On Thin Ice Read online

  It was edging on six by the time Mick had straightened out all the room assignments and distributed every last hotel key to the Follies’ performers and other personnel. Whose bright idea had it been for him to take over the managers duties anyway?

  There was more work to this job than he’d expected. He couldn’t neglect it or people were going to wonder why he’d been hired in the first place, and the objective here was to bring as little attention to himself as possible. Yet he wasn’t quite sure how he was supposed to keep an eye on Sasha Miller, worm his way into her confidence, and deal with all this shit, too.

  He pretended not to notice when Karen Corselli pressed discreetly up against him as he handed her the key to her room. Having failed to elicit a reaction, she stood looking at him a moment longer, an invitation in her eyes, before she finally stepped aside to make way for the next person in line.

  Karen let herself into her room, slung her overnighter on the bed, and kicked off her shoes. She rummaged in her bag until she found her little night-light, plugged it into the socket next to the bed, ordered up room service, and then searched the television for something not totally vulgar that she could watch while she ate. After dinner she took a long bath, freshened her makeup, and donned her most alluring nightgown.

  By ten o’clock that evening it had registered that Mick Vinicor wasn’t going to come knocking on her door.

  Prowling the room, she whispered furiously to herself, frustration burning hot in her veins. Unbearably familiar, a sense of powerlessness infused her, and like an irritant lying just below the surface of her skin, like an itch beyond her reach, it mocked all her accomplishments. Drat him. Drat all men.

  She stood in the center of the room, chest heaving with the deep breaths she took in an attempt to regain control. Okay. All right. It wasn’t as if she were a stranger to this feeling of impotence. But that of course was the very problem, and, oh, how she hated it.

  She had grown up in a fundamentalist Christian home where she was expected to be seen but not heard, unless specifically called upon to sing a hymn or recite a lesson from the Bible. And woe be to her if she forgot or stumbled over her words. The common punishment for misbehavior in any of its guises was a stay of up to as many as three days in a dark, damp, seven-by-four-foot cubicle in the cellar.

  Usually after Father had taken his birch stick or his belt to her.

  It had never grown less terrifying in that unlit chamber, filled with its musty smells and skittering noises, no matter how many times she was put in there. It had always imbued her with such feelings of hopelessness and rage that she had feared she would burst with them. So she’d sung every acceptable gospel song she’d known, recited Bible verse after Bible verse, and swore repeatedly that someday she would have influence and authority. No one—no one!—would ever be allowed to inflict pain on her then . . . or make her spend time in a small, dark space again.

  She’d discovered the power of sex when she was seventeen years old. Up until that time, in compliance with her austere relatives’ demands, she’d kept her nose in her Bible and her feet on the straight and narrow, bound for Glory. She had gone to school; she’d gone to church; and any free time left over was devoted to skating—but only after her coach had assured her rigid parents that she would never be subjected to any material that didn’t have good, clean values.

  Which, of course, was as it should be.

  It was at skate practice that she’d first began to notice the way boys acted around her. If she quite properly dressed them down for using unseemly language, they would hang their heads. But when they looked at her their eyes were avid; and if she moved a certain way, bent in a certain manner, used her tongue to moisten her lips, a bulge would appear behind their zippers. She was pretty and her body was beautiful, and she discovered she could control boys with it.

  Power. It was so sweet, and for the first time in her life she had access to the real thing.

  Over the years her power base had enlarged until these days there was little she couldn’t accomplish or obtain. Most of the time it was simply a matter of placing herself in the right place at the right time. Of knowing how to manipulate the right man. Clearly, the airplane this afternoon hadn’t been the right place for Mick Vinicor.

  Or perhaps it was the timing that was off.

  Well, the time was always negotiable. As for the place . . . she didn’t doubt for an instant that she would eventually find a spot that he would find eminently suitable for their purposes. Heavenly days, it would be rather ludicrous to harbor doubts about her eventual success, wouldn’t it? Why would she want to do that?

  She hadn’t failed yet.

  It was after midnight when the taxi let Sasha off in front of the Eugene hotel. She strode through the lobby doors and headed straight for the lounge. She could use a stiff drink.

  Damn Lonnie anyhow. How on earth had she allowed herself to be talked into this?

  Tossing her evening bag on the table, she slid into a U-shaped booth in one of the darker corners of the dim bar. It seemed like an eternity before the cocktail waitress sauntered over and took her drink order. Sasha fiddled with a book of matches as she watched the waitress walk away, turning it end over end between her slender fingers while she brooded.

  What difference did it make why she’d caved in—what counted was that she had. She’d listened to Lon’s arguments and she had agreed to his plan, however reluctantly. She could have said no. She should have said no. But . . . no. Instead she’d gone ahead and dated that old geezer, flirting on the thin edge of feeling like a whore in order to get Lonnie a place with the line skaters when he was released from prison in a couple of weeks.

  She thought she was probably a better friend to him than he was to her. He knew how it would affect her to be petted by some stranger; he knew better than anyone else in the world, and yet he had asked it of her anyway.

  But then again, to be fair . . . he was desperate. Lon wouldn’t have asked it of her if he wasn’t and that was something she understood.

  God, more than anything she would like to be able to talk it over with Connie—why she was doing this stuff she didn’t want to do and how it made her feel—but how could she? Connie wouldn’t understand. Hell, she barely understood it herself. Acting the tease, playing these stupid games, made her feel like a cross between a high-priced hooker and what’s-her-name in that old TV spy spoof—Agent 99. She didn’t know whether to be ashamed of herself or fall over laughing at the absurdity of it all.

  At the moment she didn’t feel much like laughing.

  On the disgraceful side of the scoreboard was her behavior with J. R. Garland, who was the talent agent responsible for most of the performance hiring for the West Coast branch of the Follies. She’d been doing her damnedest to sweet-talk him into promising Lon a job when he was paroled from prison, vamping the old guy to beat the band. It was a balancing act of flirtation and letting it be subtly understood that she didn’t intend to compromise her morals any more than she was currently doing simply to ensure her friend’s employment. There were definite limits here. She might be linked to Lon by a lot of years and even more shared history, but she wasn’t sleeping with any man for his benefit. And Lon knew better than to expect it of her.

  On the comic relief side were the moronic espionage games of Lonnie’s that she’d been playing. Calling him from a pay phone when there was a perfectly good telephone in every hotel room she’d ever stayed in; burning his letters as soon as she’d read them. For heaven’s sake, who did he imagine would possibly care what the two of them talked or corresponded about?

  Well, she’d done her part and she had honestly believed she’d never again have to lie to Connie if queried as to her whereabouts at any given time. When the Follies left San Francisco where J.R. was based, she had thought she’d seen the last of her role as the intelligence-impaired coquette.

  Which is why she’d about died this afternoon when she received the telephone call from a jovial J. R. Garland
, telling her he was in town for business and insisting that she join him for a late supper.

  Sasha shuddered, tugged on the microscopic skirt of her black cocktail dress in an attempt to obtain a little more coverage for her thighs, and tossed back a slug of the Baileys Irish Cream the waitress placed before her. She didn’t feel particularly good about herself at the moment, and she swore that this was the end of it. No more. Tonight had been the very last time she was putting herself through this bullshit. If Garland opted not to hire Lon after this, that was too damn bad. Lonnie’d gotten himself into trouble without any help from her; he could darn well . . .

  “Hi, I thought that was you,” a voice, soft and low, interrupted her thoughts. “Mind if I join you?”

  Sasha’s head jerked up. Standing in front of her booth was Mick Vinicor, looking too damn energetic for words. God above, where did he get all that vitality he perpetually exuded? It made her weary just looking at him. She opened her mouth to tell him yes, she did in fact mind, that she would just as soon be left alone; but he was already sliding in next to her, sitting much closer than was necessary. “Make yourself at home,” Sasha said dryly and took another sip of her drink.

  He grinned, flashing those impossibly white teeth at her. “Thanks, don’t mind if I do.” A waitress appeared as if by magic. Must be nice to be a virile male sometimes, Sasha thought sourly. Mick ordered a beer, flirted with the waitress a moment, and then leaned back so he could view Sasha from head to toe.

  Her coat was tossed behind her, carelessly spread open across the banquette, and she was wearing a little nothing of a lace dress that was cut low in a sweetheart neckline between her breasts. The garment was lined from bust to hem but her shoulders and arms glowed lightly golden through the tight black lace of the long sleeves, and scallops of sheer lace edged past the sheath lining to play teasing games on her thighs. Christ. You’d think the impact would have lessened after watching that face and body for the past several hours. And yet . . .

  Mick swallowed dryly but forced a cocky grin and an insouciant tone as he sprawled back, arms stretched out along the banquette. “Killer dress.”

  “What, this old rag?” Sasha retorted, and both her voice and her face were entirely void of expression. She watched him coolly over the rim of her cocktail glass.

  Okay, so she wasn’t going to give an inch. He’d already pretty much acknowledged that she would be a formidable opponent. “Yeah, it’s a beaut. You just get back from a date or something?”

  He knew where’d she’d been, of course. He’d retrieved the call from the recording in time to follow her to that restaurant downtown where he’d watched from the bar as some old fart had pawed her all night long. It made him grit his teeth every time he thought of the way she’d just sat there and let him. Hell, not only let him, but had smiled while she was allowing it. Smiled and laughed.

  “I don’t really want to talk about my evening, Mick, if you don’t mind.” She drained her drink. “This hasn’t been the best night of my life.”

  That caught him by surprise. He hadn’t expected her to admit to any weakness. But before he could take advantage of what might be the only moment of vulnerability she’d ever display to him, she was already getting ready to leave. She pulled her coat off the banquette to drape over her shoulders and collected her purse; then she began to edge around to the far side of the banquette. Due to her skirt’s propensity to climb into the indecent zone with every incautious movement she made, that was necessarily a gingerly process, and Mick took advantage of her creeping progress to reach across the table and wrap his fingers around her wrist. “Wait,” he said, staying her. “Don’t go.”

  Sasha froze in place, experiencing that same zap of awareness she’d felt the night he had held her hand too long backstage. She gazed at him warily. “Why?”

  “Why?” His thick brows drew together. “Hell, I don’t know.” And he didn’t. He knew he wasn’t going to get any more out of her this evening. She was gun shy and not at all receptive to sexual advances, and it was for damn sure she wasn’t going to tell him squat.

  And it wasn’t as if he required her assistance anyhow. He could get all the information he needed on the old sleezebag she’d met without holding his breath waiting for her cooperation. Hell, that part was child’s play: he’d sent the son of a bitch’s name in to be processed the minute it had come off the recorder, and by tomorrow afternoon whatever secrets the old guy possessed would be in Mick’s hands.

  Yet still he retained his light grasp on her delicately boned wrist. “You’re pretty,” he finally said. “You look like you’ve had a rough night. I’m lonely.” He shrugged as if to say, take your pick. “So what do ya say you let me buy you a drink?”

  His fingers relinquished their grip but lingered to stroke the table next to where her hand rested. “I’m not on the make, Sasha,” he assured her. “I just want someone to flirt with for a few minutes.” When she stiffened slightly, he held up his hands, palms out in entreaty, and hastily added, “Or if you don’t feel much like flirting, I’d still like someone to talk to.”

  Sasha sagged back in her seat. “All right.” She was wired up and unlikely to fall asleep any time soon, anyway. Why go up to her room when she’d only end up tossing and turning for the next several hours? She straightened and gave Mick a slight smile. “You must think I’m crazy,” she murmured as she tossed her coat off her shoulders. Mick signaled the waitress and Sasha gave her order. When they were alone again Sasha turned back to Mick.

  “I did something tonight I’m not very proud of,” she admitted, “and it’s left me feeling a little raw. I’m sorry, though, if I’ve taken it out on you.”

  Again she caught him by surprise . . . and left him confused. He didn’t understand this. He had her pigeonholed as a conscienceless bitch. She might look soft as a satin boudoir pillow, but she had to be cold as death and harder than diamonds to deal poison the way she’d been doing without batting an eye. He’d be mighty interested in learning how the old man she’d met tonight fit into all this. He must be some piece of work to have this little operator running scared. Mick forced his voice to be low and empathetic when he said, “Don’t worry about me; I’ve got a hide like a rhinoceros. You want to talk about it?”

  Sasha swallowed an involuntary snort of laughter. “God, no. I’ve already made up my mind I’m not ever going to get sucked into a situation like tonight’s again. All I want to do now is forget it ever happened.”

  Mick obliged her by changing the topic, but he was about as disconcerted as it was possible to get. What the hell was going on here? She wasn’t acting at all the way he’d expected and it left him consumed with curiosity. He wanted nothing more than to learn all her secrets. He would learn all her secrets; he planned to seduce them out of her one by one.

  Maybe not tonight.

  But soon. Perhaps tomorrow, because by then he should have the leverage he needed to start prying them out of her.

  Just as soon as he got the information he’d requested on J. R. Garland.

  It didn’t turn out to be quite that simple. In point of fact, the information he received merely added to the confusion. Jesus, what a screwed-up case this was shaping up to be.

  Garland was a damned talent scout. Period. He had no arrest record and there was absolutely nothing that connected him to the drug world. So why had Sasha Miller sat there and allowed him to put his hands all over her, to pat and stroke her like some damn pet Pekinese? Garland wasn’t a drug czar to whom she had to toady up, and clearly she hadn’t allowed it for its entertainment value.

  Or, hell, maybe that’s exactly what she’d done. What did he know about the way she got her kicks, when it came right down to it?

  He needed to know more about her in order to figure out what made her tick. So far she hadn’t done one damn thing that fit into any mold he was accustomed to seeing. So he sought information in the good old time-honored street hump way.

  He broke into her room again.
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  Except for the one communication from Garland, she hadn’t received or made a single telephone call since he’d first placed a tap on her phone in Sacramento. So today he ignored the phone—he’d done his work there already—and went straight to the closet.

  Her luggage, stacked on the shelf above the hangers, was empty. Mick checked for false bottoms, but the dimensions were the same inside and out on all the pieces. He felt for false linings.

  It was just plain old standard issue baggage.

  He riffled through the clothing on the hangers, checking pockets, running his hands swiftly over the fabric, feeling for concealed hiding places. Nothing.

  Same with her shoes; there was nothing stuffed in the toes, and the glittery little evening bag tossed in the corner of the closet held only a forgotten lipstick and some change. He swiveled the lipstick open and sniffed it.

  Then promptly swiveled it closed again and replaced the cap. Why was he wasting time? She was only down to lunch with some of the other skaters; he didn’t have a hell of a lot of time here. He crossed over to the dresser.

  His hands wanted to linger in the lingerie drawer but he sternly refused to allow them. Swiftly, he moved from drawer to drawer, perusing the contents without disturbing their order.

  When the dresser failed to yield any secrets, he checked under the bed, felt between the mattress and the box springs, patted around the television set in the enclosed armoire. He examined the backs of the hotel artwork and inspected the carpet for loose spots that may have been pried up.

  Clean as a freakin’ whistle.

  He was in the bathroom, poking with his pen in a jar of some kind of cream, when he heard a key in the door.

  Son of a bitch! Wiping off the pen, Mick stuffed both it and the Kleenex in his jean’s pocket and looked around. Jesus, he was never going to live this case down—if it wasn’t one fucking thing it was another.