By Hook or By Crook (6 page)

“Shouldn’t we be out trying to find them? She said a shaman would be performing the ceremony. Surely that narrows it down.”

Joe’s brows rose at that particular detail, but he simply shook his head. “It would be like finding a needle in a haystack. Something tells me there’s more than one shaman in Vegas who performs weddings. I think we’re better off intercepting them at the fight.”

“But they could be getting married right now!” Ivy protested, falling into a double-time step to keep up with his pace.

“Lucky we’re in Vegas, then. They have quickie divorces to go with their quickie weddings.”

“Very funny. It’s not
your
sister’s future we’re talking about here.”

He stopped so abruptly she stumbled, trying to stop quickly too. “If this were my sister, we wouldn’t
be
here, trying to stop her from doing what she wants to do with her own life.”

His heated tone caused heads to turn throughout the lobby. Ivy flushed. She hated being the center of attention. “Shhh! Keep your voice down!” All she needed was to be recognized by some gossip columnist. “I don’t want to see this scene written up in some blog or sleazy tabloid, if it’s okay with you.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“Besides, I care about my family,” she said quietly. “If you don’t care about yours, that’s your own problem.” He didn’t even know her. His judgments about her were getting old.

She stalked away, determined to spend the next few hours holed up in her room, avoiding Joe Dunham. After a moment, he fell into stride beside her.

“Look, I’m sorry,” he began, looking almost repentant. “Let’s not fight. We’ve got a couple of hours to kill until the show. Want to do some gambling?”

The out-of-the-blue offer caught her off guard. A night on the town in Vegas with one of the cool guys, the kind who’d never paid her much attention in high school? She hesitated a moment, tempted.

“No. I have work to do.”

She didn’t have time to waste on Joe Dunham. Her dissertation called. She needed to do something constructive to take her mind off this crazy situation. For the last twenty-four hours, when she hadn’t been worrying about her sister’s catastrophic wedding plans, she’d been smarting under Joe’s disapproval. Not that Joe needed to know, but she also wanted to check in with her dad to let him know they’d arrived. He clearly thought she needed to cut the apron strings, and she didn’t want to hear another lecture about how a woman of her age shouldn’t be so beholden to her father.

She got on the elevator without a backward glance and pretended absorption with the satin-upholstered walls and crystal chandelier until the mirrored doors closed—with Joe on the other side.

Chapter 3

Shortly before eight, Joe rapped on Ivy’s door. He’d left her alone before the fight, at her request, and he’d made some money on the casino floor. At the blackjack tables, he’d also collected the room number of a delightful brunette named Miranda. If they could wrap up this little assignment this evening, he hoped he would be extending his lucky streak in her hotel room soon.

He’d had a hell of a good time, and he couldn’t for the life of him understand why Ivy would rather be holed up in a hotel room with her laptop, staring at pictures of old engravings, even if they were kind of cool. This was Vegas, for God’s sake, and the lights on the Strip called to anyone with a pulse. She could look at old pictures any time.

After a moment, he heard footsteps and muffled sounds from Ivy’s room. Finally, the door opened to a somewhat chastened-looking Ivy, beckoning him inside.

He stepped into her room—check that, her suite. He had settled for a standard, two-double-bed room, not wanting to push his luck even with Smithson picking up the tab, but she had gone with the upgrade, booking a large suite with a kitchen, living area, and separate bedroom. She lived in luxury as a matter of routine, he supposed. It seemed like a waste, considering they’d probably be leaving soon, but hey, it wasn’t coming out of his per diem.

“I’m sorry, I’m running a bit late. I got caught up in work and didn’t realize the time. I was changing clothes, but I had trouble with the closure in back. I forgot how much trouble this dress is to get into,” she explained in an apologetic tone.

He was about to point out that a martial arts bout wasn’t exactly a formal event, but then he took a good look at the dress, a sleeveless grayish-silver thing. It somehow started off light at the top, and then darkened in a subtle gradient toward the bottom. Simple, lovely, just like her. It suited her to a tee. Although it wasn’t particularly revealing, something about the way it draped over her slim figure, especially when contrasted with the severe tailored clothing she’d worn up to now, captured his eye and wouldn’t let go.

“I can help. Turn around.”

She seemed to hesitate, unsure of herself. He didn’t understand the slightly embarrassed expression on her face until she turned around. She had managed to fasten the closure at the top of her neck, but the remaining fasteners gaped open all the way down her back, revealing the clasp of a sexy pink lace bra. It bisected smooth, creamy skin. Below, he could see the slope of her lower back, just above where the slit in her dress ended. His mouth went dry at the sight of that curve. What would she do if he touched her there?

“Can you figure out the fasteners?”

Her voice made him realize he’d been staring, but he wasn’t able to answer immediately. He cleared his throat and nodded, stupidly, before realizing that she couldn’t see the non-verbal gesture. “Sure.” His voice seemed to have grown rusty.

He began to fumble mechanically with the closures, finally getting the first one closed more by luck than skill. Why was he having such a hard time getting it together? The allure of Ivy’s soft skin and the faint scent of her perfume, something girly and floral, penetrated his defenses in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

Shaking it off, he bent his head to the task at hand. As he fastened the last closure, his fingertips grazed the skin at the base of the opening, above the swell of her rear. He got an impression of warm, smooth skin, but the contact sent an electrical jolt he’d never felt from such a brief touch before. Ivy must have felt it as well—she swiftly inhaled, and her shoulders stiffened in awareness. But in an instant the moment ended, whatever it had been. Stunned, he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. She disappeared into her suite’s bedroom, coming out again a few minutes later in a pair of low-heeled sandals with a little black purse.

The outfit was downright demure compared to the way some of the women on the gaming floor dressed. If they weren’t actually prostitutes, they certainly dressed the part. But somehow none of them had Ivy’s elegant but very real sensuality, with her little heeled sandals and her subdued dress. She had left her legs bare, and if he wasn’t mistaken, they had a slight sheen. He realized she’d caught him staring when she cleared her throat.

“Are your legs...sparkly?” he managed to ask, feeling the need to explain since he’d been caught leering.

“My body lotion has a little bit of glitter in it,” she said with a trace of diffidence.

She seemed apologetic. For what, he had no idea. He luxuriated in a fantasy of her smoothing cream on the inside of her thighs and behind her knees. The heat in his groin flared hotter. He hoped she didn’t notice his reaction, which was obvious if she looked.

“Is it too obvious?”

He forced his gaze away from her glittery legs and up to her face. He’d promised Richard Smithson he’d leave his daughter alone. He really couldn’t afford to let his mind dwell on the picture of her rubbing glistening, sweet-smelling lotion on her bare legs. Her bare, smooth-looking, toned, shapely legs.

“No, it’s not obvious at all,” he said, strangely embarrassed to have been caught eyeing her so blatantly. But for some reason, she didn’t seem mad. Instead, she seemed as uncomfortable as he was. “Shall we go?”

****

At the door of the Bellisimo Grand Ballroom, a uniformed usher took their tickets. The decor reminded her of the Royal Palace of Caserta she’d once toured in southern Italy, minus the authenticity. The surreal scene baffled her. Near the center of the vast space stood a boxing ring, surrounded by rows of hundreds of folding chairs. She halted, taking it all in. Joe shot her an inquiring look, but she shook her head in negation. The sound system blasted hip-hop, the thrum of the bass making conversation impossible.

The glitz and faux European glamour of the Bellisimo struck her as ridiculous compared to the effortless sophistication of, say, a Monte Carlo casino. Throw in a mixed martial arts brawl, and the scene became truly ridiculous. She opened her mouth to say so, but then closed it abruptly. She didn’t want to share her thoughts with Joe and have him think her a snob—any more than he already did.

None of the other guests seemed to mind, though. Many in the crowd had money riding on the event, if the conversations she overheard were any indication. Ivy somehow doubted that many of the women present were actual martial-arts enthusiasts. Mini-dresses, halter tops, towering heels, poofy hair, and fake tans appeared to be the fashion. She knew she was conservative compared to Daisy, but how had her sister ever gotten involved in this scene?

As a couple appeared at the end of the aisle, Joe and Ivy rose briefly to let them squeeze past to reach their seats. The young man had a shaved head and colorful tattoos up and down both of his arms, bared by a tank top with the picture of some metal-rap band Daisy used to listen to in high school. Tattooed guy’s girlfriend, spray-tanned an appalling shade of orange, wore a tiny gold-spangled black micro-mini dress that strongly hinted she wasn’t wearing a bra or underwear beneath. Catching herself gawking at the girl’s abbreviated hemline, Ivy quickly swept her eyes upward, not wanting confirmation of her suspicion.

Ivy crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to find something to do with her gaze. She met Joe’s eye, and he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. His lips curved into a slow smile, and she couldn’t help but return it.

“Like the dress?” he asked. “We can get you one, if you like.”

Ivy shook her head repressively, pressing her lips tight to contain her grin. The moment in her room, when he’d helped her with her dress, had been weird, without a doubt. They had nothing in common and didn’t seem to like each other much, but Ivy couldn’t deny the sexual tension that had flared between them. It didn’t matter anyway. She would never get involved with a man on the basis of a mere hormonal reaction, so the point was moot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how the loosely rolled-up cuffs of his black oxford shirt revealed his forearms. She quelled the impulse to reach out and brush her hand across defined muscles there. No, she would never be so shallow, she reminded herself. You could be attracted to someone without acting on it, and that’s what she would do.

Without a doubt.

Ivy peered around her in the dimness as they waited for the first fight to begin. Two preliminary bouts would take place before the main event, Joe explained. Pock’s fight came first.

She scanned the seats around the ring, trying to spot Daisy, but the unsettled crowd and dimness made it impossible. After a few minutes, the lights went out, the music changed, and an announcer boomed over the PA:

“Are you ready for the Beatdown at the Bellisimo?”

The crowd roared its approval, and the announcer introduced the first fighters, a muscle-bound white man named Jesse Dykeman and a doughy, bald Hispanic fighter, Marcus Velasquez.

Joe’s expression mirrored her own confusion. She leaned close to him to be heard over the roar, placing her lips near his ear, pulling back with a start when her lips accidentally grazed his jaw, his stubble rough against her skin in a curiously pleasant way. He smelled nice, she noticed irrelevantly, kind of like pine or cedar.

“I thought you said Pock was in the first fight.”

“He was.”

He looked around for a moment, but they couldn’t discern anything from their seats. Marcus and Jesse strutted around on the stage, waving flags and stoking the crowd. The PA announcer introduced the officials to raucous boos from the audience. Still no Pock.

“I’ll go ask somebody,” Joe said.

“I’m coming with you.”

Squeezing through the crowd, brought to its feet by the frenzy of the moment, Joe grabbed Ivy’s hand so they wouldn’t be separated. He led her toward the set of double doors the fighters had emerged from moments before and exchanged words with the beefy-looking security guard, shouting directly in the man’s ear to be heard over the chaos. Ivy couldn’t hear anything in the cacophony, but the guard eventually stepped aside and let them into a long, cinder-block hallway, illuminated with bright fluorescent light. When the doors closed behind them, the din subsided a little. In the glare and relative quiet, Ivy suddenly realized their hands were still linked. She snatched hers free, prompting a grin from Joe.

“He said the fight manager’s office is down this way.” Joe stopped in front of one of the fire doors and rapped.

“Come in!”

They entered to find a short, squat man sitting behind a desk, cell phone to his ear. He gestured for them to sit down in a pair of folding chairs in front of his desk. The office was clearly temporary, with barren walls, minimal furniture, and boxes of papers sitting in haphazard piles. After a minute, he ended the call.

“What can I help you with?” The harassed-looking manager seemed civil enough, until Joe mentioned Pock’s name. A stream of curse words came out of the manager’s mouth.