Susan Andersen - Just For Kicks

A little clumsiness would have been the end of it, except she’d just climbed the two stairs that divided the high-stakes slot machines from their humbler brethren. Her stumble back sent the heel of her right T-strap stepping off into space, and, unbalanced, she grabbed for the railing while automatically tightening her core muscles to lift her shoulders back into alignment with her hips.

Her fingers brushed the railing but it slid through her grip. And although she straightened enough to keep from back-flopping, she landed in a graceless heap on the floor, her right leg twisting beneath her.

An obscenity hissed through her teeth as pain exploded in her ankle.

There were exclamations all around and a vague sense of people crowding close. Someone bent over her. “Are you all right, miss?”

She looked up at a man with light brown hair, backlit by the garish lights of the hundred-dollar slots at the top of the stairs. When his face swam into view, she noticed in a hazy sort of way that he was extremely handsome.

He could have been a troll for all she cared, since she could barely see through the pain clouding her vision. Besides, what she did manage to focus on was enough to tell her he lacked the edginess that usually attracted her—that certain something that turned men into what her friend Treena referred to as Got Testosterone? guys.

His face was also merely one of many. Pulling her gaze away from him, she saw that several people were gathered around gawking at her. But not, she noted, the little old lady who had knocked her on her ass.

Damn fanatic gamblers.

Studying her with concerned eyes, the man who’d inquired about her well-being crouched down next to her. “Is anything broken?”

She gingerly untangled her legs until she’d freed her trapped ankle, her breath catching as the shifting weight sent a fresh shard of pain zinging around her foot. “No. At least, I don’t think so. I twisted my ankle, though.” And it hurt so damn bad it was all she could do not to whimper. She was never at her finest when injured.

A guy young enough to think multiple piercings and black eyeliner and lipstick were actually a fortunate fashion statement pulled his gaze away from the generous stretch of her legs long enough to nod. “Yeah. It’s swelling up.”

“Needs ice,” someone else agreed.

“So,” murmured a portly man in a pair of Sansabelt pants that were hitched well above his natural waistline, “could I get my picture taken with you?”

“What is going on here?”

Carly’s blood pressure immediately spiked. Shit. She knew that last voice. It was deep and accented, and God knew she’d heard its disapproving timbre directed at her on more than one occasion these past few weeks. It belonged to Wolfgang Jones, second in command of the Avventurato’s Security and Surveillance department.

And her recently moved-in, pain-in-the-ass, next-door neighbor.

CARLY PEERED AT THE approaching man through the forest of legs surrounding her and conceded that, if she had to be absolutely honest, Jones didn’t have an actual accent. Still, there was something about the precision with which he formed his words that made you just know his thoughts probably didn’t wind through his brain in English.

She would have snorted if she wasn’t already concentrating on not mewling like a soaked-to-the-skin kitten. But, please. Like the name Wolfgang hadn’t already given the game away?

He muscled his way through the crowd, tall and lanky, blond and built, managing to irritate her beyond measure simply by breathing the same air she did. This was the man who had her worried sick over Rufus. All too aware, however, of the public behavior the Avventurato expected from its employees whenever they were on the premises, she pressed her lips together to keep the snarl she felt forming in the back of her throat from slipping out.

But sometimes representing the hotel and casino really bit.

From the expression that flashed across Jones’s deep-set eyes, she was pretty sure he wasn’t any happier to see her than she was to see him. Still, he waded through the crowd, then turned in front of her to face the people gathered around.

“Go about your evening, folks,” he said with his habitual stern, I-am-God-therefore-you-will-obey-me haughtiness. “I will take care of this situation.” Then, turning back, he squatted down in front of her in his faultlessly tailored black suit, charcoal Egyptian-cotton shirt and pearl-gray silk tie, without an apparent doubt in the world that the tourists would do exactly as he’d bid them.

Which they did, dammit. God, he was vexing.

He had a reputation around the casino for being a guy who got things done, though. Considering their recent history, she hated to admit that Jones had any redeeming qualities at all, but she had to concede that if he gave even half the attention to his work that he was currently focusing on easing off her shoe, his rep was probably well deserved.

All the same, she knew him for the dog-hating jerk he was and she didn’t trust him an inch further than she could throw him. For all she knew, his gentle handling was nothing more than a ploy to make her relax her guard. Pushing up on her elbows, she monitored him closely through narrowed eyes to make sure he didn’t pull anything tricky that would cause her ankle to hurt even worse than it already did.

As the young man with the Goth makeup and facial piercings had pointed out, the area surrounding the joint in question was swollen. It was also beginning to grow warm. Her injured flesh felt downright frigid, however, compared to Wolfgang’s sizable hands as he slid one over her heel and up to her calf to brace her leg while he probed the puffy flesh around her ankle with the other. The hot-skinned touch shocked her. Who ever would have suspected such a grim, cold guy could radiate so much heat?

Cupping his palm over her instep, he gently rotated her foot. His gaze flashed up in time to catch her wince. “That hurt?”

“Yes, it hurts,” she said testily. Then fairness forced her to add, “But I’m pretty sure it’s just twisted.” She’d had enough injuries to be a pretty good judge. But all she could think was that she had two days to get the swelling down and the joint back into dancing form, because she didn’t want to have to call Vernetta-Grace, la Stravaganza’s general manager, to tell her she’d injured herself. Again.

Carly looked down at the scimitar-shaped red scar on the knuckle above her right index finger that had cost her two days’ work less than a month ago.

“How did this happen?”

She looked up at Wolfgang, at his lightly tanned face beneath pale, spiky hair. “I was ambushed by a little old lady with a monster purse.” Wanting his hands off her, she thrust one of her own out at him. “Help me up.”

“I don’t think it is broken or even badly sprained,” he agreed, and slid his fingers away from her leg with an enthusiasm that seemed to match her own. He rose to his feet in a single, easy movement, then reached down and grasped her outstretched hand, hauling her upright.

She came up faster than she expected and instinctively put her injured foot down to keep from slamming into him. The flash of pain spearing her ankle made her crumple, and only Wolfgang’s quick hands wrapping around her upper arms kept her from sagging against his chest. The lilac-and-gold-beaded fringe of her costume swung out, sparkling bits of confetti that slapped up against his dark shirt and slacks.

Damn, damn, damn. Of all the men in this casino, why did he have to be the one who’d come to her aid? And what the hell was one of Security and Surveillance’s higher-ups doing playing nursemaid to a dancer, anyway?