On Thin Ice (13 page)

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Authors: Susan Andersen

BOOK: On Thin Ice
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Mick's head dropped and he licked into her mouth with a lascivious sweep, sucked hard on her full bottom lip, and then pulled away. “Don't toy with me, Sasha,” he said in a harsh voice. “Of your two lovers . . . was Morrison one of them?”
She had been blinking lazily as she'd peered up at him, not putting any particular effort into collecting her scattered wits. But his abrupt interrogation was like being splashed in the face with a bucket of cold water, and her eyes narrowed. “I don't know why you're so damn interested in my pitiful sex life,” she began, only to be immediately cut off.
“Has he kissed you the way I do?” Mick growled, his face close to hers. His hand reached up between them and spread over her breast. “Has he put his hands on these beautiful little tits?” Insinuating a hard thigh high up between hers, he watched her face and demanded, “Or spread your legs and buried—” His voice dwindled away at the sudden change that came over her expression.
It was as if a sheet of bullet-proof glass had suddenly dropped down between them, sheer but impenetrable. He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment but he knew he'd made a serious tactical error. She froze beneath his hands and raised a face to his that was as cool and shuttered, as calm as a nun's. There was a strength, a dignity, in the depths of her clear, gray eyes as they stared into his, and shame, scalding and complete, flooded him.
Jesus, what was the matter with him? His mother had taught him better than this. Mick retracted his thigh; his hand started to slide away from her breast and he took a step back. Good God, since when had he needed to resort to molestation to get what he wanted? “Sasha,” he said with sincere contrition. “Jesus, I'm sorr—”
There was a roar of rage directly behind him and suddenly he was gripped in strong hands and whirled around. Two seconds later he slammed into the wall.
Instincts honed over the past eleven years erupted and Mick propelled himself away from the bulwark at his back. Crouched low and leading with his right shoulder, he plowed into the body of the man standing in front of him and drove Morrison across the hall into the opposite wall. The impact echoed in the narrow corridor.
Mick welcomed the chance to brawl; he wanted to use his fists, to pound on Sasha's precious Lonnie until he was nothing but a smear on the concrete floor. But it was a wish not destined to be granted, for he made the mistake of looking into Morrison's face at the same time he was cocking back his fist, and he saw that Lon wasn't even looking at him. He was staring at Sasha and there was something tortured in his eyes.
“Has it never stopped, then?” he demanded hoarsely. “Good God, Sasha, do you still have men pinning you down to cop a feel?”
The strength left Mick's arm and it fell to his side. He craned around to stare at Sasha also, not at all liking the connotations of what Morrison was asking her. And he heard the echo of Sasha's voice saying,
I'm actually not all that big on sex if you want to know the truth.
“No, Lon, it's not like that,” Sasha assured him earnestly. “Really. I know what it must have looked like, but Mick is . . . different.” Face flushed, she risked, before returning her attention back to Lon, a quick glance in Mick's direction. It was really hard for her to admit to any such thing right in front of him, especially in view of the way she'd been trying to hold him at arm's length, but she didn't want them fighting because of her. Besides, it was the truth, in its own way. Her relationship with Mick, such as it was, did differ from any other she'd ever had, even if, for just a second there, the feel of his hand on her breast had been like a time warp sending her reeling back into the hometown mode of defense.
Mick released Lon and stepped back, but the two men eyed each other like two tomcats facing off over a boundary line. “You do anything to hurt her,” Lonnie promised in a low voice, “and I'll serve her up your balls for breakfast. On toast points, Vinicor—count on it.”
Only professional survival instincts prevented Mick from retorting that
he
wasn't the one who'd asked her to play the whore to secure him a job. Which, if she had a goddam history of being molested, was an even shittier thing to have demanded of her than he'd originally believed.
But he bit down on his tongue. Sasha just might begin to wonder how the hell he knew she had vamped old Garland into giving Lon the job; and somehow he doubted that explaining he was tapping her phone and following her every move would earn him any points. Blowing his cover wasn't in the game plan.
But he was damned if he'd just walk away and leave this bastard with the last word. Thrusting his face aggressively close to Morrison's he said softly, his voice full of insinuation, “Hurting her is not in my plans. Wearing her out with my
lovin'
maybe . . .”
“You sonofabit . . .” Lon threw a punch, which pleased Mick no end. Before the swing was complete Mick had already ducked under it and grabbed Morrison by the shirt front, slamming him back against the wall.
“You heard the lady,” he murmured in the same soft voice, one that was pitched too low to be heard by anyone other than the man whose face was mere inches from his own. “I'm
different.
You keep pressing it and I'll show you just how different I can be.”
“Stop it, both of you!” Sasha was suddenly there trying to get between them. She grabbed one of Mick's wrists in both her hands and tugged. When his grip didn't budge, she sank her nails in. Hard. “You're causing a scene, damn you both, and I won't have it.”
The combatants turned their heads to look at her. Mick then looked beyond her to the small group standing at the end of the corridor. It consisted of Connie, Brenda, Karen Corselli, and Jack the driver, and they were all watching with unabashed interest.
Son of a bitch.
Real professional behavior, here, Vinicor.
He looked back at Sasha and noted that her face was pale except for the two bright splotches of color that burned high across her cheekbones.
“Take your claws outta my wrist, darlin',” he said gently. As soon as she complied, he released Morrison and stepped back. Cocking an eyebrow at Sasha, he inquired, “So. You ready to go then?”
“In your dreams, Vinicor,” Lon snapped. “She's riding back with me.”
Sasha damn near exploded. Taking a giant step backward to distance herself from both men, breathing deep to keep from screaming, she said through clenched teeth, “If the two of you were going up in flames, I wouldn't cross the street to spit on either one of you. The next time you want to make a spectacle of yourselves, you damn well leave me out of it. I've had enough of this shit to last me a lifetime.” She hated men, hated, hated,
hated
them.
Turning on her heel, she stalked down the corridor. Seeing Karen open her mouth as she drew near, she snapped, “You say one word about my language, Corselli, and I'll flatten you. C'mon, Connie,” she commanded in a more moderate tone as she passed her friend, “let's go back to the hotel.”
“Why do they
do
that kind of stuff?” she demanded on the short ride back to the inn. “I don't understand men at all; I swear I don't. I mean, what's it to Mick whom I've slept with? I don't ask him about his prior love life . . . and you can bet it's a whole lot more extensive than mine could ever hope to be.” She noticed the driver eyeing the two of them in the rearview mirror, listening to their conversation with obvious interest, and dropped her voice. “And, jeez, Connie, where on earth would he get the idea that I've slept with Lon? That would be like having sex with my
brother.”
“Ah, finally, a question I think I can answer.” Connie gave her friend a tender smile. “Sasha, it was obvious from the way you talked about Lonnie at the Dome earlier that you know him very well. One might even be forgiven for assuming you know him quite intimately. Add to that the image the two of you project when you skate together, and it's really not such a surprising conclusion to jump to. And, hell, it's not like you've ever told Mick anything about your relationship with Lon. So he simply drew his own conclusions based on what he observed, and it gave him a case of the green-eyed monster.”
“All right,” Sasha conceded slowly. She was reluctant to relinquish her fury but ultimately forced herself to acknowledge the logic of Connie's words. “Yeah, okay, I suppose I can understand that. But what's Lon's excuse?”
Connie shrugged. “That I don't know. By the time I got there, Mick had him rammed up against the wall. Well, I guess he did that twice, didn't he? The first time, then. Perhaps if you reconstruct the events you'll have a better understanding of Lon's reasons. Just what started the whole thing, anyhow?”
“Oh,” Sasha whispered, suddenly remembering. “Okay, so maybe Lonnie thought he had cause.” She filled Connie in on the incident that started the brawl. “I kind of regressed for a minute there when Mick put his hand on my breast. But all that fighting and posturing . . . You know, when it comes right down to it, Con, I swear men get off on this kind of thing.”
“Yeah, it's one of those male deals that women never quite comprehend. I sure as hell don't understand what they find so appealing about the prospect of getting their teeth kicked down their throats.”
“Me either. While I think it started off being about me, in the end I think it was really about them. Some territorial muscle flexing thing.” She sighed. “Oh, hell, let 'em duke it out if it makes them happy. For once in my life I'm going to use my brain and just steer clear of both of them.”
 
 
If everyone else was vastly entertained and highly amused to see Lon Morrison and Mick Vinicor fighting over Sasha Miller, Karen Corselli was not. She was perturbed.
Seriously
perturbed.
She was very unhappy with the way events had been unfolding of late. Mick had turned down her freely offered body . . . while actively pursuing little Miss Butter-Wouldn' t-Melt-in-Her-Mouth's.
Why,
for heaven's sake, when he could have her? She didn't understand it; she truly didn't. And she and Lon had been “such good friends,” as the saying went, once upon a time; yet he hadn't so much as looked her up or even said hello since his arrival yesterday. His only interest seemed to be in namby-pamby Sasha. Karen was getting heartily sick of the sound of that name.
Although she would perhaps admit that she'd been just the tiniest bit impressed when Sasha had warned her with such fierceness against issuing a lecture concerning her language . . . not that a reprimand wouldn't have been well deserved, for it had been most improper. Few people had ever deterred Karen from objecting to anything she felt strongly about—and heaven only knew her feelings regarding the inexcusable use of such language were strong and pure. Yet, in spite of herself, she
had
been deterred. For just the merest instant, she had caught a glimpse, an intimation, of such power in Miller's eyes . . .
Karen's backbone snapped erect. Well, she was certain it was an aberration; for if there was one thing she'd determined a long time ago, it was that little Miss Miller wouldn't know what to do with real power if it came right up and tapped her on the shoulder. Besides, even if it had been the genuine article it was a puny thing compared to her own.
Karen wouldn't countenance interference in her plans; she simply would not. And, oh, what plans she had . . . big plans. They included Mick Vinicor
and
Lon Morrison.
They did not include Sasha Miller.
Ultimately, Karen was convinced, everything would work out in exactly the fashion she intended. It invariably did; she was quite diligent about seeing to it. As always, of course, she would say her nightly prayers, with perhaps just a bit more fervor than usual.
But meanwhile Sasha Miller had better just stay the heck out of her way.
E
IGHT
The final Tacoma show was performed in front of a near-sold-out crowd. The Dome was darkened except for professional lighting that highlighted the set designs and brought out the glittering colors in Sasha's costume. When her number changed from slow and languorous to fast and sexy, the lighting director switched to different colored lights, accenting the shift in moods.
Down on the ice, Sasha feared that she was in very deep trouble.
She'd felt the slight wobble in her blade on that last camel. God, why had she left her skate bag on the bus last night? She was always careful to check her equipment following a show, but she'd still been upset over that mess earlier in the day with Lon and Mick and she'd figured to hell with it—why schlep the damn thing up to her room just to turn around and schlep it back down again tomorrow? Nobody else was quite so compulsive with their gear, and when it came right down to it,
what
exactly could happen to the stuff in the baggage compartment of the bus?
Well, for starters, it felt suspiciously as though the blade on her left skate was loose. But what were the chances of that? They were screwed and glued on; they didn't simply come undone on their own. Oh, sure, screws did drop out with regularity and moisture rot did invariably set in, but she'd checked them just the other day and they'd been in good shape.
And even if the blade was merely clinging to her custom-made boot by a thread what could she do about it in the middle of her performance?
She skated flat out because that was the only way she knew how to skate. She couldn't stop to check for a defective blade halfway through her act, and she couldn't cheat the audience by tippy-toeing through her performance. She could merely deliver her best and hope to heaven she was wrong about the blade.
She wasn't.
It all blew up in her face when she touched down from the double axle. She didn't hear or see the blade snap free upon landing; all she knew was that one minute she was performing a truly fine landing from what had been a nice, high turn, and the next her leg had buckled underneath her and she was spinning and sliding across the ice to crash headfirst into the barrier that separated the rink from the spectator seats.
She registered the collectively indrawn gasps of the horrified crowd a millisecond before an immense pain exploded in her head. A gray mist swam inward from the outside edges of her eyes and her ears began to ring. Then everything went black.
When she came to, the walls of the backstage corridors were rushing past and her stomach nearly revolted. She narrowed her eyes in an attempt to focus, and swallowed hard against the nausea that persisted in rising up in her throat. Conquering it, she ultimately realized that she was being wheeled on a gurny down the hallway.
A door banged open and the bright lights overhead dimmed as she passed from indoors to out. A cold, misty breeze blew over her and she shuddered; the next instant she was being lifted into the back of an ambulance and a blanket was being tucked around her.
“I'm coming with her,” she heard a male voice say and wondered vaguely who it was.
“Not in here you aren't,” the attendant replied. “You'll have to follow in your own car.” He turned to the other attendant. “Get the doors, Kenny.”
The next thing Sasha saw was hands, in the periphery of her vision, reaching in and grasping the young man by his lapels. He was hauled past her, sputtering protests all the while, and out into the street.
“Listen,” she heard a low, authoritative voice say through gritted teeth, “I'm the manager of
Follies on Ice
and I don't have a car. Now, you've got an unconscious woman in there and I'm stuck out here for God knows how long before I can get a taxi. What the fuck are you planning to do? Leave her lying around in some hospital corridor until someone from the show can get there with the information you know they're gonna require just to check her in? Use your head, kid.”
The response was resigned, if a little sulky. “Get in.”
Ah. Mick. Sasha turned her head toward the sound of the two men climbing into the back of the ambulance. The doors slammed and her stomach lurched again as the ambulance pulled out.
“Hey, you're awake.” Mick squeezed into a space next to her and picked up her hand. “You're gonna be okay, Sasha,” he assured her gently as he studied her eyes. The pupil of her right eye was pinpointed, while the left was dilated so wide its iris appeared to be black instead of gray. She focused on him with a fuzzy, trustful sort of intensity, and something about that look caused his stomach to flip-flop.
“I don't know how much you remember,” he said to her in a soft voice, “but you lost a blade off your skate and you hit your head pretty hard. Looks like you've got a concussion but you're on your way to the hospital to be checked over. How you feelin'?”
“Pukey.” She started to lift her hand up to touch her throbbing head, but Mick intercepted it. He brought it back down and stacked it on top of the one he already held, stroking both of hers between both of his. “Head hurts,” she murmured fretfully.
“Yeah, I know it does, Saush. We're almost there, though, so just hold on; they're gonna get you fixed up.” He turned to the attendant and said in a low, fierce undertone, “We are almost there, aren't we?”
“Five minutes.”
They were at the hospital for hours. It was early morning by the time Mick carried her past the hotel's deserted front desk to the bank of elevators at the side of the lobby. Sasha had halfheartedly protested when he'd scooped her off the seat of the cab and into his arms, mumbling that she could walk perfectly well on her own. When he acted as though he'd suddenly gone deaf, however, she didn't bother to repeat herself. The truth was, although she felt better than she had a few hours ago, she still felt a long way from great.
As the elevator doors swooshed shut, enclosing them in the small, mirrored area, Mick looked down at her. The top of her head lolled against the bottom of his throat, she was limp in his arms, and in spite of her assertion that she was feeling better, she sure as hell didn't look it. “I don't imagine you've got your room key secreted anywhere in that little costume, do you?” he inquired without a great deal of hope. He couldn't see much of it, swallowed up as she was in his jacket, but he was pretty sure it didn't boast any hidden pockets.
Sasha didn't bother to open her eyes. “Huh uh.” Then tightening her left-handed grip on her skates—which had still been on her feet when they'd arrived at the ER—she tried to pretend, for about two seconds, to more alertness than she actually possessed. She pried her eyelids open and blinked up at him.
“Z'in my bag at the Dome,” she said more comprehensively and then yawned. Her eyes, feeling weighted, slid closed again. “Sure hope Connie grabbed it,” she tacked on in slurred tones. Mick's chest and arms were warm, the sway when he walked and the elevator's movement as it rose to her floor was soothing, and the lure of slumber was more than she could resist. She could feel its effects wrapping her up like a down comforter.
“Sasha.” It felt as if no more than five seconds had passed when she found herself being cautiously shaken awake. “Sasha, can you hear me?”
She hunched her shoulder out from under the hand that was gently rocking it. “Go 'way.”
It came right back again, warm and persistent. “Come on, baby, wake up.”
“Miiiick, leave me alone. I'm tired.”
“I know you are, darlin'.” He pulled her up into a sitting position, smiling wryly when her head promptly flopped forward. He hooked a finger beneath her chin and tipped it up. “But you've got a concussion,” he informed her, “and the doctor said you need to be awakened once an hour.”
“Y'ask me, the doctor's full of . . .”
“Shh, shh, shh.” There was laughter in his voice and Sasha pried an eye open. “Having an interrupted night's sleep beats the hell out of slipping into a coma,” he assured her. When he saw that she appeared to be a little more fully awake, he leaned back at arm's length, his hands still firmly gripping her shoulders, and looked her over. “How about getting a little more comfortable, now that you're awake? You want to change out of that costume into something less restrictive?”
Sasha looked down at herself, surprised to discover that she was still in her red spangled and beaded “Playing with Fire” costume. Cut low between her breasts and high on her hips, it was a wonder she hadn't frozen to death. “Oh, my gosh, Mick, my jacket!” At the sudden recollection that everything had been left behind in the Tacoma Dome and that they were leaving for Seattle tomorrow, panic began to surface.
“It's okay.” Mick didn't have a clue what made her jacket so special to her, but he was nevertheless quick to reassure. “I called Connie when we got back to let her know how you were doing, and she said to tell you that she's got all your things in her room.”
“Oh. Good.” She gave him a sleepy smile. “I would like to change,” she decided. “Grab my blue nightie, will you? It's in the second drawer on the right.”
He was gone and back in seconds. He handed her a big, soft T-shirt. It was maroon. Sasha looked down at it in puzzlement as he cupped a palm under her elbow and helped her to her feet. “What's this?” Eyes raising, she slowly inspected her surroundings. “Where are we? This isn't my room.”
“No, it's mine.”
“Oh. Okay.” Holding her head very carefully she shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
When she came out, Mick threw back the covers and helped her into bed. “Scoot over,” he ordered. She did as he said and he snapped off the light, shucked out of his jeans and shirt and climbed in beside her.
“Hey.” Sasha started to raise up on one elbow but her head pounded too viciously. She subsided onto her hip, resting her head on her upper arm. “Whata you think you're doing?”
“Getting an hour's sleep,” he replied.
“Not here you're not.” When he played deaf for the second time that night, she reached out her free hand and gave him an indignant poke. “Vinicor!”
He rolled onto his back. “For Christ sake, Sasha,” he said irritably. “What do you think I am, an animal? This might come as a shock to you, Miller, but it really isn't necessary that a woman's head be bashed in before I get her into my bed.”
“But it probably helps,” she shot back without thinking.
Mick laughed. “Oh, if you weren't so hurt, you'd pay for that,” he said. Then he rolled over again, presenting her with his back.
He woke her continually the rest of the night, and in the process grew heartily sick himself of the sound of the alarm going off every hour on the hour. When it went off for the last time at nine in the morning he groaned and pulled the pillow over his head. Oh, God, not again. Five minutes. That's all he asked . . . just five more minutes. Between the covers and Sasha's warm little backside curved into his lap, it was so nice and cozy in here, and he didn't want to move.
Sasha's . . . ? Oh, shit. Slowly he pulled the pillow off his head. He twisted from the waist and slammed his hand down on the alarm button, shutting off the irritating noise. Then shoving up on one elbow, he turned back.
They had both gravitated toward the middle of the bed in search of the most convenient heat source, which had turned out to be each other. He was curved, spoon fashion around her back from the waist down, and now that he was more alert he had a vague recollection of being plastered to her from the waist up as well, his arm wrapped around her middle, his face buried in her hair, before the alarm had sent him groping for his pillow. The T-shirt she wore had worked its way up around her hips and his morning erection was snugged firmly between her sweet little cheeks, only the thin cotton of his jockey shorts separating them.
I'm not an animal, Sasha.
His brain played back his words for him. But he could be. Oh, God, he so easily could be.
He eased his hips away. Rolling out of bed, he walked with stiff discomfort to the bathroom. He was back out in seven minutes, shaved and showered.
Dropping the towel to the floor, he stepped into clean underwear, pulled on his jeans, and jerked a white dress shirt from the closet, slipping it on and buttoning it up. He tucked, zipped, and rolled the shirt's sleeves up his forearms, then crossed back to the bed.
“Sasha.” He squatted down next to the bed and briskly reached out to awaken her. “Saush, come on. Time to get up.”

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