Rhymes With Prey Read Free Page B

from her skin.
    Man, he wanted her. Wanted her tied down. Wanted her sweating. Wanted her crying.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he called.
    Mona shouted, “I said, so what do you do, James?”
    Of course. This was Manhattan. That was always question number one.
    â€œI’m a sculptor.”
    â€œYeah?” A faint Brooklyn lilt. He could tolerate that. The skepticism in her eyes, no.
    His iPhone appeared and, shoving it her way, he flipped through the pictures.
    â€œJesus, you really are.”
    Then Mona looked past him. He followed her gaze and saw a tall redhead, smiling as she made her way through the crowd. A stunner. His eyes did the triplet glance: face, tits, ass. And he didn’t care that she saw him doing it.
    As tasty as Mona.
    And no LBD for her. Leather miniskirt, fishnets, low-cut dark-blue sequined top, strapless.
    The arrivee tossed her beautiful hair off her shoulders, glistening with sweat. She cheek-kissed Mona. Then pitched a smile Verlaine’s way.
    Mona said, “This is James. He’s a real sculptor. He’s famous.”
    â€œCool,” the redhead said, eyes wide and impressed—just the way he liked the pretties to be.
    He shook their hands.
    â€œAnd you are?” he asked the redhead.
    â€œI’m Amelia.”
    Mona turned out to be Lily.
    Verlaine got Amelia a Pinot gris and a refill of his bourbon.
    Conversation wandered. Protocol demanded that, and Verlaine had to play the game a little longer before he could bring up the subject. You had to be careful. You could ruin an evening if you moved too fast. A girl by herself? You got her drunk enough, you could usually get her to “try something different” back at your place without too much effort.
    But two together? That took a lot more work.
    In fact, he wasn’t sure he could pull this one off. They seemed, fuck it, smart, savvy. They weren’t going to fall for lines like, “I can open up a whole new world for you.”
    No, may have to write this evening off. Hell.
    But just then Lily leaned forward and whispered, “So what’re you into, James?”
    â€œHobbies, you mean?” he asked.
    The women regarded each other and broke out in laughs. “Yeah, hobbies. You have any hobbies?”
    â€œSure. Who doesn’t?”
    â€œIf we tell you about our hobby, will you tell us about yours?”
    When a sultry raven-haired pretty in a tight LBD asks you that question, there’s only one answer: “You bet.”
    The redhead reached into her tiny purse and displayed a pair of handcuffs.
    Okay, maybe the night was going to be easier than he thought.

    JAMES ROBERT VERLAINE HAD A certain charm, Amelia Sachs gave him that.
    The clothes were weird— Midnight Cowboy meets Versace—and he probably owned more hair products than she did. But, despite that, his witty attention was completely on her and Lily.
    With Lincoln Rhyme as a romantic as well as professional partner, Amelia had been freed from the madness of the dating world. But before him there’d been innumerable evenings in restaurants and bars with men who were anything but present. Their thoughts kept zipping back to Nokias or BlackBerrys in jacket pockets, to business deals sitting on office desktops, to girlfriends or wives they’d forgotten to mention.
    A woman knows right away when a man’s with her or not.
    And Jim Bob—she loved Lucas Davenport’s nic for him—definitely was. His sniper eyes bored into theirs, he touched arms, he asked questions, made jokes. He inquired .
    Of course, this wasn’t typical bar meeting talk—about family and exes, about the Mets, the Knicks, politics, and the latest retreads from Hollywood. No, the theme for tonight was such esoterica as describing the type of rope he enjoyed tying “girls” up with, where to get the best mouth gags, and what kind of whips and canes caused the most pain but left the fewest marks.
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