A Match Made In Vegas

by Debra Salonen

  "Where's our boy?"

  "With Maya," Mark said. "Hopefully not picking anyone's pocket. We had a long talk about what is acceptable conduct and what isn't—a concept apparently lost on your uncle Claude."

  Alexa laughed. Poor Mark. He'd just married into a family rich with traditions—some less noble than others. But the Romani way of accepting and embracing newcomers was very much alive, she realized, as she watched Lydia and Reezira talking to their dates, two handsome young brothers whom they'd met at school.

  At another table, Jo was sitting beside Rob's father and his lovely young wife, who was holding their baby girl, Daisy Josephine. Grace's future in-laws were nearby, along with Nick's sister and her family, who had flown in to surprise Nick. Nick's nieces were deep in conversation with Jurek, the man who had, in a way, made this convoluted connection possible.

  Alexa shuddered to think what might have happened if her mother hadn't contacted Jurek for advice when her Gypsy intuition had told her her family was in jeopardy.

  "Alexa," Grace said, rushing up to her. "You'll never guess what just happened. Walter and Ralph—the two brothers who own the casino—asked if I'd be interested in managing this restaurant for them."

  Somehow, Alexa wasn't surprised. "What did you tell them?”

  “That I might—if they'd consider changing the name of the restaurant to Too Romantique." She threw back her head and laughed. "Would that not be the weirdest twist of fate you've heard yet?"

  No. What defied logic was the fact that she and her three sisters had all found love within twelve months of each other. Those kinds of odds would have made the bookies in Vegas dizzy, but when Alexa had raised the point with her mother, Yetta had smiled her "Gypsy fortune-teller smile" and had said, "Did I forget to mention that I saw all of your prophecies in one year's time? I didn't share these with each of you until you were old enough to understand, but I knew I was going to give birth to four beautiful daughters, and I knew they would find true love."

  Alexa pushed the thought from her mind and responded to her sister's announcement. "Brilliant idea, Grace. What did they say?"

  Grace's grin broadened. “They started fighting over who would get to tell Charles, who is still in jail as his lawyers squander the last of his personal wealth on yet another appeal."

  Grace shivered, as if even mentioning her old nemesis made her uncomfortable. She glanced toward the stage where the DJ had finished setting up and pointed. "Looks like it's time for the Sisters of the Silver Dollar to do our thing. Where are Liz and Kate?" She shifted on her treacherously high heels to search for the missing members of their foursome.

  "Wait," Alexa protested. "Don't the bride and groom get the first dance?”

  Liz walked up to them before Alexa could finish asking her question. Her flight had been delayed, and she and Paul had rushed to the casino straight from the airport and changed clothes in the suite Grace's future employers had provided for the wedding party. Both looked jet-lagged, but exhilarated. As promised, Liz had hundreds of digital images of their beautiful new baby girl. Carina Abigail, after Paul 's mother.

  "Surely you know by now not to waste your breath arguing with Grace," she said. "Let's just get this over with so Paul and I can slink off and crash."

  Alexa had agreed to join the Sisters of the Silver Dollar in one dance, as long as she didn't have to change into a costume. She loved her wedding dress—a simple white sheath with lace sleeves and inserts in the back and bodice. Just seeing the look on Mark's face told her she looked as beautiful as she felt.

  "Okay. Fine. We'll do it, now." She kicked off her heels and handed them to her husband. My husband. "I promise this is the last time I have to do this...until Grace's wedding," she said, giving Mark a kiss that was filled with promise of another kind as well.

  A few minutes later, a space had been cleared on the dance floor for the four Parlier sisters. Alexa wasn't worried about her performance. This time, she was dancing from the heart. She'd never felt more connected, more secure in who she was and where she fit in the world.

  My world.

  The music started, a flamenco beat of guitar and castanets. Alexa looked at her sisters—Liz in a gorgeous sari, Kate in a royal-blue maternity dress that barely showed a baby bump, and Grace—in red, of course. Each a princess in her own way, beautiful and unique.

  "Let's do this. For Dad."

  They lifted their arms gracefully and moved to a sound that had been a part of their blood, their history, since long before they were born. The audience responded with loud claps, whistles and calls of approval.

  About halfway through the routine, without any outward sign of agreement, each sister twirled in step and found her husband or fiancé. The men put up a token resistance, but soon there were eight dancers on the floor. Then ten, when Maya and Braden joined them.

  "Alexa. Kate," Grace called, nodding toward where their mother was standing, a tall, silver-haired man at her side.

  As all three sisters attempted to coax Yetta to the dance floor, Liz joined them. “Come on, Mom. This is your celebration as much as Alexa's. You've proved that the old ways really do have meaning in our lives."

  "Liz is right, Mom," Grace said. “This wedding makes you officially four for four in the prophecy business. I'm marrying a Gypsy prince. Kate fixed her past so she could see the road to a brilliant future. Liz picked the man of shadows, and Braden was the key to healing Alexa's broken heart. Now, we can all live happily ever after."

  Alexa looked at her sisters and smiled. She had a feeling nobody outside their family would believe such a story, but they all knew the truth.

  "Hear, hear," Zeke said. "To Yetta." He started clapping and soon everyone joined in.

  Yetta's cheeks turned a lovely, luminous shade of pink. Zeke whispered something in her ear, and she nodded, giving in to her daughters' urging to join them on the dance floor.

  Alexa grabbed Zeke's hand, too, and pulled him into the ever-enlarging circle.

  "Daddy would have loved this," Alexa said loud enough for everyone to hear. "And I think he would have approved of you, too, Zeke Martini. Welcome to the family."

  Yetta's tearful “Thank you," and the tender look she shared with Zeke, told Alexa other changes—and possibly even another wedding—might be coming in the future.

  That was okay with Alexa. Life was all about change. Her father had understood that better than anyone. Alexa knew that if she peered hard enough, somewhere in this crowd of happy celebrants, she'd see him. The Gypsy King. He'd jingle his pocketful of coins in beat to the music. And then he'd look at his daughters and smile with pride.

  Betting On Love #1: Grace’s story

  CHAPTER 1

  The noise level within the small, crowded detective quarters was almost enough to mask the sound of the land line, but the flashing light, which blinked in time to the pulse in Nick Lightner’s temple, caught his eye. The beat seemed to say, Going, going, gone.

  The festive celebration was in honor of his father’s long and distinguished career in law enforcement. Today was Pete Lightner’s last day as chief of detectives in Clarion Heights, a Detroit suburb that Nick’s family had called home for twenty-eight of Nick’s thirty-four years.

  In Nick’s book, “retirement” was a four-letter word. He’d seen too many good cops turn into couch potatoes just months after handing in their badges. From the minute his father announced his plan to step down, Nick had started nagging his parents to plan exactly what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives.

  His nagging had worked. Just last week, Pete had announced, “Your mom and I have decided we’re through with Michigan’s winters. We’re selling the house and moving to Portland, so we can be closer to Judy and the girls.” Judy was Nick’s sister. His parents’ real child.

  Nick knew that his adoption played no part in Pete and Sharon’s decision to move. They’d loved him and provided for him as if he were their own child from the moment they’d taken him in. They had every
right to want to be closer to their grandchildren. In the offspring department, the best Nick—whose last serious relationship had ended nearly a year earlier—could give them was Rip, a five-year-old collie mix named after Richard “Rip” Hamilton, the Pistons’ star shooting forward.

  In his head, Nick knew this move wasn’t about him. But the five-year-old inside him—the little kid whose father had given him away to a friendly cop after Nick’s mother was struck by a bus and killed—hated losing anything, from a silly bet to a major case. This tenaciousness worked in his favor on the job but was hell on relationships.

  As was his habit, Nick hid his disquiet behind a short temper and withering scowl.

  He picked up the phone and growled, “Nick Lightner.”

  The slight hesitation on the other end of the line put Nick’s cop instincts on alert. “Oh, yes, of course,” a woman’s voice said. Unfamiliar, with just a hint of an accent Nick couldn’t place. “I’m sorry. Your name threw me for a moment. I’ve always thought of you as Nikolai. Nikolai Sarna. But you would have a new name, wouldn’t you?”

  Tingles of apprehension raced down his spine. No one other than his parents and the attorney who’d handled the adoption in Los Angeles knew his birth name. He’d been Nicholas Lightner since the day before his sixth birthday.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Yetta Parlier.” The name meant nothing to him. “I’m your father’s cousin. Your birth father, I should say. Jurek Sarna. Most people know him as George. He was…is, I mean…my father’s sister-in-law’s nephew. That doesn’t really make him my cousin, I suppose, but he’s family, all the same.”

  Nick’s mouth turned dry. He’d seen his birth certificate. His mother and father had been honest with him from the start about his adoption. Partly because they figured at five, he’d remember his past; partly because that’s the kind of people they were. Up-front. Honest. Responsible. Unlike Jurek Sarna and Lucille Helson, the ex-con and the exotic dancer who had given birth to him then handed him off to another family when things turned sour.

  “I don’t know about your mother—I never met her—but your father was a Gypsy,” Pete had told Nick when Nick asked about his past.

  “Romani,” Sharon had corrected. “I believe that’s the proper term these days. Linguists have proved that the Romani came from western India. The name Gypsy stemmed from a mistaken impression that the people were from Egypt.” Sharon was a teacher and never passed up an opportunity to share information.

  Nick had no time for the past. He knew who he was—a thirty-four-year-old cop, no wife, no kids, no commitments. He lived ten miles from the house he’d grown up in. He loved his job, his dog and the Pistons. He had no interest in the hazy memories that crept into his dreams on nights when he’d had one too many beers.

  He hadn’t given his genealogy more than a passing thought since his eighteenth birthday when his mother suggested they try to locate his birth father. Nick had turned down her offer to help. “He didn’t make any effort to keep me. He just handed me off to you. I don’t have any use for a person like that.”

  A truly kind woman, Sharon had mentioned mitigating circumstances. “Your mother had just passed away. A tragic accident. I’m sure your father was reeling from the loss. Plus he didn’t have a home or job to return to after he got out of jail. Maybe he thought he was doing you a favor by giving you to us.”

  Nick hadn’t even tried to see her point. A decision had been made. His father had given him away. Like leftover pizza. Like a stray cat that was too much work to feed. Nick hadn’t wanted to know this man sixteen years ago, and he didn’t want to know him now. He assumed that was what this call was about.

  “How did you get this number?” Nick asked the woman who had waited patiently while he collected his thoughts.

  “From Jurek, of course. He’s always had connections on both sides of the law that we don’t speak about. I could be wrong, but I believe he’s always known where you were.”

  The very notion made Nick’s skin crawl.

  “What’s this about?”

  “I…I’m not sure that calling you is the right thing to do, but Jurek said you were a policeman. Normally, that would make you…um, suspect. We Romani tend to solve our own problems without involving law enforcement.”

  “You don’t trust cops.”

  “Exactly. But since you’re family—”

  Nick’s bark caught the attention of his father, who was lifting a glass of champagne as someone toasted him. Nick waved to signify the call wasn’t anything serious. “Madam,” he said, lowering his voice for maximum impact, “I am not anything to you or to the man y—”

  “Of course you are,” she said, interrupting him. “Just because Jurek made a bad decision thirty years ago doesn’t change who you are. You’re Nikolai Sarna. You’re Jurek’s son, which makes you half Romani. That blood runs through your veins, whether you choose to admit it or not. And right now, your Romani family needs your help.”

  Nick started to laugh. The woman’s audacity impressed him. She sounded regal, as if used to giving orders and having people toe the line. “What kind of help? Money? I gotta tell you, I don’t make enough—”

  “Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t call a stranger and ask for a handout, even if I were destitute. The simple fact is my youngest daughter, Grace, is in danger. She’s considering entering a business relationship with a man who I’m convinced wants more than just her money. In my dream, he appeared as a snake that swallowed each member of my family whole.”

  A dream snake? What kind of bullshit is this? Maybe it was some kind of prank, he decided. “Where are you calling from?”

  “Las Vegas. Where you were born.”

  He’d never denied the fact.

  “On July twenty-ninth. At four in the afternoon. I was the third person to hold you. You had such fine blond hair, I thought you were bald. My girls all had dark black hair at birth.”

  Nick looked at the people grouped around his father. The plan was to move the party to The Grease Monkey, a popular watering hole where Nick’s mother and the other spouses would meet them. He wasn’t in the mood for a party, but at the moment it sounded better than this nonsense. “Yes, well, that’s very interesting, but I’m a cop, not an exterminator and your…um, snake…is two thousand miles away from here.”

  His sarcasm must have come through loud and clear. She said haughtily, “Jurek warned me not to expect your cooperation. I thought twice about calling you, but in addition to this matter of Charles Harmon…”

  Charles Harmon? How do I know that name?

  “…a mutual friend told me that your father is entering the hospital next week for an operation. I’m sure Jurek would rather you didn’t know that, but I learned the hard way that it’s much healthier to clear up unresolved issues before a person dies than wait until it’s—”

  Nick sat up abruptly. His feet hit the floor with a snap that made several heads turn his way. “Did you say Charles Harmon?”

  He pawed through the files on his desk for a fax that had come through a day or two earlier from his counterpart in Toronto.

  “Yes. Grace insists he’s just a friend…and, to be fair, he was my husband’s lawyer when Kingston was alive. Charles also helped me handle some financial matters a few years back. But he’s changed since he bought into that casino. And I’ve seen the way he looks at Grace—like a gambler counting his chips for some high-stakes bet.”

  What was that alert about? White slave trade? A possible link to an international drug… “Ha,” he said, snagging the sheet from the middle of the stack.

  The woman on the other end of the line made a huffing sound. “Well, if you’re not interested in helping us and meeting your father before it’s too late, then I’ll leave you with my good wishes and say goodbye.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second then added, “You’ve been in my prayers since the day I learned of your mother’s passing, Nikolai.”

  The name rattled him, but Nick
ignored the odd flutter in his chest. He quickly scanned the bulletin. “Wait. Hold on. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.”

  “Yes, actually, you did.”

  Nick started to grin. “Well, maybe I changed my mind.” He couldn’t care less about his long-lost relatives, but a chance to nail a scumbag like “Lucky Chuck” Harmon was too sweet a gift to pass up. “Tell me more about your daughter and the snake.”

  “Grace, Grace, Grace, tell me you’re joking.”

  Three Graces. Never a good thing. When her eldest sister Alexa, short for Alexandra, started repeating herself, Grace Parlier knew it was time to change the subject.

  “So, what do we know about this long-lost cousin of Mom’s—other than the fact that I’m supposed to pick him up at the airport in an hour?” Grace crammed a too-large wedge of Danish in her mouth. Nervous eating. Not a good sign. But that damn dream had her edgy and discombobulated. “Why can’t he take a taxi? Or call Uber?” she mumbled, chewing and talking at the same time. “You know what traffic is like in February. All the snowbirds in the northern half of the country have descended on Vegas in their giant RVs.”

  Alexa reached across their mother’s faux lace tablecloth to grasp Grace’s hand before she could pig out on another piece of pastry. “Sweetie.” Her melted chocolate-colored eyes were filled with gravity and concern—a mixture Grace and her other sisters called Alexa’s preschool-teacher look. The combination always made Grace feel about five. “Don’t change the subject. No one is knocking your ambition, but you have to be realistic, too.”

  “She’s right,” another voice said from across the room.

  Liz, short for Elizabeth. Sister number two. A true healer, Liz was a physical therapist, who had regularly worked in poor and war-torn countries with WorldRx, an international medical team of volunteers. These days she had a job at DesertWay Medical—a small private hospital in Vegas.