Luc and I retreated to my room, where I offered a treat for the man who’d traveled half a continent to save me, even when I’d been sure I didn’t need saving.
He lay on the bed in boxer briefs and a smile. When I emerged from the closet, his eyes widened just as I’d hoped they would.
“You’re wearing the boots. And very little else.”
I put my hands on my hips just above the lacy undergarment that covered only what it needed to and smiled cattily.
“If we’re going to be in a real relationship, I figured we should get started on the right foot.”
“Damn right,” Luc murmured, holding out a beckoning hand.
For once in my very long life, I didn’t hesitate.
THE PARLOR
BY LUCIENNE DIVER
“Tell me again how on earth you got talked into wearing booty shorts,” Christie said, with a laugh at my expense.
“Forget the booty shorts—would you take a look at these boots? I look like a fembot alien queen.”
She eyed my knee-high boots with their three-and-a-half-inch Plexiglas stiletto heels and the rest in a silver so shiny I could blind passing motorists. The matching silver short shorts and halter top weren’t see-through, but only because they didn’t have to be. They didn’t leave anything to the imagination.
“They are kind of Hooters-meets–space brothel.”
I groaned, took a step forward, and nearly fell on my face. I should have insisted on hazard pay.
“Okay, enough fun,” I told her. “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to walk in these damn things and how not to kill customers for tucking tips into inappropriate places.”
“You should have just sent me in.”
I eyed Christie—five-ten, one hundred and twelve pounds of blond, blue-eyed runway gorgeosity. She was my best friend, and she was tougher than she looked—she had to be. But patrons of The Parlor would probably eat her alive.
“Honey, I can’t afford you.”
“True,” she said without a trace of gloat. She made more in one shoot than I made in two weeks of PI work . . . or longer when times were lean, like now. It’d be a wonderful thing to get on my high horse and say I didn’t take dirty, low-down, cheating-rat-bastard cases (my client’s words), but beggars couldn’t be choosers, especially after the memorable incident a few weeks past with the singing fish possessed by Poseidon, who’d gotten pissy with me and tried his best to flood me out, doing extensive water damage to my office and leaving me with a sky-high deductible and an insurance company that would barely return my calls.
“Anyway, all I have to do is get in, get surveillance photos, and get out.”
She gave me a once-over. “Where are you going to hide your camera?” she asked dubiously.
“Hair clip.” I showed her the gaudy silver bow I’d rigged.
“Better facial recognition if you hide it in your cleavage. That’s where everyone will be looking.”
“Christie!”
“What? It’s not like I’m wrong.”
My client—cheating-rat-bastard’s wife, Marta—was convinced her husband was having an affair. He was smart enough to keep it off the credit cards, but his huge cash withdrawals and occasional guilt gifts had painted her a picture. Spontaneous diamond studs were almost always a dead giveaway. But in this case, I wasn’t so sure. I’d tracked her husband, Gareth, all week, and until last night his routine had been that of any other mild-mannered professor. There were no rumors of closed-door meetings with his students, and the only late nights had been spent in the lab with his myopic male research assistant . . . not that that necessarily meant anything.
But last night he’d come here, to The Parlor. He’d pulled an all-nighter, but not at the office or the lab as he’d told his wife. When several hours had passed and he hadn’t emerged, I’d followed him in, inspired by boredom and curiosity.
I found a gambling club in serious need of a miracle makeover. The chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings looked like jellyfish, with little lights swimming among the tentacles, providing enough illumination for patrons to avoid tripping over their own feet but not enough to notice the stains or wear marks on the really gnarly carpet, patterned like a clown had scattered Technicolor confetti and it had stuck. Of Gareth there was no sign. He’d disappeared like a six-pack at the Super Bowl.
I haunted the restrooms for a while, waiting for my mythical boyfriend to finish his business and watching the ebb and flow, getting a feel for the club. The Parlor wasn’t the kind of place a man went for an illicit liaison—not unless he was courting one of the cocktail waitresses. From what I could see, it was much more about making time with Lady Luck. It didn’t have the flash and pop of a Vegas casino with shows and dancing fountains or the Old World glitz and glamour of a Monte Carlo establishment. The Parlor was for the hard-core gamblers. There was eye candy in the form of the waitstaff, even a few men who looked like Rocky from The Rocky Horror Picture Show in their tiny silver shorts. But mostly there was a club full of chain-smoking, chain-drinking patrons looking for another kind of score. My precognition sat up and took notice, sending a little jolt through my system, letting me know there was danger about. But what kind? If I weren’t working, would it warn me off a bad bet? Help me at the tables? Or was the temptation to try for a quick score exactly the kind of trouble I faced?
It was in poking around for the off-limits and VIP areas, trying to find my wayward quarry, that I’d met Red. Or rather, he’d gone out of his way to meet me. “Meet” being a euphemism, of course, for intercept and potentially subdue. I debated giving him the gorgon glare, freezing him in his tracks, but I couldn’t be sure I’d get into the VIP section and out before he would unfreeze, and then I’d be in for it. I’d save that as a last resort and see where bluffing got me.
“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, stepping right into my path.
He was a mountain of a man, and it would have been hard to miss him even if I hadn’t been on the lookout for security. He was dressed much more subtly than the rest of the employees, in jeans and a short-sleeved black button-down shirt, which must have been specially made, because there was no frickin’ way a standard size could have covered those biceps. That didn’t stop him from leaving several buttons open to deal with his oversized pecs. He didn’t fill in the gaps with any gaudy chains. They would only have ruined the view.
But I’d seen Detective Nick Armani in full flagrante delicto, and while I couldn’t say that made me immune to Red’s charms, it did leave me able to form complete sentences.
“Miss? Well, thank God for that. I think if you’d ma’amed me, you’d have finished me off.”
He gave me a look of great confusion. I got that a lot. “The back room is by invitation only.” He forged on, standing between me and the curtained-off area I’d been about to explore. “Were you looking for something? Maybe I can help.”
“What does it take to get invited?” I asked, batting the one gift the gods had given me—my thick, dark lashes that looked like falsies and weren’t.
He grinned like he appreciated the effort, but not like it was having the desired effect. “You ain’t got it.”
He hadn’t given me the once-over, hadn’t consulted any sort of list, mental or otherwise. I’d looked for the telltale eye movement.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Look, you seem like a nice girl—”