“We could teach you,” Jasmine said.
“Don’t say no, say maybe,” Samantha said. He could tell she was enjoying his discomfort. “Valerie has some great G-strings, remember.”
“I’ll give you a discount on the bleaching,” Blythe said, “since you work for Samantha.”
“I think I’ll stick with what I’ve got.” His masculinity was taking enough of a beating. Yesterday, he’d fluffed velvet pillows and dressed dolls in panties, and now he had strippers trying to turn him into a metrosexual. The nail girl was even eyeing his fingers.
“Don’t you need me in the studio?” he said to Samantha, desperate to escape this hellhole of beauty.
“I’ll just bet she does,” Jasmine purred.
“Think about the spikes now,” Blythe said.
“Sure. You bet.” He barreled out of the shop, then waited for Samantha to catch up with him. “That was brutal. I thought they were going to hold me down and pierce an eyebrow.”
“It’s not too late,” she teased. “But they were right about the bleach and the spikes.”
“I don’t think so.” He ran his fingers through the goo, trying to make his hair lie flat. “You enjoyed watching them ganging up on me, didn’t you?”
“It was fun to see you off balance a little.”
“You’ve seen me that way before.”
“I know. And I liked it.”
So had he. And that was the bitch of it. He caught her smile and returned it like a fool.
6
RICK HELPED SAMANTHA with two shoots and made a few marketing calls for her, but managed to leave early for his Healing Touch appointment. He wanted to scope out the shop and examine Mona’s schedule for names that might pertain to the case.
He’d already looked over the empty second floor of the building being renovated for Sylvestri’s electronics business. One of those “Crazy Darien Gives Away the Store” places. Stolen stuff maybe? Rick didn’t know yet. So far, all he’d found was a ton of construction debris.
The bell over the Healing Touch door tinkled when he entered. In seconds, Mona stuck her head out of one of the massage rooms.
“Sorry I’m early,” he said, hoping she had more work to do on the client inside so he’d have snooping time.
“You can change into a robe in there.” She pointed to the bathroom. “Then if you’ll lie facedown under the sheet in the other massage room, you can relax until I get there.”
“You want me to take off…to get…” Naked? He swallowed hard, mortified despite himself. He sure as hell wouldn’t do much relaxing lying there buck—
“Leave your underwear, if that makes you more comfortable,” she said, as cheerful as a nurse.
“However you usually do this,” he mumbled. He had to sound open to something extra, in case she propositioned him. Plenty of therapists offered “full release” for the cash. He hoped Mona was as legit as she seemed.
“Strictly up to you.” He was pretty sure she was laughing at him.
As soon as she closed the door, Rick headed for the appointment book. Right now, it seemed she was working on Alfred Costa. Hmm. He was connected and high up. Rick dashed for the dressing room to look through Costa’s things. The oak locker was only latched, not padlocked, so Rick riffled through the pockets of Costa’s hand-tailored suit, finding a thick money clip, a wallet with driver’s license, credit cards, business cards for an import business—yeah, right—and what looked like one of Samantha’s bedroom shots of a cute brunette.
Hidden in Costa’s Italian loafers was a trim holster with a snub-nosed .22. He took down the serial number to see if it had been used in a crime.
That done, he had time to examine the rest of Mona’s shop and take photos of all Mona’s appointments. He noticed the name Chuck Yardley nearly every day. Who needed a daily rubdown? He’d get the task force to check the guy out.
A male voice rose from behind the closed door. Must mean Costa’s massage was over. Rick ducked into his massage room and listened against the door, stripping fast. He’d forgotten to grab a robe from the rack in the bathroom, but what the hell.
After a bit of chatter, Rick heard the bathroom door open. Costa getting dressed, no doubt. That meant Mona would pop in here any minute.
Rick slid under the sheet, facedown, nervous as hell. Maybe he was as uptight as Mark claimed. A woman was about to run her fingers all over his body with slippery oil and he only dreaded it. He rested his forehead against the top of the doughnut-shaped pad. The hole seemed to be for his nose. Useful, he guessed, but it made him feel as helpless as something getting prepped for barbecue, or some mortifying exam.