by Burke, Wendy
Family had gathered in Emmy’s living room. Another year when her tree was an absolute hit. Elvis Presley’s White Christmas sang beneath the company’s conversation. A six-year-old curled in her lap, nearly asleep, Parker’s normal fifty pounds felt more like one hundred and fifty.
“Hey, Parkmeister.” Emmy jiggled her.
She raised her head. “Is it bedtime?”
“Well past, honey.”
The tiny brunette leaned back in her aunt’s hold. “Can I sleep in your bed, Aunt Emmy?”
“You sure can. Move Boof, though, or he’ll take up the whole side.”
“Okay.” The youngster yawned.
“I’ll take her.” Seth scooped the girl from Emmy’s lap. He kissed her forehead. “Thank you for the vacation money. Goodnight. Love you.”
“Goodnight, Seth, love you, too.”
“’Night, Paulie, see you in the morning.” Parker waved over his shoulder as he toted her to Emmy’s room. The girl’s father had already called it a night in one of the three spare bedrooms in the big former farm house.
She sat at the large kitchen table, the room warmed by one of the old house’s two fireplaces. Her sister Patty toyed with the myriad of magnets adorning the refrigerator. Cities, states and countries marked a pseudo-timeline of Nick’s travels, until their delivery had come to an abrupt halt. Despite their age and replacing her fridge three times, Emmy didn’t dare put them into storage.
Paul tended bar near the big farm sink. “Another Cosmo, Em?”
She gave him a sly glance. “No, make me one of those yummy Chambord and Frangelico martinis.”
“On it.”
Patty leaned against the granite-topped counter with a sour look. Emmy returned the pucker. Paul was her friend, confidant, dealer of her art, biggest cheerleader and…innocuous. Patty hated that the kids adored him. No, she doesn’t like him because he’s talented, sweet, well-liked and—oh yeah—gay.
Patty turned away, perusing the counter. The FedEx envelope caught her eye.
Emmy sighed. Here we go again.
“So, who’s your latest friend in the Pentagon, Em?”
Really Patty, you’re going to poke this bear again? She took a breath. Let it go, just answer the question. “I don’t know, haven’t opened it yet. But if you must know, the assistant to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff actually called me last month.”
Returning the unopened envelope to where she’d found it, her sister mumbled, “And, where did that get you?”
“Really, Patricia—must you be so snippy to your sister?” Paul’s commentary elicited another sour look.
“She’s wasting her time.”
“Well, it’s my time!” Emmy said.
Paul’s gentle hand lit upon her shoulder, anchoring her in her seat.
“Ladies, it’s almost Christmas.”
Patty sat across from her. “Why do you do it? Put yourself through all that rejection?”
“Again, Pat, again with this? You know why I do it.” She shouldn’t slam a martini—and a big one at that—but the nutty and sweet concoction went down with ease. She held up her glass to Paul. Instead he placed it on the table, sliding a tray of cookies her way. “It’s not rejection in my eyes.”
Patty had had her share of alcohol throughout the evening, which emboldened her. “Then what is it?”
Emmy met her glare. The same conversation happened every year when the gang gathered at her home for pre-Christmas festivities. Due to her trip to Vegas, the party was earlier—and it seemed, Patty got drunker earlier as well. “I consider it hope, Pat. Hope for everyone involved. As long as there’s no death certificate, I always have hope.”
Her response held no emotion, “You’re fucking crazy.”
“Okaaay…I think that’s enough now.” Paul rose, moving behind Patty and shook her chair. “I think it’s time for you to head to bed.” With an insistent clutch of her tricep, she was removed from her seat. In her inebriated state, she didn’t balk. Under his breath, yet in a stern voice loud enough for Patty to hear, he said, “One day you’ll regret those words, Patricia. Off to bed you go.”
He steered her from the kitchen toward the ornate staircase.
“’Night, Em,” she called, a hint of apology in her tone.
“Goodnight, Patty.” Already forgiving her, Emmy still shook her head, somewhat entertained, yet saddened. Maybe Patty’s right. Hell, it’d been twenty-one years since she’d last heard anything regarding Nick’s possible whereabouts. She put her face in her hands, remembering his black hair and pale blue eyes, still able to feel his strong arms about her, clinging to her at Gate 14-C at McCarren International Airport in Las Vegas, whispering his love for her before he flew back to Coronado, then shipped off to whereabouts unknown.
“Em.” Paul slipped into a chair beside her, his reliable arms about her shoulders, breaking her memory-trance. “What is it, sweetie?”
Hot tears wet her face, yet she hadn’t even realized she was crying. Paul’s closeness allowed her emotions to break further. “I miss him, Paulie—I miss him so much.”
***
“Ms. Patterson, how wonderful to finally meet you in person!”
Emmy had to keep from swooning as Jackson Castillo kissed each of her cheeks. I could get used to this! Why can’t all Americans be so chivalrous?
“Was your flight comfortable?”
“Very much. Really, Mr. Castillo….”
“Jackson, please.”
“Jackson. You didn’t have to send your private jet.”
He ignored her protests. “Did Armand fly over the Grand Canyon for you?”
“He did. It was beautiful!” I am so out of my league! How had she gotten so lucky, rubbing elbows with his class of people? She gestured to Paul. “You must know Paul Strait.”
“Of course.” He shook his hand. “We’ve been acquainted many years—he’s very good friends with my brother, Jagger.”
Jackson took her hand, and wove it through his arm to rest in the crook of his elbow. Geez, I don’t think I’ve ever been ‘escorted’ before! Stifling a giggle, she attempted to appear professional.
He led her through The Castillo’s massive lobby with Paul following behind. “Now, let me get you two settled in.”
“That would be wonderful. Paul and I can get started on the piece tonight.”
“It can wait until tomorrow. I’m sure you want to be well fed and well rested before finishing your masterpiece.”
An embarrassed heat bloomed on her cheeks. Her masterpiece. Hell, I’m just a glass artist from Wisconsin!
Jackson raised a hand and seconds later two well-dressed assistants were at his side. She tried not to look silly, but she had to pop up on her toes to look over and past Paul and Jackson’s heads to take in the immense entrance area. Her neck cracked as she took in the height of the room. What a place!
“These gentlemen will show you to your suites. Your pieces have been unloaded and are safe in our warehouse. We’ll bring them over in the morning.”
“Thank you, Jackson.”
“You’re very welcome, Emelia. I can speak for my whole family and company and tell you we’re thrilled to showcase your art and have you here putting the finishing touches on your stained-glass sculpture. I’m sure you’re tired. Marco and Elvisio will show you to your adjoining suites. We’ll have dinner together tomorrow, if that’s all right with you.”
Again her cheeks were warmed by his lips. I could so get used to this!
***
Emmy had slept well, even though she’d phoned Paul before retiring to tease him about how she needed a step stool to get into bed. At least twenty inches high, the mattress sat atop a box spring the same height or higher. Add linens so thick she’d need an extra hand just to pull them back from the pillows. Best pillows ever! Better immediate-sleep-inducing than two Bombay Sapphire martinis after a sixteen-hour day. Definitely the largest, most well-appointed bed—and hotel room—she’d ever slept in.
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br /> Folding her linen napkin, she placed it in her lap. Really, thirty-five dollar Eggs Benedict? “Are you finished, Paul?”
The gallery owner took a last, satisfying slurp of coffee. “Yes, sweetie, I’m finished. But, now I think I need a nap—that Eggs Benedict is going bust my skinny hips right out these skinny jeans!”
Emmy rolled her eyes.
They made their way out of the restaurant. She’d been too tired the night before to notice, but the grand hallway was decorated to the nines for the holidays. With Christmas over, the hotel seemed to be gearing up for more than a day or two celebration of a New Year’s bacchanal.
And something else she would have missed if Paul, with a beaming grin, hadn’t pointed out the displays. At intervals along the concourse, pieces of her work had been showcased. She reddened. People actually seemed interested in her art. Really, I’m not that big of a deal!
Along with more than a dozen of her pieces, high-end boutiques lined the concourse along with tasteful yet somewhat touristy shops.
She stopped at a display of activity brochures—day trips to Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon, blackjack classes, an opportunity to cook with Wolfgang Puck. She bit her bottom lip when she spotted advertisements for more than one Elvis wedding chapel.
Swallowing hard, she dropped her head, holding back the tears. She reached out and took one of the fliers.
Paul spotted her distress. “What wrong, Em?”
Staring at the pamphlet, she swiped a tear from her cheek. “Nothing.”
He took the literature from her hand and studied it a moment. Looking back at her, she again wiped her face. “Emelia?”
When he embraced her, she rested her head against his chest. God, what the hell is wrong with me? And if you tell him, he’s going to think you’re a major dork! “You’re not going to believe this, and I’m sure you’ll lose all respect for me if I tell you.”
He squeezed her and with a small chuckle said, “Now you’ve just got to spill!”
Moving from his hold, she wound her arm through his, strolling away from that which had unearthed two-decades-old memories. “I almost got married at an Elvis chapel.”
“What!” He didn’t attempt to hide his queen-like disgust. “Emelia Constance Patterson—the word ‘classless’ doesn’t begin to express my disappointment!” They laughed together as they walked. “Who was he?”
“My Navy boy.”
“The one you pester the Pentagon about?”
She nodded, dropping her head, hiding the effect of the memory of the wedding that never happened.
Chapter Three
Dressed all in black, he cut a commanding figure. People gave him a wide berth as he entered the Castillo. Am I still that scary? Interesting that by the way he carried himself, he could cut a path straight through the middle of a grocery store or shopping mall. And now people moved from his path, inside one of the ritziest hotels in Las Vegas.
He thought his look had softened. Hell, I’m not wearing combat black and a balaclava! He looked normal in a plain black mock-turtle neck, black cargos, black Doc Martens and a black leather jacket. No one could see the automatic pistol tucked into the back of his waistband, and if they did, he had every right, given to him and protected by him and the United States of America, to carry it. Snorting at the thought, and by the way the other guests floated away from him, there’d be no need to use the Ruger anyway, but it comforted him. Carrying high power weapons had been for years a natural, daily occurrence.
Nothing had been ‘normal’ in some time. It’d been almost two years since he’d returned to the U.S. Much of that time, he’d holed up in base housing in Coronado, California. When not alone in his small, utilitarian apartment, he suffered through debriefings, his psyche poked and prodded, healing from wounds he hadn’t known he’d suffered, and trying to again get accustomed to running water, bedding, and the ability to come and go as he pleased.
Despite being stateside, he still swiveled his head taking in everything around him, noting anything that might pose a threat or be useful. Even with his advanced training, his specific preparation in everything, he’d never been more nervous and less prepared in his entire life.
Maybe she’s not even here…. He grinned, thinking of her, wondering if she had moved on after so many years. Did she still wear his ring? Did a gold-fringed blue star flag still hang in her window? Had she moved from their hometown? Maybe she’d married, had children. What beauties those kids would be!
He could have used his talents and done the research on his lost love on his own, but using a third party would salve any possible hurt the probable bad news would bring.
He’d been concerned his e-mail to the 1Night Stand agency sounded desperate, but the return correspondence had been understanding. Madame Eve expressed her appreciation for his service to country and said she would aid him in any way she could. Money was no object due to his extreme service to America, and it never would be, thanks to Uncle Sam.
“Welcome to the The Castillo. How may I help you?” The registration clerk was pretty and well-dressed.
Handing over the reservation confirmation paperwork, he said, “I understand a room is being held on the twelfth floor for me.”
“Yes.” She typed and checked, then ran a plastic card through a key programmer. “Here you are, Mr….”
“Lieutenant….”
“Yes, Lieutenant. Elevators are just down the concourse. Let me get someone to help you with your bag.”
“No, thank you.” He left the blonde, making his way down the concourse of the grand hotel. He tried taking in The Castillo’s ambiance—overstated yet classy, ritzy, but not out of reach. Not for those who took charter junkets. Maybe he could get comfortable there. An echo of chatter drifted down from above him.
What the hell?
Thirty feet up, two people worked atop a cordoned-off scissor lift. A woman in a blue T-shirt, khaki cargo clam-diggers, anklets and Puma sneakers worked with glass art pieces, her lovely calf muscles straining. A female’s looks hadn’t stunned him in many years, but her cuteness took him off guard, stopping him in his tracks. He angled his head, trying to extract a visual memory from a deep corner of his mind. Like a dog hearing some far-off sound, he turned his head in the other direction, but never stopped watching her. Please…just look this way. But she didn’t, too immersed in the work at hand.
A sudden depression washed over him. He pulled his gaze from them and headed to the elevators.
***
Emmy stifled a yawn. The party had been wonderful, but she’d had enough wine and enough noise for one night. And stuck in three-inch heels, her feet were killing her.
Barefoot, she padded down the corridor, that damn song rolling in her head—Keep it comin’ love…. It seemed she could still hear the live performance of KC & the Sunshine Band floors below at full volume.
She slipped her key card into the door lock. “I’ll be singin’ that for a week.”
Entering the massive suite, she couldn’t get over the expanse of her room. Her hosts were too kind to put her up in such extravagance, and even nicer to assign Paul an adjoining one. Her best friend’s entertaining personality always kept her from being lonely.
Jackson Castillo and his wife, Leah, kept her and Paulie company the entire evening, with question upon question about her. Other than family, only one other person had ever given her such attention.
Dropping her purse on the table in the middle of the living area, she sighed with contentment, then stopped, narrowing her eyes. Why is my shower running? Making her way to the bedroom, she peeked in toward the bathroom. Beyond the large open tub, behind the curved, glass block shower, a shadow scrubbed itself.
Panicking, she stumbled back toward the living room, still keeping an eye on the intruder, and speed-dialed her traveling partner.
“Miss me already?”
“Paul, there’s someone in my room!”
“Honey, you’ve had too many margaritas!”
>
“No, Paulie, really, there’s someone in my shower.” She did her best to keep her tone even-tempered and quiet as possible.
She almost jumped out of her skin when a deep voice resonated off the tile and glass. “Who’s there?”
Frozen, she wanted to squeal in shock but nothing came from her mouth. The water stopped and the figure moved from behind the glass block, into the darkened bedroom.
Emmy retreated further into the living area, trying to look small behind a large vase of flowers.
A scream caught in her throat. Around the bedroom door emerged a muscular arm, a black handgun in its hand.
“He has a gun,” she whispered into her phone.
“Emmy?”
A man’s voice. Vaguely familiar, but who knew her—let alone a man with a gun—there?
He peered into the dim light of the open area of the suite.
Why is he smiling?
The nine millimeter was forgotten by the intruder. Placing it on a nearby table, he approached her.
I am not getting assaulted in Las Vegas! Aiming for his head, she pelted her cell phone at him. With no effort, he caught it in his large paw. Oh shit! She turned and bolted toward the door.
“Em!”
In her haste and fear, she clipped her hip hard on the side table by the door. Manual dexterity turned to all-thumbs stupidity as she fumbled with the lock and knob. His hands had barely lit upon her shoulders when she found her voice and let out a horrendous scream.
“Emmy, it’s me….”
Between her shriek and her struggle, she heard him, unsure how the stranger knew her name. She fought him, even after her feet left the ground when he picked her up and dumped her on the sofa. She battled against his bare bulk when he leaned into her, trying to control her, pinning her down. Despite the fact she was in great shape, his size and strength overpowered her.
“No!” She struggled in his embrace. Rape! Why else would there be a naked stranger on top of her?
“Emelia, stop.”
Is he chuckling?