On Thin Ice Page 12

  Karen wouldn’t countenance interference in her plans; she simply would not. And, oh, what plans she had . . . big plans. They included Mick Vinicor and Lon Morrison.

  They did not include Sasha Miller.

  Ultimately, Karen was convinced, everything would work out in exactly the fashion she intended. It invariably did; she was quite diligent about seeing to it. As always, of course, she would say her nightly prayers, with perhaps just a bit more fervor than usual.

  But meanwhile Sasha Miller had better just stay the heck out of her way.

  EIGHT

  The final Tacoma show was performed in front of a near-sold-out crowd. The Dome was darkened except for professional lighting that highlighted the set designs and brought out the glittering colors in Sasha’s costume. When her number changed from slow and languorous to fast and sexy, the lighting director switched to different colored lights, accenting the shift in moods.

  Down on the ice, Sasha feared that she was in very deep trouble.

  She’d felt the slight wobble in her blade on that last camel. God, why had she left her skate bag on the bus last night? She was always careful to check her equipment following a show, but she’d still been upset over that mess earlier in the day with Lon and Mick and she’d figured to hell with it—why schlep the damn thing up to her room just to turn around and schlep it back down again tomorrow? Nobody else was quite so compulsive with their gear, and when it came right down to it, what exactly could happen to the stuff in the baggage compartment of the bus?

  Well, for starters, it felt suspiciously as though the blade on her left skate was loose. But what were the chances of that? They were screwed and glued on; they didn’t simply come undone on their own. Oh, sure, screws did drop out with regularity and moisture rot did invariably set in, but she’d checked them just the other day and they’d been in good shape.

  And even if the blade was merely clinging to her custom-made boot by a thread what could she do about it in the middle of her performance?

  She skated flat out because that was the only way she knew how to skate. She couldn’t stop to check for a defective blade halfway through her act, and she couldn’t cheat the audience by tippy-toeing through her performance. She could merely deliver her best and hope to heaven she was wrong about the blade.

  She wasn’t.

  It all blew up in her face when she touched down from the double axle. She didn’t hear or see the blade snap free upon landing; all she knew was that one minute she was performing a truly fine landing from what had been a nice, high turn, and the next her leg had buckled underneath her and she was spinning and sliding across the ice to crash headfirst into the barrier that separated the rink from the spectator seats.

  She registered the collectively indrawn gasps of the horrified crowd a millisecond before an immense pain exploded in her head. A gray mist swam inward from the outside edges of her eyes and her ears began to ring. Then everything went black.

  When she came to, the walls of the backstage corridors were rushing past and her stomach nearly revolted. She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to focus, and swallowed hard against the nausea that persisted in rising up in her throat. Conquering it, she ultimately realized that she was being wheeled on a gurny down the hallway.

  A door banged open and the bright lights overhead dimmed as she passed from indoors to out. A cold, misty breeze blew over her and she shuddered; the next instant she was being lifted into the back of an ambulance and a blanket was being tucked around her.

  “I’m coming with her,” she heard a male voice say and wondered vaguely who it was.

  “Not in here you aren’t,” the attendant replied. “You’ll have to follow in your own car.” He turned to the other attendant. “Get the doors, Kenny.”

  The next thing Sasha saw was hands, in the periphery of her vision, reaching in and grasping the young man by his lapels. He was hauled past her, sputtering protests all the while, and out into the street.

  “Listen,” she heard a low, authoritative voice say through gritted teeth, “I’m the manager of Follies on Ice and I don’t have a car. Now, you’ve got an unconscious woman in there and I’m stuck out here for God knows how long before I can get a taxi. What the fuck are you planning to do? Leave her lying around in some hospital corridor until someone from the show can get there with the information you know they’re gonna require just to check her in? Use your head, kid.”

  The response was resigned, if a little sulky. “Get in.”

  Ah. Mick. Sasha turned her head toward the sound of the two men climbing into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed and her stomach lurched again as the ambulance pulled out.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” Mick squeezed into a space next to her and picked up her hand. “You’re gonna be okay, Sasha,” he assured her gently as he studied her eyes. The pupil of her right eye was pinpointed, while the left was dilated so wide its iris appeared to be black instead of gray. She focused on him with a fuzzy, trustful sort of intensity, and something about that look caused his stomach to flip-flop.

  “I don’t know how much you remember,” he said to her in a soft voice, “but you lost a blade off your skate and you hit your head pretty hard. Looks like you’ve got a concussion but you’re on your way to the hospital to be checked over. How you feelin’?”

  “Pukey.” She started to lift her hand up to touch her throbbing head, but Mick intercepted it. He brought it back down and stacked it on top of the one he already held, stroking both of hers between both of his. “Head hurts,” she murmured fretfully.

  “Yeah, I know it does, Saush. We’re almost there, though, so just hold on; they’re gonna get you fixed up.” He turned to the attendant and said in a low, fierce undertone, “We are almost there, aren’t we?”

  “Five minutes.”

  They were at the hospital for hours. It was early morning by the time Mick carried her past the hotel’s deserted front desk to the bank of elevators at the side of the lobby. Sasha had halfheartedly protested when he’d scooped her off the seat of the cab and into his arms, mumbling that she could walk perfectly well on her own. When he acted as though he’d suddenly gone deaf, however, she didn’t bother to repeat herself. The truth was, although she felt better than she had a few hours ago, she still felt a long way from great.

  As the elevator doors swooshed shut, enclosing them in the small, mirrored area, Mick looked down at her. The top of her head lolled against the bottom of his throat, she was limp in his arms, and in spite of her assertion that she was feeling better, she sure as hell didn’t look it. “I don’t imagine you’ve got your room key secreted anywhere in that little costume, do you?” he inquired without a great deal of hope. He couldn’t see much of it, swallowed up as she was in his jacket, but he was pretty sure it didn’t boast any hidden pockets.

  Sasha didn’t bother to open her eyes. “Huh uh.” Then tightening her left-handed grip on her skates—which had still been on her feet when they’d arrived at the ER—she tried to pretend, for about two seconds, to more alertness than she actually possessed. She pried her eyelids open and blinked up at him.

  “Z’in my bag at the Dome,” she said more comprehensively and then yawned. Her eyes, feeling weighted, slid closed again. “Sure hope Connie grabbed it,” she tacked on in slurred tones. Mick’s chest and arms were warm, the sway when he walked and the elevator’s movement as it rose to her floor was soothing, and the lure of slumber was more than she could resist. She could feel its effects wrapping her up like a down comforter.

  “Sasha.” It felt as if no more than five seconds had passed when she found herself being cautiously shaken awake. “Sasha, can you hear me?”

  She hunched her shoulder out from under the hand that was gently rocking it. “Go ’way.”

  It came right back again, warm and persistent. “Come on, baby, wake up.”

  “Miiiick, leave me alone. I’m tired.”

  “I know you are, darlin’.” He pulled her up into a sitting po
sition, smiling wryly when her head promptly flopped forward. He hooked a finger beneath her chin and tipped it up. “But you’ve got a concussion,” he informed her, “and the doctor said you need to be awakened once an hour.”

  “Y’ask me, the doctor’s full of . . .”

  “Shh, shh, shh.” There was laughter in his voice and Sasha pried an eye open. “Having an interrupted night’s sleep beats the hell out of slipping into a coma,” he assured her. When he saw that she appeared to be a little more fully awake, he leaned back at arm’s length, his hands still firmly gripping her shoulders, and looked her over. “How about getting a little more comfortable, now that you’re awake? You want to change out of that costume into something less restrictive?”

  Sasha looked down at herself, surprised to discover that she was still in her red spangled and beaded “Playing with Fire” costume. Cut low between her breasts and high on her hips, it was a wonder she hadn’t frozen to death. “Oh, my gosh, Mick, my jacket!” At the sudden recollection that everything had been left behind in the Tacoma Dome and that they were leaving for Seattle tomorrow, panic began to surface.

  “It’s okay.” Mick didn’t have a clue what made her jacket so special to her, but he was nevertheless quick to reassure. “I called Connie when we got back to let her know how you were doing, and she said to tell you that she’s got all your things in her room.”

  “Oh. Good.” She gave him a sleepy smile. “I would like to change,” she decided. “Grab my blue nightie, will you? It’s in the second drawer on the right.”

  He was gone and back in seconds. He handed her a big, soft T-shirt. It was maroon. Sasha looked down at it in puzzlement as he cupped a palm under her elbow and helped her to her feet. “What’s this?” Eyes raising, she slowly inspected her surroundings. “Where are we? This isn’t my room.”

  “No, it’s mine.”

  “Oh. Okay.” Holding her head very carefully she shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.

  When she came out, Mick threw back the covers and helped her into bed. “Scoot over,” he ordered. She did as he said and he snapped off the light, shucked out of his jeans and shirt and climbed in beside her.

  “Hey.” Sasha started to raise up on one elbow but her head pounded too viciously. She subsided onto her hip, resting her head on her upper arm. “Whata you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting an hour’s sleep,” he replied.

  “Not here you’re not.” When he played deaf for the second time that night, she reached out her free hand and gave him an indignant poke. “Vinicor!”

  He rolled onto his back. “For Christ sake, Sasha,” he said irritably. “What do you think I am, an animal? This might come as a shock to you, Miller, but it really isn’t necessary that a woman’s head be bashed in before I get her into my bed.”

  “But it probably helps,” she shot back without thinking.

  Mick laughed. “Oh, if you weren’t so hurt, you’d pay for that,” he said. Then he rolled over again, presenting her with his back.

  He woke her continually the rest of the night, and in the process grew heartily sick himself of the sound of the alarm going off every hour on the hour. When it went off for the last time at nine in the morning he groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Oh, God, not again. Five minutes. That’s all he asked . . . just five more minutes. Between the covers and Sasha’s warm little backside curved into his lap, it was so nice and cozy in here, and he didn’t want to move.

  Sasha’s . . . ? Oh, shit. Slowly he pulled the pillow off his head. He twisted from the waist and slammed his hand down on the alarm button, shutting off the irritating noise. Then shoving up on one elbow, he turned back.

  They had both gravitated toward the middle of the bed in search of the most convenient heat source, which had turned out to be each other. He was curved, spoon fashion around her back from the waist down, and now that he was more alert he had a vague recollection of being plastered to her from the waist up as well, his arm wrapped around her middle, his face buried in her hair, before the alarm had sent him groping for his pillow. The T-shirt she wore had worked its way up around her hips and his morning erection was snugged firmly between her sweet little cheeks, only the thin cotton of his jockey shorts separating them.

  I’m not an animal, Sasha. His brain played back his words for him. But he could be. Oh, God, he so easily could be.

  He eased his hips away. Rolling out of bed, he walked with stiff discomfort to the bathroom. He was back out in seven minutes, shaved and showered.

  Dropping the towel to the floor, he stepped into clean underwear, pulled on his jeans, and jerked a white dress shirt from the closet, slipping it on and buttoning it up. He tucked, zipped, and rolled the shirt’s sleeves up his forearms, then crossed back to the bed.

  “Sasha.” He squatted down next to the bed and briskly reached out to awaken her. “Saush, come on. Time to get up.”

  Sasha leaned her cheek against the cool glass of the bus window and watched the scenery go by. Connie sat quietly beside her, thumbing through a magazine. Normally it was a reasonably quick ride from Tacoma to Seattle but traffic was very heavy today. There was some sort of multicar pileup just this side of a place called Federal Way, causing them to creep along and turning a forty-five minute drive into something much longer.

  Sasha tended to doze off at the drop of a hat, and Connie would poke her awake if she appeared to be sleeping too deeply. During moments such as this between doze and poke, her thoughts, like rats in a maze, were inclined to dash to and fro without discernible results.

  She was dealing with some major perplexities and her thought processes felt as mushy as her head. In part, the dead-end walls that she kept mentally running up against had to do with that perpetually confusing man/woman issue. Now there was a puzzle she had yet to figure out. However, the majority of her confusion stemmed from her accident, and trying to make sense of that was like hitting the wall going ninety.

  If there was any way to avoid it, in fact, she’d opt in a heartbeat not to think about it at all today. She’d much prefer to put off any speculation concerning what had put her in this condition until she felt a hundred percent up to snuff again, for her thoughts left her feeling uneasy and alone. Made her feel almost isolated. But it was not an easy matter to ignore. Because it shouldn’t have happened.

  She had assumed, last night, that she’d had a moisture rot problem in the sole of her boot. Serious skaters had their boots custom made from individual forms of their feet and the blades were glued and screwed on, as opposed to the riveted blades on skates that were sold off the rack to beginners in sporting goods shops. Eventually the waterproofing wore off, however, and moisture got into the plates, dissolving the glue. Screws dropped out with great regularity, which could be a real hazard on the ice. The sole around the blade plates softened from the constant bombardment of ice spraying up beneath it and eventually gave way. So when she’d felt the wobble, she’d thought, Oh God, Harlick sure doesn’t make as good a boot as they used to. But this morning, when she’d looked at her skate . . .

  She’d had to make her silent apologies to Harlick, for the soles were in perfectly good condition. Yet every damn screw had come out at the same time.

  And that simply wasn’t possible. There were six screws holding the blade to the toe and four securing it to the heel. Now, maybe it was conceivable that a few could have loosened and perhaps, if you stretched credibility to the limit, even simultaneously on both heel and toe. But all of them at once out of an undamaged piece of leather?

  Yet . . . what was the alternative here? That it had been done deliberately? That someone had just happened to know that her bag had been left in the bus on that particular night and had snuck into it to loosen the screws on her skate? Good God, talk about stretching credibility—her head must have been banged up even worse than she’d thought.

  Who would have any reason to hurt her? And why, for God’s sake? Even supposing she had some
heretofore unknown enemy lurking in the shadows just dying to dump her on her ass, what kind of wussy method was that to harm someone? It was too uncertain. She might have checked the blades before her performance, and truly it was just bad luck that her double axle had been performed on the periphery of the rink. It could just as well have been executed in the middle of the rink where the worst that would have happened to her would have been to spin around the ice on her face in front of thousands. Embarrassing, sure. But hardly the stuff of a mad assassin.

  And yet the uneasiness persisted.

  It was a relief to finally pull up to the hotel that afternoon. Sometimes the lack of privacy that was so much a part of this life got to her. Usually she thrived on it, but her defenses were down today and she just wanted to get into a room where it was quiet and calm and she wasn’t surrounded by constant chatter. She slapped on her softly structured hat, yanked it down to her brows, and climbed to her feet.

  Mick looked up from his clipboard when Sasha stopped in front of him. With a gesture lacking her usual animation she held out her hand for her room key. He ran a critical eye over her face as he handed it to her.

  Despite the jaunty little cloth hat she wore, with its cheerfully feminine garden print and its big silk flower pinning the floppy brim back to the crown, she looked wan. Her hair exploding out from under the hat’s restraint was just as lustrous as always, but her cheeks, normally so rosy in her warm, golden-skinned face, were pale, her complexion sallow.

  It wasn’t his place to be bugged by it.

  “You have that release?” he inquired crisply as he passed her the room key and marked it off on his master list.

  “Yes,” she replied coolly. She patted a couple pockets and then shrugged, too lethargic to search any further. “I’ll bring it to you in the morning.”