Sin on the Run (3 page)

“Nothing against Mrs. Haddle,” he broke their kiss, “but I prefer my partners closer to my own age.” He shifted the hand at the small of her back perilously close to doing something far more inappropriate than kissing her on the dance floor. “And,” he finished with a kiss to her nose, “less apt to remind me of me mum.”

He moved them off the dance floor. Rhonda was surprised her legs still worked. She ignored Alice's stunned expression and hoped to God Blake didn't see Wendy high-fiving Shannon. “Where are we going?” she asked when he didn't stop, clearly heading toward the door.

“Somewhere less crowded.”

She didn't do “less crowded” with men she'd just met. Hell, she didn't do “less crowded” with anyone. Maybe that's why she wasn't stopping him from doing something she never did, when he pulled her into the lobby of the Bellagio. She never did anything for herself. She considered her options as he pushed the elevator's up button.

If she didn't say something now, she'd be in that elevator, most likely going to his room. If she did, she'd be returning to a ballroom full of people who'd just seen her get kissed like there was no tomorrow. Considering she'd been trying not to draw attention to herself all day, that would be counterproductive.

Plus, he was hot. She didn't do stuff like this, but not three months ago, she'd been run over and left for dead. Life was short. Didn't she deserve something nice? She was a good person; she'd sacrificed everything to take care of her father. And he was Christian and Maggie's friend. That made him a good guy, right? Not some creep who would turn out to be a psycho.

Caught up in her own debate, she hadn't realized they were in the elevator. And before she could think, Blake was kissing her, his body pressing against hers on the wall. There was no mistaking what he wanted. And she did too. She'd be lying to say otherwise. This, she could give and then afterward, walk away. This, she could also take. She had to make changes in her life. She'd learned that lesson. It was time to be selfish. She closed the debate and let herself feel.

The elevator stopped. Blake didn't. He quit kissing her long enough to fumble for his keycard. He opened the door with one hand and took one of hers with the other, then pulled her inside. What happened next was a frenzy of zippers and buttons, kisses, squeezes and heavy breathing until they were both naked and on the bed. There was nothing gentle about the way he touched her and nothing innocent in the way she reciprocated. Raw and carnal, his kisses scorched her skin. It was a burn she welcomed.

He pinned her to the bed, her arms over her head as he explored first one breast, then the other. Her body arched in response, encouraging more. She shut her eyes and gave in to the pleasure he offered. God, the man had a sinful mouth. He sucked on her nipple, maneuvering his thigh between her legs. She shouldn't do it, but with each tug, each nip, the pressure built and built. He was torturing her and she loved it. She rubbed herself against him, every lap of his tongue bringing her closer and closer. Her nipples were never this sensitive. And just when she thought she'd peak, he withdrew. She groaned.

She caught her breath enough to ask him not to stop—she'd been on the edge—when he slid down her body. And before she could object, before she could prevent a man she barely knew from . . .
dear God
. He'd gone and done it. Up the roller coaster she went, ascending the summit. The man was seriously talented. Each crescendo preceded a sudden drop when he'd slow, barely move his tongue, teasing her. Then back up she went, over and over again until she couldn't take anymore. The bastard had planned to kill her. Death by frustration.

She opened her mouth to threaten that if he stopped one more time . . . he didn't. He let her finish the ride. She climbed the exquisite mountain of pleasure, up and up and up, and then she jumped. God, she wanted to scream. But damn it to hell if she would give him the satisfaction—he'd tortured her.

She was going to get even. The moment she could feel her leg and open her eyes. She heard the rip of plastic and then a soft grunt. Condom. She was on birth control but wasn't stupid enough to forget STDs. She forced her eyelids apart. Blake's mouth came down on hers, hard and possessive, something else poking her between her legs. She grinned. She was going on another ride and she'd bet it was going to be better than the first. She should object. She hadn't even touched him. Not that he needed any . . . encouraging.

She considered how selfish she was being, until he slid a hand beneath her bottom and drove himself home. Any coherent thought she may have had evaporated, all but one. This beautiful, gorgeous, sexy man was hers, for tonight anyway. She wrapped her thighs around his waist, giving him the angle he seemed to like. Then she lay back and enjoyed staring up at him as he glided in and out of her. He truly was delicious. And either from luxuriating in his good looks or the luscious friction between the bodies, much to her delight, her body was again responding.

Rhonda met his thrusts, joined his pace.

“You good?” he asked, surprising her.

Was she good? He'd made her come once already and she was pretty certain it was going to happen again. “I'm beyond good.” Wasn't he? Had she been so absorbed in her own needs she was forgetting his? But it wasn't like he'd given her much choice. He'd pretty much taken the lead. Still. “You?”

“I passed good when I saw you naked.” He smiled then closed his eyes with a deep thrust. “Fuck.”

They didn't speak again. They kissed and sucked and bit. They ground their hips, melded their flesh. He pounded, she accepted. Their bodies sweated and clenched, hummed and vibrated, and at last exploded.

Finally, they intertwined in a satisfied heap on the bed.

“I
t's just breakfast,” he said, “not a marriage proposal.”

How had she allowed herself to fall asleep? Now she'd have to remove a walk of shame from the list of things she'd never done. Her face heated at the memory of all the other firsts she'd done last night. She dropped to the floor to look for her shoes. They'd gone at it two more times. Not only did she not sleep with men she'd just met, she'd never had a lover with that kind of stamina. He truly was God's gift to women.

“I already ordered it. Stay. I only need to refuel.” He spoke over her head.

Stunned, she made the mistake of looking up.

“You did me in,” he said, a heated glint in his eyes.

Feeling heat rush to her face again, she returned to the task of finding her shoes. To top it off, he still looked too pretty and far too sexy to be real. Add that to the whole tuxedo pants and no-shirt thing and he was sex incarnate. She, on the other hand, was doing a great impression of a walking corpse.

Finding no shoes under the fallen bedcovers, would she look stupid crawling to the bathroom? She could at least wash her face. Maggie had gotten them all rooms, but Rhonda's was two floors below. She didn't like the idea of going faceless, but it beat scaring the other hotel guests.

Okay, this was ridiculous. She didn't crawl on the floor for anyone. She drew a deep breath and stood to face Mr. Perfect.

“Look, not everyone wakes up with pixie dust sprinkled over us. I can't sit here and eat breakfast with you looking like that.” She pointed to his face.

It wasn't like she'd be seeing him again anytime soon, so what did she care what she looked like? But a girl had her pride.

“Pixie dust? That's a new one, but really?” he said, acting insulted.

“Come on, you're so beautiful, you hurt my eyes. In fact, I swear I saw you on the cover of
GQ
.” She could have sworn on it.

“Thanks, that's so much better.”

Why was he getting upset? Surely he knew that even dead women would crawl out of their graves for a piece of him. “I only meant that compared to your angelic hotness, I look like a demon.”

He yanked her into his arms. “I think you look—”

“Don't.” She tried to push away. He might be prettier than sin but he was solid muscle. He didn't budge. “Don't tell me I look fine. I can see the knots in my hair and my makeup must be all over my face.”

She'd never let anything or anyone get to her. Maybe her attack had changed her or maybe sleeping with a guy she'd known for ten minutes had something to do with it, but now she was embarrassed and wanted to return to her own room.

“You
are
beautiful. You look sexier. And,” he added, sliding one hand to grab her bottom, “I thought you enjoyed last night?”

“I did.” She also did her best, and failed, at not squirming. She couldn't help it. She could recall in vivid detail what else that hand had done to her. “What's that got to do with looking like crap in the morning?”

“First, stop it. Second, I think you look like a woman who had the best sex of her life.” He drew in close and kissed her. It was so chaste and he pulled away so slowly that it took her too long to get over the absurd way he made her feel feminine, to react to his assumption, correct though it was.

“I know I did.”

“You did not,” she said, recovering, more indignant than flattered that he'd try such drivel.

“There are many things I don't know,” he said, running his knuckles down her face. “But I think I'd know if I enjoyed what we did last night. Are you saying you didn't?”

She wouldn't lie. She'd made it very obvious that he'd rocked her world. And it had been the best sex of her life. But his? “Not the point. I don't have women throwing their panties at me.”

“Lass, you assume too much.” He pulled her in tighter, removing any space between them. It was evident he had something other than breakfast on his mind.

She couldn't help smiling. The tingles that raked her body were too good not to react. “Is it bras they toss at you then?” she asked, feeling more like her sarcastic self. “Money, maybe?”

“First you imply I'm a manwhore, then that I prostitute myself. I am neither. You, Madame, do me a grave injustice and I demand recompense.”

She had to say, the haughty Scot was a turn-on. Or it could be just the Scot? “What do you propose, your lordship?”

“Get naked and I'll show you.”

A knock on the door stopped her from deciding to accept or reject the idea. Last night had been something she wanted to do for herself. Did she dare continue this or was she pushing her luck? She hurried to the bathroom, not wanting to be seen.

“Set it over there,” she heard Blake say, “by the windows.”

Maggie had been extravagant in reserving their rooms, one of her gifts to the wedding party. Like Rhonda's, his salon suite had the same view of the Bellagio fountains. Even in the morning light, the setting was beautiful.

Someone grunted. “Sorry, I not mean to step,” the waiter spoke in a heavy accent.

“No worries,” Blake replied. “We were looking for those earlier.”

The waiter must have found her shoes.

She heard drawers being opened and wondered what he was doing. Then she noticed his wallet on the marble counter and realized he probably wanted to tip the guy and was looking for money. Well, wasn't that her dumb luck? She contemplated cracking the door open and tossing it toward the bed. However, if she missed, she'd be even more embarrassed. It was stupid but that girl pride kicked in again.

She reached for the knob when she heard a pop, and then something crashed. The breakfast cart? Her hand covered her mouth. She didn't want to believe what she thought had just happened. It couldn't be.
What the fuck!
Her other hand trembled as she set the wallet back on the counter. What was she supposed to do? Could she be wrong? The room was now silent. No, something, someone had taken down that cart. Someone who'd been shot. Blake?
Dear God
, Blake had been shot. Why?

Frantic, she looked around the bathroom for something, anything to defend herself with. She had to get to him. He could be dying, or worse.

Nothing, there was nothing. Maggie had taught the girls to carry hairspray, to blind someone should the need arise. Cologne. That could work. She scanned the counter and found a full bottle. Thankfully, it would give off a good spray. She'd just grabbed it when footsteps approached the bathroom.

Slipping behind the door, she waited. The silencer was the first thing she saw.
Dear God
,
let me make it through this alive and I promise never to curse again
. It was stupid, but it was all she could think of. She held the cologne like a gun, index finger on the pump, at what she hoped was eye level. He'd do one of two things. Look behind the door, or the closed shower curtain. She lucked out. He stepped toward the shower. She advanced, held her breath and began spraying before he turned, drenching the bathroom with a heavy mist of cologne, enough to make anyone blink rapidly and gag. She nailed his face, and when he pulled the heel of his hand toward his eyes, she pushed him. He fell into the shower, pulling the curtain with him.

Rhonda ran, desperately wanting to go to Blake, but knowing the best way to help him was to draw attention to herself. She fled the room screaming and shouting, “Help, he has a gun.” Her luck held. Two doors opened. “Call the police. He shot my friend.”

A man stood in one of the doors across the hall from her. He yanked her in his room and ran to the phone by the bed to alert the front desk. Outside, she heard a loud thud, someone falling and then running. While she wanted the police to catch him, she wanted to get back to Blake more. She opened the door a crack and saw the gunman. One hand frantically wiping at his eyes, he headed toward the stairs, opened the door and disappeared. She ran back to Blake's room, ignoring the man who'd helped her telling her to stay put.

The carpet beneath Blake's body was stained red. She pushed aside her panic and went into paramedic mode. She had not logged a lot of hours, but she remembered her training. She'd been on her way to graduating top of the class, and even as a trainee she'd been first on a few scenes she wished she hadn't. It had served her well though. Right now, she could be the paramedic, not the woman who'd slept with him. The woman who admittedly liked him despite herself. She rolled him over.

He was bleeding, not a bad sign. It meant he was alive. He'd taken a bullet to his chest. It had missed his heart but whether it had struck an artery she didn't know. A man, mid-forties, gray hair, came into the room. The waiter had dark hair. She relaxed.

“Towels,” she shouted, placing her hand over the gunshot hole and applying pressure. When he returned, she quickly replaced her hand with the towels and continued to press down. “The comforter on the bed. Bring it to me.” He did and knew enough to cover Blake. “Ambulance?”

“On its way. What else can I do?”

“You can push here, while I check his vitals.”

He nodded, switching places with her.

Blake's pupils were dilated, not good.

“He's soaking through,” the man said.

She ran to the bathroom, found more towels under the sink and returned. Falling to her knees, she folded one, creating a thick wad. The man started to lift his hands. “No, don't move.”

“But we need to change the towels.”

“No, keep pushing. When I tell you, lift your hands so I can shove the new ones on top. Okay?”

He nodded and waited for her signal.

“Go.”

He lifted. She shoved. He pressed.

“Should we elevate his feet?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He'll bleed faster. Just push on the towels with everything you've got. I'm going to check the hall.” Outside, a small crowd was forming. “Can one of you head to the lobby? Tell the ambulance what floor we're on?”

“I'll go,” a pretty blonde in her early twenties answered, and without waiting for the go-ahead, ran to the elevators.

Rhonda returned to Blake, two onlookers following.

“Is there anything we can do?” one asked.

“Not unless one of you has a medical bag.”

“Sorry.”

It was too much to hope for. She went down on her knees, taking Blake's head and cradling it in her lap. The blood on her hands was starting to dry, but she still left red streaks on his face as she brushed away his hair. She bent down, doing the only thing left to do.

“Don't you fucking die on me. You hear? Don't you dare ruin Maggie's wedding.” She blinked back tears, knowing they wouldn't do him any good. “Don't die, Blake. Don't die.” She kissed his forehead. “I'll hate you forever if you do this. Don't make me live with that.”

“Everybody who doesn't need to be here, out,” someone shouted.

She glanced up to see Lieutenant Horace Cooper. He'd been at the wedding.

“He's been shot,” Rhonda told him. “In the chest.”

“The ambulance is on its way. Should be here any second. The wife and I were on our way to breakfast when I got the call. We're a few floors down.”

They must have been given a room too. Maggie had known Horace a long time and considered him a close friend, if not a father-like figure in the years she and her father weren't speaking.

“Can you keep the pressure on?” he asked the man.

“Yeah, the little lady here already told me. It looks like it's stopping. He hasn't soaked through the second towel.”

Panicking, Rhonda checked for a pulse on his neck. She let out a loud breath. “Thank fucking God.” She pressed her lips together and silently apologized to his Almighty.

After what seemed like an eternity, she heard clanking metal and thumping feet. Two paramedics rushed into the room, three police officers in tow.

“Secure the scene,” the lieutenant ordered. “Rhonda.” His tone softened as he took her arm. “Why don't we all get out of their way? Let them do their job.”

She hesitated, knowing he was right, but not wanting to leave Blake. Stupid and yet . . . She waited until one of the paramedics had replaced his gloved hands for the man's and the other injected a hemostat into Blake's arm to stop the bleeding. Only then did she allow Cooper to assist her to her feet.

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked, giving the medics space to work.

“Someone shot him.” The reality of what had happened started to make her legs shake. Again she tamped it down, forced herself to stay in rescue mode. “A waiter knocked on the door with our breakfast. I was in the bathroom. I saw Blake's wallet on the bathroom counter. But before I could get out here, I heard the shot. He had a silencer, but I'd gone with Maggie to the shooting range. I know a silencer when I hear it.” She scrubbed the back of her hands across her forehead in an attempt to keep the tremors at bay.

“Then what happened?”

She thought back, trying to remember. Why couldn't she remember what she'd done next?

“Take your time, Rhonda.”

“I . . . I looked for something to defend myself with. Blake was shot and I needed to get to him.”

“What were you going to do? Take on the shooter? Rhonda,” he said in the tone she overheard him use on Maggie when she bent the law for a runaway she was trying to help.

Rhonda was used to taking charge. She'd done it all her life. “No, but I had to do something.”