“You said nine.”
“You’re early.”
“That I am.” He smiled. Whether with regret, continued interest or self-mocking humor, she couldn’t quite tell. What was going on behind those lush green eyes? And why did she want to know so damn much?
“So here’s what I have in mind for you,” she said, and began babbling out his chores—help her with client meetings, follow up on her marketing, check the hair salon’s plumbing—
“I’ll stay busy, Samantha,” he said, interrupting her cascading list of tasks. “You won’t be sorry you hired me.”
“Or that I kissed you?” The words burst out.
“Or that.” His eyes held her—all of her—as though he wouldn’t change a thing. “I kissed you back, remember?”
“Yeah. I remember.”
“So how about if we stay out of windows in empty underwear shops from now on?”
“Sounds like a plan,” she said, acting cheerful and reasonable when she secretly was wondering how he felt about empty studios with satin-covered beds. Oh, dear.
SO FAR, SO GOOD, Rick thought, heading for the beauty salon around noon. He was supposedly checking on the clogged drains, though he intended to comb every inch of the center today, with special attention to the storage the generous Darien had insisted on, according to Samantha. Cupboards could hide drugs, guns, stolen goods, anything. Sylvestri showed up often with instructions for the crew, Rick had learned, so he’d be alert for any appearance the man might make.
Rick patted his shirt pocket for the tiny camera, his jeans for the mini tape player he’d grabbed before he’d left the station, eager to get going. He liked the investigative part of undercover work. It was just the subterfuge that bugged him.
Such as the fact that Samantha already trusted him, after only a few hours of work. If she knew what he was up to, she’d be shocked, hurt and mad as hell. Couldn’t be helped. Nature of the work. He shouldn’t care.
But he did. She was so honest—even in little things. He’d sat in on two order sessions where she’d refused to soak the eager customers for maximum prints and poses, keeping them within the budget they’d tossed out the window the instant they’d seen the shots. Samantha was good, no question, and she had integrity and a clear-eyed approach that made sense in a kooky way.
He’d found no evidence that she knew about any criminal activity occurring—or planned—in the building. He’d pored over her books, but found no double billings, erasures, odd checks or unusual cash flow. If Lester Tabor was laundering money through Bedroom Eyes, he did it with a second ledger Rick would have to locate. He planned to grill the guy when he came in to do the month’s accounts in a few days.
Rick headed for the beauty salon. Shear Ecstasy. What a name. Everything in the center dripped with sex. It got on his nerves. He paused at the lingerie shop. He’d stood here this morning, staring at Samantha, while she’d stroked that doll’s breast, her eyes closed. Had she been thinking anything like what he’d been thinking?
He prided himself on total control on the job, but he’d limped over to her, so erect it had hurt to move.
Somehow, she threw him, made him forget he was a cop, turned him into a slathering wildebeest. Or some other creature easily led by its horn.
He entered the salon and got a nose-stinging blast of hair junk and perfume. Three stacked women flipped through magazines in the waiting area, their supersized racks barely reined in by a tube top, a tank top and a low-necked leotard. Long, tanned legs extended from a miniskirt and two pairs of shorts short enough to be underwear. Strippers, maybe? The task force had ID’d several who’d had photos done at Bedroom Eyes. A few had rap sheets for turning tricks after hours. Not that unusual for exotic dancers.
Maybe this trio just liked to make men pant. He didn’t get why women had to be brazen about their assets. He preferred the pleasure of slow discovery, the secret beauty a woman shared only with her man.
He suspected that was Samantha’s preference, too, despite what she said about clothes and their effect. On the other hand, the mental picture of her in that yellow silk thing shot lust through him like a high-voltage current.
Back to business. All three women smiled up at him. He smiled back, then turned to the unstaffed counter, which held a rack of lime-green flyers advertising a strip revue with three dancers in elaborate costumes. One looked familiar….
He turned back to the women reading magazines.
“Yep. That’s me,” said the one in the silver tube top. “Nevada Neru. Choreographer. The other two are back there, if you want a signed flyer.” She pointed at the back of the shop where two hairdressers were at work on women and a manicurist was doing someone’s nails.