Diva Las Vegas by Eileen Davidson Page B

we were in the tub, warm, soapy bubbles all around us. It was one of those skinny tubs from the sixties, so I sat inside his spread legs, my back against his chest. We sipped champagne from plastic cups, and he rubbed my neck, worked some kinks out of my back, then slid his hands around to brush against my breasts.
    “Hey, hey, tiger,” I said, “you never finished telling me about your day.” I put my hands over his to stop them from moving. “How about giving me the rest of the story?”
    “Not yet,” he said. “Let’s dry off and get comfortable.”
    We got out of the bath and started drying each other with the hotel’s threadbare towels. But it didn’t matter. It couldn’t have been nicer or sexier if we had the fluffiest towels.
    Jakes got down on his knees and lovingly dried my legs and thighs. When he was done, he planted a kiss on each knee and stood up. Then he offered me his robe or a dry towel to wrap myself in. I could have wrapped the robe around me twice, so I took the towel.
    We left the bathroom and went to the bed.
    “Where was I . . . ?” he said, as we lay down and spooned.

Chapter 27
    Jakes and Cushing got into her car after they had coffee and she drove to the doctor’s office. Jakes knew the address, but he said he wouldn’t have been able to find it himself. He and Cushing were talking along the way, comparing notes on their departments and jobs. Actually, he said she was grilling him about working Homicide.
    “That’s really what I want to do, but it’s not going to be easy in this department.”
    “Are you from here?” he asked.
    “Born and bred.”
    “So it’d be hard for you to leave and try to join some other department?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “I’d be leaving home. . . .”
    “Married?” he asked. “Kids?”
    “No husband, no kids. I live alone. Don’t even have a cat. Nevertheless, Vegas is home.”
    “Would you miss the gambling?”
    “Gambling’s for pros and tourists,” she said. “I’ve never felt the urge.”

    The doctor’s office was in a two-story brick building just on the outskirts of Lake Las Vegas. She parked and they got out, walked up the walk and entered the building. There was a directory in the lobby that led them to the office on the second floor.
    “Looks like he has a pretty classy clientele,” she said.
    “Well,” Jakes said, “we know one of them was a Playboy centerfold.”
    “I guess that puts the word classy in doubt,” she said.
    Jakes thought that a bit mean-spirited of Cushing. He wondered whether she’d have said the same thing about a showgirl.
    They entered the doctor’s office and found themselves in an empty waiting room. Cushing made a show of checking her watch.
    “Kind of early to be this empty,” she said.
    “Maybe his office hours are later today.”
    There was a woman seated behind a desk out in the open, not behind the typical sliding-glass window. She was in her mid-twenties, makeup expertly applied, just the kind of receptionist you’d expect to find in a plastic surgeon’s office. She was wearing a business suit with a skirt. It was obvious the jacket was hiding some impressive—and expensive—assets.
    “Doesn’t look like there’s much business for the doctor today,” Jakes said to the girl.
    She looked up at them with a bored expression. “Can I help you?”
    Jakes looked at Cushing, who took out her badge and showed it to the young woman.
    “We’re looking for Dr. Reynolds,” Detective Cushing said.
    “The doctor is not in,” the woman said.
    “What’s your name?” Cushing asked.
    The girl blinked, as if she was surprised by the question. “Um, my name’s Gina.”
    “Well, Gina, where is the doctor today?”
    “Gee, I don’t know,” Gina said, suddenly becoming more girl than woman.
    “Would he be at home?” Cushing asked.
    “He might,” Gina said. “I really don’t know.”
    Cushing looked at Jakes. He shrugged. They had Reynolds’s home address, so he