All I, or anybody reasonable, would say about a twenty-four-year-old fallen woman was…high time, honey! as Irma put it.
The shower water reminded me of the many fountains in Ric's house. I adjusted the temperature until it fell like flowing warm satin on my body. I really wouldn’t have felt comfortable sleeping in Ric's bed yet. One stage at a time. I donned my long granny nightgown and slunk back into the bedroom in the dark, easing under the covers.
I heard a long, disappointed, canine sigh from the corner. I'd call Quicksilver a bluestocking, except that he didn't wear any.
Morning was the usual bright and sunny. I decided to take Quick for a nice long run in the park to make up for my absence last night, and the absence of my supposed innocence, which his wolfhound nose could apparently detect.
Halfway through it, I let Quick off the leash to run far and wide, and sat out the rest of the marathon on a bench.
"Tender?" Irma asked me. "¡Ai, carumba, chica!"
Ric had warned me, but tender was a way too nice word for it. I was as sore as hell. On the other hand, the abiding discomfort reminded me of the excellent adventure we'd shared last night. I couldn't wait to do it again, probably much sooner than advisable, like today.
I must have been giving off super-satisfied pheromones because two strange guys immediately plopped down on the bench on either side of me.
They wore those bright-colored knit golf shirts with the itty-bitty alligator embroidered on the chest, one pink, one green, and plaid pants to match. Serious muscles filled out the Florida duds on all fronts. Their faces were hawk-nosed and bleak-eyed.
"Our employer wants to see you," Mr. Flamingo Pink said.
"Here I am."
"On his turf."
Oops. "Turf" was not a respectable corporate byword unless it was part of a Surf and Turf lobster and rib eye dinner at the local Stake and Ale.
"I can't right now. I'm walking my dog."
"You're not walking and I don't see a dog," Mr. Chartreuse answered. "Let's go, doll."
Each had taken me politely but firmly by the elbow. Together they lifted me almost off the ground. I spotted a white van idling by the curb.
Elbows, as I may have mentioned before, are the strongest offensive part of the human body. I was about to smash mine into colorful kidneys on either side and sprint to freedom.
Then the name on the side of the van registered.
Who sends a labeled van to kidnap an unwilling woman? The Magnus-Gehenna-Megalith Hotel and Casino Consortium, that's who.
"It's to your advantage," Flamingo Pink growled. "The head man is interested in you. You know how rare that is?"
Yeah, very rare, which was probably just the way he wanted me cooked, the freaking werewolf.
"He wishes to talk to you about a job," Mr. Chartreuse chimed in.
With these guys, "a job" was probably dangerous, illegal, and maybe even fattening. But I'd been itching to get on the inside of the M-G-M operation. Voila! as Christophe might say, if he was really French.
"Okay. But I, ah, I can't just leave my dog alone here in the park."
"God," Flamingo said to Chartreuse. "These dames today and their little purse pooches. Who do they think they all are, Paris Hilton?"
"All right," Chartreuse said, "but it had better be house-broken."
Quicksilver chose that minute to come barreling back toward me, fangs bared.
The men jumped back, leaving me free.
"We can't take that thing." Flamingo sounded afraid of more than Quicksilver.
"It's Team Malamute or nothing," I said.
Their brows wrinkled until their hairlines lowered a full inch. I think I got their problem. The M-G-M was a were-run operation and Quicksilver was half wolfhound.
"Sit," I told Quick, who promptly obeyed. "He's really well-behaved."
"Yeah, right."
"It's both of us, or I do my tae kwan do routine and he eats you."
My introduction to werewolves at Los Lobos had made me regard them, perhaps foolishly, as just another breed of dog with alpha and beta modes bred into the bone. If they had the upper fang, they'd bite. If they were the slightest bit conflicted, they'd cave and wait for their master's voice.
"Well, we could always use him out at Starlight Lodge," Chartreuse said, snickering uneasily.
"At the lodge, right. Can always use an extra canine there."
With a mutual, rather mysterious shrug, Flamingo and Chartreuse caved.
They weren't in full werewolf power and the boss wanted to see me. Presumably he could stomach seeing Quicksilver too. At least for a while.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A panel van has a way of feeling like a jailhouse wagon. I felt a lot of regretful heebie-jeebies as Quicksilver and I were carted off as willing passengers. We could take these guys, I was sure of it, but once we were in the hotel-casino, the odds would tip decidedly in the goons' favor. And there were people who would miss us, pronto, but not Ric, who was out of town again. Better not to waste a minute.
"Who is the boss?" I asked.
The watermelon pair snorted in tandem, rather doglike.
"Mister Cicero is the boss of bosses. His consortium controls six top Las Vegas venues." Flamingo lit up a stogie. Its foul smoke floated back into the second tier of seats and nearly choked me.
Six. Then he was a silent partner in three no one knew about.
"It's a big compliment Mister Cicero has even noticed the likes of you," Chartreuse said, snapping the rubber band on his wrist. Apparently he was trying to stop smoking, which was futile with a partner who was a walking pink chimney.
I coughed discreetly. "I just want to know how to properly address him."
"’Mister Cicero, sir' should do it." Chartreuse was sounding choked now too. "You should be better dressed," Flamingo said. "Mister Cicero likes his people to look sharp."
If the golfing outfits were part of that corporate directive, I'd prefer to remain a Raggedy Ann in workout clothes.
The van sped toward the huge, lurking bulk of the Gehenna, which had a fiery moat filled with holograms of mythological monsters (at least I hoped they were holograms), then buzzed around the impressive entry lanes and porte cochere to the rear.
Quicksilver and I were ushered inside into a locked, solid stainless steel, private elevator and shot upward a zillion floors. Flamingo and Chartreuse stared blankly at the floor indicator, their hands folded discreetly over their colorful crotches. Perhaps that was where they carried their hidden artillery.
The elevator doors opened on a corridor carpeted in black plush. Everything here was hushed, muting even Quicksilver's clicking claws. We reached a door of embossed metal, which opened when our escorts hummed a certain melody into a voice-pad. Actually, it was more of an a capella howl.
The hair, such scanty stuff as it was, stood up on the back of my neck. Quicksilver's thick-furred hackles went haystack high, but he managed to quiet his built-in urge to bay and bark warning. What had I gotten us into? Whatever it was, I hoped it proved useful as well as scary.
I wouldn’t find out a damn thing about the powers that be, and were, in Las Vegas sitting in Sunset Park nursing my newfound sexual itch. This was where I wanted to be. At the center of the hidden action, learning things, no matter the cost.
The office beyond the door was palatial, carpeted in mossy, dark emerald-green shag and paneled in black-stained pine. It felt like being in a night-time forest glade and was lit by etched globe lamps that mimicked dozens of full moons.
Quicksilver whimpered, feeling the ancient spell of dark forest and moonlight. I felt it too. Something Druid-like.