Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  He stared at her jacket as if it were an uninvited creature before meeting her gaze. “Drink?”

  She thought he meant coffee, but as he was heading to the corner bar, she realized he meant alcohol. Probably vodka.

  Shots for breakfast?

  Lately, people kept wanting to tip the bottle early in the day. Not her thing, but she didn’t want to look rude by refusing. Plus, as she ambled toward the bar, she could check out what was on his laptop screen.

  “Sure.”

  She’d eaten breakfast, so at least she wouldn’t be drinking on an empty stomach. And she’d keep it to one shot, no more.

  Meandering toward the corner bar, she looked out the window at a commercial plane angling into the clouds. She’d forgotten how close they were to McCarran International Airport. Ten miles?

  When Oleg leaned behind the bar, she glanced at his laptop screen.

  Pictures of people’s faces. Six—no, eight. Mostly men, a few women. Smiling, but in a staged way, not natural. Backgrounds were all a uniform color.

  Driver’s license photos?

  “Hey,” Oleg called out, “you snoop on me?”

  Her pulse jammed in her throat. Keeping her face still, she turned, giving him a look that said she had every right to check what was on the screen.

  “Who are these people?” Not a question. A demand.

  He paused, a bottle of vodka in his hand, his eyes locked on hers.

  She could hear herself breathing, ragged in-and-outs of air that seemed louder than the distant, low roar of planes taking flight from McCarran.

  With a slight shrug, he looked away. “Employees at Palazzo,” he muttered, pouring the vodka into a shot glass.

  People she might run into during the heist.

  He slid a drink toward her. These shot glasses had to be double the size she was used to.

  He held up his glass. “Naz dyroovnia!”

  They clinked glasses, downed their drinks.

  When he started to pour her another shot, she waved it off. “Work,” she rasped, followed by a cough. She blinked back the sting in her eyes.

  He chuckled under his breath. “Amerikantxy.”

  Didn’t need an interpreter to know that word. And from the chiding, teasing tone, she got the gist. Weak-assed American can’t handle a second shot.

  After another small cough, she whispered hoarsely, “Dusha-dusha.” Soul to soul.

  Something else she’d read. For Russians, sharing a drink was about forging a bond. Connecting soul to soul. She had practiced the pronunciation of the toast—dusha-dusha—figuring she’d need to know it at some point, although she hadn’t expected that to be first thing Monday morning.

  Oleg gave her an approving nod, poured himself another shot.

  “What?” boomed a loud voice. “Drinking without me?”

  Dima stood in the open doorway, grinning. He wasn’t tall, not more than five-nine, yet had a large, commanding presence. He wore a long black overcoat, unbuttoned, which offered a view of neatly pressed slacks and a purple dress shirt.

  Oleg said something in Russian that included the words dusha-dusha, at which point he gestured at her.

  “Ah,” Dmitri said, nodding enthusiastically, “our Frances is one of us!” Taking off his coat, he bellowed something in Russian out the open door.

  The receptionist yelled something back.

  With a boisterous laugh, he hung his coat on a wall hook, then slammed the door shut. Striding across the room, his burned-cherry-and-leather cologne filled the room. More Russian chatter to Oleg, who laughed and splashed more vodka into a fresh shot glass.

  Passing Frances, Dmitri paused. “What did you think of Braxton Morgan?”

  The question took her by surprise. Boyish, goofy, handsome, cocky, intelligent. But she didn’t say any of those and simply answered, “Expressive.”

  “Expressive.” He looked up at the ceiling as he pondered the term. “Interesting.” He met Frances’s gaze. “What did he do to earn that?”

  “He—” behaves like a crushed-out thirteen-year-old boy “—reveals his emotions too readily.”

  “You think he’s bad at his job?”

  Just as she’d detected before in the limo, Dmitri had a very faint British accent in his excellent English.

  “Wasn’t what I expected from a security consultant.”

  “Not what you expected,” he murmured, as though tasting the words. “So you think his being expressive impairs his ability?”

  This conversation was starting to feel like a trek through a minefield. One verbal misstep, and she might detonate an issue that could blow up in her face.

  “Merely my observations,” she said, “which could be wrong—”

  “Russians are expressive, Frances,” he said, cutting her off as he strolled across the floor with a theatrical flourish. “Hardly a sign of weakness, although I can see why you would view it as such, being so—” his gaze traveled slowly down, back up her body “—closed-off yourself.”

  She felt a jab of irritation. He’d asked her evaluation of Braxton, then used it to judge her behavior.

  “Security consultants are like jewel thieves,” she said, refusing to be cowed. “Their successes hinge on remaining calm, controlled, professional. Emotions in a jewel thief can undermine a heist. For a security consultant, they can inflame an incident. Expressiveness, therefore, is not a beneficial trait.”

  Dmitri cocked an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything as he continued walking to the bar. After embracing Oleg and kissing him on both cheeks, the two began chatting amiably in their native tongue.

  She crossed to the window, watched another plane descend through the clouds. She guessed Dmitri’s non-response meant she’d won that round, but why were they arguing about Braxton’s ability to begin with?

  Didn’t matter. This conversation gave her an opportunity to learn more about his relationship to Dmitri. In her research, she’d learned a few more interesting facts about Braxton. Past problems with the law, linked to his ties to a Russian thug named Yuri Glazkov. Considering Braxton was a star witness for the state at Yuri’s trial next month, the D.A. had probably offered him immunity, or reductions in other charges, if he cooperated.

  When a criminal went from the dark to the light side of the law, a journey she well understood, a smart criminal stayed in the light. Going back and forth, which Braxton appeared to be doing, only invited trouble from both sides.

  “Oleg,” Dima bellowed, “time to get back to work! I must talk to my Frances now.”

  As Oleg took his seat at the table and began typing at the keyboard, Dmitri walked up to Frances, crowding her. She instinctively dipped her head, although it wasn’t necessary. The waterproof silicone gel and camouflage makeup made her scar vanish. But as skin cells naturally sloughed off throughout the day, so did the makeup and gel, although her scar didn’t become noticeable for twelve hours, sometimes less.

  “Sorry I gave you a bad time,” he murmured, his breath smelling of vodka and coffee.

  “No problem.”

  “I might be tough on you at times,” he said gently, pulling out a chair next to Oleg, who was engrossed with something on his computer screen, “because this is a major heist, and you’re my star. Please, sit.”

  She did.

  “There will be many things we’ll be studying and practicing over the next few weeks,” he said casually as he took the seat next to her, “reviewing the blueprints of the Palazzo, the setup of the jewelry exhibit, the hotel’s security team, possible off-duty Vegas officers who might be working security, and so on....” He made a rolling motion with his hand. “I have a forger who will interview you over the internet, then create documents that identify you as an antique-jewelry collector. There is also a safecracker I have worked with b
efore who will train you in opening digital locks, although this is purely a backup measure, as surveillance photos reveal the jewelry cases on this exhibit have metal locks.”

  Oleg said something in Russian, and Dmitri nodded.

  “Oleg has already forwarded images of those locks to a key forger, who is making keys even as we speak. As you can see, you will be very busy these next few weeks.” He smiled. “Plus, I’m hiring a part-time bodyguard for you.”

  Bodyguard? This was a surprise twist, one she didn’t like at all. Someone hovering nearby, overhearing everything she said, could too easily compromise her undercover work.

  Dmitri draped his arm across the back of her chair. She felt claustrophobic sandwiched between him and Oleg, plus the older Russian’s sense-stunning cologne didn’t help.

  “He will not know you are a jewel thief,” he murmured, “but will think you are my vice president of sales.”

  “This isn’t a good idea.”

  He cocked that eyebrow again. “Why not?”

  “Russian Confections looks like a small start-up company operating on a shoestring budget. Shoestring means it is operating on very little money—”

  “I’m familiar with a lot of American slang,” he snapped, “which I learned from watching your silly sitcoms. If I wish to know the meaning of a term, I shall ask.”

  This new piece of information gave her pause. The coins were stolen from a New York event two years ago. She wondered if she could place him in that region at that time.

  She wasn’t a fan of sitcoms, but her dad often watched them at night if no sports were on. A few years ago, he loved a show that was canceled after just one season. If Dmitri watched that sitcom as well, it could place him in the U.S. at that time.

  What was the name of that show? Something My Dad Thought. No, My Dad Says. Had a cuss word in the title. Now she remembered....

  “What a great way to learn slang,” she said, flashing her best sincere smile. “Did you ever watch...” She said the title.

  He released an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes, funny show, but you were talking about our shoestring budget....”

  She nodded, pleased she might have something more to go on.

  “Right,” she responded, returning to their prior conversation. “My point was people will wonder where Russian Confections got the money to hire a bodyguard. It will draw the wrong kind of attention.”

  “Ah, but looks can be deceiving, Frances. If anyone checks public records, they’ll read that Russian Confections is the American arm of a lucrative chocolate factory in the Ukraine that makes dozens of sweet treats, including the Elegance Extra-Dark chocolate bar....” He pressed his fingers to his lips, giving them a small, reverential kiss. “Exquisite, really. I must bring you some.”

  She imagined a box of chocolates, realizing how perfectly a coin could fit at the bottom of a paper candy cup. Did he use this Russian Confections company to transport those ancient Greek coins? To where? she wondered.

  “So I disagree with your conjecture,” he continued. “Anyway, this bodyguard’s primary job is to escort you after work to your car, which is a smart security measure, hardly a suspicious one.” He lifted his chin, affecting a noble silhouette. “Think of yourself,” he said, lowering his voice, “as a lovely damsel in distress I wish to protect.”

  What a ham. Probably envisioned himself as a swashbuckler type, swinging in on a rope, a cutlass between his teeth, a hero to the little lady’s rescue.

  Maybe by appealing to his blown-up ego, she could convince him to table this bodyguard nonsense. Shame she didn’t know any heroic pirates to compare him to, although Dmitri’s short-clipped hair, pronounced cheekbones and stylish clothes reminded her of another larger-than-life hero.

  “Oh, my,” she said, giving him a look, “has anyone ever said you look like James Bond?”

  He paused, obviously delighted. “A child did, once, but...” He shrugged off the compliment, but she caught that tell-me-more look in his eyes.

  “Oh, it’s true,” she cooed. “Both of you are handsome, charming and...well, far more intelligent than most people.”

  He raised his hand as though he couldn’t handle more adulation. “You flatter me.”

  This was like hanging out with a beefy diva.

  “And, uh...in shape. Both of you obviously work out.” Time to drive her point home. “Although James Bond would never hire a bodyguard for someone.”

  He bolted upright. “Why not? An important, intelligent man like that can’t be everywhere at all times.”

  “True, but Bond would never hire a bodyguard, especially for an important client.” She frowned, doing her best to look worried. “Let’s get real, Dmitri. What if this bodyguard figures out what we’re planning and reports it to the authorities?”

  “He will not do that.”

  “How do you know?”

  “How do I know you won’t deceive me?” he countered, jabbing his index finger at her. “You are obviously an experienced jewel thief who is knowledgeable about Georgian jewelry, but why is there not a single news account of one of your thefts? That bothers me!”

  He glared at her, a vein in his forehead pulsing. She felt a bit dizzy from the way he’d gone from flattered to outraged within seconds.

  On the streets in her teenage years, she’d dealt with her share of bullies who relied on tactics like explosive intimidation to make others grovel. After weathering a few confrontations, she’d learned the secret to managing bullies was not to show fear, even if they were scaring the bejesus out of you.

  “There are no accounts of your thefts, either,” she said, raising her voice, “but that doesn’t bother me! Means you’re very good at not getting caught, yet you refuse to give me that same respect!”

  He lurched to his feet and kicked his chair like a two-year-old, toppling it over onto the rug with a soft thump. Flailing his arms, he barked something in Russian to Oleg, who jumped up and righted the chair.

  With every spare ounce of steely nerve she could muster, she stared into Dmitri’s blue eyes, which were frosty with rage. He tapped his index finger on the table, steady as a metronome, slicing out the seconds, one...by...one.

  Then he stopped.

  He hung his head for what seemed an eternity, during which time she mentally calculated the number of steps to her purse and how long it’d take to snatch her cell phone and punch the speed dial for help....

  Then her stomach plummeted as she realized the bogus office didn’t exist. Not yet, anyway.

  Finally, he raised his head.

  “Ah, Frances...” He drew in a colossal breath, releasing it with a heavy sigh. “How silly for us to fight.” He thumped his fist over his heart. “I can be obstinate, I know. Gordynya khorosho, chtoby ne dovodit.”

  Oleg, standing nearby, nodded somberly.

  “Pride goes before good arguments,” Dmitri interpreted for her, “or how you Americans say...pride goes before a fall. You and I, Frances, have much to gain in our business venture, so I will be less prideful because I want us to be friends. Truce?”

  She could feel the tension seep from her body. Not that she could ever completely relax in these offices, but a truce would make this undercover job less uncomfortable.

  “Truce,” she said.

  Rain began splattering against the window. Dmitri nodded to the younger Russian, who sat back down and resumed typing.

  “You see,” Dmitri said to Frances, “Oleg’s research showed you had one felony arrest five years ago, here in Las Vegas, for which you did not serve time. Please don’t take this the wrong way, my Frances, but no time for a felony sounds...questionable. As in acting as an informant...or testifying against a former associate.”

  Dmitri was paranoid, like most criminals. If something looked suspicious, he thought the worst. Of c
ourse, he was right on this one. If all went well, she would be testifying against him.

  But she also knew that online criminal history Oleg pulled was relatively useless. In her work at Vanderbilt, she’d run hundreds of online criminal histories, which should be called criminal sketches, as they offered such sparse information. All Oleg could have learned from her criminal history was the date, city and felony charge. Clever of him, though, to run a separate check of Nevada prison records.

  “It was my first offense,” she explained, “and since I was young, the judge was lenient. Gave me probation and community service.”

  Nowhere, not even in court records, would it show the suspended sentence, her real court deal. Nor would any records, public or otherwise, reveal her true work history at Vanderbilt.

  “I give you respect for avoiding prison,” Dmitri said with a reverential nod. “Now...it is time for Oleg to take you to his office, where he will show you blueprints of the Palazzo, but before you go...” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “For putting up with my, pardon my Americanism, bullshit.” He peeled off four crisp one-hundred-dollar bills and handed them to her. “Do something nice for yourself. I insist.”

  She didn’t want his guilt money, had half a mind to say as much, but she’d met her badass-girl quota for the day. Maybe the year. Plus she knew where bad money could do some good.

  “Thank you.” She slipped the bills into her pocket.

  As she exited with Oleg, she reflected on how different she felt than when she’d first stepped into this room. Before, she’d been anxious entering Dmitri’s inner sanctum. Now she felt as if she’d claimed a piece of its turf.

  Which almost scared her more.

  * * *

  SHRUGGING OFF HIS trench coat, Braxton paused. He’d just walked into Dima’s office, had barely handed him the manila envelope containing his investigation report on the check-cashing store, when the Russian asked him to be a...

  “Did you say...spy?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Dima answered.

  “I’m not sure if I should laugh or call the American consulate,” Braxton joked, looking around the room for a place to hang his coat.