MM01 - Valley of Fire (12 page)

“Separate rooms.”

“Would I do anything else?”

“You would do whatever you thought you could get by with.”

“Mrs. O'Grady, I can promise that you will have a palatial suite all your own, complete with telephone and running water.”

“I can hardly wait.”

 o0o

Fifteen minutes later Rick and Martha Ann were moving into their rooms—adjoining rooms.

“Did you have to do that?”

“Lucky would never forgive me if I didn't keep close watch on you.”

“Just thank your fairy godmother I'm not planning to tell him how close.”

Rick stuck the key into his lock. “I'll see you after a while, Martha Ann. I have things to do.”

“So do I. I may never get out of the tub.” She pushed open her door and entered the blessed coolness of a room with a telephone, running water, and a bed she could call her own.

First she stripped off all her clothes. She'd have to wash them again. They were the only clothes she had. If she put the blouse over the air-conditioning vent it would be dry in a few hours. She'd have to wear the jeans damp—that was, if she could get back into them.

Small matter, she thought. She was in Las Vegas, and she'd soon find Lucky and head back home. Damp clothes would be only a minor inconvenience compared to the trials of the last few days.

She worked up a lather on the blouse and smiled. Adventure was a better word than trials. Trials were endured and adventure was enjoyed. And she'd enjoyed every minute of being with that rapscallion Rick McGill.

She draped her clothes over a chair in front of the air-conditioning vent and ran herself a tubful of hot water. Reaching into the sack of toiletries Velma had given her, she pulled out some bubble bath, a bottle of shampoo, and a small mesh bag.

“Good grief. Not again.” The little bag was worse for wear. It had a few tears where the chickens had pecked it, and it was covered with dirt from its many journeys to the backyard. And it smelled worse than ever.

“Whatever you are, good-bye forever.” Martha Ann threw it into the garbage can and set the can out in the hall for the maid. Then she climbed into the tub for a long leisurely soak.

She lathered herself from head to toe, humming and singing and generally having fun. A long while later she emerged from the tub and draped herself in a towel.

She leaned over, shook her wet hair out, fluffed it up with her fingers, and stepped into her bedroom. Rick McGill was in one of her wing chairs, bold as you please, his feet propped on the bedside table. He was grinning.

She didn't even attempt to feign surprise. Nothing he did surprised her anymore.

“You're too late,” she said. “I've already had my bath.”

“So I see.” He took time to give her a thorough perusal. “Might I add that you look good enough to eat.”

“By all means. You're welcome to say anything you like as long as you stay on that side of the room.”

“What's the matter? Afraid of a few sparks?”

“No. I'm afraid of getting dirty again. I'm clean, and you're still dusty from the journey.” She inched toward the bed, being careful to keep the bottom of her towel together. If she could get the bedspread off, she could cover herself. “By the way, how did you get in?”

“With this.” He held up an extra key to her room. “I like to cover all the bases.”

“That's not all you like to cover.”

He laughed. “That's true. I've spent the last hour thinking about covering that delectable body of yours.” He lowered his feet and reached for a box. “Here, sweetheart, this is for you.” He held the box toward her.

“What is it?”

“I've been shopping. I took the trusty plastic and bought us a couple of clean outfits.”

“You bought clothes for me?”

“Nothing personal. I'll add them to your tab.”

“Naturally.”

He'd made it sound like a business deal, but she couldn't help being pleased. As she took the box from him, she decided that Rick could really be a nice guy when he tried. Buying her clothes. Now that was thoughtful.

“Thank you, Rick.”

She looked so pleased standing there, he thought. All scrubbed and shiny in that towel, like a girl of sweet sixteen who's thinking of hugging her favorite uncle. A man could grow accustomed to having a woman like Martha Ann around the house.

But it wouldn't do to get too sentimental. Sentimentality was a dangerous state for a man who was already on the verge of losing his head.

He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table in a deliberate gesture of nonchalance. He'd have to remedy the situation.

“I always expect payment, Martha Ann. Starting now.”

She held the box in front of her chest. “I suppose I could call my bank at home to wire me some money.”

“I'm not talking about money.”

Her face grew wary. “What are you talking about then?”

“A performance. You're good at that.”

“So are you. For a moment there, you had me thinking you were a nice guy.”

“Nice guys don't have fun. And I intend to have fun.” He folded his hands behind his head and leaned further back in his chair. “I want a fashion show, Mrs. O'Grady.”

“A fashion show?”

“I paid for the goods; I want to see you model them.”

She thought about banging the box over his head and telling him exactly what he could do with the goods. Then she changed her mind. Why not? She might just give the arrogant skunk more than he bargained for.

She carried her box into the bathroom and opened the lid. Inside was a red miniskirt with a long zipper up the front from hem to waist and a red halter top that was barely big enough to cover the principal parts, let alone the subject. A tall pair of spiky red high heels and black mesh stockings completed the outfit. He'd even thought to buy lingerie—G-string panties and a bra with holes over the nipples.

“That devil.” She held the skimpy costume in front of herself and looked in the mirror. She looked like a hooker. Wasn't that just like Rick McGill to select clothes appropriate for one of the girls in his houses of ill repute?

Good grief. She lowered the toilet seat cover and sat down, trying to think what to do. Obviously he expected her to be appalled by the clothes. It was his way of letting her know what he really thought of her.

Well, if he thought she was 'that kind of girl,' why disappoint him? Why not give him his money's worth and then some?

She put on the stockings and lingerie then squeezed into the tight skirt and skimpy halter. Next she dug into Velma's bag of goodies and painted a slash of red across her lips. Using the same red lipstick, she made her cheeks look like two stop signs. There was nothing she could do with her hair. It was as thick and shiny as a Kentucky Derby winner's tail, and it absolutely defied taming. She shook her head and fluffed her hair out in wild disarray. The love-for-hire look. That's what she was after.

She started toward the door, then took one last look at herself. She'd forgotten about the naughty zipper on her skirt. Taking hold, she jerked it upward until it had bared her thigh almost all the way to indecency.

There, she thought. She was ready. Grinning, she pushed open the door and walked into the bedroom.

Rick McGill almost fell off his chair.

By getting that sleazy outfit he had hoped to put Martha Ann Riley back in her proper place—current playgirl. But she wouldn't stay. Even in those hooker clothes she looked like somebody's kid sister playing dress up.

What was even worse, with that chin lifted high and those blue eyes blazing, she elicited an admiration that bordered on adoration. By George, he'd better be careful or he was going to get caught in his own trap.

He tried to look cool and Humphrey Bogartish and totally unaffected.

“Well, sweetheart. How do you like the outfit?”

“I love it!” She twirled around, making sure she showed him everything she had. She noted with satisfaction that his breathing got heavy. “It's just what I would have chosen for myself.”

She stopped in front of him, close enough so that her legs were brushing against his. Then, bending at the waist and leaning over in the manner of a practiced hooker, she pressed her red lips against his.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She even toyed around in his mouth with her tongue.

By George, if it was an act, it was her best yet. Those hot red lips moved over his until he thought nothing could keep him from throwing her across the bed and hiking up that sleazy skirt. He already knew what was under there—that fool G-string he'd bought.

Whatever had possessed him? When her tongue slid into his mouth, he had to grip and chair arms to keep from making a fool of himself.

It wouldn't do to make love to her in his condition. He might lose his head—and his heart.

Fortunately for his sanity, she ended the kiss and walked back across the room. She had A-number-one, first-class hips. When she spun back around, he noticed her lips were pouty from the kiss.

Smiling, she put her hand on her skirt zipper. “What do you think? Is the zipper high enough?” She inched it up a fraction.

“I believe so.” Was that his voice, he wondered. He sounded like a bullfrog in heat.

“Of course, I don't want to be too bold. My condition, you know.”

“Yes.” In his condition, speaking was a minor miracle.

“But I do think this zipper could come up some more.” She gave it another tug. Rick caught a glimpse of the black lace G-string. “I believe if you've got it, you might as well flaunt it. Right?” She spun around and flaunted it.

“I believe the zipper's a little too high.”

“What did you say?” She posed, hands on hips, legs spread apart, showing just a glimpse of black lace.

“I said I think...” He got out of his chair so quickly, it scooted backward. “Have you seen the view from the window?” He turned around and studied the horizon as if his life depended on it. “You can see the Mountain of the Rising Sun over there in the east.”

“Where?”

She came across the room, gloating at the success of her plan. Rick McGill had gotten more than he had bargained for all right. He was so uptight, he looked as if he would twang if anybody touched him. She edged around the table and inched around in front of Rick. She pressed her hips provocatively against the front of his jeans.

He was twanging, all right, she gloated. Throbbing too. The only trouble was, so was she.

Under the guise of getting a better view of the mountains, she moved out of contact with him.

“Where did you say that mountain was?” She couldn't have seen it if she had walked into it nose first.

“Over there.” His arm rested on her shoulder as he pointed.

“Ahhh, yes.”

They stood that way for a while, blindly viewing a mountain while their nerves screamed and their minds beat against the restraints they had set.

Rick cleared his throat.

Martha Ann coughed.

“Well...” he said.

“Yes?” She was so glad for a break in the tension, she forgot where she was standing. She turned quickly and found herself practically in his arms.

For a moment they both stood looking at each other, paralyzed.

If I kiss her now, I am lost, he thought.

If he touches me now, I can't be responsible, she thought.

He stepped backward. “I should be going.”

“Oh.”

“To take a bath.”

“Of course.” She flicked her tongue over her dry lips.

He had to get out of that bedroom. Fast. Never breaking stride, he called to her over his shoulder. “I’ll bathe and change and pick you up in about an hour. Then we'll go and find your husband.”

The door banged shut behind him.

She groped her way to the bed and collapsed. Her heart was still beating so hard, she could hear the blood pounding in her ears.

Good heavens. She had almost wound up giving herself to a man who owned whorehouses. She pressed her hand to her forehead and groaned. That just proved that she didn't have a lick of sense about men. Goodness gracious. Was Lucky O'Grady worth all this?

She lay back against the pillows for a while, letting her breathing come back to normal. What she needed was a good stiffening of her resolve.

She picked up the phone and dialed her sister.

“Evelyn? Is that you?”

“Of course, it's me. Is that you, Martha Ann? You sound funny.”

“It's these tight clothes. I can hardly breathe.”

“What tight clothes? You're not making one bit of sense. Martha Ann, what are you up to now?”

“I'm here in Las Vegas. We're going to look for Lucky.”

“I
know
that. You didn't have to waste a long distance phone call just to tell me that. Do you know how much these prime-time rates are? Good heavens, Martha Ann! I’ll bet you could buy lunch for what this call is costing. Why—”

“Evelyn!”

“What?”

“I'm in terrible trouble.”

“Oh, no!” There was deathly silence on the line as the Riley sisters tried to read each other's minds.

“It's not what you're thinking, Evelyn.”

“How do you know what I'm thinking?”

“I always do. You're thinking I've lost my purse again.”

“Have you?”

“Goodness no. I've just about lost your virginity.”

Evelyn laughed. “I lost that a long time ago—to Lucky.”

“Well, your reputation then. Evelyn, I think I'm falling in love with Rick McGill.”

“You call that terrible trouble! Why, good heavens, Martha Ann, I call that good news.”

“He's a scoundrel.”

“He's handsome.”

“He owns bordellos.”

“Somebody has to.”

“What am I going to do?”

“Just listen to your heart. I always did.... And Martha Ann...”

“What?”

“In spite of the way things have turned out, I've never regretted it.”

By the time Rick knocked on her door, Martha Ann was as scrubbed and decent as she could make herself in the risque costume. She had washed the bright red lipstick off her face and lips, and she had closed the zipper so that no thigh was showing except below the bottom of the skirt.

She had also strengthened her resolve. Evelyn needed her. No matter what it took, she would go out there and find Lucky.