She clutched Geoff tighter as he veered to avoid the blockage in the traffic ahead. He roared down the open lane, only to slow down again as they pulled up to an intersection. As they waited for the light to change, a beautiful, dusky-skinned Carioca woman in a tanga, a micro-string bikini, drifted past them on her way to the beach.

Fio dental, Randy thought, remembering the Portuguese phrase she'd heard used for such bikinis. Dental floss. The woman was small-breasted, lissome, and perfectly proportioned for such a naked display of femininity. She was also supremely confident of her appeal.

Inexplicably Randy felt a stab of something that must have been envy. She couldn't see Geoff's expression, but she knew he must be watching the exotic woman, and she was curious about what was going through his mind. s.e.x, of course. But s.e.x with whom?

There were plenty of muscular, half-naked men meandering around in thongs and bikini briefs, but when Randy looked at them, she found herself thinking of Geoff, of how he would look in a bathing suit. She was visited by vivid images of his long bronzed legs, of hardened muscles swirled with golden hair, of firm b.u.t.tocks, and the way those tiny briefs lovingly cupped a man's private parts. Much like a woman's hand, she realized.

Much like her hand?

The thought was electrifying. Randy couldn't catch her breath for the force of it. She felt light-headed, but the sensations in the pit of her stomach were anything but. They were deep, shivery, and sharp. This was what happened when you surrendered to physical stimulation, she told herself. You got stimulated, genius!

As they continued toward their destination, Randy set about to distract herself with relaxation techniques, but try as she might, she couldn't get that last image out of her head. When Geolf pulled the motorcycle up in front of the luxury hotel Hugh had stayed at, she was still thinking about men's bodies and women's hands.

"What are you looking at?" Geoff asked as he swung off the bike and caught her staring.

Randy forced her gaze above his beltline. "Was I ... looking? Sorry, I must be preoccupied."

"Preoccupied with my pants?"

"No! I was thinking about, well-swimming, if you must know." Not exactly a brilliant parry, but he'd caught her off guard.

He c.o.c.ked his head as if waiting for the punchline.

"I happen to be a very good swimmer," she informed him, unable to completely resist his golden smile. "I spent a summer as a lifeguard trainee at the beach, and I pulled more than one drowning boogie boarder out of the surf."

"Lucky dogs. Maybe you could save my life sometime?"

"That all depends." Randy was aware that their interaction had taken on a certain bantering rhythm, a man-woman thing she and Hugh rarely indulged in. "Is yours a life worth saving?"

"Well, now, if I'm being called upon to justify my existence, that's going to take some time. Give me several hours of your undivided attention and I'll try to prove myself worthy."

"Several hours? You must have a lot to prove."

"You're a lot of woman, sweetness. If I remember correctly, you can be pretty exacting."

Randy flushed, remembering too. She'd had her moments that night, boldly telling him what she liked and didn't like. He must have thought he was dealing with a woman of the world, when quite the opposite was true. She'd been an eighteen-year-old virgin, desperate to forget that she'd been jilted, woozy from champagne, and probably drunk with power over the way she'd aroused a seemingly dangerous man like Geoff. Geoff couldn't possibly have known she'd never been to bed with a man before that night; there had been no telltale pain or blood.

She'd wondered about that afterward. She knew girls often lost the protective membrane during the normal physical activity of childhood. Nevertheless, it had worried her. Maybe she had believed that some pain or physical difficulty would have been a fitting atonement for her sins that night. The lack of it had made everything seem too easy. It had made her seem easy, too, like Edna. And nothing frightened her more than the possibility of sharing her mother's fate. Perhaps that was why she hadn't allowed herself to be s.e.xually intimate since, not even with Hugh.

"You want to get off?" Geoff asked.

The question startled Randy out of her thoughts. "I beg your pardon?"

His shoulders jerked with husky laughter. "Off the bike, you ninny."

"Oh!" Randy flushed with surprise, then began to laugh despite herself. She shook her head, hopelessly embarra.s.sed about what she'd thought he meant. She really was preoccupied.

He held out a hand, apparently to a.s.sist her.

Still fl.u.s.tered, she let him steady her as she swung her leg over the bike and slid off. What she hadn't counted on were the mosaic patterns woven into the sidewalk. They undulated like ocean waves, moving crazily as she tried to focus her eyes on them. Dizziness swamped her, and she gripped Geoff's hand tightly, trying to catch her balance. The next thing she knew she was lurching straight at him.

He blocked her fall with his body, gathering her up in his arms. "You okay?"

"Give me a minute," she said, clinging to him dizzily. He held her close, but Randy couldn't ignore the fact that he was shaking with silent laughter. "I could have sworn you tugged me," she accused.

"Hey, I just saved you from a b.u.mp on the head," he pointed out, holding her back and gazing at her with apparent sincerity as he straightened the strap of her sundress. "That must be worth something."

"Very kind of you." She wanted to be sardonic, but instead she actually smiled and blushed as if she were back in junior high, flirting with a boy in front of her locker. It was rather pleasant being in his arms, she had to admit, and he did smell wonderful, sort of like oranges and wild strawberries. Maybe it was that stuff he carried in his flask.

"However," she was careful to clarify, "when I referred to your worth earlier, I was thinking more along the lines of your moral character."

"Moral, immoral, what's the difference when you're in love?"

"When you're ... what?" Her pulse began to race uncontrollably. "What do you mean?" she asked, her face going hot with curiosity. She could see the amus.e.m.e.nt shimmering in his green eyes. Of course he hadn't meant it, not the way she was thinking. Had he? It was clear he wasn't going to answer her question, and she suddenly felt angry at how breathless she'd become ... at how much she'd apparently wanted him to mean something he hadn't meant.

"Who started this conversation anyway?" she asked, backing out of his arms and straightening her dress.

"I think you did, fair lady. Right after I caught you eyeballing my crotch."

"Did not!"

"Did so."

"Dream on, Dias."

"I don't have to dream, Witherspoon. You've been unzipping my fly with your eyes since the day I walked into your office. Ask nice and I might let you do the honors."

She should have been angry, but she found herself wanting to shake her head and laugh again. It was too absurd. And too true. She couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from his lower torso. Like it or not, she'd apparently picked up the family talent for crotch watching. The way she was going, it would soon be her badge of distinction. Edna would have been proud.

"What's that secret smile all about?" he questioned.

"For me to know, Dias." She brushed past him, feigning an air of breezy confidence and headed for the hotel's entrance.

Geoff watched her go, his gaze drawn automatically to the purposeful snap and sway of her hips. She was a pistol, he acknowledged, as hot as gunpowder. Success hadn't changed Randy Witherspoon any. She could call herself Miranda, she could wear designer clothes and satin teddies, but no amount of buffing would ever take the street kid out of her. She still led with her chin.

Aware of the pleasurable tightness in his gut, he smiled. Her go-to-h.e.l.l att.i.tude had served her well. It had probably got her where she was today. Too bad it was about to get her into big trouble.

He turned back to the bike, fished a Hawaiian shirt of green and turquoise silk from the saddlebag, and drew it on over his tank top and shorts. He would find her Prince Charming for her. He had a hunch Hugh Hargrove was still in Rio somewhere, and that meant he could be located. But Geoff was in no particular hurry. He was far more interested in having Randy come face to face with the truth. She needed him for more than detective work, and he wanted her to know it. He wanted the satisfaction of hearing her say it. Oh, yes, that was exactly what he wanted from Randy Witherspoon. Satisfaction.

By that afternoon Geoff had a small measure of the reckoning he sought. He'd hung back, letting Randy take the lead in their investigation, until finally all of her attempts to get information about Hugh had been frustrated. The Swiss hotel manager would say nothing beyond confirming that Hugh had been a guest. When Randy had pressed him, he referred her to the local police, insisting he'd told them everything he knew.

She'd tried the hotel housekeeping staff next, but none of them had spoken enough English to be understood, and they'd all denied having seen Hugh when she produced his picture. It was clear to Geoff that she was being stonewalled. No one wanted to get involved in police matters and missing-persons investigations unless it was worth their while. At last, in frustration, she'd attempted to bribe the haughty maitre d' of the hotel restaurant. She'd had the right idea, Geoff conceded, but the wrong guy. In a flurry of indignation, the maitre d' escorted them out of the hotel.

"What do we do now?" she asked as they stood by the curb where the bike was parked. Even in the blastfurnace heat of late afternoon, samba music could be heard in the distance, probably coming from car radios turned up full notch.

Her question alone was an admission of defeat, Geoff realized. But he wasn't letting her off the hook that easily. "Maybe you could try the doorman," he suggested, using her own words. "Show a little thigh, promise some action? It worked for me the day I showed up at your office."

"Right," she intoned sarcastically. "It worked so well, you left me standing in an alley with one stocking. Come on, Dias. I need some help here."

Her frustration was obvious, but he couldn't make up his mind whether she'd been humbled enough. The fire in her dark eyes was still smoldering, and the way her nostrils did that cute little flaring thing made him hot.

"Pleeeze," she said wearily, angrily.

"You're catching on." He straightened the strap of her sundress and smiled. "Ask nice and ye shall receive."

Twenty minutes and several taxi drivers later, Geoff had their first solid lead. One of the drivers that serviced the hotel recognized Hugh's picture. The man was more than cooperative when Geoff slipped him a bill of a very large denomination. He offered to take Geoff directly to the nightclub where he'd driven Hugh. "Many times," he added in Portuguese. "Many nights I drive him there."

Geoff asked a few more pertinent questions, then found Randy wilted in a courtyard nearby, leaning against the gnarled trunk of a banyan tree. "You didn't tell me Hugh was a tomcat," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"He had a yen for the fast life, nightclubs, strip joints."

"Not Hugh." She shook her head. "He's as solid as Gibraltar. If anything, he's a little straitlaced."

"Then what was he doing at Cheiro de Amor?"

She came immediately alert. "What's Cheiro de Amor? A nightclub? Did someone see him there? When?"

"He was seen there several nights, including the night before he disappeared. Not only that, Santeras owns the place."

"Let's go!"

"Hold on, Randy. The club is pretty racy. Are you sure?"

She dismissed the notion with a toss of her head.

"How racy could it be if Hugh went there? Of course I'm sure. When does it open?"

She was so eager and, as always, so d.a.m.n sure of herself, Geoff had to subdue a smile. That's right, sweetness, he thought. Lead with your chin.

Randy had always had a notoriously active imagination. It was one of her survival skills as a child. A latchkey kid, stuck in a dingy apartment while her mother worked double shifts, she'd fed her soul on dreams and fantasies, many of them inspired by Edna-Cinderella stories with lavish b.a.l.l.s, beautiful gowns, and of course, a handsome prince waiting in the wings.

Tonight she felt stirrings of that childhood magic as she stepped in front of the wardrobe mirror to look at herself. Her dark hair was piled high on her head in a s.e.xy heap, her crystal earrings nearly touched her bare shoulders, and her dress was simple, yet elegant, a glittery white slip-dress with rhinestone-studded straps. She had never been so aware of her own feminine appeal. Maybe it was the lights or the mirror or her own excitement, but she really did look ... desirable.

Geoff had told her the nightclub Hugh frequented was having a black-tie ball in celebration of Carnaval, and somehow he had managed to get two tickets to the sold-out affair. She couldn't imagine how a club that required black tie of its customers could be as racy as he'd implied.

The grandfather clock in the suite's foyer, began to chime, and its low vibrant music reminded Randy that she was late. Hurriedly she reached for her evening bag and the feathery white mask lying on the vanity.

Preoccupied with her mask and bag, she opened the bedroom door and walked into the suite's main salon. She knew Geoff would probably be waiting for her, and she hoped he wasn't the impatient type. But she wasn't in any way prepared for the sight that greeted her when she looked up.

"Oh, am I late?" she breathed softly. "I'm ... sorry."

He was standing by the grand piano, a drink in hand, which he set down as she entered. He looked more expectant than impatient. But even if Randy, with all of her penchant for fairy tales, had tried to fantasize what Geoff Dias would look like in black tie, she couldn't have done him justice. He was fabulous, mouthwatering.

An element of surprise quivered in the sultry evening air as they stood across the room from each other, neither moving for a moment, both struck by what they saw. Geoff's gaze moved over her as if he could actually see the inner radiance she felt, as if he were taking measure of her in a whole new way.

But Randy was barely aware that she was being surveyed. She was too amazed by his transformation. How could a mercenary with holes in his fatigues have metamorphosed so perfectly into a prince? Geoff Dias looked as if he'd been born to the role. The severe lines of the tuxedo streamlined his body, lending a fashionable leanness to his powerful physique. Even his storm-blown blond hair was the perfect accent to the stark black-and-white formal wear. It spilled around his shoulders in a white-gold cascade that contrasted dramatically with his suntanned skin and his emerald green eyes.

He might as well have stepped out of a dream, full-blown, Randy admitted to herself secretly. Her dream.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," he a.s.sured her, his voice resonant, full of male nuances. "Can I get you a drink?"

"Yes, thank you ... whatever you're having."

He went to the sideboard and poured two fingers of Scotch from a crystal decanter, then added ice to the gla.s.s.

His back was to her, but Randy felt a little dizzy as she walked toward him, as if she were entering a force field that had risen up between them. Something made her want to hang back: perhaps it was the way her thoughts were racing. She was awash with antic.i.p.ation, but she had no clear idea what she expected.

He startled her when he turned around. She was close enough to take the gla.s.s from his hand, and if their fingers hadn't brushed, she might never have let out the surprised, apologetic sound. As it was she jerked back as if he'd burned her, and there was no way to recover gracefully. She could feel herself blushing as she tried to smile and shrug it off. "It's all right." she said, glancing at him as she took the drink. "I'm fine."

Their gazes collided with almost physical force. Her head was tilted back slightly, and as she looked up at him, she knew it was going to be virtually impossible to tear herself away. His eyes were sinfully beautiful, so rich and verdant there was almost nothing she could do but gaze back at him. She could feel the pull of his interest all through her, tugging on her in deep and vibrant ways. Even her throat felt as if it were quivering. The perturbations were similar to those buzzing inside her when she'd been on his bike, but finer, much more exquisite.

It amazed her that he could bring her such pleasure with an accidental touch. Were her nerves that taut? One stroke and it felt as if they would resonate forever, like the strings on the beach troubadours' mandolins.

As though Randy's thoughts had summoned it, faint strains of music swirled up, drifting through their open terrace doors from somewhere in the near distance. Within seconds the music had grown louder and the beat more frenzied and insistent, pulling her attention away from the man standing before her. A raucous shriek of laughter made her start.

"What was that?" she asked, turning toward the doors.

"Carnaval. The parades must have started."

Geoff walked to the doors and shut them, m.u.f.fling the sounds, but the intrusion of reality had done its job. The element of surprise that had held both of them spellbound was gone. Only the tension remained, a high-pitched awareness of each other that increased as he turned back to her.

"Is the drink all right?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm sure it's fine." She took a sip, hoping the icy liquor would slow her pulse. In the silence that followed, she began to realize what her nerves were all about. She'd had years to build a resistance to rough-and-ready biker types. Thanks to Edna, she had a natural immunity to rogues. But a rogue in a tuxedo? She hadn't been prepared for that combination. It must have been the sight of Geoff Dias in black tie, looking amazingly s.e.xy and aristocratic at the same time, that had temporarily stripped her of her defenses.

"Whenever you're ready," he said. "Cheiro de Amor awaits."

"Yes, let's go." She was glad to be on their way. Given how the night had started, she was looking forward to the distractions of a black-tie party-and especially the safety of a crowd.

Eight.

SO THIS IS CHEIRO de Amor, Randy thought, thoroughly surprised and enchanted by the old-world Viennese elegance of the nightclub. Just moments before, she and Geoff had walked through the club's front doors and into a world of sparkling chandeliers and ornate candelabras. The gilded extravagance of the baroque decor was breathtaking, including lush red velvet draperies and crystal figurines that resembled baccha.n.a.lian maidens. If she hadn't known she was in the tropics, she might have thought she'd wandered into a European opera house. The place was almost decadent, it was so opulent.

No, it was decadent, she decided in the next breath, noticing the scanty French-maid outfits the hostesses were wearing. The one who greeted her and Geoff looked as if she'd misplaced her panties. More like an old-world bawdy house than an opera house. Randy decided as she and Geoff followed a particularly voluptuous Carioca hostess to a table for two near a heavily draped stage.

The sensual Latin music was a little disorienting too. Randy had to admit. One expected to hear a Strauss waltz instead of the low-pitched tribal drumbeats of a "dirty dance" like the lambada. As elegant as the place was, it fairly throbbed with an earthy and mysterious s.e.xual quality.

All in all, Randy was intrigued. She'd only caught fleeting glimpses of the club's other patrons as she and Geoff moved through the low-lit ambience to their table. Some had been in black tie, others in more elaborate costumes. All wore masks, which created a faintly ominous aspect that might have concerned her more if it hadn't been Carnaval. Still, there was a sense of foreboding in the dark mood of the room.