“This can’t be happening,” Gracie murmured to herself.
Oh, but it was.
Finally, the thong caught on a fence, allowing Steve to catch up. He plucked it like a flower and turned to hurry back to her, fighting an enormous grin and losing. By the time he reached her, he was struggling not to laugh. Between two fingers, he held out the thong, now dusty and peppered with bits of dry grass.
“Thank you,” she said, snatching the underwear and wishing the ground would open up to swallow her whole.
“It was my pleasure,” he said, then clamped down his jaw. His eyes, however, were dancing with laughter.
Gracie turned on her heel and, maintaining a firm grip on her skirt, marched back into the chapel with as much dignity as she could muster.
When H.D. started to follow Gracie, Steve snapped his fingers and called him back. “I know how you feel, buddy,” he murmured as he stared after her receding figure. The belly laugh he wanted to release was tempered by the rigid erection pressing against his fly at having witnessed what was undoubtedly the most erotic vision he’d ever seen.
If he lived to be one hundred, he would never forget the sight of Gracie Sergeant fighting her wayward skirt, her long, slender legs and curvy rear end perfectly outlined in the sun. And, if he’d had any doubts, the lovely woman was not a natural blonde—another gut-clutching sight. He closed his eyes and groaned. If only he weren’t on assignment. If only Gracie was willing to indulge in a quick fling, with no attachments. But he’d already been warned by Cordelia and by Lincoln that Gracie was looking for something he couldn’t give: commitment, longevity, happily ever after.
A dull pain radiated out from his breastbone. If only—
The ring of his cell phone split the air. He unhooked it from his belt and glanced at the screen—Karen. He pushed the connect button. “Yeah?”
“Just checking in, partner. Any developments?”
“Uh, no.” He rubbed stubbornly at the strange sensation in his chest. At least no developments relating to the case.
“Got those descriptions of everyone who works there?”
“I’m taking photographs. I’ll have them to you in the morning.”
“Great. I can’t wait to see this woman with the amazing eyes.”
He chose to ignore her. “Any more news from the informant?”
“No.” Karen sighed. “She hasn’t returned any of my calls—I’m starting to worry that maybe she’s in trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“If someone close to Lundy found out that she’s a snitch, she could be in danger. If she told them what she told us, Lundy could decide not to show.”
“Or show up with firepower,” Steve said, his adrenaline kicking in. A sudden pain in his foot distracted him momentarily—H.D. had once again decided to park his fat butt.
“That’s not Lundy’s M.O.,” Karen said. “He’s more likely just to lie low. The last thing he needs is civilian casualties at a Vegas wedding chapel—if he did something to scare off tourists, the city’s business leaders would form their own posse.”
“You’re probably right,” Steve said, yet he pivoted his head to look all around—up and down the street, in the parking lot across the road—searching for anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary.
A wry frown worked his mouth. Such as a man and a hound running down the street chasing a woman’s thong?
“Still, I wanted to let you know,” Karen said. “Let’s not panic—our informant might simply be out of reach for a while. For now, we stick to the original plan. I’ll keep you posted.”
“Okay.” He disconnected the call with disturbing what-if scenarios tumbling through his head—all of them involving Gracie getting hurt. He winced. The discomfort around his breastbone was back. With much effort, he dislodged his foot from underneath H.D.’s behind and limped toward the chapel, rubbing his chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
GRACIE PASSED the next couple of hours working on the costumes in between answering the phone, although her preoccupation earned her several pricks with the needle. She relived the degrading Marilyn-Monroe-standing-over-a-grate-gone-wrong incident over and over, until she was sure her face would be permanently flushed. To prevent an encore, she’d sewn curtain weights into the hem of her skirt. And she’d washed the bothersome black thong in the bathroom and used a hairdryer to dry it enough to put it on.
From now on, she would wear nothing but tidy whities.
“Oh. My. Gawd.”
Gracie looked up to see Lincoln in the doorway. His arms were full of flowers and today his sunglasses were pink. She angled her head. “What?”
His jaw dropped. “Steve is outside working on the Caddy.”
“I know.”
“Shirtless.”
She smiled. “Oh.”
“Gracie, the man is simply too gorgeous for words. You simply have to have sex with him.”
She gave a choked little laugh. “I do not.” Besides, she’d tried.
“You’re killing me,” he said. “If I were you, I’d wait to start looking for Mr. Right until after this guy left.”
She laughed and helped him to arrange the flowers in the chapels and store the bouquets and boutonnieres in the refrigerator.
When they were finished, he said, “I’ll see you tonight when I relieve Cordelia at the drive-through.” He grinned. “Want to follow me out to take a looky-loo?”
She smirked. “No. And stop trying to get me into trouble. He has a girlfriend.”
“Oh? You asked?”
“It…came up.”
“Still—no ring, will fling.”
“Goodbye, Lincoln.”
He left shaking his head. For her part, Gracie tried to tamp down the image of Steve, bare-chested, and get back to work. After a particularly frustrating bout with the sewing machine, she sighed and held up the black-and-white striped shirt of the inmate costume—so many pins had been dislodged during their frantic groping episode that she wasn’t sure she’d made the right adjustments. She checked her Betty Boop watch and stretched her arms overhead in a yawn.
A break sounded good, so why not check on Steve and ask him to try on the shirt? She had to face him sooner or later. Besides, she was dying to see if he’d made progress on the Caddy.
On the way, she stopped by the kitchen to grab two bottles of water in case he was thirsty. Her heart beat double time as she pushed open one of the doors leading to the back lot. Her breath caught in her chest.
Steve was indeed shirtless, leaning into the engine beneath the raised hood, working either to loosen or to tighten something, considering the way the muscles in his arms bulged with exertion. His back was slick with perspiration. He stood and wiped his hand across his brow.
If she lived to be one hundred, she would never forget the sight of Steve Mulcahy standing half-naked in the blistering sun, his developed pecs and six-pack abs glistening with sweat. He was simply the sexiest man she’d ever seen.
H.D., on the other hand, lay in the shade holding a wrench in his mouth, which he happily discarded when he saw Gracie, and lurched to his feet to greet her.
She