Nick's thoughts exploded with possibilities. Return to fast cars, expensive vacations, and—
Séamus cleared his throat.
"I keep forgetting you can read my mind," Nick said sheepishly and glanced at the monitor again. "Tell me more. When?"
"Now, but only to help Margo."
"What will she think? I mean… seeing me?"
Séamus grinned. A mischievous twinkle glittered in his eyes. "She won't see you. You'll have a different appearance."
Now that had possibilities. He'd always wanted to be taller. "I'm ready. What are we waiting for?"
"Close your eyes."
Nick obeyed, but he saw images anyway, similar to when he'd died. First there'd been the car crashing into the brick retaining wall… pain… blackness. Then bright lights, a tunnel, and images of people and places he'd known. After the pain, it had all been rather pleasant until he saw Margo's misery.
Soon he'd see her in person, could tell her he was sorry…
A chorus of male voices greeted Nick's arrival in the sauna at his favorite health club. At least Séamus had seen fit to send him somewhere he'd enjoyed when he was alive. But he didn't feel right. Something was different. Missing. And… new.
Nick glanced down at what he thought was his body, but it couldn't be. Séamus wouldn't have…
"Did you catch the playoffs last week?" A gruff male voice interrupted Nick's thoughts.
Blinking in the steamy environment, Nick tried to discern the identity of the other occupants. The last thing he needed was for someone to recognize Nick Riley with boobs.
Nick pulled the towel up from his waist to cover his chest, an area of his anatomy he'd never seen a need to conceal before. "Séamus, if you weren't already dead, I'd kill you myself," he muttered. Is that my voice? That silken drawl couldn't be his.
"Who — what?" A familiar voice sliced through the steam. "Hey, this is the men's sauna."
Nick tried to make out the face through the steam. That had to be his former law partner's voice. "Warren, is that you?" There's that weird voice again.
Whistling filled the small tiled area. "Hey, Warren," one man yelled, "does your wife know about her?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Warren growled. "Lady, you should go to the women's sauna before you cause any more trouble."
"Uh, right," Nick agreed in his new timbre. A woman — Séamus had sent him back as a woman. What a sick sense of humor.
He clutched the towel across his voluptuous chest and beat a hasty retreat, knowing his lower extremeties — such as they were and weren't — were uncovered. Feeling more exposed and vulnerable than he had in all his life, Nick jogged through the blessedly vacant men's locker room, down the corridor, and into the ladies' facility.
Stunned, he stood frozen in the center of the once forbidden sanctuary. Women of all assorted shapes and sizes walked around in various stages of undress.
Now this is Heaven.
Then he caught sight of the most gorgeous redhead he'd ever seen — a natural redhead. She was built like a tall Marilyn Monroe, with shapely legs he would've given almost anything to feel wrapped around his body in a clinch of—
"Whoa!" Perspiring, he lifted his hand to touch the reflection. His reflection.
Nick Riley was a drop-dead, brick shit-house babe.
"I can't believe I let you talk me into this." Margo Riley sank even lower in her chair at center stage. Any moment now the runway in front of her would fill with nearly naked, sweaty men. What in the world had possessed her?
Steph giggled and drained the contents of her glass. "Admit it, sis," she said. "You've always wanted to do this. Now you have an excuse."
Unconvinced, Margo shook her head and took another sip of club soda. Maybe she should have ordered something stronger. Anything to take her mind off where she was and what was about to happen. "This is so crude."
Steph ordered two more drinks from the passing waiter. "Hey, c'mon, Margo. It's a story. This is work. Your job! Remember?"
Simultaneously nodding and grimacing, Margo looked up at the still empty stage. "I always wondered what men saw in watching naked women undulate their bodies in places like this." She shrugged. "Now I guess I'll find out — sort of."
Steph paid the waiter and pushed a drink that looked suspiciously unlike club soda toward her sister. Maybe it was the fruit and little umbrella that gave it away.
"Just imagine what Mom'll think," Steph whispered with a wink.
Margo sucked in her breath. "You wouldn't dare."
Steph arched her delicate blond eyebrows and pursed her full lips in a feigned pout. The innocent look vanished as quickly as it had appeared. "Maybe. Maybe not."
Wrinkling her nose at her sister, Margo took a tentative sip of the tropical drink. After removing the paper umbrella, she took a second taste and nodded in satisfaction. "Not bad. What is it?"
"Something yummy." Steph flashed her a grin. "So, what made that old prude boss of yours give you such a sweet assignment?"
" 'Sweet' is a matter of opinion, I suppose." Margo sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I know what he wants for this story, but I'd rather tackle a more important issue."
Steph covered her face. "Not the First Amendment. Why not write about the guys, especially if that's what your editor wants? And the reason women like to come here?" She looked around the nightclub. "In case you haven't noticed, the place is packed."
Margo glanced around, amazed to discover that every table in the club was taken. "I had no idea."
"That's my point, and I'll bet it was your editor's, too," Steph said in her sarcastic, get-a-life voice. She leaned forward, elbows on the table. A shock of blond curls fell across her forehead. "Women come here for one reason — to look at hunks. Take notes, journalist."
Stunned, Margo studied her sister's expression. "What makes you such an expert?"
Steph reddened, laughing. "I've been here lots of times."
"No."
"Yeah, it's fun."
"It's embarrassing," Margo whispered, looking around again. Why were so many women here? She bristled, hating to admit her sister was right. "Okay, so there's a story here, but that's all it is to me."
Shrugging, Steph pointed to the stage. "Showtime."
Margo moaned in self-chastisement. How had she gotten herself into this mess? She should have suggested that her new editor take the assignment himself, though looking like Ernest Borgnine might have been a liability in the Studfinder.
"Here we go." Steph whooped and cheered with the other insane women while Margo groaned again. Music with a heavy disco beat reverberated through the small club. Varicolored lights rotated and flashed as the emcee announced the first performer.
"Good evening, ladies, and welcome to the Studfinder," he said dramatically. "And I guarantee you will find more than a few studs." The women roared with laughter and applause. A few wolf whistles rose above the din. "Now get ready for Tarzan."
Tarzan? The ultimate male domination fantasy. Margo suppressed a shudder of revulsion. It's a story. Get a grip.
Removing a notepad from her purse, she leaned back and started writing down everything she saw, heard, felt in the dim room. This was freedom of speech and expression in action. She had to remain focused. If people wanted to watch exotic dancers of either gender, that was their business. Government had no business dictating morals. Satisfied she'd found the proper mind-set for this assignment, Margo glanced up at the stage. "Oh. My. God."