Bet Me

by Catherine Mann

  “In the meantime, you need to go to your room and brew about three pots of coffee from the little java maker.” Clarissa must have been standing next to a slot machine, because the sound of electronic binging and bonging came through the airwaves as loudly as her voice. “You can always snag a few extra coffee packets off a maid’s cart to be sure you’re not getting anything contaminated from room service.”

  “Good idea.” Perking up at the solid direction to see her through the next few hours, Dorian clutched her water glass to her chest as she peered around the Pompeii’s main casino floor. “I’m going to stumble my way back to my room and I’ll send you both a text message, so you know I arrived and wasn’t carried off by the kidnappers stealing prostitutes.”

  She hadn’t dressed in her most provocative clothes for her cover as a lady of the evening yet, but she’d gone with a shorter skirt than usual while she cased the casino this morning. Somebody watching her might think she was a new working girl who would be easy to steal.

  Her stomach turned over unpleasantly.

  “You got it,” said Kim. “I’ll check my phone while I’m stuffing myself into the traditional Cantou garb. Does anyone know the point of a Mandarin collar when it completely restricts your Adam’s apple?”

  Snickers followed as they all said goodbye. Dorian swallowed back the wave of nausea-tinged nerves and hung up the phone before she made her way to the elevator. She just hoped the coffee and some exercise would clear her head before she had to get serious about her cover tonight. She’d followed this case for too long and dreamed about the missing call girls for too many nights to let a vicious ring of black-market slave traders steal even one more victim for their brutal brand of cruelty.

  NO WONDER MEN LOVED WOMEN who wore lacy merry widows and silk stockings with garters, Dorian thought to herself later that afternoon. She had to be a freaking contortionist to fasten the last few hooks on her black corset, complete with plunging neckline.

  Hot, frustrated and battling a hangover headache, she stared into the hotel room mirror at the glammed-up stranger in do-me lingerie. A degree in criminal justice and seven years of training and experience in law enforcement had led her to this—a push-up bra and red lipstick.

  And wasn’t that a testament to the success of the women’s movement?

  You’ve come a long way, baby. Too long to end up walking the streets in stilettos and a miniskirt. Dorian slid into a tailored menswear jacket to hide the cleavage show until she reached her destination downstairs on the Pompeii Hotel’s casino floor—now that she had her head screwed on straight from the alcohol scare earlier. She’d called the station to find out how to package her water glass and the remains of her drink for chemical testing Monday morning. For now, she had a case to close by using her body as bait.

  “You almost ready, Dorian?” Her radio crackled to life on the bed as she stepped into her shoes. The police dispatch system calling through to her would want an update on her progress, and by now, she was damn ready to get down to business. Whoever had tried to slow her down by tampering with her drink would be as sorry as the sadistic bastards stealing unsuspecting women.

  She didn’t have an LVMPD partner for this operation since her department had maximized manpower to cover as many assignments as possible this week. The city had been strongly urging the department to clean up the growing crime stats before tourism started to taper as a result. Dorian’s captain had been working his way toward an ulcer due to the added pressures of his job, giving him no choice but to spread out his resources and pair his best investigators with what backup he could find. That’s how Kim had ended up in one casino, Clarissa in another and Dorian still another. Their common goal to make serious arrests on their cases in progress had been solidified with the bet that whoever filed her report first would have the next week off.

  The competition helped liven up difficult circumstances and potentially scary arrests. In Dorian’s case, she would be teamed with the one man she never wanted to see while half-naked again. Hardly a coincidence since her life had a handy knack for operating under the principles of Murphy’s Law.

  “Dorian here.” She answered the radio call as she hurried around the king-size bed decorated in extravagant gold-toned Italian linens. “I’m leaving now and will be downstairs in five minutes. I have my phone, but the radio is staying in the room.”

  “I’ll inform your contact, Dorian. Good luck.”

  The hiss of the airwaves died, fading to silence the way Dorian’s heart would when she got downstairs and laid eyes on Simon Ramsey for the first time in a year.

  One year since Simon had walked out on her after she’d made the biggest mistake of her life with the federal agent his colleagues had nicknamed Wildcard. Her emotions had been off-kilter at the time, but she still couldn’t believe she’d let a lousy week on the job drive her into the arms of Wildcard Ramsey.

  All things considered, strolling through the Pompeii Casino in her lingerie wasn’t that bad by comparison. Even if it meant experiencing twinges of regret on too many levels. Some that had to do with Simon. Others that originated much deeper in her past.

  At least today she’d have the chance to vindicate the prostitutes disappearing steadily from Vegas this year. Sadly, the trend had gone undetected for a few months since many of these women had been marginalized because of their profession. But legalized prostitution in Nevada ought to entitle working women a certain degree of protection, and Dorian intended to be sure they received it.

  Although, if Simon Ramsey thought that meant she’d be tossing her pride at his feet again, he was about to receive the wake-up call of his life.

  LOOK HER IN THE EYES.

  Be the first one to speak.

  Make the apology the first words out of your mouth.

  Simon reviewed his survival strategy as soon as he got the call that Dorian was on her way to his rooms. The Bureau had booked a high-roller suite for him under an assumed name—Simon Rainier—to give more credence to his cover as a West Coast card shark, in town for the weekend to gamble and look for girls to take back to L.A. He’d decided to extend that cover so that he could also act as Dorian Byrne’s pimp to ensure her safety during a dangerous-as-hell assignment. But it was that part of the role that pissed him off every time he thought about it, since no man in his right mind would ever share a woman like Dorian, let alone pimp her out at a profit.

  He hadn’t been worthy of her a year ago, and for all his faults, at least he’d been on the right side of the law at the time. Now he had to pretend to sell her to any jerk-off with enough cash to pay for the favor?

  This was one fake persona he’d have to struggle to maintain. As much as he regretted what had happened between him and Dorian in the past, he resented this approach to busting up a crime ring even more.

  A knock at the door pounded in time with the quick jump of his pulse at the thought of seeing her again. He knew those quick and efficient raps were hers, the sound as straightforward and direct as she’d always been.

  God, he missed her.

  Reminding himself about the eye contact and the apology as he pulled open the door, Simon broke the first rule within two seconds. His gaze plummeted from her face at the visual shock of so much black and red—the bold, direct colors well-suited to a face more striking than pretty.

  Her short, dark hair was cropped in soft waves around her ears with one long curl draped over her brown eyes. She had vaguely Latina coloring that gave her a perpetual golden tan, a feature he hadn’t noticed as much in her usual grays and blues. But this afternoon she wore the shortest black skirt imaginable, short enough to show off the tops of her stockings. Short enough that if she bent forward just a little, anyone standing behind her would get a delectable eyeful.

  “Nice to see you, too, Simon. Can I come in?” She arched a dark eyebrow his way, her painted red lips pursing at his rudeness.

  No damn wonder. By now he’d broken all three of his self-imposed rules for this meeting a
nd he hadn’t even gotten around to cataloging the full extent of her.

  “Please.” He opened the door wider, wondering how to mend fences enough to get their job done.

  The temperature dropped a few degrees when she walked by him, freezing him out with a look that men in the doghouse know well. And frankly, Simon had done his share of time there thanks to more women than he had any right to mess with.

  He’d been up-front with women about playing the field before he met Dorian, but she’d cured him of that particular hunger from the moment they’d met. She’d been the lead investigating officer on a particularly gruesome murder scene when he’d shown up. She read him the riot act about local jurisdiction before excusing herself to lose her breakfast in the bathroom. Two minutes later, she’d emerged snapping a stick of gum and railing at the Bureau for interfering. He was hooked.

  Too bad they shared exactly nothing in common aside from attraction. Dorian had made her feelings clear about his wild ways—on the job and off—and she seemed hardwired to resist his every attempt to win her over except for one incredible night.

  “Look, I know I’m probably the last guy you wanted to work with on this detail, Dorian, but—”

  “Save it, Ramsey.” She moved slowly through the living area of the luxury suite, her gaze taking in the photos of the Strip and framed prints of Monte Carlo, before she turned and inventoried the frescoes on the majority of the walls. “You know I’m too much of a professional to care who I work with as long as the job gets done. Even if I get stuck with a Fed.”

  She turned to stare out at the Strip. His suite was only five stories above ground level, while he knew she was on the eleventh floor. Her view was probably better, but the luxury of this suite was lavishly over the top, like so many elements of Vegas. There was a minibar beside the hot tub built for eight and round-the-clock, in-room massages. Simon had received comped tickets to a handful of events over the weekend, too—not just as part of the suite, but also as the hotel’s way of steering his investigation toward areas where the sex crimes ring operated.

  The Pompeii was eager for the police to start making arrests on a case that was costing them business, and Dorian had received a solid tip that another kidnapping attempt would be launched this weekend. Local prostitutes were disappearing and—according to Dorian’s information—being sold as sex slaves to rich men who fancied seeing American women helpless. From their brief phone calls to set up the sting, Simon knew Dorian couldn’t wait to bring down the bastards.

  “I just wanted to apologize for sprinting out last year. I wasn’t in a good place back then.” Major understatement.

  He leaned against a marble-topped bar stocked with complimentary liquors bearing labels he’d never be able to afford out of his own pocket.

  “Me, neither.” She turned to face him, her arms crossed tight over the tuxedo jacket covering a hint of red lace and high breasts. “So why don’t we agree to write off the whole awkward scenario as a bad idea? Then we can get down to more pressing concerns.”

  He didn’t really want to write it all off since he hadn’t offered up any kind of explanation, but then Dorian wasn’t the kind of woman who would give a rip about excuses. She was already pulling a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket, her attitude all business despite the sex-minded attire.

  “Do you really think hookers dress that well?” The comment leaped from his mouth before he could suppress it. Not that he usually did much suppressing of his thoughts, but he’d planned to be on better behavior.

  At another frosty look, he tried to back up his point.

  “It’s just that we don’t have much time to set up your cover, Dor, and we need as much believability for your character as we can get. If you look too high-rent, don’t you think it’ll tip off the regulars that you might not be what you seem?”

  The piece of paper she’d been holding landed silently on the polished black marble bar.

  “Might I remind you, Agent Ramsey, that we aren’t conducting a sting on a street corner in West Hollywood? Prostitution is legal in this state, if not inside the casinos, and some of those working women have made a very nice living from the proceeds. The Pompeii is a first-rate luxury hotel, and the women who risk the wrath of security to advertise their services here dress with that in mind. Trust me, I didn’t just pull the first thing I saw out of my closet today. I researched.”

  He released a whistling sigh, wondering if they’d be able to work together peaceably after all.

  “Okay. My bad.” He peered down at the paper she’d taken out to show him—a map of the casino—and was only too glad to talk about their strategy for the weekend. “Are you sure the Abundance Thoroughfare is the place to target our guys?”

  The hotel had been laid out based on historical snippets about the city of Pompeii in the years before the volcano destroyed a flourishing culture. The center of the hotel mirrored an actual ancient marketplace of the same name.

  Simon had been briefed on her angle of the investigation—sex crimes were a growing concern to local police. But the FBI had gotten involved when a racketeering case they’d been following started sharing key suspects with a ring allegedly responsible for the disappearance of local prostitutes. Five women had gone missing in recent months, and Dorian uncovered evidence the women had ended up overseas, hooked on a variety of drugs and being used as sex slaves by wealthy men until the women were eventually sold into brothels. The market for this kind of thing was small, but apparently demand for American women was steady.

  Simon’s agency had been working with CIA operatives overseas to get the missing women back home, but he would be more directly involved with shutting down the operation on this end. Months of investigative work had led to this weekend, and he wouldn’t blow it by letting his personal history with Dorian get in the way.

  “I think it’s a good place to start.” She traced the narrow line on the map with one vermillion-painted fingernail. “Most of the shops lining the marketplace are legitimate, but there are a couple that remain questionable.”

  Her nail slowed as she reached two X s drawn with pink highlighter.

  “You said they have women right in the booths?” Simon hadn’t ever been the kind of guy to spend a lot of time in casinos, preferring to take risks in career-related venues so he could tell himself his recklessness served a greater purpose.

  “The proprietors say the women are models, and certainly plenty of vendors use live models to showcase their wares. But the two I’ve highlighted have no accounts with local modeling agencies. I even quizzed agencies on both coasts, and no one has ever sent girls to the Pompeii Casino to work for either of these places.”

  He weighed that information as he studied the vaguely erotic frescoes on the wall behind the sofa, depicting a Roman maiden’s tryst with a laurel-wearing guy in a toga. There wasn’t a lot of nudity, but the way he held the woman with his hands venturing everywhere while the lady squirmed was definitely suggestive.

  “These chicks just walk around the booths doing nothing?”

  “They wear watches or belts being sold by their supposed employer, but their togas are pretty risqué. I thought maybe I’d hang around and see if anyone tries to…buy my time. Ultimately we see if we can gather any information on how a larger-scale kidnapping effort might be going down. We need to spend some time with our ears to the ground.”

  “So that’s your end of the job for tonight. How do I fit in?”

  “To start with, you’ll keep an eye on things to make sure I don’t get sold off to some sadistic billionaire, but later you’ll give me a believable cover so that I can retire from the casino floor on your arm and maintain the appearance of a big-ticket item.”

  Something didn’t add up.

  “Are we sure that gels? I know you’ve been covering the sex crimes angle longer than me, but does it make sense for a good pimp to take his best seller off the market for himself?”

  “Who said anything about a pimp?” She folded he
r arms under cleavage that refused to be covered by her jacket.

  “I—don’t know.” He’d never survive this job unless he looked somewhere else when he talked to her. He’d avoided shared investigative work for twelve whole months, but he hadn’t been able to hand this job off to anyone else.

  “Legalized prostitution has all but put the old-school pimp out of business in this town, Ramsey. No self-respecting big earner on the Strip would bow down to some horn-dog man’s authority just so she can have the privilege of giving half her money away to a dope user who’s only looking out for himself.”

  “I’ll be damned if I know how I could have hit a hot button during a conversation about pimps.” He couldn’t even come close to figuring her out. “I assumed that would be my role in all this to give me a legitimate way to hang out with you and still make connections that would help my side of the investigation, too.”

  “Well, you’re not my pimp.”

  “Since that’s settled, do you care to share with me what role you’d like to see me play besides watching over your shoulder?”