By Hook or By Crook

by Linda Morris

  He began to fumble mechanically with the closures, finally getting the first one closed more by luck than skill. Why was he having such a hard time getting it together? The allure of Ivy’s soft skin and the faint scent of her perfume, something girly and floral, penetrated his defenses in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

  Shaking it off, he bent his head to the task at hand. As he fastened the last closure, his fingertips grazed the skin at the base of the opening, above the swell of her rear. He got an impression of warm, smooth skin, but the contact sent an electrical jolt he’d never felt from such a brief touch before. Ivy must have felt it as well—she swiftly inhaled, and her shoulders stiffened in awareness. But in an instant the moment ended, whatever it had been. Stunned, he wondered if he’d imagined the whole thing. She disappeared into her suite’s bedroom, coming out again a few minutes later in a pair of low-heeled sandals with a little black purse.

  The outfit was downright demure compared to the way some of the women on the gaming floor dressed. If they weren’t actually prostitutes, they certainly dressed the part. But somehow none of them had Ivy’s elegant but very real sensuality, with her little heeled sandals and her subdued dress. She had left her legs bare, and if he wasn’t mistaken, they had a slight sheen. He realized she’d caught him staring when she cleared her throat.

  “Are your legs...sparkly?” he managed to ask, feeling the need to explain since he’d been caught leering.

  “My body lotion has a little bit of glitter in it,” she said with a trace of diffidence.

  She seemed apologetic. For what, he had no idea. He luxuriated in a fantasy of her smoothing cream on the inside of her thighs and behind her knees. The heat in his groin flared hotter. He hoped she didn’t notice his reaction, which was obvious if she looked.

  “Is it too obvious?”

  He forced his gaze away from her glittery legs and up to her face. He’d promised Richard Smithson he’d leave his daughter alone. He really couldn’t afford to let his mind dwell on the picture of her rubbing glistening, sweet-smelling lotion on her bare legs. Her bare, smooth-looking, toned, shapely legs.

  “No, it’s not obvious at all,” he said, strangely embarrassed to have been caught eyeing her so blatantly. But for some reason, she didn’t seem mad. Instead, she seemed as uncomfortable as he was. “Shall we go?”

  ****

  At the door of the Bellisimo Grand Ballroom, a uniformed usher took their tickets. The decor reminded her of the Royal Palace of Caserta she’d once toured in southern Italy, minus the authenticity. The surreal scene baffled her. Near the center of the vast space stood a boxing ring, surrounded by rows of hundreds of folding chairs. She halted, taking it all in. Joe shot her an inquiring look, but she shook her head in negation. The sound system blasted hip-hop, the thrum of the bass making conversation impossible.

  The glitz and faux European glamour of the Bellisimo struck her as ridiculous compared to the effortless sophistication of, say, a Monte Carlo casino. Throw in a mixed martial arts brawl, and the scene became truly ridiculous. She opened her mouth to say so, but then closed it abruptly. She didn’t want to share her thoughts with Joe and have him think her a snob—any more than he already did.

  None of the other guests seemed to mind, though. Many in the crowd had money riding on the event, if the conversations she overheard were any indication. Ivy somehow doubted that many of the women present were actual martial-arts enthusiasts. Mini-dresses, halter tops, towering heels, poofy hair, and fake tans appeared to be the fashion. She knew she was conservative compared to Daisy, but how had her sister ever gotten involved in this scene?

  As a couple appeared at the end of the aisle, Joe and Ivy rose briefly to let them squeeze past to reach their seats. The young man had a shaved head and colorful tattoos up and down both of his arms, bared by a tank top with the picture of some metal-rap band Daisy used to listen to in high school. Tattooed guy’s girlfriend, spray-tanned an appalling shade of orange, wore a tiny gold-spangled black micro-mini dress that strongly hinted she wasn’t wearing a bra or underwear beneath. Catching herself gawking at the girl’s abbreviated hemline, Ivy quickly swept her eyes upward, not wanting confirmation of her suspicion.

  Ivy crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to find something to do with her gaze. She met Joe’s eye, and he seemed to know exactly what she was thinking. His lips curved into a slow smile, and she couldn’t help but return it.

  “Like the dress?” he asked. “We can get you one, if you like.”

  Ivy shook her head repressively, pressing her lips tight to contain her grin. The moment in her room, when he’d helped her with her dress, had been weird, without a doubt. They had nothing in common and didn’t seem to like each other much, but Ivy couldn’t deny the sexual tension that had flared between them. It didn’t matter anyway. She would never get involved with a man on the basis of a mere hormonal reaction, so the point was moot.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how the loosely rolled-up cuffs of his black oxford shirt revealed his forearms. She quelled the impulse to reach out and brush her hand across defined muscles there. No, she would never be so shallow, she reminded herself. You could be attracted to someone without acting on it, and that’s what she would do.

  Without a doubt.

  Ivy peered around her in the dimness as they waited for the first fight to begin. Two preliminary bouts would take place before the main event, Joe explained. Pock’s fight came first.

  She scanned the seats around the ring, trying to spot Daisy, but the unsettled crowd and dimness made it impossible. After a few minutes, the lights went out, the music changed, and an announcer boomed over the PA:

  “Are you ready for the Beatdown at the Bellisimo?”

  The crowd roared its approval, and the announcer introduced the first fighters, a muscle-bound white man named Jesse Dykeman and a doughy, bald Hispanic fighter, Marcus Velasquez.

  Joe’s expression mirrored her own confusion. She leaned close to him to be heard over the roar, placing her lips near his ear, pulling back with a start when her lips accidentally grazed his jaw, his stubble rough against her skin in a curiously pleasant way. He smelled nice, she noticed irrelevantly, kind of like pine or cedar.

  “I thought you said Pock was in the first fight.”

  “He was.”

  He looked around for a moment, but they couldn’t discern anything from their seats. Marcus and Jesse strutted around on the stage, waving flags and stoking the crowd. The PA announcer introduced the officials to raucous boos from the audience. Still no Pock.

  “I’ll go ask somebody,” Joe said.

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Squeezing through the crowd, brought to its feet by the frenzy of the moment, Joe grabbed Ivy’s hand so they wouldn’t be separated. He led her toward the set of double doors the fighters had emerged from moments before and exchanged words with the beefy-looking security guard, shouting directly in the man’s ear to be heard over the chaos. Ivy couldn’t hear anything in the cacophony, but the guard eventually stepped aside and let them into a long, cinder-block hallway, illuminated with bright fluorescent light. When the doors closed behind them, the din subsided a little. In the glare and relative quiet, Ivy suddenly realized their hands were still linked. She snatched hers free, prompting a grin from Joe.

  “He said the fight manager’s office is down this way.” Joe stopped in front of one of the fire doors and rapped.

  “Come in!”

  They entered to find a short, squat man sitting behind a desk, cell phone to his ear. He gestured for them to sit down in a pair of folding chairs in front of his desk. The office was clearly temporary, with barren walls, minimal furniture, and boxes of papers sitting in haphazard piles. After a minute, he ended the call.

  “What can I help you with?” The harassed-looking manager seemed civil enough, until Joe mentioned Pock’s name. A stream of curse words came out of the manager’s mouth.

  “That bastard left me in
the lurch. No-showed for the pre-fight meeting. I had to work my ass off to get somebody in to fight Dykeman at the last minute. Don’t know what the hell Pock was thinking. That’ll be the last time I schedule him for a fight.”

  “Have you talked to him since he no-showed?”

  “Nope. Sent somebody up to their room when he didn’t come to the meeting. It was empty. Wherever he went, he left in a hell of a hurry. Didn’t check out. Key cards were on the table. Luggage and clothes were gone, though. Good riddance.”

  “Any idea where they went?” Joe asked.

  “How the hell should I know? Don’t care, either. He’s finished in this town. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to do.” He nodded to the door in dismissal.

  “Thanks for your time,” Joe answered, and they left him to his ramshackle office.

  In the hallway, as soon as the door closed behind them, Ivy grabbed his sleeve. “They were staying here the whole time?” she asked, dismayed.

  “That’s not much of a help. The desk clerks never would have told us their room number, and this hotel has more than a thousand rooms.”

  For the first time since she’d learned of her sister’s crazy plans to marry, real fear gripped her. “Why would they be in a hurry to leave? She was thrilled at this opportunity for Pock.”

  “That’s what worries me,” he said, his face grim. “Do you know of any reason why they’d bail?”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t make any sense, running off and leaving the manager in a bind like this,” Ivy said. “This was Pock’s big break. Like the manager said, he’s not likely to get another chance after he’s run off at the last minute without telling anyone.”

  “Which means they must have had a pretty good reason for getting the hell out of Dodge.”

  The blunt words only worsened her dread. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. After all, Daisy could be a bit of a flake. She didn’t think in the same way Ivy did, not by a long shot. Taking off without telling anybody and blowing off a big opportunity in the process seemed monumentally stupid to Ivy, but to Daisy, it might be another whim that seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Still, Ivy couldn’t totally banish the anxiety she felt for her sister. Daisy had been so excited about not only her upcoming wedding but the opportunity for Pock to fight on a big stage. They wouldn’t walk away from it unless they had to.

  Joe dialed his cell. “Hey, Sheila. Need you to run some checks for me real fast.” He paused. “Yes, the Bellisimo is lovely.” Another pause. “She’s lovely too.”

  He grinned at Ivy, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. The man exuded charm, but that didn’t mean she had to fall for it. Charm in the hands of the wrong man could be fatal, to her heart at least. She couldn’t let her guard down for a second.

  “I need you to run checks on the credit card number I gave you before we left.” Another pause. “Yes, I do realize it’s a Saturday night. And yes, I know you have a life. You are aware, however, that I’m your boss?”

  Ivy raised her brows, surprised at the level of resistance he seemed to be getting from the mysterious Sheila, but Joe only rolled his eyes. “Atta girl. Call me back when you’ve got it.”

  “How do you have Daisy’s credit card number?” Ivy wanted to know, and then the light dawned. “Oh. Dad pays the bill. He gave it to you.”

  “Your Dad expects results,” he said simply. “And he likes to keep tabs on his daughters.”

  “I’m well aware of that,” Ivy said quietly, unable to keep the stiffness out of her voice.

  Joe said nothing, but his expression seemed almost sympathetic. Uncomfortable at being the object of his pity, she pasted on a smile and rushed to fill the void.

  “What are we going to do now?”

  “Pack,” he said.

  ****

  Twenty minutes later, Joe heard a knock at his door. He paused in the middle of zipping his suitcase to check the peephole.

  Ivy, wearing a frown.

  He let her in, noting again the light floral scent that wafted his way as she brushed past. He wouldn’t have expected such a girly scent from such a self-contained woman. It surprised him, but pleasantly.

  “Good, you’re ready to go,” he said, noting the chic leather bag slung over her shoulder.

  She had changed into wool slacks and a bulky cable sweater, with a flat pair of loafers. She must have struggled to get out of the dress by herself, not wanting to risk asking for his help again. A pity. Her new outfit was a practical choice, but he missed the leg-baring gray dress, all the same. Did the skin behind her knees still sparkle under the utilitarian pants she was wearing now? The thought made his voice feel rusty again.

  He cleared his throat. “I got a call from Sheila. They used Daisy’s card at a gas station in Indian Springs.” At her bemused look, he explained, “It’s about an hour, hour and a half north of Vegas.”

  Discovering that Daisy’s credit card had been used eased Joe’s mind a little. He’d wondered if they’d been the victims of a crime. If they’d been using their own credit card, they were probably okay, although the possibility still remained that someone else had stolen and used the card.

  “Daisy’s still not answering her phone.” Ivy paced to the window and then back again to perch on the edge of the bed. “That worries me.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She may just still be mad at you, or she may be out of range in the mountains.”

  “Do you think we can catch them?” Ivy asked. “I can contact Dad and tell him to have the pilot draw up a flight plan to Indian Springs. Do you think there’s an airfield there?”

  Now they had a clue about where Daisy and Pock might be, Ivy stalked the room like a fierce cat, intent on her target.

  “No.” Joe instinctively refused. Something inside him chafed at the way Ivy always wanted to turn to her father for help—but he had other reasons, too. “They’ve got a head start on us,” he pointed out. “If we get there and they’ve already moved on, we’ll be stuck until they use their credit card again. And who knows where or when that will be, or if we’ll be able to reach it by air. Being at the mercy of the storm complicates everything. I’ve called for a rental car. The agency is dropping it off in ten minutes.”

  “At the mercy of what storm?”

  He nodded at the TV in the corner, tuned to the live weather forecast. “Western Nevada is due for a heavy snowfall, probably within ten or twelve hours. In the Sierra Nevadas, a snowstorm can turn shitty fast.”

  “But we don’t know that Daisy and Pock are headed for the mountains.”

  “There isn’t a whole hell of a lot in western Nevada besides mountains and desert. They could be headed to Reno, I guess, but that’ll still take us into the foothills.”

  “God knows Daisy would never have thought to check the weather report ahead of time,” Ivy said, brow furrowing. “Neither would I,” she admitted.

  She half intended that as an apology, he suspected. He took it gracefully, not rubbing it in. “It’s my job to be prepared for eventualities.” He clicked the TV off. “We’re going to be cutting it close as it is. I don’t know where they’re heading, but it’s going to be dicey to catch up to them and get off the roads before the storm hits. Snow in the mountains is nothing to screw around with. If you don’t want to come, tell me now.”

  “I’m coming with you.” She didn’t hesitate, and he admired her for it.

  “Are you sure?” His eyebrows lifted. “I can drop you off at the airfield and you can fly home if you want. Hell, you could even extend your stay at the Bellisimo. Learn how to play blackjack or something, or visit the spa. I’ll check in with you after I find Daisy and Pock.”

  Ivy stopped her pacing long enough to glare at him, arms crossed. “No. I’m coming along. She’s my sister. You think I could relax and get a hot stone massage while my sister might be in danger?”

  After a moment, Joe nodded. His suggestion had been a test, and she’d passed. He r
espected her a bit more for being willing to take the risk. She might be an uptight, snooty, meddling busybody, but she loved her sister enough to venture out into the mountains with a storm threatening, putting herself in danger. Smithson paid him well to take these kinds of risks, but Ivy did it out of love for her sister.

  He had to wonder what it must be like to have someone love you that much. He doubted he’d ever know, but as he hefted his bag onto his shoulder, he reminded himself he liked it that way.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  ****

  “Jesus Christ!”

  Phil Cantor clicked his cell phone off and carefully lowered it to the bar, only just restraining himself from tossing it across the room. He let his arm fall limp, staring into the mirrored bar. What the hell should he do now? The mirror, mercilessly reflecting his receding hairline and weary face, gave him no answers.

  “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

  The dark-haired girl on his arm snuggled closer, brushing her breast against his arm. After a stressful week, he’d wanted to wind down at the Viennese, the martini lounge that was the centerpiece of Bellisimo nightlife. Not having a regular woman in his life, he’d made a call and arranged for paid companionship, which didn’t bother him a bit. He’d get laid later and he wouldn’t have to call her. Perfect.

  The call he’d gotten put an end to that prospect, however.

  “Nothing’s wrong, honey.” As he spoke the words, though, he wriggled out of her clutches. He had to think fast, and he couldn’t do it with a silicone-enhanced bimbo hanging onto his elbow.

  His plans for the Beatdown at the Bellisimo had gone slightly awry, thanks to one ungrateful son-of-a-bitch. The caller had been the Bellisimo’s fight manager, telling him that Pock had no-showed for the fight.

  The manager had been irate over having to scramble for a last-minute substitute, having no idea that the fight had been fixed for Jesse Dykeman. Cantor had offered Pock a hefty fee to make sure he lost. The manager had expected congratulations for finding a fighter to take on Dykeman on short notice. Unfortunately, nobody told the substitute to tank the fight.