by Beth Ciotta
“So what do I do with this entry form?” The old man repeated, jerking Sofie out of her thoughts.
She smiled down at the prune-faced, white-bearded man (because he was like, what, four foot nine?) and swept her hand—à la car tradeshow model—toward the gigantic Plexiglas drum directly behind her. The one with the huge sign that read: Vacation of a Lifetime Sweepstakes! Deposit entries here!
“What?” He squinted at the drum filled with hundreds of other entries. “Stick it in there?”
Or up your ass. Your choice. She was definitely in a mood. “Just drop it in the slot, sir.”
“Should I fold it first?”
“Whatever you like.” She’d witnessed everything from a single-fold, to a tri-fold, to a crumpled ball. Some customers assumed that if the entry was crumpled it would be easier to grab onto when the winner was being plucked from the drum. Gamblers operated under all kinds of quirks and superstitions. Similar to theater people.
“Would you rub it for luck?”
Coming from a theater family, she didn’t balk. “Sure.” She reached for the entry.
The cantankerous gnome snatched it back, performed a pelvis thrust, and cackled. “Wasn’t talking about my coupon, honey.”
Oh, brother. Maybe if he were a foot taller, forty years younger, and looked like Jude Law. Nope. Not even then. She’d never get past the stained polyester pants and the mingling odors of fried fish and medicinal mouth-wash. “Don’t make me signal a guard, sir.” She nabbed smelly-man’s entry form and deposited it in the drum and, because a security camera was trained on the sweepstakes area and she needed this job, dismissed him with her friendliest greeter-girl smile. “Have a lucky day.”
“Why should today be any different from the others?” he grumbled, adjusting his ratty fanny pack and shuffling onto the crowded casino floor.
Sofie took stock of his stringy white ponytail, striped shirt, plaid pants, and worn red sneakers, trying to decide if he was fashion or mentally challenged. Both, she decided as he plopped down on a blue cushioned stool and started pumping coins into a slot machine. After all, the man had just asked her to stroke his pecker for luck. As if. She was damned particular about whose pecker she stroked. Well, not as particular as Lulu. The only pecker she’d ever touched was her husband’s, and they’d been separated for over two years.
Two years without sex. Sofie couldn’t imagine.
Of course, two months ago she wouldn’t have imagined herself strutting around an Atlantic City casino in fishnet stockings and a sequined costume befitting a trapeze artist answering questions like “Which way to the bathroom,” “How do I get to the boardwalk,” and “Where’s the buffet,” three hundred freaking times a day. Two months ago she was still living in Manhattan, aggressively pursuing her acting career. Two months ago there’d been hope of landing a star role and an ample amount of money in her bank account. Two months ago she’d been under the illusion that she was in an honest-to-God relationship.
Now she was broke, financially and emotionally, and her sister was being stalked by a nut. Speaking of which, Sofie shifted on her T-strap pumps and surreptitiously scanned the crowd for watchers.
Sam and The Clapper were absent, but Maurice was pestering Wizard the magician, and Photo-Boy was snapping away at Raven the showgirl stilt-walker. The disposable camera creep probably had his walls papered with snapshots of female performers. The thought sickened Sofie, but not as much as the thought that Lulu’s stalker had followed her to a children’s party. He’d drugged Lulu. Would he harm a child? She wished to hell Murphy’s trusted source had provided them with a specific ID on the stalker. Why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff?
Irritation hummed through her veins as she continued to scan the Sunday evening crowd. Patrons entered the sweepstakes, their questions grating more than usual as she struggled to pinpoint and study suspicious-looking men. Maybe it was her mood, but everyone with two legs and a dick looked suspicious.
She took her break fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. If she didn’t seek solace, and now, she was going to punch someone. She abandoned the sweepstakes bin—if people couldn’t read the sign, screw ‘em—and weaved her way through the crowd to the door that opened to the back of the house. Luckily, the greeter-girl dressing room was a short walk down the hall. Three seconds later she punched the combo on the lock pad and swung open the door.
Her brain seized as she felt someone move in behind her. It happened so fast. The door shut, and a man, a stranger, had her pinned up against the dressing room wall, his hand covering her mouth. His face was too close to get a clear look, but he reeked of cheap aftershave and spearmint gum.
He angled his mouth close to her ear. “I need you—”
She jerked up her knee, and although she managed to cut off whatever crude request he had in mind, he effectively shielded his balls.
“Jesus, woman. Calm down.”
Give in without a fight? Fuck you. She bit his hand, raked the edge of her shoe down his shin, and stomped the heel of her pump down hard on his toes.
“Goddamn!” He jerked back, hopping on his good foot.
She took advantage, delivering a front kick to his knee. He blocked her strike, grabbing her ankle and flipping her to the carpeted floor. She forgot to scream. She was too busy trying to get the upper hand on the bastard. In two counts he had her flat on her back, his lean, hard body pressed against the length of her.
“Hold still,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’m not going to hurt you. I need you to get a message to Murphy.”
She froze, blinked up at her assailant, and tried not to obsess on the fact that her corset had shifted in their struggle. The feel of his silk shirt against her bare breasts sent shock waves throughout her body. “How do you know Murphy?” she asked, surprised that she could form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence.
“He’s an old friend.”
Her mind raced. “Are you his trusted source?”
He managed a wry grin even though his face was contorted with pain. “Is that what he called me?”
“Get the hell off of me,” Sofie demanded.
“So that you can maim me?”
“That’s what you get for sneaking in and pinning me against the wall. Was that really necessary?”
He sobered. “I needed privacy. I didn’t want you to scream. I don’t have much time before they start wondering what’s taking so long. A man generally drains his bladder in under five minutes.”
“Before who starts wondering?”
“Never mind about that.” He started to get up.
“Wait! Close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Just do it,” she growled, struggling to tug up her skimpy costume as he rolled off her and struggled to stand upright. She figured she’d hurt him a lot more than he was letting on. She refused to feel bad. He’d scared the hell out of her.
He fell back against the door, hands on knees.
She scooted back against the lone arm chair and studied him as he caught his ragged breath. Black lambskin blazer, creased black trousers, cobalt blue silk shirt, unbuttoned and showcasing a bronzed chest. When he raised his head she got a clear look at the gold cross hanging around his neck. The man screamed South Philly Italian.
High forehead beaded with sweat, he dragged back his scraggly, dark, shoulder-length hair and breathed deep. She couldn’t help but admire his strong, square jaw and deep set eyes. Smoldering brown eyes, decadent as aged cognac. Both of his ears were pierced with small, gold hoops. The moustache and the beatnik patch of dark whiskers beneath his bottom lip completed the sinister, sexy package. He reminded Sofie of a grungy Johnny Depp. Lust shot through her veins shocking her more than his invasion. “Who’s after my sister?”
“A very bad man.” His gaze caressed her cleavage before making lazy contact with her eyes. “But between me and Murph we’ll keep her safe.”
Her nipples hardened under his not so subtle appraisal, a perplexing physical reacti
on since this man had just attacked her. Must be the adrenaline. She mustered sarcasm to cover her jitters. “Someone drugged her last night at Oz. You call that keeping her safe?”
“Stay away from Oz.”
His expression was so fierce that she blinked. What was wrong with Oz? She’d gone dancing there on several occasions. It was a favorite watering hole of the cast from Venetian Vogue. It was also where Rudy, JP, and Anthony worked. Surely Lulu’s incident was an isolated event. “Why?”
“The less you know, the better. And what I have to say is for Murphy’s ears only. Capito, bella signorina?”
Oh, she understood all right. More than he knew. The fact that he’d just called her beautiful lady only added to her discomfort. “Capito.” She smirked, adding under her breath, “Lei arrogante mucca.”
He angled his head. “Did you just call me an arrogant cow?”
She’d meant to call him an arrogant pig, but she’d dropped Italian after one semester, losing interest just as she had with ballet and theater history class. Close enough, she decided with a righteous sniff. She tapped her wrist watch. “Time’s ticking, piss boy.”
His full lips twitched into a hint of a smile. “Most women call me Joey, but whatever floats your boat, babe.” His good humor faded as he swiped the back of his hand over his moist brow. “Tell Murph your sister’s admirer has a reputation for seducing women he’s obsessed with and roughing them up when the thrill is gone.”
Sofie’s stomach turned. “Great.”
“Tell him we need this guy or I’d eliminate him myself.”
She swallowed. “Eliminate?”
“Tell him it’ll be over within a week max. He’ll know what to do.”
He started to leave. Sofie scrambled to her three-inch heels. “Why didn’t you contact Murphy yourself?”
“Tricky getting private time just now. Phones, including my cell, are being monitored.”
“So you drove over here to talk to me?” She shoved a hand through her thick, tousled hair. “Wait. I’m not even scheduled for today. I’m filling in for someone. How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t. My bad boy associate has a weakness for blackjack and friendly eye candy.” His smoldering gaze lazed over her scantily clad body. “The Carnevale offers both. We’ve been here a few times over the past month.”
She couldn’t tell if he was judging or admiring her. It rankled that she cared. “So this asshole’s been watching Lulu for weeks?”
“I didn’t know he had a hard-on for her until yesterday,” he said, sounding defensive. He glanced at his watch. “Is the inquisition over?”
“How did you know I’m Lulu’s sister?”
He grinned, and her breath stalled. The man was frickin’ gorgeous.
“I know quite a bit about you, Sofia. And by the way, the knee-to-the-balls tactic? Any man worth his salt would anticipate that instinctual strike. You need to pay more attention in class.” He turned the knob. “Just give Murph the message. A week.”
The fact that he knew she attended martial arts class was disconcerting, yet absurdly intriguing. His gaze dropped to her mouth and her brain glitched. If she moved forward she’d clip him on his cocky chin, or worse, tackle him again for the sheer thrill of getting horizontal. The physical pull was that intense. She cursed herself an idiot and stood her ground. She stared into those bedroom eyes and issued a heartfelt threat. “If anything happens to my sister, Joseph, I’ll track you down and send you to hell.”
He limped out the door, serious as death. “Too late, babe. I’m already there.”
Chapter Thirteen
Colin Murphy was a man of mystery. Forget the part about being an international protection specialist and all the encompassing intrigue. He lived in a fourteen-room house—alone. Only five of the rooms had furniture. None of those rooms contained anything outside of basics. No wall hangings. No knick-knacks. Nothing to suggest he had any interests or hobbies.
The architectural wonder looked as though it was spanking new, and from the severe lack of furnishings, Lulu had assumed Murphy had only recently moved in. She’d been shocked to learn that he’d had the place built six years ago and had since called it home.
In her opinion there wasn’t anything homey about this house, although it had grand possibilities. The master bath alone had caused her eyes to bug. Sofie would kill for that much vanity space, but it was the two-person hot tub that made Lulu drool. If she ever needed a therapeutic soak it was now. She was wound up tighter than a cheap watch.
She eyed the bottle of Chablis that Murphy had just set aside. She’d refused a glass when he’d offered, more out of habit than anything. She’d never been a drinker. But it occurred that a few sips might be the ticket for calming her just enough to get her through this dinner. She’d neatly avoided Murphy for a good four hours after he’d given her the grand tour. Hiding out in the guest bedroom—the only furnished room on the second floor—she’d booted up her laptop computer and had worked diligently on an upcoming loonytale. It had been a fabulous way to escape reality. For two hundred and forty glorious minutes all was right with the world. No stalker. No drugs. No Murphy.
Until he’d knocked on the door to announce that he’d cooked dinner.
She’d envisioned sitting at the ultra-modern, ultra-impersonal luncheonette counter scarfing down a plate of Hamburger Helper. That would have been doable. Just her luck the man was a veritable Bobby Flay. Red Snapper with Sweet Garlic Rice. The finely garnished food smelled more decadent than Jean-Pierre’s cinnamon rolls, and looked too pretty to eat. Murphy had gone all out, including setting the kitchen table—which had a magnificent bay window view of the surrounding woods—for two.
Reality check. She was spending the night, all night, alone with a gorgeous, dangerous hunk. “Do you have a condom?” sprang to mind.
Supremely self-conscious, Lulu clasped her hands in her lap and cleared her throat. “On second thought, maybe I will have a little wine.”
His lips curved slightly as he poured her half a glass. “Sofie called me a half hour ago. The federal agent I told you about made contact with her.”
Heart pounding, Lulu reached for her glass. “Why Sofie? Why not you?”
“Circumstances.” He left it at that, saying, “The point is, this should be over within a week.”
A week. She could endure this insanity, Murphy’s twenty-four/seven protection for a measly week, couldn’t she? She tore her gaze from his handsome face and tried to dissolve the lump in her throat with a sip of wine. Actually it was quite tasty. Like Murphy. Don’t think about that sinfully delicious kiss.
“That’s not to say that we don’t have to take precautions.” He scooped up a fork of rice. “I’d like you to reconsider clearing your schedule. It would simplify things.”
“For you maybe.” She dipped the prongs of her fork into her fish, marveling at the texture and aroma. Big difference between Murphy’s delicacy and store-bought fish sticks. “Personally, I can’t afford to lose the income. Nor am I willing to disappoint forty-five children and their parents.”
Murphy chewed his food, cocked an inquiring brow.
“Friday evening I’m appearing at a Halloween party. I’ve been asked to create a loonytale for two first grade classes. I’m calling it The Spookytown Scare. I racked my brain trying to come up with appropriate games to go with the interactive tale. The eyeball relay should be a hoot.” She snickered. Balancing creepy rubber eyeballs on spoons while they raced toward their partner. A guaranteed hit. “Anyway, those kids are counting on me. You wouldn’t know what that’s like but … “ His icy look stopped her cold. It was fleeting but as brisk as an Arctic wind. She sipped more wine, concentrated on her fish. “Anyway, I’m not canceling.” What was that about?
He changed the subject before she could ask. “What about the rest of the week?”
“I’m off Thursday. Tomorrow through Wednesday I’m booked at the Carnevale. Six hour shifts. Noon to six.” She squir
med under his regard. “If you don’t want to drop me off I can always call a cab.”
“You don’t get this, do you? I’m not letting you out of my sight, Princess.”
She got it. She wasn’t dense. Just nervous. “What about tonight?”
“What about it?”
“You said you’re not letting me out of your sight. Are we sleeping in the same room?”
His dark eyes sparked with amusement. Probably because her voice had warbled. She steeled herself for a Sofie-like comment. She wouldn’t blame him for poking fun at her. She did sound like a skittish relic. Oh, God, she thought with sudden clarity, I am a skittish relic.
“I hadn’t planned on bunking with you,” he said, surprising her with his professional tone and expression. “But if it would make you feel safer—”
“It wouldn’t.” She already felt as if she were dancing on the edge of a cliff. Her heart bumping and fluttering as she openly courted danger. Her face flushed with a rush of heat as she acknowledged ulterior reasons for moving into Murphy’s home. This wasn’t solely about protecting herself from a stalker—because, really, that aspect was still so totally surreal. This was about getting closer to Colin Murphy. Or as Sofie had put it, sampling life and lust. Lust was something she’d never experienced with Terry. Affection, yes. Love, yes. But never lust.
Murphy tapped into a foreign part of her, a passionate, uninhibited slice of her conservative being. It would have been easy to blame the dirty dancing and the couch kiss on that mood elevating drug, but it was the kiss on the boardwalk that spelled out the truth. She was h-o-t for Colin Murphy who was unbelievably s-e-x-y. When she’d asked about their sleeping arrangements her voice hadn’t cracked with dread, it had hitched with hope.
Unfortunately, his response had only reinforced her theory that his interest in her was purely professional. Logically, she knew it was for the best. As a lifetime partner he was all wrong.
