A wiry man who was usually squirreling here and there whenever he was behind the bar, Dillinger clutched Rochelle’s book to his chest like a shield as she turned around to greet him. Gideon remained on alert.
“I bought a copy yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t want to, but I did.”
Gideon hovered over Rochelle until her hair just about tickled his chin. Dillinger saw him standing there, and his Adam’s apple bobbed with a gulp. Sometimes it felt good to make people do that.
Rochelle’s voice was pleasant. “Thank you for buying it . . .”
“First name’s Terry,” he said, laying his book on the bar near a video-poker machine and opening it to the title page for a signature.
Huh. Gideon had expected a tongue lashing from the Cherry fan. Not this.
Rochelle gladly signed the book to Dillinger, but he didn’t leave.
“You know you got it wrong,” Dillinger said.
And . . . there it was.
“What?” Rochelle asked. “I messed up your name? Let me sign again.”
“No, that’s not the problem. From what I’ve gathered about Cherry, she was supposed to have a lot of good friends around Vegas. She wasn’t like you said she was, desperate for all that attention and using people to get what she wanted. Attention came to her.”
“She was charismatic,” Rochelle said smoothly.
By now, Gideon was staring a hole through Dillinger. The guy never talked much anyway when he was serving him drinks, so they weren’t exactly pals. There wasn’t much Dillinger had to say that interested him.
Except for now.
“And what makes you the authority on her?” the bartender asked.
“Watch it,” Gideon growled under his breath, stepping forward to insert himself between Rochelle and reader.
She only laughed and touched Gideon’s arm. Warmth spread from the contact. And when she talked, her voice skimmed over his skin.
“No one but Cherry herself could be an authority,” she said to Dillinger. “But I like to think she would’ve gotten a kick out of seeing all this fuss about her. Don’t you think she’d be flattered by the attention?”
Dillinger knit his bushy eyebrows. “I guess. But she was real close to being a star. If you judged by this book, you’d get the impression she was just some sad loser who wanted fame so bad she would’ve prostituted herself for it.”
“But Cherry was never a prostitute. Surely you don’t think I meant that.”
“Well, you didn’t exactly say it, but she sure had that kind of attitude in your book. That’s all wrong.”
Gideon had no idea why Dillinger considered himself the ultimate on Cherry. Maybe he was just as much of a narcissist as she was. Or maybe he’d started to relate way too much to that painting he saw above him nearly every day.
Rochelle nodded sympathetically. “You know, I came to love Cherry while I was researching her and writing her story. And I know you feel the same about her. I like how passionate you are, and she’s lucky to have such fans.”
Wow. That was some grade-A, prime bullshit. Cherry and her silver tongue had nothing on Rochelle right now. But there was something about Rochelle’s tone that told Gideon she wasn’t 100 percent BS-ing and that she did have an affection for her subject.
Two of a kind, Gideon thought. Both ambitious, both hellbent for leather when it came to success.
Dillinger only looked down at his book, his mouth in a straight line, then held it up to Rochelle in a sort of gruff thank-you. He turned his back on her as he left.
They both watched him walk out the door, and then she faced Gideon, her green eyes wide.
“That was fun,” she whispered above the chatter in the room.
“You sure did finesse it, though.”
“My heart was in my throat, because the whole time I was thinking that . . .”
“He was a creeper. I know. And I was ready.”
“I could tell.”
She looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes . . . A question about how last night had ended, with them never having addressed that question she’d asked.
“Did you even care when I left the ranch the next morning?”
Yeah, he thought only now. Maybe I cared that you left.
But that was then.
A few more locals came up to her, pulling her attention from him, and he went back to hovering, watching, pushing back the wanting.
As time clicked by, he saw that everyone, except Jimmy Beetles, thank God, seemed to have heard about the excitement in the saloon this morning, because it just got more and more crowded. Clancy had come over from the General Store next door, and even the regulars and the Harley enthusiasts made an entrance—Hooper, an ex-blackjack dealer with a walrus mustache and his Dolly Parton–lookalike wife on his arm. Also, Dustin, an aging hog rider with a cut denim jacket and a greaser hairdo.
Gideon glanced at Harry, who tapped his sports watch, signaling that it was almost time to escort Rochelle out of here so she could meet with her publisher’s publicist and local news media for more interviews.
But a stream of tourists—the usual day crowd who stopped by on their way to Vegas—entered just then, thickening the saloon even more. Kat left her corner and went behind the bar, passing by Gideon and uttering in his ear.
“Your girl can talk a game, can’t she?”
He gave her only a partial glare as she pressed her fingers to her lips and tossed a kiss up to Cherry Chastain’s portrait.
The redheaded starlet only offered a sexy grin back down at everyone, and for the first time, Gideon saw something in her he’d never seen before—the sense that Cherry was acting like someone she wasn’t.
Ann-Margret?
Hell, she had the same catnip attitude, and from Rochelle’s book, he’d learned that she’d eventually dyed her hair a darker red than the strawberry blond wig. It was too bad he couldn’t see the real Cherry in her.
Maybe he’d get to find her by the time he finished the book.
As Kat turned on the jukebox and started to take drink orders, Suzanne walked over to link her arm with Rochelle’s so they could be on their polite way out of here, strolling through the crowd without looking like they were in a rush to leave Rough & Tumble behind. Kat would be impressed to know that Rochelle wasn’t blazing fire out of town this time.
Harry was moving in front of the women to pave their way with Gideon taking up the rear when a wide, tall girl with a baby face, freckles, and a frilly shirt turned away from the pack of tourists at the bar.
“Rochelle Burton!” she yelled.
The room went still except for the music blaring from the jukebox.
And just before Gideon saw the girl raise her arm, aiming something at Rochelle, his heart seized.
Everything froze in time, moving in stuttering frames in front of his vision. He sprang toward her, using his body as her shield, and as he clasped Rochelle in his arms, he saw the Styrofoam cup, a stream of red liquid coming toward him. As it arched down, he dragged Rochelle out of the way . . . but not before the liquid splashed over his back with a fast smack.
He braced for the sting of acid but didn’t feel it. He only heard yelling behind him as he sheltered Rochelle, pulling her out of the saloon and toward the limo. In the next second, he had her inside and was yelling at the driver to go, go, go.
They squealed onto the road and zoomed off.
Shit. How had he even let things go that far . . .?
As he released Rochelle, he cupped her face, his pulse eating through him, cold and screaming.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
Panic filled her eyes, but as he became aware that he was still touching her, holding her, he drew back, and her gaze slowly revealed something much more powerful than fear.
Gratitude a
nd . . .
Admiration? Surprise that he would’ve taken some lethal damage for her?
Or was it just desire?
His mouth went dry, and he gritted his teeth. As he pulled his gaze away from hers—and hell knew it wasn’t easy—he leveled out his breathing. Leveled out his spastic, wrongful heart.
Client, he thought. Just like any other client.
Casually he went back to being the professional and brushed at the sticky substance that’d also splashed on his face. His pulse calmed. His heart settled.
Then he bitterly grinned as he identified the liquid.
“Cherry juice,” he said.
6
By the time the limo dropped off Rochelle and Gideon at the mansion and returned to Rough & Tumble to get Suzanne and Harry, Rochelle had already made a few numb phone calls.
The first was to Suzanne to assure her manager she was okay. Then, in the same stunned haze, she’d contacted her cousins Buzz and Jonsey at the ranch and Tucker in his garage. She didn’t want them hearing about Superfan from anyone else before she could let them know she was fine.
Making those calls had kept her from thinking too much, giving in to the shakes that were wracking her. She’d felt like she was going to cry—she’d heard that’s what happened after an adrenaline surge—but she wasn’t going to do it in front of Gideon. Or at all.
And that’s when she’d started making those calls. It’d felt good to concentrate on her cousins and their anger at the creeper. Those calls had also kept her from living the nightmare over and over again, when the girl had called her name and then raised her arm in a threatening motion. Gideon had acted so quickly that Rochelle had seen only a streak of dark red, like blood, flying through the air.
Cherry juice for Cherry. Very funny. And horrific, because what if Gideon hadn’t been there? What if that liquid had been acid, or what if the creeper had wielded a gun, or . . .
Now, as Gideon guided her to the front door, she touched the front of her light pink vest, where the sticky juice had splashed. Some of it had gotten on one of her bare arms, too, but Gideon had the worst of it. She glanced at the red stains on his muscled arms, the side of his neck, one of his cheeks, and the tears and shakes threatened again.
Her hero. Yes, it sounded so damned corny, but he was every bit of hero because he hadn’t known what was coming at them. He might’ve taken a bullet for her . . .
After opening the door, they stepped inside the mansion, and he closed up behind him, working fast to deal with the security system. He was still holding onto her arm, and his grip felt comforting to her. All she wanted to do was curl into him, feel his hard muscles against her, knowing he’d been there when she’d needed him the most.
God, she’d never thought of herself as a girly girl, but now she willingly gave in to the primal pull that had started right after the attack.
She looked up at him, and he looked down at her. His chest was rising and falling as if he were allowing himself to take in oxygen for the first time since leaving Rough & Tumble. But was his breath coming even faster now, as they gazed at each other?
Hers certainly was, and she struggled to control that and her heartbeat, which was threatening to tie her up until her blood flow cut off and her knees went weak.
What if they let themselves close the inches between them? What if she leaned forward, stood on her tiptoes, brushed her mouth against his?
His gaze traveled her face, softening as he scanned her juice-spotted skin, her lips. He lifted his hand and rested his thumb by the corner of her mouth, and she blinked. She couldn’t move—too tangled in him, too helpless as she felt pulled closer and closer, even if she stayed motionless . . .
He ran his thumb over her and then rubbed his fingers together. “That psycho must’ve brought the juice into the saloon with her.”
He looked at Rochelle again, deeply, as if he were thinking about the moment of danger, too, and how she might’ve gotten hurt, but then . . .
Then he clenched his jaw, dropped his hand to his side, and backed away while shaking his head. He was chiding himself for crossing their line, wasn’t he?
She bit her lip and looked at the stone floor. The more steps he took away from her, the more something twisted, low in her gut. All the chemicals that’d been stirred up in her lately were bubbling to the surface: the adrenaline from today, the constant yearning, the embarrassment she’d been holding inside ever since the night before last, when she’d seen him for the first time again after all these years . . .
The final thread holding her together broke inside of her, and she quickly walked to the nearest bathroom, slammed the door behind her, and slid down the wall to the floor. There, she finally allowed her body to succumb to the aftermath of the attack—the aftermath of everything—and the crying started. Soft, tight, reluctant sobs, and with every one of them, her life flashed before her eyes with blood-red juice, Gideon coming out of nowhere to grab her and whisk her out of the saloon, tunnel vision and shock as she absorbed what had just happened, the utter loss of control as everything swirled around her . . .
She got it all out, angrily brushing the tears off her face when it was over. Then she grabbed the counter and pulled herself back to her feet, turned on the water, and scrubbed her face with it. Satisfied that her waterproof mascara had held up and that her eyes weren’t too red, she opened the door and held her shoulders straight, determined to get upstairs in one piece and shower off the rest of the juice.
Then she’d be as good as new.
Gideon was just ending a phone call with Harry—Rochelle could hear his voice on speakerphone—who was saying something about Kat Jenkins and a shotgun she kept behind the bar.
But Gideon didn’t seem to be listening to his partner now that Rochelle was back. Sympathy captured his gaze as he looked at her, and her heart went spongy. But it hardened a little again just as his eyes did.
The professional tough man.
“Call me back when you find out more, Harry,” Gideon said.
“Will do.”
And that was that.
Gideon’s voice lowered as he turned off the phone. “How you doin’?”
“Just fine.” Always fine.
He seemed to be on the cusp of saying something else when his phone rang. After glancing at the screen, he answered, putting this one on speaker, too.
“Boomer,” he greeted without emotion.
The PI’s smoothed-out backwater voice echoed through the foyer as he dove right into business. “I compared a picture Harry sent me of this creeper with the one from the bookstore.”
“I already looked at that shot you sent me of the poster vandal, too. They’re not the same person.”
Rochelle pressed a hand to her temple, and Gideon sent her a conciliatory glance. But it was confident all the same, as if he were promising no worries.
As if.
Boomer said, “Yeah, the bookstore creeper’s build was slight, but this girl is . . . roomy, to say the least. I’d tell your client to stay inside for the time bein’, because the bookstore creeper’s still out there.”
“My client’s right here, listening in.”
He had such an authority to him, and everything seemed to rearrange itself in her chest, scrambling, shot through with even more adrenaline. This time, though, it had everything to do with the man who was protecting her and not with the creepers themselves.
But she pulled herself up by her emotional bootstraps as best as she could. “If I didn’t know any better,” she said loud enough so Boomer could hear, “I’d almost think that there’s some kind of group involved. A Cherry fan club maybe? But that’s silly. She was never a big enough star.”
As Gideon stared at her, unreadable except for the slight predatory hunch of his shoulders, Boomer spoke.
“I could follow that up, Ms. Burton.”
> Gideon said, “Harry had a few words with the saloon creeper after he restrained her and before the law got there. He thinks this girl was more of a copycat than anything. She’s saying that she saw the bookstore poster creeper do his or her thing, got inspired, and decided to make sure you got the same message about Cherry. That may or may not be a lie.”
Rochelle asked, “She’s in custody?”
“Yeah. She tried to run away, like she thought she wouldn’t get caught or somethin’. But she’s lucky that’s the only consequence, because along with Harry’s efforts, Kat pulled The Torso Muncher out from behind the bar and held that shotgun on her until the law arrived. But the girl wasn’t armed with anything except a cup of cherry juice. It was like she only wanted to humiliate you.”
“Like I supposedly humiliated Cherry Chastain with this book,” Rochelle whispered. She was remembering Terry’s—or, as everyone else called him, Dillinger’s—reaction at the saloon this morning, when he’d been pissed off because he thought Rochelle had written Cherry like a prostitute.
Fans could be enthusiastic, but she’d never encountered this.
Even worse—was Dillinger one of them?
As a shiver consumed her, Gideon said, “Creeper Number Two’s name is Loralei Calhoun and she’s only nineteen, from Boulder City. Harry said her only regret is that she didn’t fully soak Rochelle in red.” He focused on Rochelle. “You probably didn’t see it, but she was taking a picture with her phone after she threw the juice. It was probably going straight to her Tumblr page or such nonsense.”
Rochelle sank against the wall, shaking her head. “Who does something like that?”
Boomer said, “Hopefully she’s the last of them. I’m on it.”
“Thanks, Boomer,” Gideon said. “And while you’re doing your job, Rochelle’s gonna stay out of the spotlight. It’ll make everyone’s lives easier.”
She started to say something about how Cherry Chastain wouldn’t have shrunk from this shit, but Gideon lifted a finger.
“Talk to you soon,” he said to Boomer.
“You bet.”
Hot and Bothered Page 8
