Palm Springs Heat Read online




  1

  The limo jerked hard to the right, sending Lara Dixon sliding across the slick leather seat.

  That can’t be good.

  The man seated across from her—the man Gina had found to introduce her to Clay Creighton—scrambled upright and banged on the plexiglas partition separating them from the driver, a uniformed woman who had quarter-inch silver hair peeking from beneath a livery cap.

  “What the hell?” he demanded as the partition slid open. “Did you hit something?”

  The driver met Lara’s questioning gaze in the rearview mirror. “Oops.” The partition slid shut.

  That really can’t be good.

  Lara flipped down a mirror to fix her hair. Her natural color shimmered through the semisweet chocolate veneer. Hard to get used to after thirty-two years as a blonde.

  “Just a bump in the road.” Anton Roche worked his neck like a preening turkey and settled back in as the limo raced past Paradise Cove on the road to Malibu. “As I was saying, the girl thought she was the aurora borealis, Liberty’s torch and the leprechaun’s pot o’ gold rolled into one. But she knew she looked even hotter in my bustier.”

  Lara suppressed a sigh. How does Gina put up with this guy? The lingerie designer had prattled about his life with the glitterati from the minute he’d picked her up at her humble Santa Monica apartment. She wished he’d let her concentrate on this new experience of riding in luxury. After tonight, she might never step into a limo again. Then again, Roche had put his turkey neck on the line to talk up Lara to Clay Creighton.

  He has his own axe to grind, but I should at least pretend to be interested.

  “Why is it the ‘STP’ bustier?” Lara asked, though after weeks of researching Creighton’s Fast Lane empire, she knew the answer. Never hurts to practice. You’ll be lying all the time if everything goes right tonight.

  Roche straightened with pride. “‘Seconds to Paradise.’ It’s goddamn brilliant. Builds up the bust—and a man can unhook it one-handed like that.” He snapped his fingers. “You know how much money Creighton’s made from that thing? It’s the biggest seller in the Toy Store. But do I get the credit?” He looked more closely at Lara. “It wouldn’t have been a bad idea for you to wear one tonight.”

  Lara had considered buying one from Fast Lane’s notorious online gift shop back when she was married. “I thought STP had something to do with gasoline.”

  “Yeah, well…Fast Lane: Racy cars, the high life…and all that.”

  Fast women, fast cars, fast living. I know all about Fast Lane and Clay Creighton.

  Lara looked out the window as Roche chattered on. The sun drifting down through the maritime haze toward Point Dume reflected in her diamond-blue eyes. The conflagration of red, orange and purple looked no different from here than it did from the bluffs on the other side of Santa Monica Bay.

  The limo jerked again as they turned up a gravel road. Lara’s heart quickened. We must be close.

  “We’re here!” Roche announced as the car turned into a driveway that twisted skyward through desert terrain. “Are you ready?”

  Lara thought about the weeks she’d spent in the gym. The coaching sessions on how to lie with a mysterious woman whose name and accent changed daily. The hours poring through the enormously popular Fast Lane website, reading Creighton’s daily encyclicals on materialism and carnality until she could easily extemporize on the advantages of gadgets she’d never use and the attributes of running backs she’d never cheer for.

  But everything she learned did nothing to change her opinion: Fast Lane was nothing but a place where men like her asshole ex, Kyle, could leer at naked women and find validation for believing they deserved their own harems.

  An instructional guide on how to screw over your wife.

  She closed her eyes and her mind to escape Roche’s jabber. When she had approached Gina Wray, creator of the pro-woman website HardCoreGrrrls.com, with the idea of infiltrating Fast Lane to reveal its sordid secrets, Lara had never expected to be the one doing the infiltrating.

  “I know plenty of people who’d like to bring Clay Creighton down—people who’d pay big bucks for an exposé,” Gina had told Lara. “Putting an end to The Rotation wouldn’t be so bad, either.”

  The Rotation consisted of three women who were at Creighton’s beck and call 24/7. Every six months, he dumped the most senior member and introduced a new plaything. Relationships arced, he said, starting out passionate and ending up routine, so a man had to bring in “new talent” to keep things exciting. Gina’s plan was for Lara to become the first woman in The Rotation’s disgraceful sixteen-year history to dump him instead.

  “I don’t know,” Lara had protested. “I’m not exactly Fast Lane material.”

  “The material is there,” Gina had assured her. “You just have to move it around a little.”

  Nothing’s simple. The world is warm and cool and open and mysterious and bright and muddled—all at the same time. How do you live with that?

  Lara opened her eyes to see Roche staring at her chest. He frowned. “Can’t you show a little more cleavage?”

  Lara reflexively looked down the ruffled collar of her dress—a sleeveless midnight blue Roland Mouret crepe Gina had purchased for this night. Lara marveled at how easily the twenty-five-hundred-dollar price tag convinced her the dress fit and felt better than anything she’d ever worn.

  But does it look good enough?

  Even with her new body and hair, even with every follicle below her forehead sugar-waxed and ripped clean, her nails filed, polished and buffed to a mother-of-pearl sheen, her feet soaked in lavender-scented Dead Sea salt water and tucked neatly into a pair of Guillaume Hinfray platform slingbacks, even after two months of Gina’s pep talks, she had to ask this clown, “Do you believe I can even get into The Rotation?”

  Roche leaned back against the velvety leather, his beady black eyes taking in Lara’s slender five-foot-eight-inch frame, long legs, toned and spray-tanned arms. She held steady under his gaze. He reached up and pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. She knocked his hand away and moved the hair back.

  “Eh,” Roche said. “Stranger things have happened.”

  Just what I needed: a big boost of confidence.

  The limo crested a hillock and slowed to a stop. A busty young woman wearing the lowest-cut Lakers jersey Lara had ever seen opened the door. “Welcome to the ICE House!”

  * * *

  Clay Creighton moved from his suite of rooms to the portico, where he could look down at the partyers gyrating to a pulsing beat on the massive structure known as the Upper Deck. His trademark white Egyptian cotton shirt hung unbuttoned, and the ocean breeze blew it open to reveal his taut six-pack abs and well-defined chest. His eyes—the irises sparkling like amber in the light of the tiki torches below—scanned the assembled multitude.

  “Watching over your subjects, your highness?” The low, sensuous voice of Sun-Li Hwa came from behind Clay. She joined him at the railing, snuggling up against his back and ruffling his dark, wavy hair.

  “Yes, my lady,” he said, a dry smile forming on his lips. “It does my heart good to see the peasants so happy.”

  “Am I your lady?”

  “One of them.”

  Sun jabbed him in the kidney.

  “Ooh. I like that.”

  “I wasn’t being nice.”

  “Is there a problem?” Clay turned and looked into her face. He could not help, though, letting his eyes wander down the neckline of her tastefully sequined black Massimo Rebecchi dress that plunged to within an inch of her bellybutton. Her dark olive skin glowed gold in the flickering torchlight.

  “I’m not complaining,” Sun said.

  “Of course you’re not. Why would you?” />
  Someone called to Clay from below. Clay smiled and held up a finger to indicate he’d be down in a minute.

  Sun had a mischievous look as she ran her index finger in little curlicues down Clay’s chest.

  “My subjects need me, my dear,” Clay said.

  “What about me? I have needs.”

  “You already have everything you need.”

  Sun buttoned Clay’s shirt. “I don’t know what I’m going to miss most.”

  “I have a feeling you never miss much.”

  “You’ve made me feel like a queen.”

  “You are a queen,” Clay said. “Now, get the other girls. Our audience awaits.”

  * * *

  The beat pounded louder as Lara and Roche approached the Upper Deck. A bodyguard with an earpiece microphone blocked the entrance, but stepped aside and nodded to Roche.

  “That’s a good sign,” Roche said privately to Lara. “He thinks you’re just another one of the unbelievably hot babes who naturally gaggle around me.”

  “You design lingerie,” Lara said, welcoming the banter as an antidote to her mounting nervousness.

  “You don’t think I do it just for the money?”

  Maybe I can work a deal with Gina to murder this guy. Or just do it as a public service.

  “Anyway, you blend.” Roche did a quick once-over of the ocean of undulating bodies. “On the other hand, the crowd does seem rather ho-hum. But, like I always say, ‘The duller the setting, the more the gem shines.’”

  He waded into waves of humanity.

  The crowd is ho-hum? Lara tried to convince herself there was even half a chance that was true. The women all had tiny waists, creamy legs and abundant hair. Hips were scarce, but Lara noted collagen-engorged lips and silicone-enhanced upper thoraxes aplenty. And some of the males bobbing around in that gulf stream of prettified people might mature into men sooner or later.

  Minnows. I’m after bigger game. A shark, no less. Fully grown and experienced. She had to adopt the mindset of a barracuda. Or maybe a dolphin. Her goal was to disorient the beast with a blow to the belly, then disgorge his ego, thus delivering all of female kind from his predatory ways.

  “Hey, weren’t you in my chem class?” A morsel of nascent manhood grinned as though he were the first guy ever to think of that sophomoric college line.

  “What school?” Lara answered with a tease.

  “Pepperdine, duh.”

  Even from a few feet away, Lara could make out the distinct aroma of man perfume. The kind that’s always on sale at the local drugstore.

  “What year did you graduate?” she asked.

  “Next year.”

  “Wow. Your parents must be proud.” Lara patted his shoulder. “Get back to me when your resume is, um, a little more filled out.”

  Lara chuckled as she wended her way to the bar. She had never talked to a man that way, for fear of being labeled a bitch. But bitchy felt kind of good. Still, she was relieved to see when she got to the rail that the Pepperdine dude had already located a chica who appeared more likely to share some chemistry with him. Lara didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.

  Or, at least, not everyone’s.

  The server was a brunette stuffed into what was basically a racecar driver’s fire suit cut into pieces held together with black electrical tape, which made her look like an S&M version of Danica Patrick. She nodded to Lara as she mixed a vodka Collins and set it in front of a cutesy blonde.

  “I’ll have a Karhu,” said a hunky schoolboy who clung to Cutesy like a polyester dress. “And give me some head.”

  The bartender pursed her lips as she poured the beer into a tall glass. “One Finnish lager,” she said. “You can suck off the head yourself if you want.”

  Schoolboy didn’t seem to hear. Apparently Lara proved a strong enough distraction to snare his wandering gaze. Cutesy gave her the evil eye.

  Lara turned to the bartender and said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  Two nanoseconds later, Cutesy led Schoolboy away like a dog on a leash.

  “Somebody’s smoking tonight,” the bartender said.

  “I haven’t even turned on the heat,” Lara responded. It felt strange to hear herself talking that way. She noticed that the bartender’s nametag said “Danica.”

  “Um…is your name really...?”

  “Weird, isn’t it?” the bartender said as she reached under the bar.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No problem. All the servers get a sport.” Lara glanced around and saw a woman in a football getup, another in a hockey uniform and still another dressed like a jockey. Each costume had bondage-style electrical tape alterations similar to the racing suit. “The racing outfit didn’t fit anyone else.”

  She put down a tall Collins glass hand-painted with topless hula dancers swaying beneath palm trees. “Besides,” she said, “my name has a K instead of a C. They spelled it wrong on the tag.”

  Lara laughed. The drink wasn’t even made, and she was already more relaxed. Danika was just about to pour rum into a shaker when Lara stopped her.

  “On second thought,” Lara said, looking Danika straight in the eye, “I’d like a Centurion.”

  Danika arched one eyebrow. “You’re not here just to turn on the heat,” she said as she tucked the Collins glass back under the bar and replaced it with what looked like a martini glass crossed with a goblet. “You’re here to bring on the sweat.”

  Lara watched as Danika poured two shots of Crown Royal Extra Rare Heritage Blend into an ice-filled, chrome-plated shaker, chased by a shot of Italian vermouth and a dash of Cynar. After the artichoke-based liqueur entered the mix, Danika gave Lara a knowing look, and then splashed in some more.

  “I’m guessing you don’t like it too sweet,” Danika said as she swizzled the concoction. The resulting amber liquid looked tantalizingly evil as it sloshed into the goblet-cum-martini glass. Finally, Danika dropped in a garnish of orange zest and a maraschino cherry skewered by a tiny, bright green—

  “Is that what I think it is?” Lara bent to look more closely at the skewer, shaped like a little man, with the cherry firmly affixed to his not-so-little manhood.

  “You didn’t want a cherry?” Danika asked.

  “Oh, no, it’s fine.” Lara removed the skewer from the drink and extricated the cherry from the skewer with a click of her incisors.

  “Nice.” The barkeep attached a cherry to another miniature prong and popped it into Lara’s glass. “I’ve got a feeling that whoever goes home with you tonight’s going to end up with a bit more than he can chew.”

  Suddenly, the music went quiet. All eyes turned toward the steps that descended to the Upper Deck. Clay Creighton himself was already halfway down. With his trademark Centurion in hand, he absolutely basked in the spotlight. Lara’s mouth went dry, her heartbeat ticked up a notch. Partly because her moment of truth drew near. But partly because Clay was more handsome in person than in the photos she’d seen on everything from the websites to print magazines and newspapers to late-night paparazzi shows on TV. His dark hair was playfully tousled in front. His square jaw cut a stark profile.

  Just beyond his glow, in a glow of their own, came the current denizens of The Rotation: Sun, Taequanda Davis and Corynne McFee.

  My god! They’re even more gorgeous than I imagined!

  Sun, tall and slender, her shiny, jet-black hair bouncing and tickling her bronze shoulders, embodied elegance, like a sexy cigarette ad from the 1950s. Taequanda, more athletic, wore her hair up with spiral curls dangling to her eyebrows. The way she ran her tongue across the purple gloss on her full lips suggested a sexual power greater than Lara had ever perceived in another woman. Corynne had red hair and large eyes that made her look like a girl-next-door type from an old movie. All three stood bolt-straight, struck Miss America poses and smiled dazzlingly.

  “Welcome to the ICE House,” Clay said, raising his right hand in a gesture of hospitality, “whe
re the good times begin—and never come to an end.” He paused for a cheer. “I see you’ve already discovered that I keep a plentiful stock of the finest libations in the world.”

  Another cheer. Several partyers raised their drinks.

  “And, I think you’ll agree I also keep a plentiful stock of the most desirable examples of humankind.” The cheering was appreciably louder—and the women were as enthusiastic as the men. “Remember, there is only one rule here at the ICE House.”

  Let me guess: There are no rules.

  “No inhibitions allowed!”

  Well, that’s different.

  Clay raised his glass in a toast as the music ramped back up.

  Lara had to admit it was an impressive display. Garish and narcissistic, but impressive nonetheless.

  As she sipped her drink, Lara caught a glimpse of Anton Roche oozing toward Clay.

  * * *

  Clay smiled and nodded his way through the crowd. Playing the part of the jaunty host was one of Fast Lane’s Rules of the Road. “The host has to have his head fully in the game, or the event is lost,” read rule No. 14. Even so, right now, Clay was faking it. The parties had become tedious. They were just too much alike. The pulsing music. The bobbing throng. Even the abundance of yummy flesh. And yet, Clay was, by his own rules, required to look interested. It would be bad business for the world’s foremost connoisseur of automobiles, ostentatious living and the human female to show any sign of ennui.

  And now, the gauntlet. Women would shake their stuff in his face, attacking him from all angles, hoping to catch his eye with an eye to joining The Rotation. It didn’t help that every woman on the deck was well aware that Sun’s setting time was approaching.

  If only they knew.

  He pasted on a smile as he talked to a comely little thing. Or, at least, as she talked and he nodded now and then. He wondered if she could tell he was phoning it in. Oddly, he didn’t care as much as he would have just a few years ago.

  What’s going on with me? Clay found it impossible to focus on the waif’s chattering. Something about a movie? This girl is good-looking enough. Nice rack. Face. Lips. Some hips would be nice.