Sin on the Run (2 page)

Wendy joined them and Alice waited for him to leave before zeroing in on Rhonda. “Well? Which one of them looks better naked?”

“Excuse me?” Maybe she hadn't heard right.

“Blake or Christian, silly,” Wendy said, her voice low.

Rhonda frowned. Had the women lost it? “How many of those have you had?” she asked, pointing to the glass of champagne in Alice's hand.

“Enough, little girl, that I want to know which one of those perfect specimens of men has a hotter body.”

“I won't bother pointing out that your friend just married one of those men and you two caring what they look like naked is wrong. What I want to know is how you think I'd know how to answer your question.”

“Rhonda, come on. We know you know. Give,” Wendy insisted.

Rhonda took the glass away from Alice and set it on a passing waiter's tray.

“Hey, I'm not drunk,” she protested. “Just curious.”

“Well, that's cool and I'm sure every woman within a twenty-mile radius is also curious, but as I've never seen Blake naked . . .” She'd have definitely remembered that holy event.

Alice lowered her head. “Yes, you have,” she whispered. “He's the other agent who worked with Christian at the strip club. You know, the dump you worked at before Maggie's.”

They'd all agreed to keep Christian's undercover assignment as a stripper to themselves, Maggie having warned them not to bring it up around her new husband. Rhonda had worked at the same club where Christian had been trying to shut down a human trafficking operation. The night of Rhonda's attack, she'd been excited to remember where she'd recognized him. Wanting to rush off and tell Maggie had led to her careless disregard for her own safety.

“I don't recognize him.” He'd be hard to forget. Had two agents been assigned to that case?

“He'd have been undercover. Maybe he was in disguise?” Alice offered.

Wendy gave Alice's arm a not so friendly swat. “What kind of disguise can you wear while you're taking your
clothes
off, dummy?”

Rhonda knew exactly how someone could disguise himself, or herself. Her father wouldn't have had the care he'd needed had Rhonda not learned to hide behind the hair and makeup.

Alice folded her arms, nodding in Rhonda's direction.

Wendy's eyes grew like saucers. “I
am
a dummy. You look so different.”

Rhonda offered her a smile and for the first time since this morning, she relaxed a little. The uncomfortable feeling of being on display eased. If Wendy had forgotten, maybe no one else would reconcile the lavender-toting bridesmaid with the woman famous for the
Mistress of the Night
act. Maybe for today she could just be Ronnie?

“Okay, back to the hotties,” Wendy said. “Which one?”

Rhonda glanced back at Blake, honestly not remembering having seen him with Christian. “That was years ago. Are you sure he had the same assignment? It would be hard to overlook a guy who's that perfect.”

“Yes.” Alice nodded. “Maggie said it was their last gig together as feds. Maybe his hair color was different? I know your hair isn't that black.”

If Rhonda wore her true blond,
she
wouldn't recognize herself. She tried to get a better look at him but there were so many people, women, around the group of way-too-handsome groomsmen. “Sorry, I just don't recall.” Had Blake been a stripper too? “And let me remind you, Christian's act was G-string, no frontal. So if you want to know what he looks like nude, ask Maggie.”

“Jeeze, like she'd tell us,” Alice complained.

* * *

Like everything else planned for the day, dinner was perfect. Rhonda made enough money to splurge on meals like this, but eating alone never seemed appropriate for fine dining. Besides, she was a mac and cheese kind of girl. By the time she was seven she'd learned to cook and could grill like nobody's business. But when her father would barely touch food, she'd opted for simpler meals for easy clean-up, especially on the days when he was too drunk to make it to the bathroom.

The head table was long and, thankfully, Rhonda was at the far end. She even managed to maneuver one of the flower arrangements to hide behind. The first dance was a gift from Ryan Sheppard, who hadn't been able to attend but had flown in Ne-Yo to sing. After that, Rhonda managed to smile while gritting her teeth when she was forced to go on display again and dance with her groomsman, a behemoth of guy who would make any defensive lineman look tiny. On the plus side, while Dozier was exotically sexy and hot, his size made her look even smaller. People tended not to notice small.

Dozier didn't say much but appeared to be as uncomfortable as she. “I don't dance,” he whispered to her, obviously embarrassed.

“Oh, sweetie, you make Dwayne Johnson look like yesterday's breakfast. They're all looking at your face,
maybe
your butt in that tux, but certainly not your feet.”

He grinned and tugged her closer. She told herself to relax and enjoy being held by a very handsome, very capable man. This guy didn't need anyone to take care of him. This was the type of guy who did the taking care.

Bridesmaid duties over, Rhonda had wanted to change, but Shannon insisted she keep the dress. Now in the bathroom, Rhonda stared at her reflection in the mirror. She didn't look bad, but she didn't look like herself either. Or had she been protecting this person for so long that now she was a stranger even to herself?

Who was Rhonda Deagan?

B
lake spotted her the moment she returned. Hell, every man in the room had either craned his neck or swiveled his head. As she walked up the aisle, she looked familiar but he couldn't place her. Now, away from the other women, he figured it out. Black Opal was a beauty. Dressed in lavender or her usual black, it didn't matter.

He'd often wondered if her off-stage persona was anything like the on-stage one. Over the top in everything: her hair, too black to be natural and too long to be real, would fall to her ass. He'd seen her dance, seen her use that mane as a cloak, teasing the audience with silky sweeps over creamy white skin, revealing only hints of what lay beneath. The old cliché fit. The woman put the tease in striptease.

He'd been in the club a couple of times under the guise of private investigator. When clients wanted to be entertained in Vegas, it usually involved a show, a stage and beautiful women, clothes optional. He had nothing against women seductively taking their clothes off, but he preferred them to do it in the privacy of his bedroom, for him alone.

He'd spent years as a special agent locking up scum who preyed on innocent women, but Maggie's club was different. The women were considered performers with an act, some with agents, and were treated as such. Any woman who'd ever been coerced or pushed into stripping knew the difference between Heart's Desire and other clubs. Maggie and the three women who'd walked with her down the aisle gave anyone who wanted out of the business a helping hand.

The few times he'd seen Rhonda dance he'd been unable to take his eyes off her. Normally he didn't even bother to watch, but she'd exuded this confidence, this don't-screw-with-me aura that had men falling at her feet. Go figure. But even though she looked like a ball-buster, Blake had sworn he'd seen more. What, he wasn't sure.

He put a hand over his mouth, failing to stifle yet another yawn. His last case had done him in. He'd been hired to recover a missing model, one whose legs had been insured for millions. Her agency wanted their money, but since she hadn't shown up dead, the insurance company was reluctant to pay out. The designer she'd signed with wasn't pleased about losing the star of his ad campaign. Claiming it had cost him a fortune, the guy had wanted compensation.

Blake recovered the model. Only the legs that had made her famous were no longer attached to her body. He'd prayed she'd been dead when she'd been mutilated. Shaking the gruesome image out of his head, he headed to the bar for a drink. He took a seat and swiveled his chair, curious to see Maggie's other bridesmaids corner Rhonda. They'd done it earlier by the fountains. He'd caught the women staring and had the feeling he'd been the topic of their debate. Rhonda didn't look like she cared to be part of the discussion and by their open-mouth shock, she told them so, right before she turned on a pair of sexy heels and walked off. He smiled, liking the woman more and more. She had balls.

He was reminded of another woman with balls, but not the good kind. Elizabeth Jameson, the Dowager Duchess of Oakley, his grandmother, had been a royal pain in his ass for as long as he could remember. While highly inappropriate to say, he disliked her far more than he cared to admit—she was, after all, his grandmother. But her actions of late didn't help her cause. Had she shown some sympathy toward his brother's loss of an unborn child, Blake might have considered liking the old hag. Instead, she chose to harp on Blake. It was supposedly now his duty to produce the next heir to the title and family fortune. To hell with the fact that his brother was heartbroken and might not be able to have another child.

He hadn't been able to talk to Colin since he'd gotten the bad news. Interpol had kept Blake tied up in red tape, so a quick text was all he'd been able to manage. He checked his watch. He'd considered calling his twin a hundred times today. But between the time change and wedding obligations, he'd come up with excuses not to. What do you say to someone who just lost a child?

Blake flagged down the bartender and asked for a Scotch. He swallowed it and requested another. Getting drunk was starting to sound good. Damn the old woman. Glancing down at his empty glass, he ordered another drink, and then another.

“You realize the bartender is free pouring? And your four shots come close to, oh . . . twelve ounces, give or take?”

After downing his fourth drink, he turned his head to see who had disturbed his drowning of sorrows. Rhonda. She looked even freakier close up. Freaky was good. Hot. And damn, wouldn't freaky freak out his grandmother. While he never tallied the ounces he'd consumed, he did realize if he'd said what had just ran through his mind out loud he'd sound drunk. Instead, he motioned the bartender over with a finger pointing to his empty class. He watched the man pour and concluded Rhonda was right.

“And now you're up to fifteen. I'd say that bartender likes you. Be careful,” she whispered, drawing closer. “He might try to take advantage of you. Then again”—she checked out the bartender—“he's cute.”

He crooked a finger at her, beckoning her forward.

“He's no' my type.” He didn't drink that often anymore, but when he did there was no mistaking his Scottish brogue. Now he was out of practice and definitely feeling the effects.

“Oh? Who is?”

Was she coming on to him? The idea intrigued him. “Dark,” he answered, his head beginning to swim. He'd actually dated more blondes than brunettes, but had never taken the time to consider which he preferred.

“What, you like them evil?”

What on earth was she going on about? “Noooo, dark.” However, he had nothing against a little evil. He licked his lips. Vixens could be worth the effort and the one standing in front of him was in a league all her own.

She stared at him for such a long time he was beginning to wonder if she'd heard him. Then a slow smile curled her luscious mouth, her green eyes sparkling with naughty mischief. “You're drunk,” she said in astonishment. “What kind of an Irishman are you? I thought you guys could hold your liquor?”

“Irish!” he said, insulted. “I'm no' Irish.” He placed a hand over his chest. “I'm Scottish. Born and bred.” He winced, not needing or wanting to be reminded of his breeding, or why he'd sat his ass at the bar in the first place.

“Scottish, Irish what's the diff?” She shrugged. “But if it makes you feel better, either is super sexy.”

She
was
coming on to him. Wasn't she?

The bartender came over to refill his glass, but Rhonda waved him away. “If he's not your type,” she hooked an arm beneath his and lifted him to his feet, “then let's find someone who is.”

While perfectly happy to sit at the bar and keep drinking, he allowed himself to be dragged away. Better to have a beautiful woman on his arm than the floor under his back.

“How about that one over there?” She indicated to the left of a very full dance floor.

Now she was trying to get him laid? He glanced over to where she motioned. And realized she was not trying to get him laid. “A little old for me, don't you think, love?”

“Fifty's not old.”

True, fifty wasn't old, but it had been at least twenty years since that particular woman had been fifty.

“I prefer them a wee bit closer to my own age.” He'd dated older women, but never one old enough to be his mother.

“Fair enough. How about—”

He cut her off, far more interested in what she was up to. “May I ask why you're trying to hook me up?”

“Is that what you think I'm doing?”

“Isn't it?”

She smiled sheepishly. “Nah, but I doubt you want to get shit faced on your friend's wedding day.”

“Ah, I see. This was a trick to pull me away from the bar. Clever. Look, I've had a miserable week and I wanted to relax.”

“And you figured that meant you could ruin your friend's wedding? Nice. Where can I find a friend like you?”

“Having a few drinks doesn't mean I was out to ruin anything.” Other than himself, perhaps.

“Drunk people do stupid things and this isn't a frat party. It's a wedding,” she said as if he was a child who needed that pointed out.

“Who put you in charge?”

“One,” she held up her thumb, “me. Two,” and then her index finger, “myself. And see that guy over there who looks like he's got a stick up his ass?” She pointed to Maggie's father, Reverend James Hopewell, with her other hand.

Blake nodded, wondering where she was going with this. “Maggie's father. Yes, I know who he is.”

“And so do the press who are outside dying for a juicy story to embarrass him. So to recap: Who put me in charge? Me, myself, and three, I.” She closed her thumb and index finger and counted her last point with a very unlady-like finger.

“I would never do anything to embarrass Maggie or Christian.”

“Yes, you're special. Alcohol is no match for you.” She lightly punched him in the arm.

“Fine, point taken. My apologies.” He didn't know why he was apologizing, but she was just looking out for Christian and Maggie.

“I'm sorry about your week,” she said, surprising him.

“What happened to the ball-buster, me, myself and I, who just put me in my place?” He kind of liked her. There weren't many women who stood up to him. Most were either sickly sweet or cloyingly offensive, scheming to get him into bed.

“She's done her job. Maggie said you were flying in last minute from a tough case. Is that why you needed the drinks?” she asked, sounding sympathetic.

“No, I . . . I mean yes.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, regretting the last Scotch he'd downed. “Yes to flying and yes to the case, but it's more of a family matter that's ruined my mood. You know how it is. They want, they need, to hell with you. You love them. You hate them. They screw with your life etcetera, etcetera.”

From her odd expression, she either understood exactly what he was talking about or she thought him too drunk to make any sense. He quit while he was ahead. “Would you like to dance?”

“Only if I get to lead.”

“Why?”

“I like my toes, and if I let you lead I predict they'll get stomped.”

He looked down at the silver-painted toes peeking through her shoes. “And very pretty toes they are, but I'm not that drunk.”

She quirked an eyebrow, not buying his bullshit. He liked her more and more.

“Fine, what the hell. A smart man knows when he's beat.”

“A smart man wouldn't consume fifteen ounces of alcohol in less time than it took the bartender to pour them.”

“Touché. Be gentle with me.” He took her hand and led her toward the dance floor. “It would appear I'm drunk.”

Rhonda stayed still while the most beautiful man in the world circled an arm around her waist and drew her in far closer than needed for a slow dance between two almost strangers. But she figured, What the hell? When in her lifetime would this happen again? Never. She didn't meet men like this and men like this certainly didn't date strippers. When he smiled down at her, her silly knees forgot that fact and nearly gave out.

She'd never have gotten the nerve to talk to him if he hadn't been in danger of drinking himself stupid. She recognized a man on a mission to numb himself. She'd not only seen it at the club, but in her home. And yes, she'd done it for Maggie, stopped him from doing something that might embarrass the bride, but Rhonda had done it for him too. She certainly hadn't been on a mission to save anyone. Hell, she was done with that part of her life. But standing by and watching him do something that pathetic was a sin. Alcohol solved nothing and ruined everything.

She kept their pace slow. She wasn't sure if he could or couldn't hold his liquor, but a dizzy six-foot-two guy wouldn't be a good thing for a short five-foot-five girl wearing five-inch heels. On a turn, she spotted the other bridesmaids staring, Shannon giving her the thumbs up. Blushing, she turned her face into his shoulder, which Blake mistook as her wanting to get closer because he drew her in even tighter. She might as well enjoy it while it lasted. No way would a chance like this ever come her way again. And for once in her life, didn't she deserve to do something nice for herself? Sighing deeply, she inhaled his cologne and wasn't surprised to find out he smelled almost as good as he looked. She actually stifled a groan when the dance ended.

“That was very nice,” he said, without letting her go.

“Yes,” she agreed, “and I have all my toes.”

“Dare we try that again?”

“Another dance?”

“It beats being set up with matronly women.”

“Hey,” she said, “Mrs. Haddle is a very classy lady. And she likes them young and pretty. Who am I to judge?”

He blinked. Said nothing. And blinked again.

“What?”

“If it was the other way around, would you be saying, he's a very classy guy who likes them young and pretty?”

Now it was her turn to blink. “You're right. Mrs. Haddle is a pervert.”

His laugh was hot and sexy as hell. She laughed with him.

“And pretty?” he asked, sounding offended. “Bloody hell, Rhonda, you do nothing for a man's ego.”

And then he kissed her. Right there on the dance floor. For everyone to see. Which she promptly forgot the moment his tongue swept across her lips, and, skank that she was, she opened her mouth. The man could kiss. When was the last time a man this good looking kissed her so completely? Oh yes—that would be
never
. Her eyes drifted shut, every part of her vibrating in a wild hum as his tongue took command of her mouth. He tasted like scotch and blessed, selfish desire.