Chill Factor Page 0,77

of scrounged rags, a piece of old tire, and a fine collection of lacerations. I kept to the shadows, avoiding any unnecessary attention from the pervs and the cops. The fountains were quiet in front of the hotel; I suppose it had something to do with the wind, which was still kicking up hot and fast.

Even as early-late-as it was, there were plenty of people entering and leaving. I paused, considering the brightly lit front entrance, and looked down at myself.

Nope. Not happening. The Bellagio did have standards.

The parking lot was a sea of cars, all nicely docked at anchor. I limped through a couple of rows, spotted a few-there were always a few, even in these suspicious times-with doors left unlocked. The first two yielded nothing but nice velour upholstery and change in the drink holders; the third had a gym bag lying on the back floorboard. Black leggings, T-shirt, socks, and cross-trainers, all smelling of recent use. I went with the leggings and T-shirt, couldn't stomach the socks, and jammed the too-large shoes on over my abraded feet. My in-shape benefactor had included a hairbrush. I put it to use, wincing through the tangles, and tied the lot back with a scrap of fabric from my trashed skirt.

I'd pass. Sort of.

I jogged through the parking lot, trying to look as if I were enjoying the exercise instead of wincing with every step, went the long way around to work up a good coating of sweat, and then jogged into the lighted portico. Uniformed doormen held open double glass portals, and I threw them a jaunty wave and walked in without so much as a raised eyebrow. Bent over to pull in some deep, gasping breaths, which weren't at all feigned.

"Glad you made it back, miss," one of them said pleasantly in a lovely British accent. "Quite a storm out there."

"Was there?" I put my hands behind my back and stretched. "Didn't notice."

I tossed him a grateful smile and escaped into the lobby. Most of the desk clerks were off duty; only a couple maintained the graveyard shift. The casino continued its constant money gulping, to the accompaniment of pleasant electronic beeps and the glittering metallic tinkle of change. I turned and walked down the endless stretch of carpet, to the hallway that held the elevators.

There was still a uniformed security man on duty. I made a production of wiping sweat from my face as I walked toward him, gave him my most vapid smile, and waved. He ignored me. Evidently no self-respecting hooker would go out looking quite so bad.

I punched the button from memory and leaned against the wall, trying not to catalog the ways I hurt, starting with the still-throbbing headache that was reasserting its claim, and the various aches, bruises, and near-death experiences. I needed a week at the spa, with deep-tissue massage and hot stone therapy. Not to mention some intensive chocolate care.

The floor was deserted when I arrived, a long channel of expensive carpet and closed doors. No sound. I walked down the hall to the door where Kevin and Jonathan had made their little home-away-from-hell.

When I reached out to knock, it swung open. Very Addams Family.

"Hey," Jonathan said. He was sitting on the couch, exactly as I'd first seen him-lean, athletic, military without the uniform. A black round-necked knit shirt that was somehow more formal than a simple tee, some kind of khaki cargo pants with lots of pockets. Sturdy lace-up boots. "Jo," he greeted me, and nodded at the armchair across from him. "Come in. Take a load off."

I did, without comment.

His salt-and-pepper eyebrows quirked as he gave me the merciless once-over. "Bad day?"

"Not the worst I've ever had. Which doesn't say a lot for my life, does it?"

"You look like you could use a beer."

There were two bottles on the end table next to him. I twisted off the cap of one and took a swig. A little harsh and hoppy, but acceptably cold and refreshing.

"Nice cuts and bruises," Jonathan said pleasantly. "How's it going?"

"Good. You?"

"Can't complain." His eyes were dark, dark like the space no stars could ever shine. "And that takes care of the small talk. You do understand that I'm going to kill you if you so much as think about getting in my way, right?"

"Chill Factor"

"I don't want much. I want a halfway decent massage, an herbal scrub, and to put a stop to this before we all get killed." I leaned back and kicked a