Alcohol. What kind of spa serves drinks and blasts hip dance music? Troy could hear the music clearly from outside in his car, inspiring his unwilling fingers and toes to tap to it.
If he couldn’t prove they were running a dirty massage parlor, then maybe he could get them on the liquor license. If they served alcohol, didn’t they have to have one by law? Troy rubbed his jaw. Or was that only if they sold the drinks? No money was changing hands in there as far as he could see.
He continued to watch as the cute little redhead in the white lab coat bumped hips with a dark-haired girl in artsy clothes and rubber flip-flops. Red had serious curves, tempting and visible through the open coat. She also had sweet, kissable pale skin and a load of hair for a man to lose his hands in….
Okay, now he really was being a pervert. He was here on a business mission, not for a cheap thrill.
Red threw back her head and laughed, then spun 360 degrees on one foot. She wobbled as she stopped, though, and would have lost her balance if a tall, broad-shouldered Latino guy hadn’t caught her by the elbow.
Aha! Where did he come from? Maybe, Troy thought hopefully, he’d been getting happy in the back. But no—he swung himself behind one of the manicure stations and…
Troy gaped. Surely that bruiser wasn’t actually removing a woman’s nail polish and then filing her nails? But he was. Where had the guy’s balls gone hiding? Were they soaking in warm paraffin wax in the back?
He continued to feel like a Peeping Tom—and, oh, shit! The redhead squinted out the window again, looking directly at him. He ducked, sliding as low in the seat as he could go.
Troy stayed that way for two or three long minutes, barely breathing, his heart pumping fast. He was just about to ease upward again when a female voice spoke to him with deadly calm.
“There are laws against stalking in this state, you pathetic creep.”
Troy looked up to find the redhead standing there, all five feet of her, aiming a container of Mace at his head.
“It’s not what you think,” he said, the words sounding lame to his own ears.
“Really. So what’s up, then, big guy? You shopping for a dry cleaner at this hour of the night? Or did you figure you’d sleep in your car so you’d be first in line for hot doughnuts at 5:00 a.m.?”
“I’m not a stalker,” he told her, straightening in his seat. “Or a rapist. But it’s a really stupid move for you to come out here alone to confront one. What were you thinking?”
“Mace. It does a body good.”
“Sweetheart, go back inside and don’t ever try this again. I could have that out of your hand and you pinned to the ground in about two seconds.”
Her gaze drilled into his. In the dark he couldn’t tell what color her eyes were, but he thought probably brown. Whatever color they were, they were gorgeous: almond-shaped, long-lashed and steely with determination.
“Yeah? I don’t advise you to do that. Because I’ve called the cops, pervert, and they should be here within a minute or two. So if I were you I’d get the hell off of this property right now.”
He really didn’t need to be questioned by the police about his behavior. “Look, I’m telling you, this is not what you think. I’m not some kind of sicko.” But Troy did as she suggested. He put the Lotus into gear and slowly drove away from her.
“And don’t come back!” she shouted.
Great. Just great. Now is probably not the time to tell her she’s hot—or ask her what she’s doing next Saturday.
THE NEXT MORNING Troy awoke in his bed with a numb arm, a migraine and a persistent hard-on. Visions of the pissed-off redhead had flitted through his head all night, and in a lot of them she wore nothing but that lab coat, unbuttoned.
He’d been wasting his time the night before. He wished he’d gone to bed around the same time he’d forced Derek to do so. Besides the drinks and the weird late-night schedule, After Hours wasn’t conducting any out-of-the-ordinary business, and he’d come close to being arrested for stalking. Damn it.
He focused on the extremely ugly brown-paneled wall of the furnished hovel he’d just purchased. The place dated from the early sixties and hadn’t been remodeled since then. The scent of its elderly former resident, now dead, still hung in the air: a peculiar essence of Listerine, moth balls, old grease and musty carpet.
Troy swung his legs over the side of his bed and eyed the malfunctioning window-unit air conditioner sourly. Until he got this wreck of a place gutted and fixed up, he might be better off sleeping in his car.
The house had been the only halfway decent buy left in Miami’s Coral Gables, and it was going to take a year of his time, a hundred contractors and a miracle of God to make it livable.
Troy shook his dead arm—it used to take a woman sleeping on it to make that happen—and made coffee one-handed as what felt like an army of ants ran from his wrist to his bicep. He yawned while something tickled at his barely functional brain.
Oh, right. Alcohol permit. He needed to check on that. If the tenants at the spa could be kicked out for something that simple, he’d be a happy guy.
He felt a little guilty as he drank coffee—black with one sugar—and did some research on the Internet to look into the laws. They’d all seemed so happy and energetic last night as he’d sat in the dark like a vulture, plotting to yank their storefront out from under them. A really nice guy, he was.
Hey, it’s nothing personal. Just business.
Unfortunately, the Internet informed him that yes, indeed, After Hours could legally serve beer and wine as long as they weren’t selling it. Liquor required a license, but he’d seen no signs of them serving hard liquor.
Great. Since when had salons and spas turned into lightweight bars? He was obviously getting old.
Troy logged off gloomily and fried two eggs and three strips of bacon. He made toast. He regained use of his arm. And after a shower he drove back over to the strip mall to think about the problem in the light of day.
He parked the Lotus on the other side of the lot and walked by casually, peering in the door. Nobody was visible yet, but the salon would open in a few minutes. It looked spotless inside, and unfortunately there were no degenerates passed out on the floor after a night of partying. He frowned at the smaller gold letters on the door.
We’re All About You!
Not, thought Troy. If you were all about me, you and your male manicurist and your pampered princess clients would be outta here. My new sporting goods store would occupy that prime retail space. And you wouldn’t be getting away with murder on the rent.
What had Newt been thinking, when he’d signed all the tenants to bargain-basement rents and ten-year leases? Ten years! For chrissakes.
But Troy couldn’t evict any of these people without cause, and he didn’t particularly want to evict the ones in the smaller storefronts. Well, except maybe the nut bags in the Arrowroot Café, where they served chai or green tea instead of a decent cup of coffee and wouldn’t make anything using dairy products, meat or wheat. Soy milk—ugh!
Wasn’t it time to take back the planet from tree huggers and vegetarians? Was it too much to ask for a real cup of joe in the morning, a BLT for lunch and a steak after a long, hard day?
His gaze rested with more approval on the other restaurant in the strip mall. Benito’s Bistro, an Italian place, seemed to be popular, judging by the constant stream of customers. So what if the owner shared his name with Mussolini—at least he wasn’t a granola head.
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