Love on the Boardwalk Page 4

  He caught up to her in two long strides. Bending over, Brad picked up their stack of shoes. “You made a pretty good start. I think it’s going to take a few more tries, though, to really make an impact.”

  Okay, now it sounded as if he was asking her out on multiple dates. Trina felt like a firefly, all lit up from the inside. “I don’t know, Brad. I’ve got a busy schedule while I’m up here.” Then she tugged at his shirt collar. Ran a quick hand down that super-amazing chest of his. “On the other hand, this feels sort of like my humanitarian duty, as a woman. To make up for what your ex did to you.”

  “It’d be wrong to ignore the chance to represent all womanhood,” he said with a solemn nod.

  “Oh, I intend to make them very, very proud,” she promised. And immediately started thinking of things every woman with eyes and revving hormones would want her to do to the hunky cop.

  Chapter Three

  Brad knotted a towel at his waist and hustled out of the bathroom. Whoever was knocking on his door was making one hell of a ruckus. Probably a straggler belonging to the people in the neighboring rooms who’d partied late and hard, waking him up when they’d traded the casino floor for their beds just after dawn. One guy careened from wall to wall. Two more talked at the top of their lungs about the five hundred they’d lost on one last spin of the roulette wheel. Another repeatedly jammed his key into Brad’s lock and jiggled the handle to try and get inside. When Brad finally wrenched open the door, he got to explain that room 1162 was not the same as 1165, and shoved him probably a little harder than necessary across the hall.

  Yeah, lack of sleep was an expected price to pay while in Atlantic City. But Brad wanted to lose sleep having fun, not because of other people’s fun. Instead, he’d been stuck wide awake as the sun rose. Finally gave up lying in bed staring at the ceiling and switched to the floor to do his daily wake-up routine. Two hundred sit-ups. Fifteen minutes of Qui Gong for balance. Then two hundred push-ups. He’d be damned if he turned into one of those detectives who couldn’t chase a suspect more than fifty feet. Some little shit-ass murderer wouldn’t escape by zipping out onto a fire escape or climbing a fence. Not on his watch. And a week of vacation was no excuse to slack off.

  It was still damn early, though. Too early to face the day without caffeine. Brad wasn’t desperate enough to drink the crap coffee that came with the room (who knew what else got run through that filter?). But as soon as he got clothes on, he’d ditch the room and hunt down a bakery. And if by some miracle it was room service knocking on the wrong door? Well, he might just take the tray anyway and give the guy a healthy tip.

  More pounding. This time, with what sounded like a shoe. What the hell could be so important at dawn o’clock? “What is it?” he said with exasperation as he yanked open the door.

  “Good morning!” Trina stood in his door, one foot swung back about to deliver another kick. Her tight black tube top might as well have been painted on her tiny frame. And her white mini-skirt showed off almost as much leg as last night’s outfit. All of a sudden, her bright red lips rounded into an O. “You’re naked.”

  Brad grabbed at his slowly slipping towel. “Not entirely.”

  “Not complaining,” she said with a flash of a grin. And the matching heat that flashed in her eyes backed up her comment.

  Brad let go of the towel, letting it dip lower over one hip. As he fell asleep last night, he’d wondered if making a move on Trina had been a mistake. His best friend’s girlfriend’s best friend—Trina was too complicated to describe, let alone get involved with. He’d seen the cautious looks Darcy threw him this summer when he’d flirted with Trina. Even Coop had warned him about diving back into the dating pool too fast.

  But now he wondered if stopping the kisses so soon last night had been a mistake. Trina was cute and fizzy, and about as serious as a glass of pink lemonade. A rebound hook-up with a not-so-serious woman might be the perfect way to spend the week. Especially one who couldn’t tear her eyes off his chest.

  “What’d my door ever do to you?” he asked, testing his theory of her attraction level. Brad slid his hand up the side of the door. He’d clocked enough reps in front of the mirror at the gym to know the move made his pecs pop. Dana certainly wasn’t the first woman he’d gotten on his hook. The skills might be rusty, but the moves were all still there.

  Sure enough, her expression sort of glazed over. “Huh?”

  Trina had the hots for him. Add that to the fact that he wanted to burn off his glum with someone fun. Someone Brad knew not to be a skank or a fresh recruit for Gambler’s Anonymous. Somebody fun and funny who fired him up. Seems he’d just come up with a new plan for the week.

  “You’ve been pounding the hell out of the door.”

  Finally, her gaze whisked back up to his. “You didn’t answer. I figured you were a sound sleeper.”

  “I was in the shower.”

  “I see that.” She trailed her fingers along his sternum, collecting the few water droplets that still clung to his skin.

  Weird how her touch burned and made him shiver at the same time. Weird-good. Weird like please do that again about a hundred times. It occurred to Brad that it had been closer to eight months since he’d had sex. Dana hadn’t been available—or even around much—the last part of their engagement. Which should’ve been a neon-flashing clue to a trained detective that things were headed to splitsville.

  Trina was making a move before he’d even put pants on. So yeah, they were definitely on the same page. But Brad should’ve had sex a couple of months ago. A casual, get-it-out-of-his-system screw. Because now he was wound too tight. Wanted it too much. Craved it. So he forced himself under control and dialed all his instincts back a few notches. Resisted every urge to pick her up and toss her onto the rumpled bed, and, instead, re-tightened his towel. “How’d you find me?”

  “Well, I am a junior investigator trainee,” she said with a flip of her hair. Hair, Brad suddenly realized, that was a good foot shorter and about ten shades lighter than it had been last night. “I’ve got mad tracking skills now.”

  Brad snorted. “Trina, I gave you the name of my hotel.”

  “But not your room number.” She shuffled her feet in a little boogie. “Give credit where credit’s due.”

  He crossed his arms. “Okay. Wow me. Did you follow me? Stick a micro-sensor on my belt?”

  “A micro-sensor? I’m not apprenticing at the CIA. The fanciest gadget at Shulman Investigations is a pair of night-vision goggles. Which I’m not allowed to touch.”

  She sounded wistful. Brad didn’t blame her. He loved spy gear. Not that his department’s budget ran to it, either. He had to look his fill at the Spy Museum in D.C. like all the other shlubs. “So how’d you track me down?”

  Bending over, she retrieved a pair of cardboard coffee cups from the floor. “I told the front desk clerk that I slipped out to get coffee for my, ahem, date, and couldn’t remember the room number. Oh, and I winked after I said date.” She pulled one side of her mouth down and elaborately squeezed one eye shut.

  He burst out laughing. Not just at the weak-ass security, but at Trina’s over-the-top antics. “You know he thinks we hooked up.”

  “A girl can dream, can’t she?”

  Okay. Her hints were getting to be about as subtle as a shot of peppermint schnapps. But she was Darcy’s best friend. With her, even a casual hook-up would require a certain level of caution. So that they could still be friendly with each other after it ended. In other words, he had to get some clothes on, pronto. ’Cause Trina was eating him alive with those big green eyes.

  “Are those props, or did you really bring me coffee?”

  “Oh. Of course.” She handed one over. “Here’s the thing. Cheering you up went so well last night that I thought we should get right on it today.”

  Popping the lid,
he took a slug of caffeine and said, “Define cheering up.” Trina’s mouth, along with her enthusiasm, revved higher at idle than most people did at full throttle. He’d need at least a couple of mugs before he could keep up with her.

  “It starts by me not hanging out in the hallway all day.” Trina waggled her eyebrows and pointed at the interior of his room.

  Brad never thought he’d be anything less than thrilled about a woman trying to get into his room. But half-awake sex wouldn’t make a good first impression. And right now all his hormones were fighting with the good guy in him. If he let Trina another step closer to the bed, all bets were off. “How about I meet you in the lobby once I’m dressed?”

  “You need privacy to peruse your wardrobe? Or is it that you don’t want me to see how much time you spend playing with your hair?”

  He grabbed her wrist before she made another pass up and down his sternum. “If you take a single step inside this room, I’ll start the day by playing with you.”

  Loud, side-splitting laughter pealed down the hallway. “Is that a threat or a promise? ’Cause either way, it makes me want to somersault right inside.”

  If he waited even thirty more seconds, his dick would tent the towel in a way that left no doubt that it was a promise. “Five minutes. I’ll meet you at the front desk.” Then he closed the door right in her face. Sometimes, a man had to take drastic action.

  * * *

  “What’ll it be?” Trina gestured expansively at the almost empty arcade. Off-season and on a weekday, kids were a scarce commodity in this town. Aside from the already bored girl working the cash register and a bearded guy hunched over Space Invaders, she and Brad were alone. It was eerily similar to the almost empty casino he’d cut through to meet Trina at the front desk. All the machines made a constant din, but nobody stood at them. “Skeeball? Air hockey? I don’t think you should do any of the marksmanship games, though.”

  “Why not?” He’d been eyeing the row of air rifles aimed at a cartoon barnyard scene. Brad thought he could easily pick them off and win Trina one of the giant crabs the same lurid blue as the rack of cotton candy right next to it.

  “You’re a trained professional. It’d be cheating.”

  Yeah. And fun. “I’m not a SWAT team sniper or anything.”

  “Can you make the kill shot at the practice range at least fifty percent of the time?”

  No need to be insulting. “Of course.”

  “Then that would amount to stealing from the arcade. I’m not going to aid and abet you in an almost-crime.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him away. “How about this one? You have to paddle a raft down a waterfall.”

  “That’s not a game. That’s a workout.” He could do it, no problem. Brad just objected on principle.

  “Too bad. I wanted to watch your biceps flex.” She spun in a slow circle before yanking him around a corner. Hard.

  “Hey, I’m gonna need that arm to play.” Enthusiasm was fine. And he’d chugged down two cups of coffee, so he could deal with whatever she threw at him. But yanking his arm out of the socket was just unnecessary. Not to mention weird.

  “Sorry. Um, skeeball? You still have to aim with that game. We’ll call it a compromise?”

  “Sure.” Brad dropped his handful of tokens in his pocket. He fed one into the machine. Wondered how to make her spin around again so he could watch her skirt flare up and show lots of thigh. “Care to make it interesting? A wager on who wins the most tickets in half an hour?”

  “Only if I get to pick the next game. And then, only if it’s the one where you have to do all the different dance steps.”

  That caught his attention. Big time. One hand on a ball, he paused. “You like to dance?”

  “Uh, yeah.” Another hard and fast yank on his arm. “Never mind. That machine’s no good. Let’s try the one on the end.”

  Brad shook her off. What was with her sudden attention span of a gnat? “I already paid. Let me play this set of balls, and then we’ll move on.”

  “But I don’t like it here. The light’s all wrong.”

  “Are you kidding?” She was antsy, practically hopping out of her flip-flops. And her head swiveled constantly, eyes switching from the entrance to that set of machines on the end. “Did you rig a machine to cheer me up? Is confetti going to come down from the ceiling the minute I load my token?”

  “No. Nothing like...drat. Come on,” she hissed, with another pull on his arm. Then she hustled around a bank of pinball games, motioning for him to follow with a flap of her hand.

  Three steps later, she stopped abruptly. Brad plowed into her and only a complicated twist and grab kept them both upright. It also twined his arms around her torso, so he wasn’t complaining.

  “Don’t move,” she hissed again in a low whisper.

  “Why not?” he whispered back.

  Trina angled her neck forward and to the side. Then she darted it back almost immediately. “He’s right there.”

  “Who is?”

  “Shorty.”

  That explained exactly nothing. Their whole non-conversation was so confusing he couldn’t even enjoy holding her. So Brad let go and crossed his arms. “Who’s Shorty? What’s going on?”

  Trina held a finger to her lips, shushing him. Then she beckoned him forward with the same finger and they both peered around the corner of the pinball machine. About twenty feet away stood a noticeably short man in Sansabelt slacks and a wide-collared tan shirt. A medallion hung from a thick gold chain around his neck. Nobody else was in sight.

  “That’s Shorty,” she whispered, her warm breath tickling his ear.

  “Why the hell are you whispering?”

  “Because he’s a bad guy.”

  Shit. Not again. He’d learned in Ocean City that Trina high-jumped to overblown assumptions. She was the kind of person who envisioned drama and danger behind every door. Just for the fun of it. People like that, who turned shadows into villains and creaking floorboards into axe-wielding psychos, made his job difficult. And they drove him nuts. So he’d shut this down right the hell now.

  In a normal voice, Brad said, “Wow. Rush to judgment much?”

  “Look at him,” she insisted. “The greased-back hair. The swarthy looks. Fashion, if you can call it that, that’s almost forty years out of date.”

  “Yeah. He could be a wise guy straight out of central casting.” Out of habit, Brad did a quick scan at the calf and groin for the telltale bulge of a gun. As expected, the guy was clean. “So what?”

  Spreading her hands wide, palms up, Trina said with the same look of complete pained disdain his mother shot every year Brad was surprised the Orioles didn’t make it to the playoffs, “So...that’s significant, don’t you think?”

  “This is Atlantic City. The Jersey Shore. Sure, half the guys on the Boardwalk might be made men. The other half dress that way ’cause they saw it in the movies. They want to blend in and look cool. None of which are reasons to stare at this guy. All of which reasons to leave him alone.”

  “But I’m tailing him.”

  That did it. A half-amused, half-annoyed laugh rolled out of him. “No, you’re not. At least, not with me along.”

  Another peek around the machine to check on Shorty. Then Trina laced her fingers through his and swung his arm back and forth. Like a kid trying to coax an ice cream cone out of their babysitter. Except the slant-eyed, sexy look she paired with the motion was anything but childlike. “But you made a big deal this summer of me not doing this stuff alone. I thought you’d be on board with helping me out.”

  Huh-uh. Brad refused to have this whole thing put back on him. “And I thought we were just out for a fun day to cheer me up.”

  “No reason we can’t combine work and pleasure.”

  She had a squirmy, wheedling tone to her voice t
hat told Brad not to take her statement at face value. As did her rapidly batting lashes and pursed lips. Trina was all innocence. Which set all of Brad’s instincts on red alert.

  “Is this work? Is this the actual case Joe sent you down here to wrap up?”

  Her gaze skittered away. “No. Yes. Maybe.” Brad took a hold of her chin and gently steered her to look him in the eyes. That was all it took to focus her on the truth. “I mean, no, I finished Joe’s case. I took a bunch of pictures of a deadbeat dad who claims he can’t afford child support stuffing bills into dancers’ thongs. Made copies of the receipts for all his lap dances and bar bills, too. But at the club two nights ago, I saw this guy. Acting all shady. Doing some sort of under-the-table business with a bunch of dancers. Even though nobody’s footing the bill, if I manage to crack this wide open and take him down, this could be my first solo case. One that Joe hasn’t pre-screened and judged to be simple enough for me.”

  Jumping in with both feet was great—if you knew how to swim. The way Darcy told it, Trina changed careers as often as a new video of some drunk pop idol went viral. She never stuck at one very long. By his count, it was just about time for her to get bored of sleuthing. Which meant he had to keep her out of harm’s way just long enough for her to get distracted and switch over to something else. “You mean one that’s safe enough for you.”

  Her hand waved through the air, dismissing Brad’s caution. “Shorty’s bad news. I know it. All the dancers at Club Eden are decent, hardworking women that don’t deserve to be caught up in whatever crap he’s pulling. If I can help them and prove myself, it’s a win all around. So I’m taking a couple of vacation days to dig into this. What if there is something bad going down? And I had the chance to stop it, stop someone from getting hurt, and just missed it? I’d never be able to forgive myself. I’m going to tail him.”