Something clicked when she said that. He looked over at her. “You’ve been on the top floor of Illusions, then?”
Her startled glance told him she hadn’t meant to say that. “Uh, yeah. Briefly.”
“It’s a very exclusive casino and hotel. Booked up months ahead, I hear. Getting into Illusions is tougher than getting into Fort Knox.”
“I’ve heard that.” She returned her attention to the view.
“I didn’t think to ask where you were staying while you’re here. I’m guessing you’re at Illusions.”
She kept her gaze on the sparkling lights and the constant flow of traffic forty floors below them, but her cheeks had become rosy. “The Cartwrights are family friends.”
He’d bet she hadn’t intended for him to know that. Earlier he’d asked how she’d learned about his problems with Cynthia. Now he knew. “You and Vaughn Cartwright had a little conversation before you came over to the Moon to see me, didn’t you?”
She turned to him, putting her back to the view. She looked beautiful standing there surrounded by the lights, and he wondered if he was dealing with a modern version of Mata Hari. If so, she wasn’t a very good spy. They’d been together a couple of hours and she’d already revealed her connection to the enemy.
“Don’t leap to the wrong conclusions, Luke.”
“Like what? I—” His phone pinged. “Could be from Cynthia.” Taking his phone from his pocket, he clicked on the message. He stared at the screen for a moment. “Busted.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned the phone so she could see the picture embedded in the message. “They must have hidden a motion-activated camera in that room.”
Giselle gazed at the image and sighed. “And now my brother knows I’m here and that I came unannounced. I’d better text him.” Taking out her phone, she typed a brief message. “Maybe this is just as well. I told him I really wanted to talk with him and I hoped we could get together soon. If he’s up for that, it might open the door for you and Cynthia to have a heart-to-heart, too.”
“I’d like that.” Except he didn’t know what he planned to say yet. The more time he spent with Giselle, the more his perceptions seemed to shift. He was no longer exactly sure where he stood on the subject of Cynthia’s future. Before he talked to her, he ought to figure that out.
Giselle tucked her phone away. “So where were we?”
He had to think about that. Surrounded by the gemlike colors of the casino lights, she was a vision. He’d been trying to ignore his attraction from the moment she’d walked into his office. Then he remembered they’d been talking about her connection to Vaughn Cartwright. Okay, that would help cool his libido.
He cleared his throat. “You were telling me about your friendship with the Cartwright family.”
“I’m here to bring my brother home. That’s my only agenda.”
“I believe you.” Partly because he wanted to. He plain liked her. She was smart, confident, and didn’t pull her punches. Plus she’d come all the way to Vegas in an effort to talk some sense into her brother, and he certainly related to that.
“Whatever feud the Daltons and the Cartwrights have going on has nothing to do with me.” She met his gaze. “I connected with Vaughn only because our families are acquainted, and so I e-mailed him to see if he had any idea what was going on with my brother.”
“Is Vaughn a friend of his?”
“I don’t think they’ve ever met. But I can tell you that Vaughn’s not happy that my brother’s hanging out with your sister. As I said, my family knows his family, and Bryce joining forces with a Dalton is seen as consorting with the enemy.”
“So why are you here with me? Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No. Vaughn understands that I need to do whatever it takes to get my brother back home. If Bryce had hooked up with any woman other than Cynthia, Vaughn would be helping me track them down. But he can’t come to the rescue when a Dalton’s involved.”
Luke sighed. “I’ll accept that. And speaking of Cynthia, I need to check the photo gallery and see if she’s swiped any other pictures.”
“Do you mind if I tag along?”
He’d assumed that she would go. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because these are your family photos. It’s personal.”
“That’s considerate of you.” He was impressed with her respect for his privacy.
“If you’re worried that I’m going to report everything to Vaughn when this is all over, I can tell you right now I wouldn’t do that. I’m sorry the family lost Howlin’ at the Moon. It means a lot to them, but—”
“It also means a lot to me.”
“I can see that.”
He was still waiting for the sense of jubilation he’d expected to feel. Maybe once this business with Cynthia was over, he’d be ready to celebrate. “Come on. Let’s go see what my little sister has done to the family pictures.” He gestured toward the hallway that branched off from the living area. “First doorway on your right.”
He followed her into the gallery, which had been set up by a professional curator. A wooden bench ran down the center of the room, but that was the only furniture. The walls in the windowless room were covered with framed photographs of various sizes, some color and some black-and-white.
Each had a museum-style label underneath giving the date and occasion. He and Cynthia had their own walls, and the other two contained family groupings, pictures of his parents when they were kids, and pictures of them as a couple. Track lighting highlighted the photos without producing any reflection on the glass. His father had spent a fortune on this gallery.
Luke checked Cynthia’s wall and swore softly to himself. He’d never counted how many pictures there’d been of her, but he guessed there had been at least fifty in various sizes. Close to a third of them were now only empty frames. “She took all her recital pictures.”
Giselle walked over to Cynthia’s wall. “She went through a lot of trouble. Why not take the whole thing, frame and all?”
“Too awkward. Whatever she plans to do with those pictures, she wants to be able to transport them easily. The frames would make that tough.”
“Guess so.” Giselle wandered around the room studying the display. “Sort of ruins the family photo album concept, doesn’t it?”
“The albums still exist. They’re in a vault. But the minute my dad saw this windowless room, he came up with the idea of turning it into a family gallery.” He couldn’t imagine how upset Cynthia must be to have done this. In a way, taking pictures from here was better than pulling them out of the somewhat fragile family albums in the vault. He suddenly realized he’d grossly underestimated her passion for dancing.
“I love this one of you wearing your Mickey Mouse ears.”
He glanced over to where Giselle stood surveying all the pictures of him, a smile on that lush mouth. No wonder. He looked dorky in those ears. “Yeah, well, that was my Mickey phase. I wore that hat everywhere, including to church.” She’d been right about the personal nature of this room.
“Well, now that I know what she’s taken,” he said, “we can go back out and enjoy the view, if you want.”
“I’m enjoying this one.” She pointed to a picture of him in a football uniform. “What position did you play?”
“Quarterback.”
“Were you any good?”
He shrugged. “I guess. We took state my senior year.”
“Then I’ll bet you went to college on a football scholarship.”
“You’d win that bet, but I’d rather not dwell on—”
“Just trying to get a bead on you, Dalton. Bachelor’s? Master’s?”
“MBA.”
“I see. Football star and graduate student. Did your father dedicate another room for framed diplomas and trophies and such?”
; Luke laughed and shook his head. The lady was certainly persistent. “Yes, but we’re not going in there. It’s plain embarrassing. Let’s head back to the living room and wait for dinner to arrive.”
“If you insist.” She paused on the way out. “Is that your mom when she was still performing?” She gestured to a studio shot of his mother dressed in bright red sequins and feathers. Her headdress was nearly as tall as she was.
“That was a publicity shot she had taken right before she met my dad. She’d considered going to Hollywood and trying her luck out there.”
“But instead she married your father.”
“She did, and never regretted it. He was the love of her life.”
“Cynthia looks a lot like her.”
“I know, and people tell her that. I think it’s part of the problem.” He sighed. “Enough family history.” He gestured toward the doorway. “After you.”
With one more glance at his mother’s picture, Giselle left the gallery and walked out to the living room. Once there, she turned to him. “What would you have done if the poker game had gone the other way and you’d lost this?” She spread her arms to encompass the elegant living space with its stunning view.
“I don’t know.” He’d played that scenario over in his head many times in the days leading up to the game. “I’d like to think I would have recovered and forgiven myself for being so reckless. But I don’t know if I would have. I’m grateful that it didn’t turn out that way.”
“But you allowed yourself to take that risk, knowing that it could turn into a defeat for you.”
He nodded. “No matter what happened, I wouldn’t have to spend my days looking at a Cartwright-owned property and thinking about the feud that probably killed my dad. His doctors told him to stop obsessing over Harrison Cartwright because it was bad for his heart. But he’d been betrayed by his best friend, and he never got over it. Every time I looked at that bar, I was reminded of that. So I set up the poker game.”
She gazed at the richly patterned carpet at her feet. Finally she looked up. “That’s all Cynthia wants, Luke. To have that kind of control over her destiny.”
He met her gaze and couldn’t help smiling. “You’re good, Giselle. I didn’t even see that one coming. Nice try, but the two situations are completely different.”
“I don’t agree.”
“Cynthia’s a semester away from graduation. Her brain is fine-tuned right now, in the groove. She’ll never be more ready to finish that degree than she is now. If she puts it off for a few years, I’m afraid she’ll struggle like crazy to get back up to speed academically.”
“Or she might come back more focused than ever and blow away the younger students.”
“Dancing is like any other sport. It’s great when you’re young and athletic, but it’s not a career for a lifetime.”
“So what? I’m not very familiar with this field, but it seems to me she could teach, or choreograph productions, or—”
“Okay, sure.” He gazed out at the kaleidoscope that was Vegas. “But I think she’d be bored to tears living the life my mother had.”
Giselle stood there without saying anything for several seconds. Finally she spoke. “Okay, I get it.”
He looked at her in surprise. “What do you get, exactly?”
“You see your sister trying to follow in your mom’s footsteps without realizing she’s nothing like your mom, even though she looks like her. You think she’s liable to end up being miserable from the lack of mental stimulation.”
“Yes, exactly! So how do I—” The doorbell chimed. “We can talk about it later. Dinner’s here.” But elation filled him. Giselle finally understood why he was so determined to get Cynthia back on track. Although he’d met her only a couple hours earlier, he no longer felt alone in his quest.
Chapter 6
A portly gentleman with all the bearing of an English butler rolled a double-tiered cart through the living area and over to the linen-covered dining table by the west window. Giselle breathed in the aroma of grilled steak, roasted veggies, and . . . werewolf?
For one electric moment, her gaze met that of the formally dressed man in his sixties. No doubt about it—the butler was a werewolf. She was dying to know the story behind this bizarre situation but figured she wouldn’t be getting it soon.
“Greetings, Mr. Thatcher!” Luke seemed really happy to see him. “I’d like you to meet Giselle Landry from San Francisco. Giselle, Mr. Thatcher has been serving our family for . . . is it almost twenty years now?” He glanced at the butler.
“Almost, sir.” He bowed in Giselle’s direction. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Landry.”
“Same here, Mr. Thatcher.” The butler hadn’t reacted to her last name, and yet if he was Were, he would know the Landry pack was one of the most powerful in the Bay Area. He’d probably spent twenty years learning to keep his expression neutral and his mouth shut. She wondered how he fit into the Cartwright/Dalton history. “Are you originally from London?”
“Hertfordshire, madam.”
“You’ve brought us some heavenly smelling food.”
“I daresay you’ll enjoy it.” He started unloading the contents of the cart onto the table. “Our chef is the best in the state.”
“And he’s not happy because I order pizza half the time,” Luke said.
“He makes you a very good pizza, sir.” Mr. Thatcher finished arranging everything on the table and took a lighter out of his pocket. “But he was pleased to get this order tonight.” He lit the white tapers sitting in heavy silver candlesticks.
Luke winked at Giselle. “Guess I’ll have to make him happy more often. I’d hate to lose the guy because he was sick of making pizza.”
“After this meal, sir, you’ll give up on pizza for good.” With the kind of flourish that he’d probably perfected after years of service, Mr. Thatcher whisked the silver domes away, revealing two carefully arranged plates, each bearing a filet, grilled asparagus, and an artfully spooned serving of mashed root vegetables. A basket of bread, two pieces of chocolate mousse cake, and two glasses of ruby-colored wine completed the meal.
Giselle stifled a moan of pleasure. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. It was all she could do not to yank out a chair and sit down so they could get started.
“Will there be anything else, sir?” Mr. Thatcher stood poised beside the cart, prepared to roll it out the door.
Luke glanced at her. “Giselle? Anything more you need to go with the meal?”
“Not a thing.” Except she’d love to know why a Were had served it to them, but she couldn’t very well ask that. “This is a feast.”
“Then I guess we’re all set, Mr. Thatcher. Thank you.”
“Have a great evening, sir. Just call when you’re finished and want me to clear.” With another slight bow, he rolled the cart into the foyer and let himself out.
“He’s fabulous,” Giselle said after he’d left. “So he’s been with your family for almost twenty years?”
“Guess so. I’ve lost track of it, but I’m sure my dad knew. Twenty years ago he was finally doing well enough to start hiring live-in servants. According to my dad, Harrison Cartwright recommended Mr. Thatcher for the job.”
“Now, that’s fascinating.” She had to say something to keep her jaw from dropping in amazement. Had Harrison Cartwright installed a spy in Angus Dalton’s household?
That made no sense, because twenty years ago Harrison and Angus had been the best of friends. Yet she could think of no other explanation. Normally werewolf live-in servants preferred to work for Weres. Working for humans didn’t give them enough privacy when they wanted to shift and get some wolf-style exercise.
She wondered if Mr. Thatcher had made do with trips to Howlin’ at the Moon and its underground forest. Now that would be closed to him, too. “Does he have a first name?”
> Luke laughed and moved over to the table. “It’s Melvin. But I honestly didn’t know that until I started signing his paychecks in January. He’s always been Mr. Thatcher. Incredibly proper, but incredibly loyal. I was afraid my mother would ask him to go to France with her, but she didn’t, thank God. Ready to eat?”
“You know it.” Deciding to think about the werewolf/butler/spy thing later, she sat down and sighed in appreciation. “This really is terrific, Luke. I hope I won’t embarrass myself by attacking this food.”
“Please do.” He picked up his wineglass. “But first let’s toast.”
“What are we toasting?”
“I haven’t figured that out. My family is big into toasting, though, so it’s a habit with me.” His blue gaze warmed as he smiled at her. “I suppose a toast between the two of us could get complicated.”
“It could. Your toast might be something I can’t agree with.”
“Then . . . here’s to success.”
She chuckled. “That’s ambiguous enough, I guess. To success.” She touched her glass to his and drank. The wine was pleasantly dry, the perfect complement to a steak dinner. “Nice.”
“Glad it suits you. I just thought of another toast.”
“Okay.”
“To a cooperative effort as we work through our problems.”
“I’ll drink to that.” She touched her glass to his again and then took another sip. She met his gaze and felt a tug of sexual awareness. Not good. “I keep thinking about that picture of you with the Mickey Mouse ears.” She wasn’t really, but maybe if she could, it would squash her growing interest in him.
He rolled his eyes. “Please don’t.”
“If you really hate it that much, you could take it down, couldn’t you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
His expression softened. “Because my mom and dad loved that picture.”
“Oh.” And every time he looked at it, he remembered that. Her heart squeezed.
He cleared his throat. “Hey, let’s not let this get cold. Dig in.”
Werewolf in Las Vegas Page 6