Luck of the Dragon

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When had thigh-highs become required jewel-heist garb?

Lucy shifted in discomfort and silently cursed her pinchy-banded polyester stockings. The hot Las Vegas sun had set hours ago over the casino’s grand opening gala, but the desert air still heated her skin like a blast from her jewelry kiln. Perspiration channeled down her bare back and pooled at the base of her spine. If she was going steal from Alec Gerald, she didn’t need the distraction of slipping hose and sweat. Or a loaner dress that was so short, the hem didn’t touch her fingertips. Talk about distractions.

But distraction was the whole point.

The slinky red halter dress tied around her neck, a la Marilyn Monroe, with a low-cut back that plunged below the dimples on her rear, giving the patio full of tourists a great view of her daisy-chain infinity tattoo. Her twin brother, Joey, liked to call her tattoo a tramp stamp. Whatever. Mr. Center of the Universe had officially lost his right to condemn her, on any score, after dragging her into his latest mess. Her gut twisted in an antacid-needing blend of anxiety and guilt.

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