by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)
“Didn’t know we had chives on hand,” his mom said, pouring herself a cup of coffee, “or sourdough bread.”
“Got up early and went to the store.” He retrieved a carton of milk from the fridge and set it on the small table. The kitchen was long, but so narrow that everything was within a few steps.
“Eggs, toast and strong coffee.” His mom smiled. “Benny’s breakfast special.”
“The only thing he ever cooked for breakfast.”
“That’s what made it special.”
They shared a laugh.
When Braxton had lived life in the fast lane, he’d loved the heady excitement, the constant rush of color, sounds and people.
Now he realized how much he’d missed back then. Now he valued taking it slower, sometimes wishing the people he loved would stay put and never change. To always be like they were in the photos here, frozen forever in sunlight, always smiling.
“Nice to have breakfast with someone,” his mom said, forks and knifes clinking as she retrieved them from a drawer. “With your grandmother spending every night at Richmond’s, I’m on my own in the mornings. Felt odd at first...waking up to an empty house....”
“At least Grams and Richmond will be living on the same block. You can always walk down there, join them for a cup of coffee.”
“Yes,” she said brightly, heading to the table, “I can certainly do that. And they’ll be dropping by to borrow my car off and on because Richmond’s beloved BMW is acting up again. Anyway, tell me about this eleven-o’clock meeting—is it with that fellow who’s offering you a job?”
“Yes.”
“Demetrius?”
“Dmitri. Goes by Dima.”
“Dima,” she repeated, arranging the silverware on the table. “Almost sounds like demon.”
“He comes across like a heavenly messenger in that due-diligence report. Worse thing he’s done is get a speeding ticket two years ago.”
She sat down and poured milk into her coffee. “Val told me this blonde works for Dima.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Drake says she’s not the sole reason you’re interested in the job, though.”
“Uh-uh.”
“You don’t know her name?”
Babe. “Nope.”
“Or anything else about her?”
Whisking the eggs, he slid her a look. “Are you worried that she works in security or private investigations?”
Her lips tightened. “Well, she did drop off that background report. Your father, your brother, your sister-in-law, even you have prepared such reports, and all of you work in investigations and security.”
His mom had never approved of her husband’s profession in security, always feared he’d get hurt on the job, but Benedict Morgan, a former Chicago cop, had loved his job at Bally’s. Liked helping people, liked nailing the bad guys, liked making the world a safer, better place in his own small way.
Dorothy did, however, share her husband’s idealism. When they’d met in the mid-seventies, she was considering going to law school to be a human-rights lawyer—the last thing she expected was to meet a rough-around-the-edges cop who asked her to marry him on their first date. Yet they fell madly in love, two people who shared a passion for justice, even if they quibbled over the details. When the twins came, Dorothy Morgan discovered a career far more rewarding than any she had imagined—being a mom.
“I don’t know her job title,” Braxton said, “but I didn’t see the bulge of a gun under her jacket, so who knows...maybe she’s a lawyer.”
She made an approving noise. “Lawyer. Respectable profession. Good income. Wonder what her last name is....”
“Why?”
“Oh, just thinking how Val likes to combine her and Drake’s last names. Morgan-LeRoy. Has a ring to it.”
“Whoa, hold on.” He turned off the burner, stuck two pieces of sourdough bread into the toaster. “I just met her, and you’re hyphenating our names?” He crossed to the fridge. “Strawberry jam or blueberry?”
“Strawberry.”
He grabbed it, set it on the table.
“It’s just...from things your brother and others have said, you’re so smitten. Don’t know if I’ve ever seen you like this over a girl.”
“Smitten is a world away from hyphenating my last name, Mom.”
He turned away, busying himself with distributing the scrambled eggs onto two plates. Nice—his brother and other family members were yammering behind his back about being smitten, but since when did that mean a guy was ready to say “I do”?
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something,” his mom said.
“Yeah?” He looked over his shoulder.
“Just because your grandmother’s moving out—” she absently played with the collar on her robe “—doesn’t mean you shouldn’t, too. I’ll be fine.”
That hitch in her tone didn’t sound fine, though.
Then it hit him. Felt odd at first...waking up to an empty house.
In the thirty-five years she’d lived in this house, she had never been alone. Not for more than a night, anyway. Had to be scary, facing a life of solitude at sixty-six years old. This was probably what she had confided to Li’l Bit in an unguarded moment. She’d no doubt regretted telling him the instant the words slipped from her mouth, so she insisted he keep it a secret.
Braxton knew why. Dorothy Morgan didn’t like to let down her guard, because she didn’t want people to catch a glimpse of her worries and hurts. If he’d learned anything from his past, it was that when you finally let down your guard and admitted your flaws and mistakes, people would stand by you. Those that didn’t, eff ’em. You didn’t want them in your life anyway.
He wished he could magically plant that philosophy in her heart and brain.
After cornering the eggs with toast, he served their plates and sat down opposite her. “Be present at our table, Lord,” he said quietly.
As they ate in silence for a few moments, he mulled over how to ease her concerns. She had so much pride—prides herself on her pride, his dad used to say—so Braxton wanted to say this right, because God forbid anyone ever treated Dorothy Morgan like a pity case.
“Ordered something a few days ago,” he said casually.
Actually, he hadn’t ordered it yet, but he’d been thinking about it.
“What?”
“A five-foot outdoor Scrabble board.” He took a sip of coffee, watching her over the rim of the cup.
She blinked. Several times. “Five feet?”
“Actually, it’s a five-by-five square.”
“Why? So it can be seen from outer space?”
He laughed. “It’s made of concrete squares. Doubles as a patio floor. Figured I’d put it near the grill so when you throw your springtime barbecue parties, everyone can play outdoor Scrabble, too.”
She nodded approvingly. “Inventive.”
“Be a while before it’s ready, though. Need to build a wooden frame, pour the concrete, score it into squares....”
“You’re going to do this.”
“Yeah.”
“But...you don’t like building things.”
More like he sucked at it big-time, but trust a mother to cast it in a kinder light. “Maybe I want to make up for that D-minus I got in wood shop.”
“Oh, my,” she said, glancing at the kitchen clock, “I remember when your father found those report cards....”
As a freshman in high school, Braxton had tried to make a canoe paddle in wood shop. Several mangled pieces of wood later, he’d finally created one. While showing off for some girl, he’d wielded it like a sword and accidentally hit it against a wall, breaking off its shaft. Semester projects were due, so he sanded down the blade and called it a breadboard.
When semester report cards arrived, Braxton, ashamed he’d received a D-minus in wood shop, especially as Drake, The Wood Shop King, got an A-plus, hid both cards in the back of the kitchen cuckoo clock. Not a well-thought-out plan, as within hours, the chicken stopped clucking.
Which led to his dad taking off the back of the clock and finding the crumpled report cards. One look at the grades, and Benny Morgan figured out the reason for the clock-stuffing. He didn’t get mad, just told Braxton that if he ever felt embarrassed for not being as skilled as somebody else, he needed to focus on his own accomplishments. Maybe your brother is a talented carpenter, his dad had said, but you can cook circles around him.
His mom spread some jam on her toast. “I still have that breadboard, you know.”
“I know.” He’d seen it on her dresser, polished and on display as if it were some kind of art piece.
“Back to this supersize Scrabble board. How long will it take to make it?”
“I have to build the wooden frame—yeah, I know, but if I can build a canoe-paddle-breadboard, I can build a square frame—pour the concrete, score it, other stuff.” He wrapped up quickly. “I dunno...a few months?”
She thought about it for a moment. “However long it takes, just tell me what needs to be done. I used to help your dad on his house projects, you know.”
“This cement,” he continued, glossing over her offer, “needs to be checked often, like all the time, something about it drying just right because if it doesn’t...” He grimaced at the horrific results, although he didn’t have a clue what would really happen. “It’d be a hassle to drive back and forth all the time...cost of gas and all.... Makes more sense if I stay put until the Scrabble board is done. Think you can put up with me for a couple more months?”
He sprinkled some salt on his food, priding himself on how casually he’d tossed off that line, as if it were an afterthought. Damn, he was good.
When he looked up, he saw something he hadn’t realized had been missing—a light in his mom’s eyes.
“Well,” she said, sitting taller, “I suppose I can put up with you for a while longer.” She speared a bite of scrambled eggs. “These are excellent, by the way. You’re quite the chef.”
He wished he had a camera so he could capture this moment of her happiness, frozen forever, always smiling.
* * *
SHORTLY BEFORE TEN Monday morning, Frances parked her leased Benz outside a warehouse on West Sunset Road. This industrial park reminded her of the setting in some doomsday flick with its rows of mostly deserted concrete-block buildings, broken asphalt roads and barren desert. Okay to visit during the day as a few companies still maintained offices here, but only a fool would visit here at night when it turned into a dark no-man’s-land.
The gray clouds looked ominous, although she questioned the forecast of snow.
Not sure what to expect on her “first day on the job,” she’d dressed for comfort in slouch pants, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, beige quilted jacket and running shoes. She’d left her hair loose, which she realized was going to be a mistake, as the wind was going to whip it into a froth.
Grabbing her shoulder bag, she exited the car. Ducking against a blast of cold air, she told herself her shivers were from the chilly temperatures, not preshow nerves. But who was she kidding? She was scared.
She steeled herself with some mental attagirls.
Of all the undercover jobs you’ve worked, you know this one—being a jewel thief—inside out.
These Russians found you, so there’s nothing suspicious about your involvement.
You’re not going into this alone.
Last night over the phone, Charlie told her he was working on renting one of the empty offices in this warehouse. He hoped to give it some bogus business name and staff it with two Vanderbilt investigators who’d be there every day, Monday through Friday. If she ever needed help, all she had to do was hit 7 on her phone keypad, a speed dial to their phones, which also automatically generated a text message with her location in case she couldn’t talk.
A few minutes later, she shoved open the heavy glass door and entered the warehouse.
Inside was a wide hallway with doors on either side. No central heating for the cavernous building, only in the offices, so this corridor was on the chilly side. She paused, pulled a brush from her bag and attempted to tame her hair. Her hair won.
As Frances headed down the hallway, her running shoes squeaked against the linoleum tiles. She recalled the names on a few of the doors from her last visit—Quick-Silver Courier Service, Kings Natural Products, Bergstrom Exports.
Toward the end of the hallway was the door labeled 1F, the Russian’s leased offices. Taped on the door was a computer-printed sign she hadn’t seen last Thursday when she’d picked up the envelope for Braxton.
Шоколад-Russian Confections
She looked around. No surveillance cameras. She pulled out her smartphone and snapped a picture of the sign. Slipping the phone back into her jacket pocket, she glanced at the far end of the hallway, wondering if one of those offices might soon house her watchdog Vanderbilt investigators.
The waiting room area was heated, almost to the point of suffocation, and starkly furnished. Several folding chairs, a metal-tile reception desk, a tall plastic plant whose green leaves shone eerily under the fluorescent lights. The other doors—two to her left, one on her right—were closed, just as they’d been before.
Frances unzipped her jacket as she headed to the reception desk where Oleg had sat last Thursday. Today, a twentysomething woman was in his spot, her long, straight chestnut hair pulled into a side ponytail that cascaded down the front of her low-cut black sequined top. She took in Frances with heavily made-up almond-shaped eyes, a lit cigarette between her fingers. Her nails were dramatically long and red.
“Good morning,” Frances said. “Oleg is expecting me.”
“Oh? He not say to me,” she said in a thick Russian accent. Eyeing Frances’s hair, she took a long drag on her cigarette.
“Perhaps he forgot. Please let him know Frances is here.”
“You need comb?” she asked on a release of smoke.
“No.” Later she’d find a moment to go to the ladies’ room and try to wrestle her hair into submission.
After setting her burning cigarette in the ashtray, the receptionist began tapping on her phone’s keypad.
Frances took the opportunity to check out the girl’s desk. A tablet computer with a shopping site on its screen, a makeup bag, a few ballpoint pens, an ashtray filled with cigarette butts, most with the girl’s dark red lipstick imprint. The ones without lipstick were a darker, stubbier brand.
“He here soon,” the girl said, her gaze gravitating again to Frances’s hair.
“Is there a ladies’ room?”
She frowned. “Ladez...?”
“Bathroom?”
The girl shrugged, took another puff.
Frances picked the most comfortable-looking folding chair and sat.
Twenty minutes later, the door on the right opened. Oleg, wearing a wrinkled blue-and-black-checked shirt, jeans and the same scuffed sneakers he’d worn the last time, walked up to her and extended his hand, giving her a tight-lipped smile.
“Hello, Frances.”
He smelled like cigarette smoke and pancakes, and stood so close, she could see a tiny, ragged white scar above his eyebrow.
She turned her head slightly, so her right cheek was out of his line of vision, remembering something she had read. Russians were comfortable with a foot of personal space when talking to others, while Americans liked at least three feet. So he felt perfectly relaxed standing this close, while she felt unea
sy. But when in Rome...
The girl said something in Russian. Oleg nodded.
“You want to meet more ladies?” he asked Frances.
Took her a moment. “No, I asked where the bathroom is.”
“In hallway. Key behind desk.”
He said something in Russian to the girl, who held up a key, attached by a jingling chain to a small red box of chocolates, which Frances hoped was empty.
“Ladez,” she said.
“I’ll borrow it later.” She wondered if the girl understood. “No ladez,” she added.
Oleg gestured for Frances to enter the office, and she walked inside, her stomach clenching, nervous at what lay ahead.
Unlike the bare-bones waiting area, this room was large and inviting. Several floor lamps gave the room a soft glow. An oval cherrywood table ringed with matching chairs sat on a scarlet Persian rug. The only items on the table were a laptop, cell phone, pad of paper, which she guessed were Oleg’s. A portable bar with a tufted-leather facade sat in the far corner, littered with an assortment of vodka bottles.
Natural light spilled into the room through a large window in the far wall, although the view wasn’t that great—a mostly empty parking lot rimmed by desert, which Vegas lore claimed was pockmarked by shallow graves left by mobsters and hit men. Unfortunately, that wasn’t just legend. In a housing development recently built in the desert, several home owners had discovered human bones buried on their property.
“Dima here soon,” he said, closing the door.
Dima or Dmitri Romanov, the mystery man. She’d spent hours digging for details about that Russian and Oleg over the weekend, from internet searches to database queries. After finding next to nil, she decided Oleg must have erased electronic footprints leading toward them or away from them. Handy having a computer whiz like that around.
“Too warm,” he said, scowling at her jacket.
She’d also read that Russians felt it their personal duty to offer advice, especially on matters of health.
“Thank you.” She slipped off the jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.