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He closed his eyes for a second.
Listened hard.
It sounded like a car’s engine was getting closer. Yes, there it was . . . and another? From the opposite direction? Oh, yes . . .
He couldn’t help but smile as he opened his eyes, searching the desert floor for the pinpoints of headlights and the telltale plumes of dust.
There it was. The distinctive rumble of a big car’s engine. He slipped his finger onto the trigger.
And then he saw them, the tiny glare of twin headlamps, coming in from the east.
And fast.
Right on time.
CHAPTER 3
“Gotcha.” Brett trained his eyes on the headlights blazing, twin beacons glowing like gold eyes in the desert, moving steadily in his direction.
As if the driver of the approaching car heard him, the vehicle slowed, wheels sliding through a clump of cacti, a pastel fender glinting in the last streaks of sunset. Didi for sure, and in that big monster of a car, the white Cadillac convertible she used in her shows.
Of course.
She had to make a flashy entrance.
Always. No matter how serious the situation. But then again, maybe she didn’t realize just how serious this was. Again, he glanced to the passenger seat. Could he do it? He wondered. It would be easy enough to threaten her, but to really pull the trigger?
He remembered, just ten damned months ago, first meeting her after one of her shows. It had all started with him sending a message to her dressing room. He’d gone to see her perform at the suggestion of a friend. Though the casino had been older, a seedy throwback to the fifties that was rumored to have been sold and slated for demolition, there had been a bit of nostalgic charm to the place. He’d ordered a double martini, then turned his disinterested gaze to the stage when the drink had arrived.
The curtain had gone up, and to his surprise he’d been instantly captivated. From the moment he’d first spied her “appearing” magically from the inside of what had seemed to be an empty, if gleaming, pearlescent white Cadillac, its finish so glossy as to look wet, he’d been gobsmacked. Didi, in a sequined gown, fluffy blond wig, and bubblegum-pink lips had resembled Marilyn Monroe so closely, he’d had to look twice. And hard. Man, she’d been a knockout.
Seated in the front row, at a table nearly abutting the stage, he could have sworn she’d singled him out, that the glances she’d sent his way had definitely been hot. He’d interpreted them as come-hither invitations that had caused all sorts of erotic images to spring to mind. He’d downed three or four martinis during her set, his gaze drawn to the sexy performer who changed costumes during the act, becoming different celebrities while singing and actually performing a little magic as well.
Brett had been mesmerized. Stupidly, he realized now. He’d sent the message to her dressing room via a waiter and then had ended up buying her more than a few drinks when she’d appeared without all the stage makeup, looking younger, more innocent, and even more beautiful in tights and a shimmery, belted tunic. She’d been blessed with a fresh face and was quick with a soft, sexy laugh. Her large eyes glimmered, or had it been the booze? Who knew? The upshot was that one thing had led to another, and they’d spent more than a week together, primarily in his hotel room with a glorious penthouse view high above the city. He’d lost his sanity for what had, in reality, been only a few nights, but it had been long enough to reel him in forever.
In hindsight, the seduction appeared to have been part of a greater plan that had blossomed into her extortion plot. She’d probably set her sights on him from the onset, and he’d been stupid enough to think he’d fooled her with his alias and back story about his identity. All along, it now seemed, she’d known he wasn’t who he’d claimed to be, that even the ID he’d carried and left “carelessly” in his wallet had been a lie.
One night that week, in the early morning hours, he’d felt her stir and slide out of the covers to tiptoe to the bureau where he’d tossed his bifold. As he’d watched through slitted eyes, she’d opened the wallet and studied its contents. The room had been dark, for the most part, the only illumination from small digital numbers on the television and digital clock, as well as the ambient glow from outside the window, seeping past the open blinds, the neon lights of Las Vegas giving the room an otherworldly half-light. He’d expected her to take some of the cash or slip one of his credit cards into her purse. He’d been mistaken. She’d just looked at each thin card with its magnetic strip and unknown available balance, not bothering to photograph any of them or pocket a single one. As quietly as a mouse, she’d replaced his belongings exactly as she’d found them, going so far as to pat his wallet, as if for good luck or as a sign of affection before returning to the bed.
He knew better now, but in those wee hours when she’d spooned her supple body up against his, her smooth rump cuddled into his crotch, he’d trusted her, and his erection had stiffened against her skin. She’d snuggled closer, moving against his cock, making soft mewling noises as he’d reached around to cup one of her incredible breasts. Her nipple had tightened, and he’d groaned, then pushed her onto the bed and thrust deep into her silky, moist heat. Their coupling had been fierce and raw, and even now, as he drove, knowing full well the depths of her deception, loathing himself, he felt a twinge in his crotch.
After that night, when she’d left his wallet on the bureau, their affair had blazed white hot for four or five more nights, before he’d left the city, promising to call and never bothering. She was, he’d decided, a fling. Nothing more. Part of a wild, erotic week of his life that he would remember from time to time, and he would smile, wondering what had happened to her. He might even search her out, via the Internet or some other means, perhaps try to reconnect, but he hadn’t believed it, because deep down, he’d suspected she was trouble, the kind of trouble he wanted no part of.
For the better part of a year, he hadn’t heard from her.
Until that fateful call telling him he was a daddy. And, oh, by the way, she knew his true identity and that his family was loaded.
So she’d never bought his story that he was single, a salesman for a high-tech firm who visited this part of Nevada as part of his territory. He’d made it clear that he’d been looking for fun and that was all, and she’d acted as if she’d understood—no strings attached.
And then, after hearing nothing for three quarters of a year, she’d dropped the bomb that he was a father to a newborn son, and she had the DNA test to prove it.
Maybe.
The whole thing smelled of a con job.
He felt to the marrow of his bones that he’d been set up. From the very get-go.
She’d played him, played him good.
