On Thin Ice (6 page)

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Authors: Susan Andersen

BOOK: On Thin Ice
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“Yeah, he did,” Connie acknowledged. “And I'm as sure as I can be, without having checked to see if there was any action going on behind his fly, that it turned him on. But I think you're seriously underestimating the man if you think he's the type to allow himself to be led around by his hormones. Y'ask me, if he's decided he wants you, it's got nothing to do with having watched one performance on ice.”
“Maybe. But in a way, Connie, that's an even scarier scenario, don't you think? Because, I mean, you're right.” She leaned over and tugged at her laces, working them loose to take off her skates. Finally, she looked up at her friend. “He is potent and you're not the only one who wouldn't have a clue how to handle him. There'd be no staying in control with that guy.”
“So you're going to just let an opportunity for a romp with a man like that one pass you by? Ah, Saush, tell me it isn't so.”
Sasha's laugh was involuntary and nervous. “Well, at the very least I think I'll exercise a little native intelligence for once in my life and arrange for any future meetings between the two of us to be conducted in the hotel coffee shop.” Her eyes held confusion when they met Connie's. “Maybe if we didn't have to work with this guy for God knows how long...”
She blushed and gave Connie a sheepish smile. “You know I'm not a big fan of one-night stands, but I'm telling you, Connie, it would be a real temptation if this was just someone who was going to be left behind when we move on.” Then she shrugged and shook her head. “But that's not the case; he'll be coming right along with us when we leave. So, yeah, I believe I'm gonna steer clear. Who needs the aggravation? No,” she mused, and Connie wondered just whom she was trying to convince here, “I really don't think it's smart to complicate a working relationship with sex.”
 
 
Mick had different ideas on the matter. Restless and edgy, he stalked the corridors of the arena trying to burn off the synapse of hot energy that pulsed along his nerve endings and arced between his cells. Mixing sex with business sounded like a fine idea to him. It sounded just about right in fact. Mixing a whole lot . . . of both.
Okay, so it wasn't what had been in the game plan when he'd set out on this assignment. But she'd changed the rules tonight when she'd stood there staring up at him with that fraudulent wide-eyed uncertainty. He didn't like being played for a fool.
God, he had to hand it to her, though, she was good. Mick unknowingly echoed the same sentiments Sasha had expressed about him. Hell, she had to know how good she looked, yet she was smart; she hadn't played that angle at all. Instead she'd worked it casual and friendly and then had stood there all but trembling when he'd turned up the heat a little. Those big gray eyes had told him all sorts of contradictory stories. They'd seemed attracted but uncertain. Come closer, they'd said; stay away.
Hell, yeah. She was
damn
good.
He'd never in his life played the whore for an assignment, no matter how important it was. Well, call him a slut, but this was one instance where he was more than willing. He'd spent most of his time the last few years hanging out with the dregs of the earth. But they at least were halfway honest about their unrelenting avarice. Most of them owned up to it; they didn't pretend to be something diametrically opposed to what they actually were. Just who did this little honey think she was fooling? No one who sold product that killed off half the junkies on the West Coast was saving it for marriage.
But if that's the way she wanted to play the game, then he would, by God, play it right along with her.
F
OUR
Mick never got an opportunity to play it one way or another. Sasha Miller managed to avoid him quite handily for what remained of the Follies' Sacramento run. Only once were they alone together and even then “alone” was a relative term. She requested a meeting to discuss the arrangements she'd previously mentioned, but insisted on holding it in the hotel dining room. They were alone in the sense that nobody bothered them, but it was in the midst of a roomful of diners.
And just to add to his general frustration, even her phone remained mute.
He knew better than to expect instantaneous results on any assignment but found it aggravating nevertheless in this instance. For the first time in his career he was impatient, anxious to rush a case, unwilling to let it unfold at its own pace. In all his years of doing covert work, he had never felt the pull of an unwanted attraction involving the subject of an investigation, and be it involuntary or otherwise, the fact that he was battling such an attraction now made him competitive in ways he'd never before encountered.
Dammit to hell, it took more than a pretty face and a great body to distract Mick Vinicor from his given goal. True, his quarry were generally men. But he'd been offered the favors of innumerable girlfriends, whores—hell, even the occasional sister or wife—in the course of previous investigations. Sometimes, if the woman herself was willing and not simply the chattel of some drug czar, he'd availed himself of those offers. More often he hadn't. But never had the potential for sex possessed the ability to distract him from his objective.
And he wouldn't permit it to distract him now. The attraction for Sasha Miller might be stronger than any he could remember in a long, long time, but he didn't give a damn how sweet faced this little skater dolly was; he'd blow her out of the water before he'd allow her to lead him around by the gonads.
His mood was decidedly dark the last few days of the California run.
Further opportunity to advance the investigation into the next phase didn't arise until the end of the week. When the skaters left for the upcoming leg of the tour they were transported by air, Follies policy stating its performers were to be conveyed by bus only if the ride could be accomplished in four hours or less.
At the conclusion of the final show in Sacramento, the road crew packed up the semis and hit the road early the following morning. The skaters, however, were given a rare day to sleep in, a few hours to themselves in which they could catch up on their laundry, simply be lazy, or go out and explore the city before they had to leave to catch the afternoon flight for Eugene, Oregon.
Thinking this would be a good time to begin the seduction of Sasha Miller, Mick went to her room. She wasn't there and he was unable to track her down before it was time to catch the bus that would take them to the airport. Cursing both himself and the suits who'd assigned him to this case, Mick's intention when he turned in his room key was to grab the seat next to Sasha on the bus. He needed to begin insinuating himself into her life and was anxious to get on with it. The sooner he wrapped this business up, the quicker he could get back to the type of cases he was accustomed to.
However, he hadn't calculated Connie Nakamura into the equation. On time for once in her life, she outmaneuvered him as they jostled for position in the bus's narrow aisle. Knocked out of the way with one economical movement of the petite Asian woman's hip, he took a seat in the row behind them and openly eavesdropped on their conversation. It garnered him absolutely nothing in the way of new knowledge that could advance his case.
He vowed to do better on the airplane, but his assistance was required in his role as manager and by the time he untangled the problem, the two women had boarded the plane and were once again sitting together. Mick stood in the aisle, hands on his hips, and stared at them a moment with barely concealed irritation. Jesus, were they joined at the hip or something?
As if knowing exactly what she had thwarted, Connie grinned at him knowingly. Gritting his teeth, Mick gave her a feral grin in return and moved on. To add insult to injury, the only available seat on the plane was next to Karen Corselli. Ah, hell. That was
all
he needed to round off an unproductive and exasperating week.
He half expected to spend the flight being forced to listen to another lecture regarding the foulness of his language. But Karen pretty much ignored him as she stared out the tiny porthole window.
Until the turbulence struck.
They hit a pocket of bad weather just as they were passing over Roseburg. The plane took a pounding as they bucked head winds, causing it to shudder and shake a bit.
At first Mick merely assumed Karen was a nervous flyer. The airplane took a little swoop and she gasped and grabbed for his leg, nervously clutching him just above the knee. The next bit of turbulence had her gripping his thigh. Mick patted her hand reassuringly.
Two minutes later, her fingers were softly groping the denim of his fly.
“Jesus Christ!” Mick jumped a foot. Head whipping around to stare at her, he felt himself gaping like an idiot. God Almighty. He had long ago ceased believing there was anything left in this world that could shock him.
Only to discover in that moment that he was mistaken.
Was this the same young woman who just three days ago had read him the riot act for using obscene language in her presence? When it came to shock value, not much could beat having her grab his crotch out of the blue. It did the trick, absolutely, stunning him nearly speechless.
Heads turned at his involuntary exclamation and Mick did something else he hadn't done in years. He blushed. Karen's head was still averted, but it was turning in his direction as he grasped her wrist and yanked her hand away from his lap. Her fingers stretched to administer one last surreptitious stroke even as she instructed him coolly, “Kindly don't take the Lord's name in vain.”
“Holy shit, lady,” he whispered hoarsely. “What're you, crazy? ”
“Mr. Vinicor,” she reprimanded him frigidly, “I will not tell you again. Watch your language.” Then in an undertone, as the plane's engines whined with the change of altitude, she murmured without even bothering to turn her head in his direction, “You're the man in charge of room assignments so I assume that means you know what my room number will be.” Her head turned briefly to meet his astounded blue eyes and she passed a delicate tongue over her lips. Her voice was contrastingly crisp when she instructed, “Come see me.”
Mick was jumpy and unnerved the rest of the flight. He'd been an agent with the DEA for nearly twelve years and had dealt with many diverse personalities. It was an aspect of the job he'd always taken for granted; it simply came with the territory and was an accepted part of the job description. Hell, he'd broken bread with sociopaths and conned psychotics; he'd partied with conscienceless killers and out-lied pathological liars, all without breaking a sweat. Bringing one small-time dealer to justice should be a piece of cake in comparison.
So then why did it feel as if this were shaping up to be the screwiest goddam case he'd ever had the misfortune to be assigned to?
 
 
It was edging on six by the time Mick had straightened out all the room assignments and distributed every last hotel key to the Follies' performers and other personnel. Whose bright idea had it been for him to take over the managers duties anyway?
There was more work to this job than he'd expected. He couldn't neglect it or people were going to wonder why he'd been hired in the first place, and the objective here was to bring as little attention to himself as possible. Yet he wasn't quite sure how he was supposed to keep an eye on Sasha Miller, worm his way into her confidence, and deal with all this shit, too.
He pretended not to notice when Karen Corselli pressed discreetly up against him as he handed her the key to her room. Having failed to elicit a reaction, she stood looking at him a moment longer, an invitation in her eyes, before she finally stepped aside to make way for the next person in line.
 
 
Karen let herself into her room, slung her overnighter on the bed, and kicked off her shoes. She rummaged in her bag until she found her little night-light, plugged it into the socket next to the bed, ordered up room service, and then searched the television for something not totally vulgar that she could watch while she ate. After dinner she took a long bath, freshened her makeup, and donned her most alluring nightgown.
By ten o'clock that evening it had registered that Mick Vinicor wasn't going to come knocking on her door.
Prowling the room, she whispered furiously to herself, frustration burning hot in her veins. Unbearably familiar, a sense of powerlessness infused her, and like an irritant lying just below the surface of her skin, like an itch beyond her reach, it mocked all her accomplishments.
Drat
him. Drat
all
men.
She stood in the center of the room, chest heaving with the deep breaths she took in an attempt to regain control. Okay. All right. It wasn't as if she were a stranger to this feeling of impotence. But that of course was the very problem, and, oh, how she hated it.
She had grown up in a fundamentalist Christian home where she was expected to be seen but not heard, unless specifically called upon to sing a hymn or recite a lesson from the Bible. And woe be to her if she forgot or stumbled over her words. The common punishment for misbehavior in any of its guises was a stay of up to as many as three days in a dark, damp, seven-by-four-foot cubicle in the cellar.
Usually after Father had taken his birch stick or his belt to her.
It had never grown less terrifying in that unlit chamber, filled with its musty smells and skittering noises, no matter how many times she was put in there. It had always imbued her with such feelings of hopelessness and rage that she had feared she would burst with them. So she'd sung every acceptable gospel song she'd known, recited Bible verse after Bible verse, and swore repeatedly that someday she would have influence and authority. No one—no one!—would ever be allowed to inflict pain on her then . . . or make her spend time in a small, dark space again.
She'd discovered the power of sex when she was seventeen years old. Up until that time, in compliance with her austere relatives' demands, she'd kept her nose in her Bible and her feet on the straight and narrow, bound for Glory. She had gone to school; she'd gone to church; and any free time left over was devoted to skating—but only after her coach had assured her rigid parents that she would never be subjected to any material that didn't have good, clean values.
Which, of course, was as it should be.
It was at skate practice that she'd first began to notice the way boys acted around her. If she quite properly dressed them down for using unseemly language, they would hang their heads. But when they looked at her their eyes were avid; and if she moved a certain way, bent in a certain manner, used her tongue to moisten her lips, a bulge would appear behind their zippers. She was pretty and her body was beautiful, and she discovered she could control boys with it.
Power. It was so sweet, and for the first time in her life she had access to the real thing.
Over the years her power base had enlarged until these days there was little she couldn't accomplish or obtain. Most of the time it was simply a matter of placing herself in the right place at the right time. Of knowing how to manipulate the right man. Clearly, the airplane this afternoon hadn't been the right place for Mick Vinicor.
Or perhaps it was the timing that was off.
Well, the time was always negotiable. As for the place . . . she didn't doubt for an instant that she would eventually find a spot that he would find eminently suitable for their purposes. Heavenly days, it would be rather ludicrous to harbor doubts about her eventual success, wouldn't it? Why would she want to do that?
She hadn't failed yet.
 
 
It was after midnight when the taxi let Sasha off in front of the Eugene hotel. She strode through the lobby doors and headed straight for the lounge. She could use a stiff drink.
Damn Lonnie anyhow. How on earth had she allowed herself to be talked into this?
Tossing her evening bag on the table, she slid into a U-shaped booth in one of the darker corners of the dim bar. It seemed like an eternity before the cocktail waitress sauntered over and took her drink order. Sasha fiddled with a book of matches as she watched the waitress walk away, turning it end over end between her slender fingers while she brooded.
What difference did it make why she'd caved in—what counted was that she had. She'd listened to Lon's arguments and she had agreed to his plan, however reluctantly. She could have said no. She
should
have said no. But . . . no. Instead she'd gone ahead and dated that old geezer, flirting on the thin edge of feeling like a whore in order to get Lonnie a place with the line skaters when he was released from prison in a couple of weeks.

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