Max wondered if she’d told him yet she was a hooker, excuse us, a working girl.
A slow dance, the song was popular from the early part of the decade. Slow dancing, lots of couples, the music didn’t matter. Angela led him onto the floor and moved into his arms. Not too close, three inches between their bodies. The man was tall, not as tall as Witt, but over six feet. Angela had worn her four-inch heels, and her nose came to the level of his lips. She tilted her head back, talking as they swayed. She purposefully stayed on the outside of the floor, in full view of Max.
One minute into the song, the three inches between them became two. Angela’s breasts grazed his chest. Another minute, not a breath of air moved between them. He’d stopped smiling. Only Angela could read the look on his face. As they turned, she flashed Max a coquettish look. Max was sure Angela had him.
Beneath her rigid fingers, the table began to vibrate. Oh my God, an earthquake. She almost screamed and dove beneath the laminate before realizing the vibration came from Angela’s purse. The little black sequined bag jiggled across the tabletop until it reached the edge. Max pushed it back.
The song ended. Another began. Angela stayed on the floor with the Greek God, his hands now on her hips, her arms around his shoulders, lower bodies intimately pressed together. The purse agitated itself to the edge of the table once more.
Damn. It was Angela’s cell phone. She obviously had it on vibrate. Max couldn’t concentrate on the dance while the thing hopped around like a jackrabbit.
Putting her hand on top of it only set her whole body vibrating, an uncomfortably pleasurable buzz that had her throwing a glance Witt’s way. Only to meet his gaze head on. He didn’t glower, simply skewered her with an ice pick of a stare.
She had to stop it or vibrate herself over to his damn table.
Clicking the clasp open, telling herself she wasn’t violating Angela’s privacy, she reached inside. Fishing around for the offending object amidst an amazing array of cosmetics, condoms and doodads—how did Angela fit it all in the miniscule bag—Max pulled the phone out to search for the off switch.
A phone number flashed.
A number she knew belonged to the man she hated.
Bud Traynor’s cell phone number.
Chapter Sixteen
A blast of cold air hit Max as she exited the hotel a little after midnight. She handed her ticket to the attendant like she’d been born to valet parking.
Angela had failed with the mysterious Greek God. “He asked about you the whole time,” Angela groused. “And you can have him.” Her eyes had suddenly sparkled, ego obviously still intact. “Tomorrow night.”
Max didn’t like the sound of wheels turning in Angela’s head but used the coward’s motto, worry about it later. Angela had filled the time slot with a fortyish balding man from Minneapolis. It was no mercy fuck, she’d assured Max, and Max hadn’t felt sorry for the man in the least. He’d been delighted to be Angela’s choice.
So now, Max was on her own.
Witt had left an hour before. As if he didn’t care whether she made it out safely on her own. Jeez, what a turn-around from Mr. Lover Boy last night and this morning.
Which wasn’t a bad thing. She really didn’t have the energy for a goodnight fuck, ominous warnings, or the battle that would ensue when she asked him to play the leading man in her one-act play the following evening. She’d leave that for tomorrow. Over the phone. When he couldn’t throttle her. Certainly that wasn’t the coward’s way out, merely sensible.
Questions about why the Greek God had been so interested in her faded into the night. If it was sex, forget it. It certainly couldn’t be anything else. Could it? Who cared? Right now, she needed time to mull over the reasons Bud Traynor’s number had appeared on Angela’s phone.
Sure she’d gotten Angela’s answer; he was a sweet harmless old geezer who always wanted her to dress like a young girl.
Ewwe . It struck Max right between the eyes. Angela had dressed Max that way tonight. Dirt and shame wove through the threads of her pleated skirt. Dammit, she was no Catholic schoolgirl, and Bud was no harmless old geezer.
He was the snake in the Garden of Eden.
Only Max hadn’t told Angela that. A vague sense of guilt settled on her shoulders as she drove home. Angela didn’t have a clue what kind of man Bud Traynor was. If someone else died, the blame would lie with Max. If Angela got killed...
The thought consumed her on the freeway as she drove home.
Angela was a big girl. Angela had Hammerhead to protect her. Angela was in control and knew exactly what she’d gotten herself into.
Nothing helped. Guilt sat heavy. Angela had excused herself to return Bud’s call. She hadn’t come back with a date, at least not one she mentioned. So why had Bud called?