When the man continued to assess Fiona as if he owned her, Darin took Fiona’s hand into his, a show of possession intended to convince the bartender they were a couple. Yet the surge of jealousy spiraling through Darin seemed surprisingly real. He had no cause to concern himself over Fiona’s friends or her activities. She was only with him now because she had insisted and he had agreed. Still, he did not like the way this Mort kept eyeing Fiona with obvious lust, as if he did have designs on her and no respect for the fact she was with another.
Fiona flipped a hand in Darin’s direction. “Mort, this is my friend…” She looked at him as if uncertain what to call him.
Darin reluctantly offered his hand but no smile. “Frank.”
The man nodded. “Nice to meet you, Frank. What brings you two here tonight?”
Fiona leaned forward and said, “Frank is looking for a guy who owes him money. He’s about six-two, beady brown eyes, shaved head. Goes by the name Birkenfeld.”
“Or possibly Belden,” Darin added, the name of the doctor Birkenfeld had murdered to assume his identity.
“Don’t know him personally,” Mort said. “But then that describes several guys around here. Anything else specific you can give me?”
Darin pulled the mug shot from his pocket. “This was taken before he shaved his head.”
Mort wiped his hands on a towel, took the picture and studied it. “Matter of fact, I think I might have seen him in here.”
Fiona’s expression brightened. “When?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
Darin was cautiously optimistic. “Where?”
The bartender nodded toward the far side of the room. “Corner table. But I don’t want no trouble, so take it outside.”
Fiona swiveled on the stool to face Darin. “Do you want me to go over there and check it out?”
Darin leaned over and lowered his voice. “No. He might recognize you.”
Fiona toyed with a silver chain circling her delicate throat. “The alley was dark that night.”
“Not dark enough. He would remember you.”
A sigh of annoyance slipped out of her pursed lips. “Then what do you propose we do?”
“Wait. He will have to pass by here in order to exit.”
“That could take all night.”
“And that is what much of this business is about. Waiting. You may return to the apartment. I will call you if I need you.”
“No way.” She stared at the woman who now worked the perimeter of the stage while men stuffed bills in her G-string. “Look at those guys. They’re practically drooling like Lottie with a bone.”
Darin could only look at Fiona, her pleasing profile, upturned nose and delicate neck that he wanted to kiss, badly.
One disheveled, staggering man walking by the bar paused to look Fiona over, then said, “I’ll tip you real good if you’ll dance for me, baby.”
Darin’s ears began to ring. “She is not—”
“Going to dance,” Fiona interrupted. “But I will give you a tip. Pointed, high heels in the area of the family jewels can bring a man down in about five seconds.”
The lecher sneered. “Bitch.”
Darin tried to come off the stool when the miscreant started away, but Fiona stopped him with an arm across his chest. “Let it go. He’s not worth your bother. Remember why we’re here.”
Darin despised that he had forgotten, several times now, this mission and his goals. Yet he would have gladly splattered the bastard’s nose all over his face, then resumed his duty.
Fiona took Darin’s hand and rested it on her thigh exposed by the skirt’s upward climb as she crossed one leg over the other. “I just had a thought.”
So had Darin and it involved finding out what she was wearing beneath that skirt. “A thought?”
“More like a plan. We should wait in the car so he doesn’t see us and try to run out the back way. We could pull up closer to the building in the handicapped spot.”
“That would require a permit.”
“Yeah, but if anyone questions it, all we have to do is have you walk a few steps.”
Darin did not wish to be reminded of his current hindrance although the aching wounds would not let him forget. Nor could he discard the other ache low in his groin as the music began again and another woman took to the stage, engaging in a suggestive dance directed at the patrons lining the stage.
“You two want anything to drink?” the bartender asked.
“No,” Fiona said, and slipped the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “We’re going to go outside and wait in the car.”
Mort grinned. “The car, huh? Is this a private party or can anyone join?”
Darin fought the urge to wipe the smirk off Mort’s face with his fist. He sent the bartender an acrid look, then pulled Fiona off the stool and held her securely against his side. “It is private.”
The man had the nerve to wink at Fiona. “I always knew a real party girl was hiding beneath that great body of yours, Fee.”
With one arm still wrapped around Fiona, Darin leaned over the bar and said, “Her body should not concern you.”
The man held his hands up, palms forward in surrender. “Chill, dude. I’m just yanking Fiona’s chain a little.”
“It’s okay, Frankie,” Fiona said. “Mort’s one of the good guys, too.”
Darin ignored her sarcasm then nudged her forward and out the door. Once on the walkway, Fiona wrenched away and faced him with wrath.
“Did you really have to act like such a jerk? Mort was just joking.”
Darin started across the parking lot, limping as quickly as his ankle would allow, Fiona following closely behind him. “He was not joking, I assure you. It’s very difficult to ignore your body considering your clothing.”
Fiona grabbed his arm and turned him around. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”
“Nothing, and that is the problem.” Darin continued on and when they reached the car, Fiona slipped inside before he’d barely had a chance to open his door. For a moment he feared she might take off before he had the opportunity to sit.
They drove to the handicapped parking space near the front door without speaking. After Fiona turned off the ignition, the silence continued for a few moments before she said, “You sounded almost jealous in there.”
Unfortunately, she was correct. “I only intended to protect you from unwanted overtures.”
Fiona released a sharp laugh. “Unwanted overtures? Protect me? I don’t need your protection from my friends! Do you hear me?”
“Yes, quite clearly, and I imagine so did the rest of the patrons in the bar.”
She looked somewhat contrite. “I wasn’t talking that loudly.”
Darin couldn’t suppress his smile. “It was only a mild shout.”
She slapped at his arm. “You are so…so…”
“Observant?”
“Frustrating.”
Darin was experiencing his own frustration. Sexual frustration. Fiona had not adjusted her skirt, sending him on an imaginary journey that included running his palms up her bare thighs and much higher.
“It’s very warm in here,” he said, his voice hinting at that frustration.
“I’ll roll down the windows.”
“Only partway,” he cautioned.
She glared at him when his eyes followed the path he greatly wanted to take with his hands and mouth. “Anything else I can do for you?” she asked.
He could think of several things but most would be difficult to manage in the close confines of a sedan, although it could be managed if he had better mobility. “Help me keep watch for Birkenfeld.”
Fiona remained silent for a brief time before saying, “So this is what a stakeout is all about? Just sitting here, watching a door?”
“Yes.”
“Not very exciting.”
“But necessary.”
She drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel. “Can I turn on the radio?”
“Why not? Is music too distracting?”
She was too distracting. “I would know his voice if I heard it. I cannot hear it if music is blaring from the radio.”
“I’ll keep it low. Besides, you’ll probably see him before—”
He halted her words by placing his hand over her mouth. “Someone’s coming out the door. Keep your voice down.”
She yanked his hand away. “Why? They’ll just think we’re having an argument. A common lovers’ quarrel, which looks a little less obvious than us just sitting here, staring like we’re in a stupor.”
“We are not lovers.” Yet.
The words hung heavy in the car as they watched a man and woman exit the building, arms about each other, their laughter filtering into the partially opened windows. Once the couple passed by the hood of the car, Fiona pushed the seat backward, toed out of her high heels then tossed them aside. She curled one leg beneath her and leaned back against the door, raising her hem higher on her thighs, endangering Darin’s concentration.
“Tell me something, Scorpio. Does that turn you on, seeing women dancing around wearing next to nothing?”
“I paid little attention to them.”
She released an abrupt laugh. “Yeah, right. Since when does a man not notice a naked woman gyrating in the middle of an elevated stage?”
“I had more important things on my mind.”
“Such as?”
Removing Fiona’s clothing. “Apprehending Birkenfeld.”
She sent him a doubtful look. “Even a naked woman can’t distract you?”
“That would depend on the woman.”
She gestured toward the building. “What about that second dancer? You have to admit, she was very attractive. Which really puzzles me. Why would a woman who looks like that choose to make a living stripping?”
“Perhaps she believes she has no other skills to make a living.”
“I’ve never had much money and I’ve survived without resorting to taking off my clothes for money.”
“Maybe she wishes to do it.”
“Are you saying she enjoys it?”
“That would not be unheard of.”
Fiona again fondled the chain above her breasts, drawing Darin’s attention and fueling his arousal. “I guess that could be a rush, stripping for a man. But only one man, not fifty.”
Darin allowed his gaze to slowly roam over her. “I’m certain many men would greatly appreciate you removing your clothing for them.”
Her expression was a combination of sultry seductress with a hint of self-consciousness. “How about you?”
“Most definitely.” If they were anywhere else, doing anything else, he would suggest she remove her clothing for him now.
Taking Darin by surprise, Fiona raised her right leg and propped a heel on the console between them. “I have a cramp in my foot,” she said as she kneaded her instep. “Must be those darned high heels.”
When he saw the flash of black silk between her legs, Darin greatly wanted to offer her assistance. Greatly wanted to run his palm from the back of her knee down her thigh. But he wouldn’t stop there. He would keep going until she begged him for mercy. And he would gladly give it to her.
Fiona dropped her foot before Darin could act on the impulse and stared out the windshield. “Someone’s coming.”
Darin forced his gaze to the entry to find Mort filling the doorway with another man standing before him—a man with a shaved head, all the details Darin could discern since the stranger had his back to the car. Every nerve in Darin’s body, every well-honed instinct went on maximum alert when the bartender gestured toward the parking lot. Darin sank down into the seat, shoved the cap lower on his brow, then reached over and grabbed Fiona by the nape, pulling her head down into his lap. “Do not move,” he told her as he slid his hand beneath the jacket and withdrew the gun.
The stranger turned toward the car. He resembled Birkenfeld, but Darin would never forget the doctor’s demonic eyes, hard, void of emotion. This man’s eyes were smaller, full of confusion but not absolute evil.
“It is not him,” he told Fiona whose cheek now rested on his thigh.
“Wonderful. Can I get up now?”
Darin stared down on her as the heat of her mouth penetrated the fabric of his pants. The position she now maintained, the rush of adrenaline, provided an aphrodisiac effect that served to stimulate him beyond all bounds. Temptation to keep her there, to open his fly to provide relief, to see what she would do then, threatened his control until common sense took over and he released his hold on her.
She straightened and pushed the russet curls away from her face. “Well, that was rather interesting.”
It could have been. Darin shifted in the seat and nodded toward the entry. “I assume that’s the man your friend believed to be Birkenfeld.”
Fiona glanced out the window as she slipped her shoes back on. “Wait a sec and I’ll find out.”
Before Darin could issue a protest, Fiona grabbed the keys, bounded from the car and met Mort at the door. She spoke with the bartender and stranger for a time before returning to the sedan, closing and locking the door behind her. “You’re right. It’s definitely not him. Poor guy. He thought gangsters were after him.”
Darin yanked off the cap, tossed it aside and leaned his head back against the headrest. “Another dead end.”
“For now, but I do know another place we can go, somewhere Mort suggested. Unless you’re ready to call it quits.”
Quit was a word absent from Darin’s vocabulary. He would not give up even if tonight’s search proved fruitless. He would continue on despite exhaustion and pain—and the woman who was proving to be a detriment to his determination.
He straightened and replaced his cap. “The night is still young, Fiona.”
Her soft laugh took him aback. “Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve called me by name? You’re full of surprises tonight.”
Darin experienced a sudden burst of energy, bolstered by the satisfaction in her green eyes and the promise in her smile. After surveying one more establishment, he would give up, at least for the evening. Then he would take her back to the apartment and expend some of his energy in more pleasant endeavors, if she readily agreed. If not, he would wait another day. But before he left, he would have her as surely as he would catch Roman Birkenfeld.
Fiona would have to agree with Mort—the Blue Moves Cabaret was several steps above the Frisky Kitty and a place that might be better suited for a doctor, even a demented one. The atmosphere was much more subdued, the music bluesy to match the moniker and the decor nicely appointed with cozy blue-velvet half-moon booths surrounding cloth-covered tables that faced the stage, an intricately carved bar spanning the back of the show room. An adjoining room housed several gaming tables and slots, but that area had been practically deserted when she and Scorpio checked it out.
Fiona figured the people who came here didn’t come to gamble, although she was pleasantly surprised to see several couples, as well as groups of men. Much better for her and Scorpio to blend in. Just a twosome spending a late night on the town. A mismatched couple, but a couple all the same—at least that’s the way it appeared as they sat in a corner out-of-the-way booth to peruse the patrons.
A busty blond waitress swayed to the table and addressed Scorpio, ignoring Fiona. “What can I get for you, sweetheart?”
“Coffee,” Scorpio said then looked at Fiona. “And for you?”
“Wine spritzer,” Fiona barked out, incensed that the woman couldn’t seem to keep her beady blue eyes off Scorpio.
The waitress left and returned quickly, giving Scorpio a wink and a smile as she set the coffee in front of him. When she served Fiona, she slapped the drink down at least a foot from Fiona’s hand and didn’t offer even a glance in her direction, or a cocktail napkin for that matter. Very bad form indeed. Fiona couldn’t blame the harlot for admiring Scorpio, but she sure would like to tear
that French maid apron off her waist and shove it into her collagen-enhanced mouth.
Scorpio paid for the drinks with a fifty-dollar bill and told blondie, “Keep the change.”
The woman said thank you in a faux smoky voice, turned around, pretended to drop the money, then bent over to give Scorpio a bird’s-eye view of her buttocks hanging out of the skimpy black shorts.
Fiona knew her kind well. Predator, plain and simple. She’d seen women like her come into the bar, looking for a rich catch with a bulging wallet and one foot in the hereafter. Scorpio was a prime catch, not only great looking but very alive and well. And obviously well-to-do if he could toss around tips equal to the national debt.
When blondie turned to apologize for her carelessness, Fiona played the role of jealous girlfriend by sending her a dirty look and laying a possessive palm on Scorpio’s arm. “No problem, sweetie. Now don’t bother us again unless I give you a signal.”
Once the waitress left, Fiona took her hand away from Scorpio’s arm although she really didn’t want to. But he kept running hot and cold, and she just couldn’t read him enough to keep tossing the hints, especially if he wasn’t willing to receive them.
Lit only by a few bulbs lining the stage like a runway, the room was so dark Fiona still had trouble reading him. She could barely make out his features, yet she sensed he was hurting and his macho act was just that—an act. A display of toughness as well rehearsed as the woman’s performance onstage. At least this dancer could actually sing, and she was dressed, granted rather scantily in a very sheer red micromini dress cut down to there at her breasts, the bottom of the garment barely covering the matching panties she proudly displayed as she straddled a stool.
Several couples had taken to the dance floor, wrapped together like human pretzels, their passion palpable even in the darkness. Fiona focused on one particular pair who remained in place, clinging to each other like life rafts in a raging sea. She couldn’t help but wonder if maybe they were married to other people, or if they were really that much in love.
Since when had she become such a skeptic? She still believed in love even if it had remained elusive to this point. Oh, she’d loved Paul in a way, but not enough to tune out the world to openly kiss and touch in public, not caring who might see or what they might think. Not enough to settle into a life that she hadn’t wanted. And he hadn’t wanted her enough to support her dreams.
The Millionaires’ Club: Ryan, Alex & Darin Page 32
