Part 7 (1/2)
She clutched Geoff tighter as he veered to avoid the blockage in the traffic ahead. He roared down the open lane, only to slow down again as they pulled up to an intersection. As they waited for the light to change, a beautiful, dusky-skinned Carioca woman in a tanga, a micro-string bikini, drifted past them on her way to the beach.
Fio dental, Randy thought, remembering the Portuguese phrase she'd heard used for such bikinis. Dental floss. The woman was small-breasted, lissome, and perfectly proportioned for such a naked display of femininity. She was also supremely confident of her appeal.
Inexplicably Randy felt a stab of something that must have been envy. She couldn't see Geoff's expression, but she knew he must be watching the exotic woman, and she was curious about what was going through his mind. s.e.x, of course. But s.e.x with whom?
There were plenty of muscular, half-naked men meandering around in thongs and bikini briefs, but when Randy looked at them, she found herself thinking of Geoff, of how he would look in a bathing suit. She was visited by vivid images of his long bronzed legs, of hardened muscles swirled with golden hair, of firm b.u.t.tocks, and the way those tiny briefs lovingly cupped a man's private parts. Much like a woman's hand, she realized.
Much like her hand?
The thought was electrifying. Randy couldn't catch her breath for the force of it. She felt light-headed, but the sensations in the pit of her stomach were anything but. They were deep, s.h.i.+very, and sharp. This was what happened when you surrendered to physical stimulation, she told herself. You got stimulated, genius!
As they continued toward their destination, Randy set about to distract herself with relaxation techniques, but try as she might, she couldn't get that last image out of her head. When Geolf pulled the motorcycle up in front of the luxury hotel Hugh had stayed at, she was still thinking about men's bodies and women's hands.
”What are you looking at?” Geoff asked as he swung off the bike and caught her staring.
Randy forced her gaze above his beltline. ”Was I ... looking? Sorry, I must be preoccupied.”
”Preoccupied with my pants?”
”No! I was thinking about, well-swimming, if you must know.” Not exactly a brilliant parry, but he'd caught her off guard.
He c.o.c.ked his head as if waiting for the punchline.
”I happen to be a very good swimmer,” she informed him, unable to completely resist his golden smile. ”I spent a summer as a lifeguard trainee at the beach, and I pulled more than one drowning boogie boarder out of the surf.”
”Lucky dogs. Maybe you could save my life sometime?”
”That all depends.” Randy was aware that their interaction had taken on a certain bantering rhythm, a man-woman thing she and Hugh rarely indulged in. ”Is yours a life worth saving?”
”Well, now, if I'm being called upon to justify my existence, that's going to take some time. Give me several hours of your undivided attention and I'll try to prove myself worthy.”
”Several hours? You must have a lot to prove.”
”You're a lot of woman, sweetness. If I remember correctly, you can be pretty exacting.”
Randy flushed, remembering too. She'd had her moments that night, boldly telling him what she liked and didn't like. He must have thought he was dealing with a woman of the world, when quite the opposite was true. She'd been an eighteen-year-old virgin, desperate to forget that she'd been jilted, woozy from champagne, and probably drunk with power over the way she'd aroused a seemingly dangerous man like Geoff. Geoff couldn't possibly have known she'd never been to bed with a man before that night; there had been no telltale pain or blood.
She'd wondered about that afterward. She knew girls often lost the protective membrane during the normal physical activity of childhood. Nevertheless, it had worried her. Maybe she had believed that some pain or physical difficulty would have been a fitting atonement for her sins that night. The lack of it had made everything seem too easy. It had made her seem easy, too, like Edna. And nothing frightened her more than the possibility of sharing her mother's fate. Perhaps that was why she hadn't allowed herself to be s.e.xually intimate since, not even with Hugh.
”You want to get off?” Geoff asked.
The question startled Randy out of her thoughts. ”I beg your pardon?”
His shoulders jerked with husky laughter. ”Off the bike, you ninny.”
”Oh!” Randy flushed with surprise, then began to laugh despite herself. She shook her head, hopelessly embarra.s.sed about what she'd thought he meant. She really was preoccupied.
He held out a hand, apparently to a.s.sist her.
Still fl.u.s.tered, she let him steady her as she swung her leg over the bike and slid off. What she hadn't counted on were the mosaic patterns woven into the sidewalk. They undulated like ocean waves, moving crazily as she tried to focus her eyes on them. Dizziness swamped her, and she gripped Geoff's hand tightly, trying to catch her balance. The next thing she knew she was lurching straight at him.
He blocked her fall with his body, gathering her up in his arms. ”You okay?”
”Give me a minute,” she said, clinging to him dizzily. He held her close, but Randy couldn't ignore the fact that he was shaking with silent laughter. ”I could have sworn you tugged me,” she accused.
”Hey, I just saved you from a b.u.mp on the head,” he pointed out, holding her back and gazing at her with apparent sincerity as he straightened the strap of her sundress. ”That must be worth something.”
”Very kind of you.” She wanted to be sardonic, but instead she actually smiled and blushed as if she were back in junior high, flirting with a boy in front of her locker. It was rather pleasant being in his arms, she had to admit, and he did smell wonderful, sort of like oranges and wild strawberries. Maybe it was that stuff he carried in his flask.
”However,” she was careful to clarify, ”when I referred to your worth earlier, I was thinking more along the lines of your moral character.”
”Moral, immoral, what's the difference when you're in love?”
”When you're ... what?” Her pulse began to race uncontrollably. ”What do you mean?” she asked, her face going hot with curiosity. She could see the amus.e.m.e.nt s.h.i.+mmering in his green eyes. Of course he hadn't meant it, not the way she was thinking. Had he? It was clear he wasn't going to answer her question, and she suddenly felt angry at how breathless she'd become ... at how much she'd apparently wanted him to mean something he hadn't meant.
”Who started this conversation anyway?” she asked, backing out of his arms and straightening her dress.
”I think you did, fair lady. Right after I caught you eyeballing my crotch.”
”Did not!”
”Did so.”
”Dream on, Dias.”
”I don't have to dream, Witherspoon. You've been unzipping my fly with your eyes since the day I walked into your office. Ask nice and I might let you do the honors.”
She should have been angry, but she found herself wanting to shake her head and laugh again. It was too absurd. And too true. She couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from his lower torso. Like it or not, she'd apparently picked up the family talent for crotch watching. The way she was going, it would soon be her badge of distinction. Edna would have been proud.
”What's that secret smile all about?” he questioned.
”For me to know, Dias.” She brushed past him, feigning an air of breezy confidence and headed for the hotel's entrance.
Geoff watched her go, his gaze drawn automatically to the purposeful snap and sway of her hips. She was a pistol, he acknowledged, as hot as gunpowder. Success hadn't changed Randy Witherspoon any. She could call herself Miranda, she could wear designer clothes and satin teddies, but no amount of buffing would ever take the street kid out of her. She still led with her chin.
Aware of the pleasurable tightness in his gut, he smiled. Her go-to-h.e.l.l att.i.tude had served her well. It had probably got her where she was today. Too bad it was about to get her into big trouble.
He turned back to the bike, fished a Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt of green and turquoise silk from the saddlebag, and drew it on over his tank top and shorts. He would find her Prince Charming for her. He had a hunch Hugh Hargrove was still in Rio somewhere, and that meant he could be located. But Geoff was in no particular hurry. He was far more interested in having Randy come face to face with the truth. She needed him for more than detective work, and he wanted her to know it. He wanted the satisfaction of hearing her say it. Oh, yes, that was exactly what he wanted from Randy Witherspoon. Satisfaction.
By that afternoon Geoff had a small measure of the reckoning he sought. He'd hung back, letting Randy take the lead in their investigation, until finally all of her attempts to get information about Hugh had been frustrated. The Swiss hotel manager would say nothing beyond confirming that Hugh had been a guest. When Randy had pressed him, he referred her to the local police, insisting he'd told them everything he knew.
She'd tried the hotel housekeeping staff next, but none of them had spoken enough English to be understood, and they'd all denied having seen Hugh when she produced his picture. It was clear to Geoff that she was being stonewalled. No one wanted to get involved in police matters and missing-persons investigations unless it was worth their while. At last, in frustration, she'd attempted to bribe the haughty maitre d' of the hotel restaurant. She'd had the right idea, Geoff conceded, but the wrong guy. In a flurry of indignation, the maitre d' escorted them out of the hotel.
”What do we do now?” she asked as they stood by the curb where the bike was parked. Even in the blastfurnace heat of late afternoon, samba music could be heard in the distance, probably coming from car radios turned up full notch.
Her question alone was an admission of defeat, Geoff realized. But he wasn't letting her off the hook that easily. ”Maybe you could try the doorman,” he suggested, using her own words. ”Show a little thigh, promise some action? It worked for me the day I showed up at your office.”