Max realized her glass was empty. She ordered another and told herself to slow down. She munched on pretzels as Angela played the watch game again. Blondie Two fell for it as easily as Blondie One had. They were out the door, separately, of course, within another fifteen minutes, though Angela did once again pass slowly in front of Blockhead to do her two-fingered salute on his table. Max checked her own watch. Eight-thirty. This time she’d wait no matter how long it took.
The increasingly tipsy laughter from the all-girl table began to annoy her, the soft lilt of the piano not quite loud enough to overcome it. With the exception of two couples she remembered, the dancers were a little rustier than the few she’d enjoyed last night.
She did not play the Angela-style watch game, though Max had to admit to feeling a little sexually charged in the situation. She liked men. She liked orgasms. And having a good idea what Angela was doing at the moment left her feeling twitchy and her panties a tad damp. Still, she did not so much as glance in a man’s direction, especially not to catch his eye.
Except for Angela’s big friend. He, however, didn’t spare her a glance, as far as she could tell. She speculated on his purpose. Guard? Possibly. Maybe the two fingers on the table meant he was to come looking for her if she didn’t return within a specified time. Pimp? Well, he certainly didn’t bring her the men. Bill collector? Front man? Max didn’t have a clue how the racket worked in the real world. Relying on the TV cliché probably wasn’t a good idea.
Of course, as she waited, the real question eventually surfaced. How was Max to approach the woman? Forgetting herself, she finished the second glass of wine and, feeling only minor effects, was forced to order another. What were the choices? Angela would immediately think she was a cop. That would have been Max’s first assumption, if roles were reversed. She had to come up with something believable instead.
Across the room, Angela’s bodyguard raised his hand to the bartender. Reaction was prompt, the bartender loped over.
Max raised her glass so her perusal wouldn’t be obvious.
Blockhead reached into his pocket and removed a bill from his wallet, folding, then placing it in the bartender’s hand. They exchanged words, the bartender returned to the bar. Only he didn’t stay there. He walked the length of it and exited the other end, crossed the dance floor and headed down the lighted walkway.
He stopped in front of Max and leaned over so that he could be heard without being overheard.
“The gentleman by the door would like to know if you’re a working girl?”
She spluttered into her wine. “A working girl?”
“Lady of the night?”
“You mean a hooker?”
“That’s a rather derogatory term. We in the business prefer a few euphemisms.”
He was handsome in a boyish sort of way, black vest over white shirt, black pants and dark hair. The three girlfriends certainly found him sexy. Max was simply at a loss for words.
“So, are you?”
Witt had been afraid she would pose as a hooker. She’d even told him she would. Now these two guys had mistaken her for one. Someone from heaven above was speaking to her. She figured she better listen.
“How’d you know?”
He looked down. “It’s the shoes, ma’am. Spikes are out on business women this year.”
She looked at her black pumps. “Do you know how hard they are to find these days?”
“It’s the feminists.”
“Yeah, they’ve royally screwed things up for women.”
“Mr. Hammerhead would like to speak with you.”
“Hammerhead?” She was doing a damn lot of repeating tonight.
The bartender held out an arm, indicating the table by the door.
He did sort of resemble a hammer, completely bald, his ears large and protruding at almost right angles from his head.
Max gathered her purse and stood. “It would be a pleasure.”
If she didn’t get herself killed.
Chapter Ten
Max saw him the minute she sat down at Mr. Hammerhead’s table—Witt, thirty feet away, seated on a couch in the middle of the lobby, surrounded by potted palms and amply-bosomed matrons sipping sherry, afternoon tea long past. He stared her down.
Despite the iciness of that glare, Max felt warmed and safe. He’d followed her, and instead of making her angry, it turned her insides to mush. That reaction should have scared her. It didn’t. Which was even worse, especially after what Cameron had forced her to beg for in bed last night.
You’ve got it bad, Max, oh boy, you’ve got it bad . Cameron’s words, her voice.
It wasn’t fear or guilt that made her turn away. It was her companion’s hand on her arm. He had warm hands. Very warm. Actually uncomfortably hot. Sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead. He reached into the pocket of his black jacket for a handkerchief, came out with a neatly folded white scrap of material with only one initial, a black H.
“You’re a pretty thing,” Mr. Hammerhead said, “but your hair sucks the big one.”
She shot Witt a quick look, putting a hand to the ends of her short, dark hair, and stroking down across her nape. Shaggy, a bit overdue for a cut, but suck the big one?
“And your breasts are too small.”
Max looked down, stopping herself mid-clutch. “I’m wearing a jacket. You can’t even see them.”