Circle of Scorpions

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It was exactly five-thirty when Nick Carter walked into the Oak Room of Manhattan's Plaza Hotel.

His date was for five o'clock, but she was still at the bar, waiting, an empty stool on either side of her.

She wore a green dress that had been cut from just enough material to cover the full curves of her body. As he approached, Carter noticed that her fiery red hair had been brushed into a theatrical kind of upsweep.

He smiled. The coiffure had been his suggestion.

Talon-tipped fingers were wrapped around a Manhattan.

"Hi." He brushed his lips across her cheek and then did the same to the back of her hand.

"Nick, I was beginning to wonder."

"Sorry I'm late. You know us tycoons."

Carter settled himself on the stool beside her as the bartender appeared in front of him with a wide grin on his face.

"The usual, sir?"

"Yeah," Carter said with a nod, and ten seconds later he was toasting the voluptuous redhead with a Chivas, neat except for a single cube.

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