Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  “What is so funny about that?”

  From the Russian’s dark glower, it was about as funny as a hangnail.

  Braxton shifted his coat from one hand to the other, debating if he should just put it back on and leave. But he wanted that head-of-security job, bad, so he’d answer the question.

  “It’s just that you’re a Russian, I’m an American, and the spy question struck me as humorous...like we were in some James Bond movie.”

  After a few seconds—five to be exact, because Braxton ticked them off in his head—Dima smiled.

  “That name came up earlier,” he murmured, tossing the envelope onto the oval table as he strolled to the window, where he eyed his reflection in the glass. “I’ve been told I look like him....” He waggled a hand over his shoulder. “Coat hooks are next to the door.”

  Braxton headed over to them, mentally congratulating himself on that spur-of-the-moment movie reference.

  “Have you seen many Bond films?” Dmitri asked.

  “Not since I was a kid.”

  Hanging up his coat, he recalled a long-ago summer when he and Drake had watched and re-watched Bond movies until they could quote entire scenes in their sleep. Their mother hadn’t been happy with their 007 obsession, fretting it was a sign they were overly enthralled with their father’s security profession. She was right, of course; they were fascinated with their dad’s career, and if there’d been hotel-casino-security-cop movies, they’d have watched those, too.

  James Bond had looked cool in his tuxedo, but nine-year-old Braxton thought his dad looked even cooler in his security uniform—creased blue pants and shirt, gold badge, but best of all a leather holster with a real gun. Sometimes he’d help his dad polish his leather shoes, after which he’d put them on and try to walk, the two of them laughing as he clomped and slid, barely able to take a step.

  Until this moment, he hadn’t realized that this security position was a way to be close to his old man again. Stepping into his dad’s career was like stepping into those shoes.

  Maybe this time he could finally fill them.

  “For all those gadgets Bond used,” Dima said, pulling Braxton out of his reverie, “he had deplorable taste in weapons before he started carrying a Walther.”

  “Yeah, that Beretta belonged in a lady’s purse.”

  With a spirited laugh, Dima turned to the table. “You are funny, my friend! Ah, remember when Bond escaped in a helicopter from a disintegrating plane?”

  “Die Another Day,” Braxton answered, naming the film. He and Drake must have jumped off the roof a dozen times that summer, reenacting that very scene.

  “Ah, if only such escapes were possible in real life, yes?”

  The distant growl of another flight drew his attention. Through the window, Braxton watched a commercial plane lumber toward the clouds.

  Dima pulled out a chair and gestured for him to sit. “What have you discovered about Yuri?”

  Braxton had little to report. Yuri’s businesses were closed down or had been taken over by others. His former boss was out on bail but keeping a low profile before the trial. “I’ll email you my surveillance reports.”

  “I am more interested in your impressions.”

  “Yuri is wearing an ankle bracelet, and from my brief surveillances he’s staying home, which is exactly where most people think he belongs.”

  “He will not cause interference for me?”

  Braxton gave a who-knows shrug. “Apparently, most of his former pals have turned against him, and he has almost no support in the Russian community. But that could just be the story he wants people to believe. Plus you and I know those ankle monitoring bracelets are a joke—with the right electronics expert giving you a hand, they can be taken on and off at whim.”

  “So I should stay alert.”

  “Yes.”

  “In Russia, patience is a virtue, so I shall remain patient and see what else you learn about Yuri.” He straightened. “Ready to discuss a new job?”

  “Absolutely,” Braxton said, crossing the floor. “I have some ideas about this security position I think you’ll like.”

  “By the way, I’ve decided the title will be Security Director,” Dima said, “which sounds more prestigious than Head of Security, don’t you agree? Shakespeare may have questioned ‘What’s in a name?’ to which I answer everything. But unfortunately we’re not discussing that job until my overpaid lawyers finish hammering out the business details.”

  Classical music began playing.

  “Ringtone,” Dima explained, reaching into his pocket. “Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. Excuse me—I’ve been expecting an important call.”

  As he spoke in Russian, Braxton crossed to the window. Rain pelted the glass. In the distance, lightning zigzagged. He looked down at his Volvo in the parking lot, hoped that weather stripping he’d put in the door seal would stop it from leaking again.

  Parked near the Volvo was Babe’s lemon-yellow Benz.

  He’d noticed it the moment he’d pulled into the lot this morning, which wasn’t difficult, as only twenty or so cars were parked in the large lot. Being early for his meeting, he’d sat in his car, contemplating her Benz. He also took interest in two shiny black Lexus models and a limo parked in a cluster nearby. Russians had a thing for black luxury cars, so he guessed they belonged to others in Dmitri’s organization.

  He’d already run her license plate, hoping to learn her real name, instead learning it had been rented a week ago from a car-rental agency downtown. For the hell of it, he ran the licenses on each Lexus and learned both were registered to a corporation named Konfety. Ran the limo’s license. Konfety, again.

  Why was her Benz rented, but the others registered to Konfety?

  He looked up Konfety in the Nevada business database. Couldn’t find it. Ran it through a translator program and learned that konfety was Russian for candy.

  By then it was time to head inside, so he turned off his phone and exited the Volvo, taking a short detour past the Benz. Tidy leather interior. No books, addressed envelopes, nothing lying around to give a clue about her life. Seeing a small white receipt lying on the floor, he pulled out his smartphone and snapped a picture of it through the window.

  “I apologize for the interruption,” Dima said now, putting away his phone. “Shall we continue our discussion?”

  A few moments later, they sat next to each other at the table.

  Sitting this close, Braxton felt suffocated by the Russian’s cologne, a leathery, fruity stench that could probably cure meat. He remembered Yuri and his pals wearing strong scents, too. For some reason, all the Russian men Braxton had met seemed to equate their masculinity with the ability to give others nosebleeds.

  “I’d like to hire you to be a part-time bodyguard,” Dima said. “I’m thinking ten to twelve hours a week, which leaves you plenty of time to conduct investigations on Yuri.”

  Why hadn’t he mentioned this before? Plus, Braxton had never liked the term bodyguard because it made the profession sound like a bunch of knuckle-dragging goons. He preferred calling it protection agent or executive protection, but screw it. Call it banana peel for all he cared. They weren’t talking about the real title he wanted—Security Director.

  But rather than run off at the mouth, he kept it shut, forced himself to listen. He wasn’t happy with this turn of events, but since he’d made the effort to come here, he might as well hear Dima out.

  “Primarily, I would like you to provide an escort through the parking lot after work, as well as accompany her to any large events she might be attending—you two can discuss her schedule—and possibly a client meeting or two in the Russian community.” Dmitri rubbed a spot on the table. “I’d also like you to gather intelligence about this person.”

  Here’s the spy part. �
�What kind of information are you looking for?”

  “What’s said in conversations, identities of people visited, addresses of stopovers...” He gestured with his hand, which showed off his platinum Patek Philippe watch. Had to cost forty grand, at least.

  “It’s been a while since I accepted an executive-protection case,” he said.

  “But your reputation continues, Braxton. Your past clients speak highly of you.”

  He hadn’t given Dima any references for his past protection work, but a quick Google search would find several newspaper stories.

  “You mentioned my overhearing what’s said in conversations,” Braxton said, “but I speak very little Russian....”

  “Does not matter.”

  “So this person’s American.”

  Dima nodded.

  Which made Braxton wonder... Nah, couldn’t be Babe. Dima knew about The Dayden Group and had probably used them to run a background check on her. She’d obviously passed the test, because he’d hired her, so no reason to sic a spy on her.

  “Is this a family member?” Braxton asked.

  “No. A...vice president.”

  “Possible theft? Industrial sabotage?” When someone that high up was under scrutiny, there was usually something juicy going on.

  Dima waved off any suggestion of impropriety. “I simply want confirmation this executive has no issues that could undermine a major project.”

  Braxton nodded, wondering what could undermine a Russian candy company. Stealing a recipe for Anna Karina’s Creamy Fudge?

  “I figure three thousand cash, paid weekly, for your services and expenses is fair.”

  “More than fair.”

  “Excellent. There’s an envelope with your first week’s pay at the front desk. From Russia with Love, yes?” he quipped, playing on the James Bond title.

  Braxton smiled and meant it for the most part, too. He just needed to be patient—never one of his sterling traits—about the other job.

  The door clicked open, and Dima turned. “Oleg, excellent timing!”

  A lanky guy wearing a wrinkled, checkered shirt and jeans sauntered in. His wavy black hair needed a cut.

  Braxton’s gaze shifted to the woman behind Oleg, and his mouth went dry.

  There she was...Babe, the blonde vision that had haunted his waking and sleeping hours ever since their last encounter in Chez Manny’s parking lot.

  She’d traded in her Hillary Clinton pantsuit look for some kind of lounge pants, a thermal shirt and sneakers. And that sleek, tight bun had unraveled into a mass of honey-blond hair that gave her a bit of a Wild-Woman-from-Borneo look. He didn’t recall her ever wearing a lot of makeup before, but today it appeared she’d skipped it altogether.

  Didn’t matter. She was one of those women who didn’t need to slather on the stuff to turn heads. Plus there was something about her—call it her Lauren Bacall mystique—that added layers of secrecy and depth, making her a puzzle he was dying to solve.

  He shifted his gaze to Oleg, back to her, an uneasy realization dawning. Was his lovely, smoky, inscrutable Bacall actually a computer geek like her wrinkled-shirt buddy or, worse, his girlfriend?

  “Braxton,” Dima said, “this is Oleg Ivanovich, my computer wizard. He and his lovely wife, Raisa, recently moved to Las Vegas so he could be part of my team.”

  She was married. To Oleg Ivanovich.

  His heart sank like the Titanic.

  “And this is my vice president of sales, Frances, who is dressed like this—” he gestured to her clothes as though Braxton might not know what dressed like this meant “—because she’s moving into her new office today.”

  Her name is Frances, not Raisa.

  He felt a nudge of relief, followed by a jolt.

  She’s the vice president I’ll be spying on.

  He should’ve left earlier. So what if he got to hang close to her? He’d be deceiving the one person he wanted to impress. To think he’d spent months showing his family and friends that he was no longer a duplicitous jerk, and he’d just agreed to be one again.

  But if he didn’t take this part-time gig, Dima would hire somebody else to spy on her. No way Braxton could let some other guy play snoop, looking for dirt on her to report to Dima. Unless he discovered she was some kind of criminal, he didn’t need to report squat to Dima.

  He was staying.

  Oleg wandered about the room, never straying far from Dima, though, like a satellite circling its planet. Dima draped his arm possessively around Frances’s shoulders.

  “She is my star employee,” he said to Braxton, looking proud.

  If you’re so proud of her, why are you surveilling her?

  “Congratulations on your new position,” Braxton said, figuring if she was moving into her new office today, she’d just come on board.

  “Thank you.”

  That voice again...smokier, sultrier than he remembered. Didn’t matter what she said, she could read out loud the fine print on the back of his credit-card bills and he’d listen.

  “Braxton,” Dima said to her, “will be your part-time bodyguard.”

  A pucker of disapproval played on her lips.

  Oh, great. He’d done something wrong again, although he didn’t know what. Was she still nursing a grudge over his dumb Frau Farbissina comment from days ago? Okay, to be fair, that and the Hillary-bun-and-pantsuit remarks weren’t exactly a gift basket of compliments, but still...at some point, she needed to let go, show a little forgiveness, right?

  Just then, the receptionist walked into the room, diverting everyone’s attention, although the look she slid Braxton indicated she was mostly interested in his. She slinked across the room as though working a catwalk before handing a white plastic card to Dima.

  “Your access card,” he said to Frances, showing it to her, “although the building is only locked from midnight to five in the morning. Please check that your name is spelled correctly.”

  “It’s missing an e,” she said. “Should be J-e-f-f-e-r-i-e-s.”

  So that was her name. Frances Jefferies.

  Dima said something in Russian to the girl, who shot him a sullen look before snatching back the card and leaving the room. He made a shooing motion to Oleg, who left, too, closing the door behind him with a solid click.

  Meanwhile, two words kept flashing in his mind like a Vegas neon sign.

  Morgan-Jefferies.

  Oooh, boy, not good. He’d blame it on his mother’s hyphenation fantasy. He was attracted to Frances, but this boy was keeping his head on straight, his feet on terra firma. He didn’t have a clue about her history or the emotional baggage she carted around. Hell, she could be divorced with five kids for all he knew.

  Or maybe she was Dima’s American girlfriend, the real reason he wanted her spied on, but wouldn’t say, as there was the small issue of a Russian wife and four kids back in Yekaterinburg...a buried piece of history Braxton caught in a subsequent reading of that diligence report.

  Report, yeah, that was what he needed. He’d run his own background check on Frances Jefferies. Treat his heart like a spacecraft on a launch pad and protect it with rigorous, practical research before allowing it to blast off.

  “Braxton will be here when you leave work today,” Dima was explaining to her, “to escort you to your car. This industrial park is no place for a woman to walk alone at night.”

  Those sparkling amethyst eyes turned to him. “Thank you, Braxton.”

  “Sure,” he murmured, the only word his addled brain could latch on to after hearing her say his name for the first name. Braxton. He never knew it could sound so good, so imbued with meaning and promise....

  Focus! Ask what time she wants you back here, where you should pick her up.

  “Sure?” he asked.

/>   Her face remained immobile, although he swore her eyebrows moved together a fraction of an inch. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  He nodded, trying to look like a man who would not only put his life on the line for her, but also knew how to not repeat monosyllabic words that made no sense.

  A boom, like the roar of rocket booster, shattered the silence.

  “Thunder!” Dima laughed. “If it is not loud, a peasant forgets to cross himself!”

  Frances’s eyes widened as she watched the rain lash the window.

  Braxton looked at her hands, which she’d raised at the crashing sound. It struck him as odd how they hovered midair, the tips of her slender fingers almost touching, yet not, as though denying each other the comfort of being held. He imagined what it would be like to fill that empty space, to be her solace, to know the unbearable ache of her caress.

  Terra firma.

  As though sensing his attention, she looked at him, her hands floating back down to her sides. Her lips parted and she took in a quick breath, her breasts rising with the effort, and when she exhaled, he swore he could hear it from across the room, like a low, needy whisper.

  And then she smiled.

  That simple act seemed to send his soul skyrocketing and he felt all reason leave him.

  Somehow, though, his feet remained rooted to the floor in Dima’s office, but his eyes were riveted on the one person who both sent him flying and kept him grounded.

  Frances Jefferies.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FRANCES WAS SMILING on the outside, but she was seething on the inside.

  She watched Dmitri stroll across the room, gesturing grandly as he went on and on about Braxton’s “exceptional talents,” “impressive record,” “glowing references.” He pretended to be speaking to both Frances and Braxton, but the show was really for her. Hard-sell advertising, in her book, was just another illusion.

  Even from across the room, she could see that far-off, goofy look in Braxton’s eyes as he looked at her.

  Maybe on Thursday he’d found her attractive, but she’d been put together then. Nice suit, tamed hair, makeup. Today she looked like she cleaned aquarium tanks for a living. No makeup, except her gel-concealer combo. Slouchy pants that were really just baggy. She’d like to pretend she was having a bad-hair day, but it had turned into an atrocious one.