Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  She flashed on a pickpocketing scam called the “sexy distraction.” A hot-looking girl or guy distracts the mark so the pickpocket can steal a wallet or piece of jewelry. Was Braxton a sexy distraction so she’d let down her guard? Why?

  Dmitri finally stopped extolling Saint Braxton’s virtues. “Any questions, Frances?”

  If Dmitri were being really honest, he’d ask, Do you accept Braxton as your bodyguard now? But then, the people in this room weren’t exactly known for their honesty.

  This was her chance to get rid of the guy. Part of her felt badly doing this—his crushed-out-teenager antics had made her feel attractive, desirable—but this was about business and the success of her case.

  “I still have my concerns about him,” she said, avoiding Braxton’s gaze, “such as his expressiveness, but you already know that. Another issue is his car. It’s, well...a rust bucket. Run-down. Bald tires. Peeling paint. I have concerns about its reliability. What if I were stuck somewhere and needed to rely on that for safe transportation?”

  Dmitri actually looked a bit interested with that one. Good. Time to hit him with another idea she’d been mulling over.

  “I just had a thought,” she said, hesitating a moment as though weighing its value. “I happen to know a bodyguard, one of the best in Vegas, actually, who’s skilled in state-of-the-art equipment and drives a sturdy new vehicle. He’s between jobs right now and would be honored to work as a part-time bodyguard for you.”

  Charlie would love this idea. Her “experienced bodyguard” was a fellow investigator at Vanderbilt whom she knew had done some protection work, so he could convincingly play the part. It’d be great to have a buddy working this case with her, even a part-time one. Someone who knew the players, could brainstorm the case, was with her inside the enemy camp, not planted in some random warehouse office.

  “You’re leasing a car for the other investigation, right?” Dmitri asked Braxton.

  “Yes.”

  “Then use it when you’re guarding her, too.” He turned back to Frances. “This friend of yours is Russian?”

  “No.”

  “Braxton worked many years with others from the Russian community—does your bodyguard know my culture as well as he does?”

  “But I’m not Russian, either, so why would that matter?”

  “There will be times when you are meeting with a Russian customer, my dear,” Dmitri said, ambling toward the table, his hands locked behind his back. “A bodyguard knowledgeable in Russian etiquette can save you the embarrassment of appearing rude or uncivilized....”

  He paused at the chair over which she’d folded her jacket and looked at it.

  “For example, Russians view it as bad manners to toss a coat over a chair. Goes back to our long winters.... Snow dripping off a coat can quickly become a small river on the floor. Braxton understands these things, and he can help you not look like an unsophisticated boor to my compatriots.”

  He turned his back to her and started chatting amiably with Braxton about a Russian restaurant in Las Vegas he’d recently eaten at.

  She stood there, stinging from Dmitri’s jab. Unsophisticated boor. What a jerk.

  “When the receptionist leaves around noon each day,” Dmitri was saying to Braxton, “she locks up our office, so I suggest you wait for Frances at the main building doors....”

  Almost sounded as if Dmitri didn’t want Braxton coming inside the Russian Confections office. Maybe they weren’t as tight as she’d assumed.

  “All right!” Dmitri clapped his hands together. “Time for my two American employees to get to know each other. It is close to noon, yes? I suggest you ‘do lunch,’ as you Americans love to say. While eating and drinking, give each other your contact information and schedules.” He waved them out of the room. “Now go. I must meet with Oleg.”

  As Braxton grabbed his coat, she walked into the reception area, which was hazy with cigarette smoke. The receptionist, puffing away, shot her a resentful look that turned into a wide red-lipped smile when Braxton appeared, his trench coat folded over his arm.

  “Braxton,” she called out, “I have for you.” She waved a white envelope in the air as if it were a surrender flag.

  “Thanks, Ulyana,” he said, walking over.

  Frances wondered when the two of them had gotten on a first-name basis.

  The receptionist leaned forward, giving him the Grand Canyon view down her neckline, as she pointed a long, red-painted fingernail at something scrawled on the envelope. “My phone number,” she said, trilling the r like a purr.

  Subtle as a tank.

  “I’ll be in the hallway,” Frances muttered, wondering if Braxton really bought into that slinky Natasha Fatale act.

  Frances opened the door a little harder than she’d intended. It flew open, smacking her big toe.

  “Ow!”

  She blinked back sudden tears at the stabbing pain. Damned sneakers. She’d worn them today because they were water resistant, but their “durable” canvas was about as protective as wax paper.

  A hand gripped her arm.

  “You all right?” Braxton asked, concern etching his face.

  She strangled back a painful snort.

  “Door hit your foot?”

  She nodded. “Big toe,” she managed to rasp.

  “You like help?” the receptionist called out, sounding about as concerned as a fast-food server asking if she’d like fries with that.

  “Let me get you to a chair,” Braxton said.

  Frances shook her head vehemently. No way was she staying in this smoke-clogged room under the scrutiny of Uly the Benevolent.

  “I can walk,” she murmured. Toe still hurt, but it was better than that first excruciating flash of death-ray pain.

  “We should take a look, make sure it’s not broken—”

  “No.” She hobbled a step toward the open doorway.

  “Frances—”

  “Need to leave,” she said between clenched teeth, taking another halting step.

  He slid his arm around her back, bracing the side of his body against hers. “Lean on me.”

  She felt silly, but leaning against him helped her hobble better, at least.

  “How’s the pain?” he asked gently, his breath warm against her right cheek.

  She ducked her head, fuzzily wondering when she’d slipped her arm around him. Her fingertips grazed the silky weave of his shirt, sensing his taut muscles underneath.

  “Less.”

  The image of her and Braxton, their arms wrapped around each other, maneuvering their way out the door as one was undoubtedly stoking a certain chain-smoking Russian’s green-eyed, homicidal fury.

  “Shoe feeling tight?” Braxton asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Because if your toe’s swelling, that’s a sign you might have fractured it.”

  They were in the hallway now, and she released an unconscious sigh as the cooler air soothed her heated skin. She started to pull away, but he tightened his hold, causing her to tilt forward.

  For a moment, her world rocked in place as they accidentally cuddled. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel. The strength of his body against hers, his masculine scent riding the woody, jasmine aroma of his aftershave, shot to some primal part of her brain, triggering a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long, long time....

  “Close door!” an angry female voice yelled. “Heat go out!”

  “I need to shut the door,” he murmured huskily, but didn’t move. Just stood there, those gray eyes taking her in. “Are you okay to stand?”

  Took her a moment to interpret his question. She vaguely realized her toe still ached, but not as badly as before.

  “Of course.” She shuddered from the chilly corridor and released
a breath—her senses still reeling after that close encounter.

  “It’s cold out here,” he said, pulling his coat off his arm and opening it for her.

  “No...”

  Too late. He wrapped his trench coat around her shoulders, enveloping her in its warmth. She looked past his shoulder at the receptionist, smoke seeping from her lips as she flipped Frances the finger.

  “Be right back,” he said, oblivious to the girl-on-girl smackdown brewing.

  Frances nodded, forcing a small smile. As if this undercover job didn’t have enough challenges. Now she had to deal with a psychotically jealous Russian girl who viewed her as competition.

  Which would never have happened if she’d stayed focused on the case, but no, she’d let herself get caught up in a moment of... She gave herself a mental shake, not wanting to think about it, not wanting to feel, not wanting...

  Sex. Was that it?

  Her libido had been dormant for so long, she’d sometimes wondered if it had taken a permanent hiatus. It hadn’t really bothered her, though, because she’d been pouring energy into so many other things—Vanderbilt, restitutions to the court, her dad and Teller, paying bills, upkeep on the condo.

  Not that she hadn’t dated. Three years ago, there’d been the high-school biology teacher, Alex. A great guy, but she wasn’t into bicycling and camping, and he wasn’t into watching Coen brothers films and magic shows. Eventually they admitted they were too different and parted amicably. A year after that there’d been Justin, the homicide detective, but that “relationship” ended after two dates when his ex-wife started stalking them.

  The Russian Confections door clicked shut.

  Braxton carried one of the folding chairs from the waiting area and set it against the far wall, then returned to Frances.

  “C’mon,” he said gently, taking her by the elbow, “let’s look at that toe.”

  “This is silly—”

  “Even sillier not to check it.”

  He led her to the chair, his arm circling her waist, as though her toe were the most important thing in the world. Was this the sexy distraction at work? If so, he was damned good at it.

  She could play along. The closer they were, the more she could learn about Dmitri, Oleg, that other investigation Braxton was working for the Russian.

  She sat down and he knelt at her feet, bending over her foot, the overhead fluorescent lights casting streaks of blue in his dark hair. She’d never been one to notice men’s hair, besides the color or if the guy wore it short or long, but she found herself intrigued by the edgy style of Braxton’s—neatly trimmed on the sides, combed forward off the crown into a peak. Self-consciously, she touched her own hair, embarrassed at its willfulness today.

  She shifted her gaze to his hands, observed his long, tan fingers methodically loosening the shoelace. And when he gently slipped the sneaker off her foot—her white, thin, pale foot—she wished she’d gotten a pedicure, at least painted her toenails.

  “Toe doesn’t look swollen,” he said quietly, cradling her foot, “and the skin around it isn’t discolored. How’s the pain?”

  “Much better,” she murmured, unsettled by the warmth of his touch.

  Hands always told a story. Even when someone was lying or playing a role, unless they were a professional actor, their hands gave them away. His caress spoke of his tenderness, attention to detail, a reverence for others’ suffering.... Maybe she was reading too much into that last one, but that was what she guessed.

  He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I think we can safely say you didn’t break your toe.”

  Looking into his eyes, she held back, not wanting to fall into their soft, gray depths. Playing along with this sexy distraction was asking for trouble. She needed to hold on to the role-playing, the goals of the case...even as a thin shell around her heart cracked a little.

  She leaned over and picked up her shoe, ignoring his offer to help. After tying the laces, she stood and headed down the hallway toward the main building doors, hearing the slap of his steps behind her.

  “Frances?”

  “Hmm?

  “Want to do lunch?”

  “Sorry,” she said over her shoulder, “don’t have time. Moving into my new office and all....” Didn’t feel right lying, even if it was the one Dmitri set up, but she had to protect her case.

  “Need help?”

  “No. I’m just...unpacking boxes, figuring out where I want to put stuff. Anyway, Dmitri asked me to share my schedule with you, so...”

  * * *

  FOR THE NEXT few minutes, Braxton walked alongside Frances, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor, listening to her itemize her schedule. She didn’t look at him once, just kept walking, looking straight ahead, explaining how she’d be going straight home tonight after work, so there was no need for his bodyguard services later tonight, obviously, and that tomorrow...

  He tried to latch on to the words, but listening to her voice was like listening to music. Hers was like jazz. Slow and sultry. Sometimes he caught the faint growl of a jungle cat in it, which went with that mussed, tawny mane of hair.

  “And on Thursday,” she continued, “I’ll be hosting my father’s weekly bridge card game at our place....”

  She lived with her dad? Small world—he lived with his mom. Probably for different reasons, though, as she obviously made good money and could afford her own place.

  “On Friday night, I’ll be cleaning the condo.”

  Friday. The auction.

  He slowed, pulled out his cell phone to see if Li’l Bit had responded to his text, asking if 530 meant five-thirty at Bally’s fitness center. There was a one-word answer.

  Cool

  Which he took to mean yes. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he continued following Frances, who was talking about grocery shopping on Saturday.

  “I like to go to Whole Foods Market, but my dad thinks it’s too expensive. If we didn’t argue about it we’d probably end up actually grocery shopping more often....”

  His gaze slipped down to the seat of those baggy pants that seemed to skim and slip off her small, round behind. Maybe she thought loose clothing hid her assets, so to speak, but the hint of what lay underneath only intrigued him. The mystery underneath. He’d always been the kind of guy who found the suggestion of something far more enticing than the overt. Be it life or women, he preferred following clues, delving deeper to unveil the mystery.

  Although sometimes seeking those answers backfired, like that long-ago summer vacation when he’d sneaked into the ocean. Pulled under those churning waves, he’d learned that secrets could be colder and harsher than the sparkling reality he’d hoped to find.

  He felt a flicker of concern at what lay beneath Frances’s involvement with Dima, but dismissed it. She was complicated as hell, but he wasn’t picking up on any dark, churning waters under her surface.

  “Anyway, it’s basketball season,” she continued, “so these days we prefer to sit in front of the telly and order in Chinese. Obviously no need for a bodyguard when I’m at home.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was still talking about Saturday or had moved on to Sunday, but he’d sort it out later.

  She stopped at the doors and turned to face him. Rain battered the glass behind her. A streak of lightning flared in the gloom of clouds.

  With her back to the glass, her body outlined by hazy, gray light, she seemed like a shadow. He peered into her face, a dusky oval fringed by wisps of blond hair.

  “What time do you want me back here?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he clarified, “To escort you to your car.”

  “I thought maybe you’d get the hint from my schedule,” she said, her voice tight. “I don’t need a bodyguard. To escort me after work or at any other time.”

  He d
id a small double take, surprised at her about-face. “What’s with the cold shoulder?”

  “I’m simply stating what I want.”

  “Meaning you want this friend of yours to be your protector instead?” Feeling a surge of anger, he decided to chill and count to ten, made it to three. “Who is this guy, anyway? I know every protection agent in town, especially the best ones.”

  She snorted something about know-it-alls.

  “Yeah, well, it happens to be true. What’s his name?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Does to me.”

  “Don’t take this personally.”

  “How am I supposed to take it?” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Look, just tell me what your issue is. Your real issue. Not that expressive bullshit. And what was the other one...? I remember, my rust bucket car. I’ve known a fair share of executives, because I happen to be skilled in executive protection, but I’ve never met one who resorted to personal attacks to make a point.”

  They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment.

  “I know you can talk, Frances, because you’ve been doing it nonstop all the way down the hall.”

  She slumped against the glass door, the outside light casting a faint, silvery line down the length of her neck.

  “I’m sorry for saying those things,” she whispered huskily. “It wasn’t fair.”

  He hadn’t been ready for an apology.

  “I’ve been called worse than expressive,” he murmured, shifting closer, liking her scent. Salty, clean. Not like the other day when he caught a more exotic, flowery fragrance. “What was that about?”

  She peered up at him, a low, throaty sigh escaping her lips.

  “You—” she swallowed, hard “—show your emotions.”

  “Is that a sin, Frances?” he whispered, slipping his hand inside his coat, skimming his fingers along the hem of her thermal top. “To reveal what I like?”