Before the night ended, she would have sex with a total
stranger.
Oh, God.
Taking a deep breath Dani Perez walked toward the hotel
bar, her red stilettos clattering like a Riverdance
audition on the black marble floor.
What the hell are you looking at? she wanted to scream
when the desk clerk glanced up with a knowing smile. But
she knew exactly why he was looking. The stupid dress
damn–near showed the cheeks of her ass.
Dani smiled, thinking when she got home, she'd have to
make a big deposit in Abby's pickle jar decorated with
commodes. Her daughter called her creation
the "potty–mouth jar". Since Christmas, Dani had to
pay up every time she cursed. She and Abby were saving for
their dream vacation, and at the rate she was going, Hawaii
wasn't an unrealistic destination. Hell, the F word alone
was worth a whopping twenty bucks.
Dani wasn't proud of the way she talked, but old habits
die hard. Five years on the Cimarron Police Force riding
with Jerry Spigoretti had added a variety of colorful words
to her vocabulary. She'd thought when she left the job last
year, she'd clean up her language, but working with Harry
Fielding, another hard–nosed ex–cop turned PI,
hadn't helped. On a good day, she was able to keep it under
control.
Today isn't a good day.
She stopped in front of the door, a sudden rush of
apprehension overwhelming her as she struggled to keep a
falling ringlet of hair out of her eyes. Silently, she
cursed her twin. Her usual ponytail would have been so much
easier, but Nikki had insisted on pulling her unmanageable
hair up and curling it around her face—said it was
sexy. How freakin' sexy would it be if she landed on her
barely–covered tush because she couldn't see?
The huge purse they'd picked out felt like it was full
of rocks, but she needed one this size to hold the
equipment she would use. She jerked it higher on her
shoulder, glancing back to see if the clerk was still
watching.
He was. She fought the urge to flip him off.
Breathe, chica. A lot is riding on tonight.
The minute she opened the door, her eyes widened, a
reaction to the darkened room, lit only by the neon signs
behind the bar and the candles on the ten or so tables
strategically placed around the room. Even in this light,
she could see the entire bar area, praying he'd be there,
petrified he was. She'd counted on him being a creature of
habit and doing the exact same thing he'd done every
Thursday for the five weeks she'd tailed him.
Dr. Nathan Randall didn't disappoint her. He was alone
as usual, at the far end of the bar, mindlessly twirling a
glass on the counter. The lump in her throat threatened to
cut off her breathing while she watched him put down the
drink and rub his forehead, probably unaware he did that
often. She didn't have to see his searing blue eyes to know
they were squinted in deep thought, an image she'd captured
on film many times.
She hated what she would have to do to him.
Eyes finally adjusted to the dark, Dani chose a table
far enough to be out of sight from where he sat but close
enough for observation. She attempted to sit down
gracefully without compromising her dignity in the skin
tight dress, but it was a losing battle. She reached behind
and tugged at the hem of the red jersey number as it rode
up her thighs.
Oh hell!
She was sure she had given everyone a peek all the way
up her legs to the thong panties she was dying to pull out
of her butt. She didn't get the whole thong panties thing.
Number one, they'd cost eight dollars on sale. Who pays
eight dollars for panties that barely had enough material
to qualify as a G–string?
And damn! Who wants to walk around with a constant
wedgie?
She plopped the heavy purse on the floor and glanced up
to see if anyone had seen her flash. Her eyes connected
with a middle–aged man sitting at the corner of the
bar, facing her. He lifted his glass and smiled.
Christ!
She lowered her eyes. The last thing she wanted to do
was call any more attention to herself before she was
ready. And she needed a whole lot of courage to be ready.
Liquid courage.
Dani waited until the waitress approached before she
looked up again, afraid the guy in the suit might consider
any further eye contact an invitation. She'd prided herself
on reading people, had actually avoided danger on the job
because of that particular skill. Her radar said this guy
definitely had the
married–but–trolling–for–stray&ndash
;action look all over his Midwestern face.
"What can I get you?" The flat tone in the waitress's
voice conveyed her disapproval.
Dani didn't blame her. Hell, she'd disapprove of
herself, too in this outfit that screamed I come with a
price.
"What's the latest drinking rage these days?" she asked,
knowing the Corona she craved wouldn't go with her
on–the–prowl persona.
Marcia, according to the nametag on her blouse, looked
surprised by the question. "Depends on what you like."
What does someone whose ass is hanging out of a dress
usually drink?