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Giselle was the best thing to come into his life in too many years to count. A sad commentary, given his hard work and incredible success, yet it was true. She was his most valued possession—absolutely flawless.

Beyond the public ideal lay private perfection, again all his: Her soft mons pubis—which he insisted she have waxed—full labial lips, the moist warm depths of her vaginal orifice, enclosed by pulsing walls of tender flesh and sinew. All of it set to simmer or boil by a single perfect switch—her delicate but fiercely sensitive clitoris. That was his, too, this paradoxical sexual center of woman, both mechanical and magical, or as close to magic as Q allowed himself. He wasn’t a man for magic.

When they’d met, Giselle had much darker skin, overly tanned from her time under the California sun. In the month she’d been with him, it had faded somewhat. Q had insisted she stay out of the sun and have regular whole body treatments at St. Maline in Beverly Hills. Pale skin was more to his liking.

Giselle loved the spa, especially the famous people she saw there, and Q was alternately amused by her enthusiasm and aghast at her commonness. That she was still here, that he’d let her stay, almost a month now, occasionally astonished him. If he’d had a heart, he might have said she warmed it, but dead things repelled heat. So he’d come to believe it was more a matter of convenience and his own maturity; he’d become too jaded, too weary for the constant search for new diversions, female or otherwise.

Giselle was simply easy, that was all. A young woman who’d entered his life at the right moment in time. That she’d brought with her an edge of uncertainty further intrigued him. For all her obvious enjoyment of a lavish lifestyle, she had something of the butterfly about her, causing him to be somewhat concerned she might exit his life as easily as she had entered. He wouldn’t let that happen.

Her streak of commonness concerned him, of course, as he had no liking for the crass and ordinary, but she was an apt student—most of the time—and willing to oblige him. With time, and his continuing efforts, her rough edges would be as smooth as her spa-pampered skin. As denuded as her pubis. Giselle had balked when he’d made her first appointment for a Brazilian body wax, but Q was immensely satisfied by the results, the shimmer of her pale creamy skin. Certainly worth any discomfort she’d endured.

She turned the water off, again slicked back her hair, and stepped out of the shower. She smiled immediately when she saw him. “Hey, I thought you were busy shuffling papers.”

“I was.”
Shuffling papers worth ten million dollars,
he thought, but knew she wouldn’t be interested. While Q was avid in his efforts to amass money, Giselle only cared about spending it—and in the past few days, she’d been doing even less of that. “I’m done for the evening.” He wrapped her in a large towel, kissed her wet hair. “Feel good?” he said, squeezing the soft warm terry around her shoulders and rubbing her back.

She turned in his arms, locked her hands behind his neck, and went on tiptoe to kiss him. “Feels wonderful. You feel wonderful.” Grinning at him, she said, “Wanna fuck?”

He spun her around, smacked her towel-draped bottom. “You know I don’t like your using that street language.” And he hated that it aroused him, that she aroused him more than any woman had in years. He was fifty-five years old, past the time merely looking at woman made his testicles ache. But then everything was different with Giselle.

She laughed. “You might not like me to say it, Mister Quinlan-Q-Braid, but you sure like to do
it.
” She kissed his cheek—as if he were an old uncle—and gave him a seductive, teasing smile. “And you sure know
how
to do it.” She finished toweling off and let the terry drop to the floor.

“Thank you,” he said. “It’s heartening to know I satisfy you.”

She laughed, turned to the mirror, and ran a comb through her dark hair. “It’s not heartening that you’ve been so busy lately.” She again pulled the comb though her hair. “Who was the ugly guy I saw leaving here the other night? You were huddled in the library forever.”

“No one you need to know about.”

She faced him in the mirror. “He sure didn’t look like your usual pack of friends—all tricked up in their fancy suits and shiny shoes. I thought he was rather interesting.”

“Then I’ll bring him back for a
menage a trois
. Would you like that?”

She grimaced, gave her hair another stroke, and reached for a jar of lotion. “He’s not
that
kind of interesting.”

“Then what kind of
interesting
is he?” Quinlan watched her closely. It wasn’t like Giselle to ask questions about his business or his friends.

“Hit man-interesting or thug-interesting. Weird-interesting. I don’t know. And I don’t care.” She turned, propped her buttocks on the counter. The position put the best of her on show, again highlighting her recently waxed genital area. “I care about what you’re going to do about this.” She stroked herself boldly, lifted her breasts.

“What would you like me to do?” Quinlan refused to show his excitement, refused to gratify her in that way. That he felt like tossing her to the floor and ramming himself to her core, he would keep to himself. That he wanted to make her happy, he also ignored. Such feelings were dangerous.

She played with her nipples. “Whatever you’d like to do. What’s behind that zipper of yours has probably got some good ideas.”

“Too many to pick just one.”

He was filthy hard. Loved it. Hated it. To ease himself back, he picked up the towel she’d dropped on the floor, put it in the hamper, not taking his eyes off her naked body.

She knew he enjoyed looking at her, and she rewarded him with a full frontal stretch before spreading her legs slightly and running a teasing finger through her exposed crease. “How about starting right about here”—she flicked her clitoris and her eyes closed. When she started panting, she looked at him from under heavy lids. “You sure you don’t want to . . . copulate?”

His breath hitched. “Even I have to admit that particular word lacks cachet.” He walked to where she stood in front of his vanity, replaced her finger with his, stroked until she sighed and closed her eyes again. Then he lifted her, set her bottom on the cold granite top and spread her legs. “Wider, Giselle, and hold them there.”

“Oh, yes . . . Not a problem, baby.” She leaned back, braced herself on her elbows.

He separated her labial lips, played with her until her juices were hot and heavy, then bent his head to kiss her hardened nub. With what touching she’d done to entice him, and if she’d been playing with herself in the shower, as she often did, she was already well primed.

He gave her one deep stroke with his tongue. Took her firm, distended clitoris between his lips and sucked. Hard.

It was enough. Her body convulsed, and she came on a wild shriek.

Giselle wouldn’t do well in a motel room.

Q had come to know it made for better sex for him if he brought her to an early release. After his shower, they would go to his bed, where he’d build her tension again, sustain it—and his—until that one blinding moment when for a few seconds, longer if he did things right, his world and its ugly creation left his consciousness.

He stepped back, his penis an iron rod behind the zipper of his slacks.

When Giselle opened her eyes, they appeared unfocused. Her legs were still open, and he could see the moisture glistening on her hairless mons, the shine of it on her inner thighs. She smiled at him, then let her head fall back. “You are so-o-o good at that.”

He got a facecloth, dampened it, and started to clean her up. “I’m good at everything. I thought you knew that by now.”

She let him wipe her, but when she looked at him, the sexual mist was replaced by curiosity. “I never know if you’re being funny or not.”

“I’m never funny.”

She took the cloth from him, tossed it in the sink, and closed her legs. “Well, that was funny, because you’re not good at everything.” She looked serious, when she added, “You’re perfect, except . . .”

He waited.

“You’re so . . . unreachable.”

He helped her down from the counter, got her a robe, and helped her into it. “I’m right here. An arm’s-length away from you. I’d say I’m very reachable.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

He tied the belt on her robe and started to take off his clothes. “What do you mean?” Of course, he knew. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard the accusation, but women liked to talk after sex, so he’d allow it. It cost him nothing to oblige. He took off his slacks, folded them, and hung them over the brass valet.

She looked at his erection and frowned. “That”—she pointed at his engorged penis—“is what I mean. Like, how can you do what you just did to me, and just, I don’t know”—her frown deepened— “just act all normal while your cock’s the size of a, uh . . . a Yule log.”

The image sat between them as hard as the reality between his legs. He looked down at his heavy jutting appendage. His Yule log . . .

His lips curled and he clenched his jaw tight, but then his chest hurt. He looked up from his erection, into her wide blue eyes, and he . . . laughed. And laughed. The sound of it bouncing off the tile and marble in his bathroom. The sound of it like rap at a funeral. The sound of it painful to his heart.

Q swallowed some air and held his breath, worked to save himself from the hurricane in his lungs.

He had to stop his eyes from watering, regain his decorum, but it hurt. The effort to stop laughing made his throat burn and his stomach ache.

When he managed to draw a proper breath, he looked at Giselle. She eyed him warily. “You’re not having a heart attack or something, are you?”

He shook his head—his oddly light head. Laughter . . . He shouldn’t be laughing. Quinlan Braid didn’t deserve to laugh.

“I’m fine.” He turned his back on her and headed to the shower. “And I don’t like the word cock, Giselle. It’s crass.”

Before he could turn the water on, the phone rang.

“I’ll get it,” Giselle went into his bedroom and got the phone. Holding the phone to her breast, she said, “It’s a woman. Should I be worried?”

That she didn’t look the least worried, Q found faintly annoying. “Give me the phone, Giselle—and some privacy, please.”

“Whatever.” She handed him the phone. “I’ll be on the bed. Naked. You can tell that to whoever’s on the other end of that line.”

He didn’t have to, because she’d spoken loud enough to be heard on the first floor. “Go.”

She went, laughing, and Q put the phone to his ear, his gaze following her, watching as she dropped the robe and climbed onto his bed.

“Yes?” With difficulty he brought his attention back to the telephone—the woman speaking from the other end.

“You asked me to report any, uh, problematic behaviors, Mister Braid.”

“Go on.”

“Then I think this qualifies: Henry Castor attempted to kill a woman last night and I think the chances are good, he’ll try again.”

Chapter 9

Henry Castor swigged down the last of his coffee and eyed the buffet; he liked those eggs Benedict things, but his gut couldn’t handle a fourth. Plus, they were probably getting all hard, lying there in their steel bed.

For about the fortieth time, he thumbed through the address book he’d set in front of him. Nothing. What kind of friend didn’t have another friend’s info in her address book?

One who didn’t need to because she knew it by heart, dumbo.

His bile rose, and his anger, only a sliver under his skin at the best of times, was directed at himself. He thought about checking through the rest of the names in the book, maybe calling on a couple of them, but decided it was a waste of time. And dangerous, because after last night with the redhead, the fewer people who knew he was looking for Worth, the better. Yeah.

He’d fucked up with that Rusty chick.

Why didn’t he give her his fist instead of a bullet? Why the hell did he let her get to him like that? She was just a dumb woman.

A woman with a pie hole she wouldn’t goddamn shut. Not that it was his fault he took her down. No way. Between that mouth of hers and the powder he’d put up his nose before going in there, he’d been off his stride. No more of that shit until this job was over. When he had his four mil, he’d swim in the stuff.

He’d thought about going back to Worth’s old job, the chorus line at Bally’s, see if there was something there to give him a lead, but decided against it. Worth hadn’t worn a headdress and feathers for years, and if anyone was around who remembered her, they weren’t about to tell some guy who wandered in the stage door and started asking questions. In Vegas no one answered questions, unless you were a cop or connected—and neither of those was a guarantee.

Nope, Rusty Black was his only connection—and he’d messed up and shot her because she’d got in his face. Now he had a bigger problem. The useless piece of ass wasn’t even dead— and if she did make it, she could ID him.

If that bitch doesn’t die, I’ll kill her.

He’d already called the hospital from the payphone in the men’s washroom. They wouldn’t tell him much, but he’d learned two things: she was hanging on and she had a brother. Tommy Black.
A brother . . .

The penny dropped, and he quickly waved over a waitress. “Sweetheart, do me a favor, will you?” He smoothed a twenty on the table. “Get me a phone book.” He smiled as if he meant it, tapped the bill. “I’d appreciate it.”

She smiled back. “You got it.”

Took her a few minutes. “There you go.” She plunked it on the table. “Anything else?”

“Just coffee, sweetheart, and keep it coming. And a couple of those Danish.”

When she left, he opened the book to the B listings. He cursed. There had to be twenty, thirty Blacks with the initial T. There was always the chance the guy’s phone number was unlisted—or he only used a cell—but still he might luck out.

He was on the fifth Black when the cell phone Braid had given him rang in his pocket. Like he needed
him
right now. He pulled out the cell. “Yeah.”