.
What a great idea this was. An employee benefit. Thank you, Samantha.
“So, what do you think of our Sammi?” Mona asked.
He was feeling so good that he just answered straight out. “I like her a lot.”
“She’s a wonderful, warm woman, isn’t she?”
“Mmm-hmm.” While Mona did an amazing knuckle move down his spine, he pictured Samantha on tiptoe when she’d kissed him, remembered her hot mouth, her soft tongue, how much he’d wanted to keep kissing her…all over.
Stop it. Now.
His mind switched to the memory of her in the window this morning, eyes closed, fingers on that mannequin’s chest. He imagined those fingers sliding down his back the way Mona’s were, but with a different purpose and…
Damn. A hard-on.
“I worry about her because she works too much,” Mona was saying. “She never takes time for herself.”
“Yeah. She works hard.” Don’t say hard. He struggled to settle himself. He was on the job here.
; “She thinks she has to be a different person to enjoy life more, but I tell her she’s fine as she is.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled.
Mona moved to his calves with a twisting motion that dissolved every rational thought.
“She could use some company, you know,” Mona mused.
“Company?” he repeated blankly.
“Maybe you can convince her to relax more, take some time off. Heck, maybe take her out yourself.”
“Take her out…?” He shook his head, fighting for good sense. There was someone else, after all. He opened his mouth to decline, but the door tinkled and Samantha called out, “Mona? Are you…? Is Rick here?”
“In here!” Mona called loudly. “Come on in,” she said, the lilt of mischief in her voice.
Lying there naked under a thin sheet, his body slick with oil, he felt exposed. And far too erect for a man on duty.
The door opened and he heard Samantha suck in a breath at the sight of him.
“You already started,” Samantha breathed.
If she only knew.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was looking for Rick.”
She’d found him, all right, Samantha realized, with only a thin sheet covering up his spectacular body in all its nude glory. She swallowed hard, battling for a clear thought.
“We don’t mind,” Mona said. “Do we, Rick?”
Rick lifted his face out of the doughnut and turned to her. “It’s fine.” He smiled, but he seemed tense.
God, he looked good. His oiled shoulders were a lovely tan and Mona’s fingers expertly traced the dips and bulges of his many, many muscles. And here Samantha was without a camera.
“I wanted to catch you before you got…but I see you’re already…” Naked. So very, very naked.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice coming out rough.
“Just a favor…I wanted to ask you a favor is all.”
“Which is?”
“Which is what?” She blinked again rapidly, licked her lips, trying to focus. The favor. Ask the favor. “Oh. Right. Could you stop at the photo lab on your way in and pick up the order?”