by Avery Flynn
He slapped a wad of bills into the cabbie's hand and stepped out of the car. Beth emerged right behind him, still eerily silent. The lack of chatter spoke volumes about just how much he'd hurt her feelings. She tucked a strand of dark-brown hair behind her ear and sighed as she walked past him into the hotel. Her normal jaunty swagger had disappeared, thanks to him and his big mouth.
You're a real asshole, Layton.
She wasn't like Amanda. Hell, he doubted Satan himself was as bad as Amanda. But he'd lashed out at Beth as if she was his ex-wife incarnate. Why was he still letting that manipulative woman influence his actions? If he didn't figure out how to shake off her ghost, he may as well give up on winning Beth over. The rub was, he had no idea what to do now besides follow Beth into the hotel and make sure she was safely on her panel before he paid a visit to Little Elvis.
Nodding at the bellboy, he quickstepped into the hotel and spotted her glossy, dark hair moving through the throng of gamblers sitting in a trance at the one-armed bandits. She cleared the slot machines and took a right turn at the elevators. Hustling, he caught up with her in the walkway leading to the conference rooms. Nervous sweat made his hands clammy and he wiped them on his jeans before grabbing her wrist.
“Beth.” No other words came. He had no idea what to say next, but he had to say something before it was too late.
She jerked to a stop, her face a dispassionate mask, mouth in a neutral position and her eyebrows arched. Her chin jutted forward as she tilted her face upward toward his. When her lips curved upward into an almost-smile, his stomach sank.
“You were right, Hank. I haven't been fair with you, so let me be now.” She peeled his fingers one by one from her tiny wrist. “I'm your little sister's best friend, nothing more and nothing less. Let's just forget about what happened.”
He stepped in front of her, blocking her path in a desperate attempt to salvage the tenuous connection they'd forged. “Look, I owe you—”
“No, you don't owe me anything.” She glanced around him and gave someone in the crowd a little wave. “I need to get to my panel.”
Looking behind him, he spotted Sarah Jane Hunihan marching toward them like Patton bearing down on the Germans in Italy. Judging by the snap, crackle, pop in her eyes visible at twenty paces, the normally sweet-natured old biddy was more than a little ticked off. But by the time she stopped in front of them, the angry spark had melted away as if it had never been there at all. But the spit-and-vinegar attitude seemed more natural somehow, an impression he filed away to consider later.
“There you are! We've been looking for you everywhere since you missed the morning sessions. I was so worried that something had happened to you.” She clasped her hands together so tightly her knuckles turned white. “Goodness, this is such a dangerous city that I feared the worst.”
Beth smiled down at the firm's executive secretary and the gaggle of attorneys behind her. “Nothing to worry about, Sarah Jane. I forgot to set my alarm, that's all.”
“I expect more out of my best associate than that, young lady. Especially at a high-profile event like this.” Ed Webster stood with his arms crossed, his mouth so tightly pursed it looked like he'd just sucked a pound of lemons. “If it had been anyone but you, they’d be on the next plane home Don’t let this happen again.”
“Now, Ed, that seems a bit extreme. I don't need to remind you that we've all made a few mistakes in our lives, do I?” Sarah Jane's indulgent smile didn't quite eliminate the venom thick in her tone. “Anyway, Beth is one of those lucky people who manage to land on their feet no matter what plans fate has made.”
Webster shuffled a few steps back from Sarah Jane, bumping into Phil Harris, Mason Carter and Charles McMillian, who had been standing in his shadow, as usual. The firm's junior partners sidestepped out of Webster's way, mumbling their apologies and eyeing each other nervously.
A light sheen of sweat dampened Carter's forehead and he swiped at it with a handkerchief before taking a step away from the group. Harris drew a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. He shook a single out and stuffed the pack back into his jacket.
“Nasty habit,” Webster growled at Harris before striding down the hall toward the conference registration table, Carter and McMillian on his heels.
“Not to worry, you two.” Sarah Jane looked between Beth and Harris, patting Beth's hand reassuringly. “He'll get over it. He always does. Now, Beth, let's get you ready for your panel presentation.” The older woman linked her arm through Beth's and together they walked down the hall.
Hank couldn't look away from them. She would turn and give him a last look, then everything would be okay, he was sure of it.
Tension locked his muscles tight the farther away she got until his bum knee throbbed. They stopped in front of an open door and she laughed at something Sarah Jane said.
Now. This was when she'd give him a nod, a wink, a sign of some sort.
Instead, she shook her head and strode into the conference room, never glancing back.
Wasn't that a kick in the balls? All of a sudden his knee became the least of his aches and pains.
“Ms. Hunihan is right. He's all thunder without the lightning.” Harris took a deep drag off the cigarette, closed his eyes and let the smoke out in a long exhale. The worry line between his eyes eased away and he brought the cigarette to his chapped lips again.
It took Hank a second to realize the junior partner was referring to Webster. “Uh-huh, is that why you're smoking like a condemned man?”
Harris chuckled and winked at him. “Yeah, well…when he just gets to know me a little better, understands who I am, it will all be different. I know it will.”
Yeah, right. Webster was a first-rate asshole. Anyone with eyes could see that. “Good luck.”
Stubbing out the cigarette in a freestanding ashtray, Harris nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate that.” He took a few steps, then stopped. “And don't worry about Beth. I'll keep an eye on her.”
His cop radar went nuts. Was Harris involved? He puffed up his chest and loomed over Harris. “What do you mean, ‘keep an eye on her’?”
“Webster. To make sure he doesn’t blow up at her.” With that, he disappeared into a group of twenty or so attorneys milling around outside the conference rooms.
It made sense, but… Shit, he’d become so mixed up that even a chimney like Harris was starting to look suspicious.
Torn between standing guard like an unwanted mutt or tracking down the thugs from last night, Hank hesitated. His cop sense had all of the hairs on his forearm reaching for the sky. Everything looked normal. Everyone acted normal. Everything should feel normal, but it didn't. Something was off.
Listening to his gut, he marched toward the conference room. Through the open door, he saw Beth sitting behind a long table at the front of the room fiddling with some papers in front of her. A crowd of attorneys filed into the lecture hall through the other door to sit in the several hundred empty seats. Folks from her firm buzzed around the dais.
Fine. Everything was fine.
Damn, he couldn’t afford to overreact to every twingy feeling. Nothing would happen to her in a room full of hundreds of people. Time to go make Elvis sing.
The Little Elvis Wedding Chapel didn't look any better in the light of day. It looked a hell of a lot worse.
In a town full of tacky, this velvet-and-gold shrine to a man who’d died on his toilet stood in a class of its own. A six foot tall papier-mâché Elvis in a well-filled-out white jumpsuit with a suspicious eye stood next to a large hand-printed sign urging the marriage-inclined not to spill their drinks as they walked down the aisle.
While Hank waited for Little Elvis to finish a phone call in his office, he flipped through the velvet (of course) covered scrapbook on the reception counter. No matter what people may think of Elvis impersonators, this one was damn good at his job. The man was the spitting image of Elvis—a fat, short Elvis, sure, but Elvis all the same.
Someone coughed so
ftly behind him. Hank glanced over his shoulder to find Little Elvis, dressed in jeans and a red-and-blue striped golf shirt but with his hair in the young Elvis pompadour, standing behind him.
“How may I help you, sir?” he asked in a clipped British accent.
Startled, it took Hank a minute to confirm the voice really did come from the man standing in the open doorway of the office. Who'da thought? Chalking it up to all the weird things life threw at you, Hank strode to Little Elvis and stuck out his hand.
“Thank you for seeing me. I'm Dry Creek County Sheriff Hank Layton and I'd like to ask you a few questions.”
The man glanced at the extended hand, then crossed his arms over his chest. “And where exactly is Dry Creek County?”
Lowering his hand, Hank's best aw-shucks grin tightened. “Nebraska.”
“You're out of your jurisdiction, Sheriff.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
That earned him a quirked eyebrow. The man gave him a considering look and his small green eyes stayed locked on Hank's face. “You were here last night. I believe you barged in on the nuptials of a Georgia and Franklin Beauchamp.”
“Yep, that was me alright, and that's why I need to ask you a favor.”
“Mmm-hmmm. It’s always good to have law enforcement owe you a favor, even if he's from as far away as… Nebraska, I believe you said?”
Hank nodded.
“Alright then, sheriff, I'm Alistair Armstrong. Please join me in my office where we can chat in peace.”
Following Armstrong into the office, he stopped dead as soon as he crossed the threshold. The room was as understated as the lobby was garish. Cool blue paint covered the walls, punctuated with a crisp white trim. Large black-and-white candid photos of Elvis backstage preparing for concerts decorated the walls in the few spots where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves didn't take up all the space. The only available seat was a dark-blue wingback chair.
Armstrong walked behind a large oak desk, took a few steps upward and sat down on a full-size black chair. He must have noticed a quizzical look on Hank's face because a slight flush deepened the pink of his round cheeks.
“It's a step stool. The small things make life more convenient, don't you think, Sheriff?”
Hank settled into the wingback chair. “That I do.”
“So, how can I assist you?”
“I'd like a copy of your surveillance video from last night.”
“Really?” He steepled his fingers and tapped them on his chin. “What makes you think I videotape my customers?”
“The right eye of the craft-project Elvis in your lobby looks an awful lot like a camera lens.”
Armstrong chuckled and leaned back in his seat. “Score one for the hick sheriff. Okay, I videotape my customers, for my own protection of course.”
Thinking for a moment of the money that could be made by Las Vegas wedding chapels that sold photos of celebrities making very bad marital choices, Hank laughed. “Uh-huh. Wedding chapels must make excellent pickings for…burglars.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Whatever the reason you use the camera, I need to see the tape.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, actually, it does. You see, this is my chapel and here, I am the king.”
“No pun intended.”
“Of course not. Now, why do you want it?”
Hank sat back. His seat sat lower than Armstrong's, allowing the two men's eyes to be at the same level. Neither's gaze wavered. Taking in the other man's placid, wrinkle-free forehead, Hank realized he had no power here. He couldn't demand the tape or threaten him with jail. Shit, he was lucky Armstrong was even talking to him. Gut churning, he did what no cop liked to do, he told a civilian about his case.
Except for a few raised eyebrows, Armstrong's face showed no reaction to Hank's tale. “So you’re acting knight to the breathtaking senorita’s damsel in distress? How very noble of you.” He paused for a moment. “Why?”
The vein in Hank's temple began to throb. Like everything else that involved Beth, the process of gaining the video evidence wasn't going to be easy. “Because in Nebraska, that's how we're raised.”
“Bollocks.” He slapped his hand down on the desk. “Tell me the real reason.”
Heat rushed up Hank's back and his muscles tensed. This was going all wrong. “What do you care?”
“I am passionate about two things in life: Elvis and love.” He spread his arms wide to encompass the room. “The Elvis I have. The love, unfortunately, I do not. It's not my stature that seems as off-putting to the ladies of Las Vegas. Strangely enough, it's my devotion to Elvis Presley. Sadly, I will not give up one for the other. So, I satisfy my passion for romance by helping others achieve it. I saw the way you two kissed last night. There is no doubt in my mind that you two should be married, and I'd like to be the one to officiate at the event.”
Armstrong's mouth kept moving but all Hank could hear was a loud buzzing, as if bees had dive bombed both ears.
Of course, he’d happily walk down that path again with Beth. Unfortunately, she had made her views perfectly clear this morning about moving from flirtation to a relationship. Still, his stomach vibrated and not with an about-to-lose-lunch way but with an at-the-top-of-the-roller-coaster-about-to-speed-down kind of excited anticipation.
“Sheriff, you've gone a bit green around the gills.”
“She's my little sister's best friend. That's all.”
“Mmm-hmmm. So then, there's no harm in giving me your word that the wedding will be here if you two were to ever get betrothed, since, of course, it will never happen?”
Sweat slicked the inside of Hank's palms. It was fourth down, time for the former big college quarterback to turn on his game face. Hank smiled, but made sure the grin didn't reach his eyes. “Sure, of course. How could I not share that moment with the man who was kind enough to share his surveillance tape?”
Armstrong's upper lip curled in a perfect copy of Elvis' rock-n-roll snarl. He tapped his fingers on the desk and gave Hank a considering look. His narrow shoulders shrugged and he pushed away from his desk before stepping down from his chair.
“Follow me, Sheriff.” Little Elvis started humming, I Can't Help Falling In Love With You, as he strolled to one of the white bookshelves. A click sounded when he pushed one of the books forward and two shelves swung open to reveal a flat-screen TV, a tall stack of DVDs and a DVD player.
“I'll be damned,” Hank muttered.
Armstrong pulled out the one on top of the pile and popped it into the DVD player. A menu appeared on the screen. Pointing a remote at the player, he clicked on Scene Selection and selected a black-and-white photo of Hank and Beth.
“The camera is connected to a motion sensor that detects when someone comes into the lobby. It whirs into action and records as long as the lobby is occupied. When there's no movement for five minutes, it turns off until the next time.”
“You're full of surprises aren't you?”
Pride gleamed in Armstrong's eyes. “Yes, appearances can be deceiving.”
They turned their attention to the screen. Hank came through the door first, followed by a weaving Beth. He watched himself scope out the lobby. When he saw Beth rub his cock through his pants, it was as if he could feel her long fingers wrapped around him and his dick twitched to life. Damn. This wasn’t the place and definitely not the person he wanted to watch this with. He snatched the remote from Armstrong's stubby fingers and hit fast-forward, ignoring the man's chuckle.
He hit pause when the two thugs appeared on the screen. “You got zoom on this thing?”
Armstrong held out his small hand. “The remote, if you don't mind?”
Hank handed it over without looking away from the screen. The men's faces became larger on the TV. He searched for something familiar about the two men. Nothing. He'd never seen them before, but Beth may have.
“Can you burn me a copy?”
“I'm a
fraid that’s not possible, Sheriff. There is other…information on this tape that needs to stay only with me.”
Clenching his jaw, Hank tried to think past the frustration.
“However, I can print off a few screen shots.”
“Armstrong, I could hug you right now.”
“I'd prefer you didn't. Save that for your lovely lady on your wedding day, Sheriff.”
Chapter Fifteen
Beth needed an IV coffee drip. STAT. Unfortunately, it had yet to be invented. Just as bad, Phil Harris blocked her from the silver coffee carafe on the snack table. The entire area surrounding the drink station was deserted, except for Phil. He ignored her please-move body language and kept his large frame parked in front of the coffee.
“So, what happened to you last night?” Phil leaned in, popping her personal bubble.
“Not much.” Besides being drugged, followed by a couple of goons and waking up in a strange hotel room with Hank's fingers wrapped around her breast, not that one of the boss's minions needed to know that.
“Oh, I know the drill. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
Beth sighed. “I need a cup of coffee, Phil.”
Instead of moving out of her way, he grabbed her elbow and wheeled her around toward the door. “You don't want this sludge. Come on, I'll buy you a cup and we can talk.”
A chill brushed across the back of her neck. With all that had happened recently, there was no way she wanted to go have a private chat with Phil. “After the panel we just finished, I think I'm all talked out.”
He tightened his grip on her elbow. “You must've seen the note by now. We need to talk.”
The yellow note stuck inside her research file about Haverstan? Fear crawled across her skin like a platoon of army ants. “That was you?”
“Come on.” He edged closer. “We’ll talk about it outside.”
His fingers dug into her bones, triggering her flight or fight response. “No way in hell am I going anywhere with you.”