Raising the Stakes

by Sandra Marton

  Wouldn’t he?

  The room was so quiet that Dawn could hear the thud of her heart. She stood up and looked in the mirror. The jeans and silk T-shirt really did look nice. Slowly she reached up and took the scrunchie from her hair, watched as the waves tumbled over her shoulders. If she were actually going to meet Gray, if this was a date, Cassie’s shoes would be the finishing touch, but she wasn’t doing that. She was only going to the hotel because it was the right thing to do…

  Dawn spun away from the mirror, slipped her feet into Cassie’s shoes, grabbed her purse and keys and ran for the door.

  * * *

  Gray looked at his watch and told himself to keep a lid on his temper.

  It wasn’t easy.

  He’d been stood up. Or maybe it was better to say he’d been had. Dawn had grown tired of saying she didn’t want to go out with him so she’d said yes, she would, and all the time, she’d intended to leave him cooling his heels outside the hotel as he’d been doing for the past twenty minutes.

  The doorman caught his eye and smiled politely. By now, he’d probably figured out what was happening, that Gray was out here waiting for a woman who wasn’t going to turn up.

  “Taxi, sir?” he’d said, when Gray had first come out, and he’d said no thanks, he was meeting somebody.

  Like hell he was.

  A muscle flickered in his jaw.

  She’d stood him up. It was a first unless you counted the time he was, what, fifteen, and he’d let his cousins drag him to a party where he’d spent the night gawking at a girl visiting from Chicago. Finally he’d worked up enough courage to go over and ask her to dance, and after that he’d taken his life in his hands and asked her if she wanted to go to the movies the next night. Yes, she’d said, that would be fun, except she’d never shown up in front of the Prairie Theater and he’d waited and paced and waited some more and gone from puzzled to embarrassed to out and out humiliated…

  He wasn’t fifteen anymore; he wasn’t embarrassed or humiliated or puzzled. He was just pissed because he’d only asked her out because of his obligation to Jonas. Hell, even if she showed up now, full of apologies, he’d tell her—

  “Hi.”

  She was coming toward him, smiling hesitantly, wearing some kind of silky-looking T-shirt and white jeans; her hair was loose and swinging against her shoulders, and he felt like he’d been sucker-punched. His anger drained away and he smiled and held out the gift he’d purchased at the shop in the lobby. He’d planned on flowers until he saw the little teddy bear holding a silk rose in its paw.

  Perfect, he’d thought, and from the look on her face, he knew he’d figured right.

  “Hi,” he said. “You look beautiful.”

  She took the bear and stared at it. For one crazy minute, he was afraid she was going to cry.

  “Oh,” she said softly, “he’s wonderful. Thank you. I never dreamed—I mean, I just never imagined…” She blushed, and it occurred to him that she did that a lot, and that blushing was something women didn’t do much anymore. “Sorry. I’m babbling. I love my bear.”

  “He needs a name.”

  “Of course he does,” she said, and laughed. “And I’ll give him one, after I get to know him.” She hesitated. “Gray. I know I’m terribly late. I tried to call you…”

  “That’s okay. I’m just glad you finally got here. Did you have car trouble again?”

  “No. I—I just—”

  “You don’t have to explain.” Gray took her hand and wove his fingers through hers. Her skin was cool and at first he thought she was going to pull away. Then, very slowly, he felt her relax. “You’re here now. That’s what matters.”

  “Actually, I just came to tell you that—that—”

  “That you’d changed your mind?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, I can respect that but, since you’re already here, why not have one drink with me?”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide. A moment passed, and then she gave a soft laugh. “You’re a very determined man, Mr. Baron.”

  “And a very thirsty one, Miss Carter. So, how about it? One drink? I asked the concierge to name a quiet place. He said there’s a little bar in the hotel just across the Strip—”

  She nodded. “The Oasis.”

  “Right. Is that okay?”

  “I’ve never been there, but I’ve heard it’s very nice.”

  “You’ve never been there, huh?” He knew it was stupid, but that pleased him. “Well.” Gray tugged her toward him. “Let’s see if what the experts say is true.”

  * * *

  It was.

  The Oasis was small, dark and surprisingly quiet except for the soft sound of the piano playing in the background and the discreet murmur of voices drifting from the round oak bar in the center of the room.

  They took a corner booth. Dawn slid in across the soft leather banquette, sat her teddy bear on the table and watched as Gray sat down across from her and picked up the wine list. He was dressed casually in chinos and a black cotton shirt with a banded collar. He’d rolled up the sleeves and she could see that his forearms were muscled and lightly dusted with black hair. He was as handsome as she’d remembered, but very masculine-looking, and he had a smile that she could feel, straight down to her toes each time he flashed it.

  She knew she was blushing and she picked up the teddy bear and buried her face in the scented silk rose in its paw. The bear was beautiful and expensive. She knew the price of virtually everything in the Song’s flower shop. That Gray would have bought the bear for her, that he’d have recalled their first meeting and somehow known this gift would mean more to her than all the flowers in the world, struck her as—

  “…wonderful.”

  Gray was leaning toward her on his elbows, his fingertips steepled under his chin, and smiling.

  “Sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I said, this bar is wonderful and so are you.” His smile tilted. “Do you have any idea how formidably efficient you look when you’re at work?”

  She laughed. “I’m supposed to look efficient, but not formidable. `Friendly, efficient, courteous and accessible,’ is what it says in the job description.”

  “Well, okay. Maybe `formidable’ is a stretch. And you certainly charm the customers. Just like you charmed me.”

  He was flirting with her, and she had no idea how to respond. Dealing with a guest was easy. Dealing with a man you knew, a man you found interesting, wasn’t. Plus, she knew she was blushing. God, but she felt like an idiot!

  “Thank you,” she finally said, and because she couldn’t think of anything else to do, she picked up a coaster from the table and stared at it as if the print weren’t swimming before her eyes.

  “Beer?”

  She looked at him. She’d only tasted beer once, when Harman had insisted, and she’d hated it. Was it all right to say no, thank you, she didn’t like beer? Or were you supposed to be agreeable to whatever your date selected? A little thrill of excitement danced down her spine as she realized that this was her very first date. Harman had never taken her anywhere, not even before they were married. He’d just shown up at the trailer and she’d make him coffee—and what was the matter with her, thinking about Harman tonight? Better yet, what was the matter with her, thinking she’d ever have to do or say anything she didn’t want to do or say, just to please a man?

  “No, thank you,” she said firmly. “I don’t like beer.”

  “Ah. Sorry. I just figured, since you’re reading that coaster…”

  “What?” She looked at the coaster, saw the list of beer brands on it and dropped it on the table. “Oh. Oh, no. I just happened to pick it up because—”

  “Because you’re nervous.”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I be nervous?”

  “I don’t know,” Gray said softly. He reached for her hands, clasped them in his. They were icy-cold, and he remembered how he’d badgered her into agreeing to meet him. “
I’m not going to bite.” He smiled. “Not unless you want me to.”

  Her face turned bright pink. What was he doing? Jonas had asked him to talk with this woman, spend a little time with her so he could form an impression of what she was like. Well, he had that chance now but he was coming on to her instead of talking to her.

  Maybe it would be a good idea to start thinking of this as an interview rather than a date. He let go of her hands and sat back.

  “Okay,” he said briskly, “no beer. What would you like, then? Wine? Champagne? A cocktail?”

  “Mineral water would be fine.”

  “Come on. Have some wine.” He grinned. “Let me show off a little. You know, the whole bit. I get to browse the wine list with a serious look on my face.”

  His brow furrowed; his mouth turned down. Dawn smiled.

  “Then I have this long conversation with the waiter. Sorry. With the sommelier. I ask him about vintages. Maybe we talk about climates and terrains. Then he says, very solemnly, that they have half a dozen special bottles of an impossible-to-get sauvignon blanc from some rarefied California vineyard tucked away in the wine cellar.”

  “Not French?” Dawn asked, laughing as she got into the spirit of things.

  “French whites are pass;aae, compared to this stuff from California. That’s what the sommelier would say, if I asked. But I don’t ask because I know better than to let him know I’m not onto this stuff, so when he mentions the wine, I light up brighter than the Strip. He produces the bottle, we ooh and ahh and watch carefully as he uncorks it and presents the cork for me to sniff. I nod, he pours an inch, I sip, I nod again. He pours for you and fills my glass. You and I sip, we smile, we discuss the color, the bouquet, the fact that the wine reminds us of a rare vintage from the southwest corner of a particular vineyard in the Loire Valley where wines like this were produced, maybe five generations ago…” He drew a slow, deliberate breath. “Are you really going to deny me all that?” he said, and she stopped laughing long enough to say she couldn’t possibly be that unkind.

  “In that case…” He picked up the card she’d been reading, turned it over and read the wine selection. Then he signaled the waiter, ordered a wine without any consultation at all, and when it arrived, waved away the tasting and sniffing. “If it’s no good,” he told the waiter pleasantly, “I’ll let you know.”

  Dawn smiled. “That’s it?”

  “Disappointed?”

  “No. Actually I can never watch someone going through that other routine without wanting to laugh.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll do some of it for an expensive bottle but not for a nice, everyday wine, which is pretty much all this place offers.” Gray lifted his glass. “Salud.”

  ”Salud.”

  They touched glasses, sipped the cool, dry wine. Dawn said it was very nice. Gray said he was glad she liked it. Then they fell silent. She looked at her wine, then at him. His eyes were on her face, his gaze penetrating. He wants something from me, she thought suddenly, and she remembered what she’d told Cassie, that he wasn’t dangerous, that he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with Harman…

  “It’s a good wine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s very nice.” She hesitated. “I should warn you, Gray—”

  “That’s the first time you said my name without making it sound as if I dragged it out of you.”

  “Look, I know it must have seemed, well, strange. The way I acted about having dinner, I mean, but I really don’t date guests.”

  He nodded.

  “And, actually, I can’t stay very long.”

  “Got a pumpkin carriage waiting for you at the stroke of midnight?”

  “Pumpkin…? Oh. Oh, no.” She smiled again, put down the glass and ran the tip of her index finger carefully around the rim. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little slow on the uptake.”

  He thought how nice it was, that she was slow on the uptake, that she wasn’t quite what he’d figured her to be… Except, she was. He had to stop letting that fact slip away from him. She was a beautiful woman with a soft smile, but there was more to it than that. The truth about her was still shrouded in fog that stretched all the way from the lights of Vegas to an Arizona mountaintop, where a little boy wept for his mother.

  The thought soured him. He put down his glass, folded his hands on the table and wished, for the first time in years, that he still smoked. He was here for information, nothing else, and so far he hadn’t gotten any.

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “How long have you lived in Las Vegas?”

  “Four years. And you? How long have you lived in New York?”

  “Long enough to qualify as a native, despite the fact that you seem to think I have a Texas accent.” He smiled. She smiled back. “Where did you live before this?”

  He’d asked her the same thing yesterday. Why did he want to know? “Oh, lots of places,” she said, though she suspected she wasn’t going to put him off so easily this time, not without a car door to fling open.

  “For instance?”

  “Why are you so curious?”

  “Am I?” He gave a lazy shrug. “Must be the New Yorker in me. Nobody in New York is actually from New York. You sort of get in the habit of trying to figure out where people are from.”

  “Ah. Well, I’m originally from Arizona. Phoenix.” It was close enough, and what she’d put on her job application at the hotel. The best background lies were always grounded in as much truth as possible. That was another thing she’d learned at the women’s shelter.

  “Did you move around a lot?”

  “That depends on what you mean by `a lot.’“ Her gaze held his. “I tried some different places before I settled on Las Vegas.”

  “Funny place to settle down, Las Vegas.”

  “Not really. The Strip is just a small part of the city. There are real people living here, the same as anywhere else. You don’t notice them until you get away from the lights and the casinos. Then you see the real stuff. Houses with mortgages, drugstores, supermarkets—”

  “Schools and parks and kids?”

  Was there an edge to his voice? No. He was still smiling pleasantly over the rim of his half-empty glass.

  “Of course. Lots of kids, in fact. There’s a school near where I live. Sometimes, when I leave for work in the morning, I see them running around in the playground…”

  Her voice faded; her expression changed and became, what? Wistful? Yes, he thought, that was the right word. She looked wistful. Was she remembering her own son? Gray almost asked her, then jerked himself back to reality. He wasn’t supposed to know anything about her but, dammit, he had to know the truth, how she had been able to walk away from her child and never look back.

  “You like kids?” he said, hoping he sounded casual, but he knew, as soon as he’d spoken, he’d touched a nerve. She became pale. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wineglass and he half expected it to crack under the pressure.

  “That’s a funny thing to ask.”

  “Just making conversation,” he said with a quick smile.

  “Yes, I like kids. Why shouldn’t I?”

  Gray’s eyes met hers. Here it was, the information he’d been looking for, information that might explain why he kept seeing the defensive tilt of Nora Lincoln’s jaw, the sadness in her eyes, in her granddaughter.

  “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  He wanted to call the words back but it was too late. She stared at him, eyes wide and, to his shock, suddenly filled with what could only be fear. Then her face went blank. Carefully she blotted her mouth with her napkin, put down the glass and stood up.

  “It’s getting late,” she said politely. “Thank you for the wine.”

  “Dawn.” He rose, too. “Wait a minute—”

  “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  He cursed, dug his wallet from his pocket fast, pulled out a couple of bills and dropped them on the table but by the time he reach
ed the door, she was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  MARY ELIZABETH O’CONNELL had reached a decision.

  She was tired of being treated as if she were made of glass, tired of taking an occasional stroll through her very own hotel while keeping one eye out for a son who clearly was afraid she was going to swoon on the spot like a maiden in a Victorian melodrama. Mostly she was tired of playing the role of a woman who had managed to avoid death by the skin of her teeth, even though it was more true than not.

  Mary frowned into the mirror. She’d come close, very close, to meeting her Maker. Right after her heart attack and the surgery that followed, she’d sometimes thought it might not have been so awful if she had. It was a blasphemous thought, she knew, and completely unlike her. When her doctor realized what she’d been thinking, he’d assured her she was only suffering a normal bout of postsurgery depression, but Mary hadn’t been so sure he was right.

  The thing of it was, she’d missed Ruarch something fierce in the years since his passing. She loved her children, her hotel, her casino and her employees, but not even all that could fill the hole left in her life by the loss of her handsome, pigheaded, impossible, wonderful husband.

  There was a dot of lipstick on a front tooth. Mary leaned closer and rubbed it away with a tissue. That was better. So was her new hair do. She’d ignored the stylist’s suggestion about coloring it; her hair was white and white it would stay. But she was pleased with the short length, and the way the soft waves fell back from her temples. In the old days she’d worn her hair long, for Ruarch. Whenever she grew irritated by the time it took to wash and dry and braid all its heavy length, and she’d threaten to cut it off, he’d smile and take her in his arms.

  “I love your hair as it is,” he’d say in that rough burr that could always turn her strongest resolve to butter. “Leave it alone, mavourneen.”