On Thin Ice

by Susan Andersen

  “That iss not skate music,” Ivan roared, “that iss an abomination!” But it was an argument he’d been steadily losing over the past year. He’d allowed it in the first place only because he was not blind to the problems that faced his two young protégés in this unforgiving little backwater town, and practicing to their raucous music seemed to him a safe enough outlet for blowing off steam.

  But then six months ago, without his permission, they had substituted it for their scheduled program at Nationals and now they had actually begun to build a reputation in international competition for their innovatively sexy brand of skating.

  Watching them grin at each other as they did a side-by-side double lutz and then smoothly segued the movement into an overhead lift, he shrugged and settled back. Oh, what did it matter? It was one of the few things these days that didn’t seemed destined to break their hearts.

  For the past several years it had been nearly impossible for Sasha to reconcile her feelings for Lon. Given all that they had shared, she thought it should have been fairly simple but it wasn’t. Instead, where he was concerned her emotions constantly shifted, an ever-changing pattern whose basis was a confusing snarl of contradictions.

  For the longest time he had been her closest friend, her fellow outcast. Her big brother, almost. He had been, when everything else was said and done, the boy who had taken an awful lot of abuse on her behalf in a never-ending attempt to protect her. And God, how she loved the boy he had been in those days.

  But there was a new hostility underlying her old feelings, a subterranean animosity she had to constantly struggle to overcome whenever she thought of the way he had thrown it all away. It arose, bitter as bile, every time she remembered how, in a world finally, blessedly free of the taint that had haunted them all those years in Kells Crossing, he had willfully saddled her with a brand-new reputation to live down.

  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t sold drugs, just as it had never mattered that she wasn’t a snob or a whore or a piece of meat for some rednecked lout to manhandle. Once again, not because of anything she had done but this time in response to her partner’s actions, she had found herself the target of suspicious, unfriendly eyes.

  And once again she had overcome the stigma by resurrecting an attitude she’d found successful in the past. She had closed her ears to the innuendoes and her eyes to the sidelong glances that were cast her way. She’d refused to talk about Lonnie or what he had done. Most of all, she had worked her tail to the bone.

  Lon’s request that she cozy up to J. R. Garland to secure him a place in the line hadn’t helped her conflicted emotions, but Sasha now tried to shrug all the confusion aside. She waited in a drafty back hallway in the Portland Coliseum, clutching a phone receiver to her ear as she waited for the penitentiary bureaucracy to grind with its usual excessive slowness through the act of processing her call to Lon.

  It wasn’t as if getting her feathers all ruffled did her a damn bit of good anyway. Most of the stuff she tended to brood about was over and done with a long time ago, so what was the point? As for the rest . . . well, she could have exercised her options and God knows she’d had every opportunity to tell Lon no.

  Except . . . that was something that had always been very difficult for her to do.

  Suddenly the receiver on the other end was picked up. “Sasha?” Lon’s excited voice came down the wire. “Is that you?”

  “Hey, Lonnie.”

  “Hey yourself, sweet thing.” There was an infinitesimal pause and then a sudden burst of exuberant laughter. “I don’t know what you did, kiddo,” he said excitedly, “but it came down through the warden’s office yesterday that I got the job. Saush! I got the job! I’m gonna skate again.”

  Sasha sagged in relief. She had planned to stand tough on the issue of J. R. Garland . . . and she would have, too. Still, she was just as happy that the need to fight it out had been eliminated. Lon had a way of talking her around, from time to time, until she found herself doing things at his behest that she’d truly just as soon not be doing. “That’s good, Lonnie.”

  “Damn straight it’s good, toots. And I owe it all to you.” He hesitated and then continued in a more sober tone, “Listen, Saush, my parole is effective on the fourteenth. I can catch a flight that lands me at SeaTac in Seattle at around 1 P.M. and meet you in Tacoma. That is . . . that is where the schedule you sent me says you’re gonna be that week.”

  “Yeah, we’ve got three days at the Tacoma Dome,” Sasha confirmed.

  “Do you think it would be possible for me to schedule some rink time while we’re there and then again in Seattle?” Sasha could almost feel his shrug drift down through the wires as he continued, “I don’t actually start performing with the line skaters until the first show in Spokane on the twenty-third, but let’s face it, babe, I’m five years, two months, and seventeen days out of practice. That about qualifies me for the Rusty Blade award.”

  “We’ve got a new manager,” Sasha replied and then responding to a warm spot on the back of her nape, turned to find the aforementioned manager standing directly across the hall from her. She jerked in surprise.

  Mick was lounging with his wide shoulders and the flat of one foot propped casually against the wall at his back. Muscular arms crossed over his T-shirt-clad chest, he stared at her.

  Sasha turned back to face the wall-mounted pay phone. “Speaking of whom, he’s right here. I’ll talk to him for you; I’m sure something can be arranged.” Unaccountably, her heart began to thud against her ribs as she looked over her shoulder and met Mick’s eyes. “I’ve, uh, gotta go,” she murmured into the phone. Curling her fingers over her mouth and the receiver to provide a little pocket of privacy, she turned her back to Mick once more and whispered, “This is good news, Lon . . . the best. I’ll see you on the fourteenth.” She replaced the receiver in its hook and slowly turned back to face Mick.

  “So, tell me,” he inquired, dropping his foot from the wall and pushing away to stand upright. “Just what is it you’re going to ask the new manager and for whom?” He stood facing her, his clenched fists jammed out of sight in his Levi’s jeans pockets. This, then, was how she’d been managing it. Jesus, he was a chump.

  He’d almost decided he was on the wrong trail after all, and all because her phone lines had been clear and her room had come up clean when he’d tossed it. And, hell, admit it, he prodded himself fiercely, because that’s what you wanted to believe.

  That was the part that really fried his ass.

  “Could we discuss this later, Mick?” Sasha interrupted his thoughts. “It took me longer than I expected to get my phone call put through this time, and I need to get some practice time in before the roadies show up.”

  “Oh, by all means,” Mick muttered, following her down the hall into the arena proper. “Far be it for me to cut into your precious practice time.”

  Puzzled by his tone, she shot him a curious glance over her shoulder but then shrugged and charged into the rink ahead of him. Mick forced back the scowl he could feel pulling his eyebrows together. Christ! How did she get away with looking so damned innocent anyhow; how did she get away with that scrubbed face and lopsided ponytail that made her look like some goddam teenager? What she was ought to show. It bloody well ought to show in some discernible manner.

  Which was a damned odd thing for a man to be thinking when he’d run as many cons on the criminal element as Mick had.

  Well, it was time to bring out the heavy artillery. He was through letting things slide. Sitting down next to the seat where Sasha had piled her skate bag, letterman’s jacket, and pants, Mick leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee. He propped his elbows on the armrests, steepled his fingers over his nose, and stared out at Sasha as she ran through her routine on the ice.

  Usually, when he wanted to insinuate himself into a suspect’s life, he labored to make them like him. Not far beyond like is trust, and no seduction will work without trust. And in the end, undercover work was, no
matter what the media tried to make of it, just that. A seduction.

  In this case, all his labor wasn’t paying off quickly enough to suit him. He’d tried to be patient but he was growing itchy. So he was going to turn things around a little.

  He was going to bypass the like part and jump headlong into the seduction.

  Eyes narrowed, he observed Sasha out on the ice. He never tired of seeing her skate, and little by little, due primarily to watching her every chance he got and asking a ton of questions of anyone who’d take the time to answer, he had begun to pick up a modicum of knowledge about figure skating.

  That thing she was launching into now was called a Biel-mann spin. With one leg bent up behind her and her head tilted way back, she bent backward at the waist and reached back with both hands to grasp the blade’s toe pick. Then she lifted her arms toward the ceiling, bringing the skate along in its wake and, while spinning in place, raised and lowered her leg from the middle of her back to a full extension that was nearly a standing, vertical split. She let go of the skate and went into a fast layback spin, her head and arms bent as far back as they could reach.

  The woman was agile.

  And he was going to show her new ways to apply all that agility the first opportunity he got.

  He was sprawled out in his seat, blocking Sasha’s access to her skate bag and jacket when she came off the ice at the conclusion of her practice. Standing at the balustrade, sawing her blades back and forth as if she were on a Nordic Track machine, she stared down at Mick and couldn’t help but notice that even in a relaxed state, that rude energy of his was apparently innate. It practically emanated from him in waves; it burned in the back of his steady, unwavering eyes when they met hers.

  “If you aren’t going to get up could you at least hand me my blade guards,” she demanded impatiently when he displayed no inclination to move aside his wide spread legs so she could reach her stuff unassisted. “I can’t step off the ice without ’em.”

  He took his sweet time complying with her request and regarded her all the while with that unnerving gaze. She was the first to drop her eyes.

  His jeans, she observed as she slipped on the guards and climbed off the ice, were worn and faded nearly white except for faint streaks of indigo along the seams and in the folds radiating out from his fly. The material was thin and soft, and boy did it faithfully cup his . . .

  Oh God, oh God, it was changing, straightening out, growing thick. Sasha had an insane impulse to laugh out loud, but her throat was too dry. Sudden heat prickled her cheeks and the desire to laugh collapsed entirely. She knew she should look away, that she was asking for trouble if she didn’t, but it was almost as if her eyes had developed a life all their own. She continued to avidly watch as the object of her scrutiny realized its full potential.

  “All right, by God,” Mick growled, “that does it! ” He shot out of his seat, gripped Sasha by the waist, and hoisted her onto the waist-high balustrade that separated the spectator seats from the rink. Roughly kneeing her legs apart, he insinuated himself between them and reached behind her to wrap her ponytail around his fist, forcing back her head.

  For just a moment he stared down into her eyes, taking note of the lambent excitement that blazed back at him. Then his lids grew heavy and he lowered his head, rocking his mouth over hers. His free hand came up to spread across her arched throat, thumb and index finger wedging beneath the angles of her jaw to fetter her completely, keeping her face tipped up to his.

  Sasha’s awareness of Mick was almost painful in its intensity as he pressed up against her, put his hands on her, kissed her. His lips were dry and rough, but the interior of his mouth was all slippery heat as his tongue plunged with slow, suggestive rhythm against hers. She felt surrounded by him—his taste on her tongue, his scent in her nostrils, his heat all around her, inside her.

  And, oh, God, she liked it.

  With a little yearning sound slipping up her throat, Sasha widened her thighs to allow him nearer, clutched fistfuls of Mick’s T-shirt in both hands, and hung on while she kissed him back. All thought processes shut down and she simply experienced. Experienced the press of his chest hard against her breasts; felt his hands a little rough in her hair, against her skin; felt his mouth, hot, a little wild, demanding total compliance.

  She did more than comply. Her lips clung to his, following his lead exactly. Loosening her desperate grip on his T-shirt, her arms slipped up to wrap around his strong neck, her slender fingers plunged into the soft hair at his nape. Her legs spread yet wider and she tried to haul herself a little higher, to fit herself more exactly to his contours. She knew just the place to harbor that hard . . .

  Mick made a guttural sound deep in his throat. Relinquishing his grip on her head, his hands skimmed over her shoulders and down her back until they reached her round little butt. God, she was so warm, all steamy and damp from her workout. He curved his fingers to scoop his hands under her, tilting her hips up and jerking her forward in one economical motion. Had they been without clothing she would have been impaled to the hilt. As it was, his erection aggressively nudged the soft cleft between her thighs. Pressing hard, he rotated his hips.

  Sasha breathed in sharply. Her thighs gripped his hips, her calves clamped down on the backs of his thighs, and her pelvis tipped forward to maintain contact. With a muted roar, Mick ripped his mouth free. He dragged it across her cheek to her ear, teeth worrying the lobe like a puppy with a knotted rag before his lips burrowed into the hollow behind it. He breathed raggedly through a slightly opened mouth.

  “Ah, God, you feel sweeter’n honey,” he said in a hoarse voice and Sasha shivered in reaction. The hands gripping her bottom slid to the backs of her upper thighs, pulling them wider apart, and his fingertips flirted with the elastic leg opening of her leotard. “How do we get you outta this thing?” he demanded impatiently. “I’ve gotta . . .”

  Noises they should have heard sooner suddenly intruded. Still distant but coming closer were the sounds of raucous insults being traded by roadies, the deep-throated rumble of semis being backed up to the loading docks, the heavy footsteps and squeaking wheels of the scenery haulers and their cargo. Mick cursed, untangled himself from Sasha’s legs, and stepped back, sprawling once again onto his seat. Staring up at her, seeing her all flushed, damp, and tousled, he palmed his erection where it strained behind the fly of his jeans and pressed hard. “God,” he said through gritted teeth. “I hurt.”

  You could have knocked him over with a feather when Sasha averted her eyes and blushed scarlet right up to the tight little ringlets that clung so damply to her hairline. Mick experienced a queer pitch in the pit of his stomach. Oh, man, what the hell was going on here? Staring at the top of her bowed head as she struggled with her skate laces, he tried to analyze his unease.

  Well, all right, it had been a mistake to allow himself to get so caught up in the feel and taste of her that he lost track of everything else around him. It was unprofessional—he knew that—but, c’mon, the woman was good.

  Yeah, she is. But is she actually all that experienced?

  The question came out of nowhere and he didn’t like it or the impulse of . . . fairness—or whatever the hell it was—that prompted it. What? he demanded in silent disgust. Are you suddenly developing a conscience here, Vinicor? Becoming a bleeding heart, maybe? Kind of late in the day for that, ain’t it? And, hell, this is no Little Miss Innocent we’re talkin’ about here, anyway. You’ve seen her skate; you know what she does for kicks in her off time. Miller’s no virgin—believe it.

  I buy that. And I ask you again. Do you really think she’s all that experienced?

  Ah, shit. Mick abruptly sat forward in his seat. “Just how many lovers have you had?” he demanded.

  Sasha’s head snapped up. “I beg your pardon?” Her spine slowly stiffened. “Really, Mick. I fail to see where that’s any of your busi—”

  “Answer the damn question. How many?”

  “Two.” The re
tort was given sulkily, for she was furious with herself for responding to that autocratic tone at all . . . let alone with such promptness.

  Two? Mick sank back, staring at the heated color on her face and throat as she dropped her eyes and went back to removing her skates. Two?

  He rolled his shoulders uneasily. Well, okay, fine. It sure as hell didn’t fit in with the usual profile or any of his theories, but . . . fine. No, this was good really; he could use this. Definitely; it could be made to work in his favor.

  He’d reel her in with sex. In this one aspect of her life, at least, she didn’t have much knowledge and he had plenty; so it ought to be a piece of cake. Hell, it was the oldest method in the history of mankind when it came to procuring information.

  He would simply use his body to get her so damn enthralled that in no time at all her secrets would be his secrets. And the minute they were his, bam! He’d slam her pretty little ass in jail. He’d be killing two birds with one stone, really: working her out from under his skin and making the streets a safer place for your everyday garden variety junkie. Yeah, this was good.

  So why was he suddenly so disenchanted with himself? Life was a goddam melodrama, but get real, what they wouldn’t be dealing with here was an evil-hearted villain taking ruthless advantage of the little orphaned Match Girl. Sure, there was an added benefit in it for him. He could slake this runaway lust he’d been feeling ever since he’d first clapped eyes on her. But, hey, really, when all was said and done . . .

  He would merely be doing his job.

  SIX

  Karen Corselli saw the new manager with Sasha Miller in the corner of the lobby, and it stopped her in her tracks. The longer she stood there watching them, the more fuel it added to her slow-burning annoyance. Really, the way Mick crowded Sasha every time he talked to her was so obvious. Just look at them. She had half a mind to go over there and tell him what a spectacle he was making of himself. People were beginning to talk about it in the crudest ways.