Joyride. Colleen Collins
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AT herself in the full-length dressing mirror. “I think the plastic wrap hid more,” she murmured, staring at the black string bikini that covered the essentials, but barely. Thanks to those wedgie cup-things in the top, her breasts had leaped across the alphabet, from “Bs to Ds” as Sandee had said. Corinne wasn’t just hanging out, she was spilling! It’ll be good when Sandee gets back, Corinne thought anxiously, because playing sex bomb is out of this girl’s depth!
The bikini bottom was almost worse than the top. The triangle that covered her privates was smaller than one of the cocktail napkins she found stacked all over Sandee’s apartment. The rest of the bikini was string. Stretchy rayon strings that crossed her thigh and tied in bows on her hipbones.
She’d tied those bows so tight, she could feel the double-knotted, supertight knots boring into her hips. She’d checked out the ring earlier and even though she’d be strutting above people’s heads, she didn’t want some bozo running up and pulling one of those strings. Exposing herself to one stranger was plenty—but exposing herself to a roomful of strangers? She wouldn’t just tighten her knees, she’d tighten her whole body. The first living human being to experience rigor mortis. She’d have to be carried off the stage, like some kind of bikini-clad mannequin.
“And for the rest of her life, Sandee would have to hear about it,” Corinne said, giggling nervously.
The giggle escalated to a laugh. People thought she was Sandee Moray, not Corinne McCourt. Even if the worst happened, people would think it was Sandee who’d been carried out, not Corinne. Extroverted, wild Sandee—no one would believe it!
“That’s me,” Corinne said, meeting her gaze in the mirror. “Extroverted, wild Sandee!” A thrill raced through her, zinging her insides. When in her entire boring life had she ever been given carte blanche to act as wild and sexy as she wanted? To be a bonafide sex bomb? Never! Tonight, it wouldn’t matter if someone pulled a string—or if the whole damn bikini fell off—because after Corinne left Vegas, no one would ever know it had been her.
Realizing she would survive the very worst that could possibly happen filled her with a giddy confidence.
Looking at her reflection, Corinne stepped to her right, then pranced a little in her heels. “If I feel like prancing, I can.” She shook her butt. “If I feel like shaking my bootie, I can.” She shimmied and tossed her head back. “If I feel like doing the come-get-me shimmy I can!” Suddenly, Corinne stopped as a realization hit her. Maybe she’d been inconspicuous because she’d never felt the freedom to be anything else. Tony had been so possessive, so jealous, that she’d retreated into herself, always trying to figure out how to please him. Blaming herself if he got mad or moody. Reading all those stupid books because she felt responsible for their relationship…books with stupid titles like Making Your Man Happy and 101 Ways to Get Your Guy to Say “Yes!”…were just concrete signs of her insecurity, her putting Tony’s self-centered ego before her own self-esteem.
Hell, if there was any book that had helped her with their relationship, it was How to Make Your Man Howl because it made her stay home that day and face the truth.
Corinne smiled knowingly, and a little sadly, at her reflection. “Being forced into this crazy situation—pretending to be Sandee—is probably the best damn thing that ever happened to mousy, Inconspicuous Corinne!” she whispered, feeling the truth right down to her core.
Knock knock. “Five minutes, doll.”
Had to be Robbie G, the guy who managed this part of the MGM. Sandee had said he expected her to be punctual and sexy. Corinne was definitely the former, and she hoped the latter. “Be right there,” she called out in her best sexy-as-Sandee voice.
She breathed deeply and gave herself one last once-over. Bikini bottom was tied. Breasts were spilling. Makeup was bright, unsmeared. And to top it off, she’d brushed and teased her blond mane into a wild, frothy hairdo that would fit a “Sandee.”
She swiveled and strutted to the door. “I’m the one who should’ve been nicknamed ‘Tiger,”’ she murmured, ready to face the crowd.
But more than that, ready to face the rest of her life.
4
FOR LEO, AFTER SPENDING most of the past year alone, sitting in the midst of this loud, frenzied crowd was like jumping from the frying pan into the inferno. Before the accident, he’d have felt comfortable in this scene. Dug the noise, energy, and if not on duty, he’d have savored a cold beer and cursed at the fight like the rest of ’em.
And he’d have had Elizabeth at his side. His wife, the woman he adored. Hell, worshiped. His buddies had always good-naturedly jibed him, joked that Leo was “whipped” whenever he ducked early out of a card game or a drink at the bar. But he loved every moment of it ’cause he knew they were so jealous, their organs were green. Jealous because he, Leo Wolf-man, was the luckiest bastard on the planet Earth. Great career, gorgeous sexy-as-hell wife, loving home.
But now, looking back, he wondered if any other guy in the history of civilization had ever been such a sucker.
Here he was, nearly a year and a half later, sitting in a crowd before the start of a fight, wishing that gnawing feeling in his gut would shrink, go away. Ever since he’d been shot, he’d carried this feeling like some kind of invisible wound. It’d been with him so long, it was a part of him, like an arm or leg. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he had crazy thoughts. Wondered if he lost that gnawing pain, would he lose the will to live? Weird that some nagging, troubling feeling would have the power of life or death. As though if it weren’t there, he’d have nothing to ground him.
His shrink had said such a feeling was normal after an extreme trauma. Called it part of his “suffering” from post-traumatic stress syndrome. Suffering.
He’d finally asked her to stop using that term. He hated it. Made him sound vulnerable for crissake. Something he’d never been—until that drug dealer shot him point-blank. When Leo fell, wondering if the fire in his chest would be the last thing he’d ever feel, his gaze had met Elizabeth’s. And in that horrible moment, he’d seen the truth.
She didn’t love him.
The shrink had turned the tables on Leo with that one. Made him stop saying that. Explained ad nauseum that addicts like Elizabeth had problems. That she had loved something else more than anything in the world. More than her family. Or her health.
Or him.
He tore the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it on the cement floor, as though he could rip the memories out of his head and throw them aside. He’d never trust a woman like that again. Marriage and families were for other men, not this one.
The buzz of the crowd intensified. A fighter strode jauntily down the walkway, a towel draped around his head like some kind of backstreet sheik. A small entourage, walking with the same cocksure strut, moved with him. The sheik’s noblemen, claiming their right to fame with “We Got the Power” baseball caps adorning their heads and raised fists asserting that power. As the swarthy fighter ducked into the ring, a shudder of noise swept through the crowd. Then a second boxer, surrounded by his entourage, wearing “Kick A” T-shirts, strode down the opposing ramp, accompanied by loud rap. A woman in the row in front of Leo stood and yelled, “Kill ’im, Ralphie!” Her bloodthirsty ferocity clashed with her shiny beige stretch pants and silver-sequined tube top.
The woman’s cry was like a cry to battle for the crowd, who unleashed a cacophony of screams and boos, as though someone had taken the lid off their primal urges.
Leo’s own primal urge kicked in with a seismic jolt when the leggy blonde, the one he’d just seen naked, stepped through the parted ropes. As she leaned over, he caught a view of cleavage that made his mouth go dry. For a moment, he felt lost in the dark crevice between those fleshy mounds. And underneath that piece of black nothing called a bikini top, he knew were hidden those rosebud nipples.
She straightened. From where he sat, four rows back, he could almost