Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  That was when he understood hope.

  It wasn’t an answer or a guarantee, yet it would hover, like a smile, promising nourishment for something greater to grow. Like courage.

  Or love.

  Instinctively, he reached for her, guided her inside to the warmth and closed the door.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  “Shh.” He wrapped her in his arms, feeling the release of her breath as she relaxed against him, vaguely aware of his coat falling to the floor.

  “I told my dad what happened. After we finished dinner, I decided to return your coat tonight because I was afraid you might not be there tomorrow after work—”

  “Of course I’d be there.”

  “Thank you.” She paused. “Going away to make that call wasn’t about deceiving you, Braxton. I needed to call my dad about...something personal, that was all. Only after you got upset did I realize that my need for privacy looked suspicious, but we didn’t get a chance to talk about what happened....”

  “No, we didn’t,” he agreed gently.

  There were other things they needed to talk about, too, like her felony conviction. It was only fair that he gave her the chance to explain, especially since he knew what it was like to be judged harshly because of past deeds.

  But talk could wait.

  “No more words,” he whispered huskily, brushing his lips against the silky strands of her hair, taking in scents of a citrusy shampoo, then dragging his lips down to her temple, tasting her salty-sweet skin, trailing his lips slowly to the corner of her lips, ready, aching to kiss the mouth he’d dreamed of, craved....

  A crashing sound jarred him out of the moment.

  Frances stumbled out of his arms.

  His grandmother sat rigidly in her wheelchair in the hallway, looking grim yet focused, like a homicide detective who’d just entered a crime scene. Shards of glass sparkled on the floor next to her chair.

  Richmond stood behind her, blinking rapidly.

  Val walked in with Drake. “Everybody okay?” he asked.

  “We’re fine, darling,” Grams said coolly. “I accidentally dropped my martini glass.”

  Val walked a few steps closer, peering at Frances. “My Lord,” she murmured, “is that the jewel thief?”

  “Her name’s Frances,” Dorothy corrected, drying her hands on a dish towel as she entered the hall. “What broke?”

  “Grams’s martini glass,” Val said.

  “I’ll get a broom and dustpan.” Dorothy headed back to the kitchen.

  It was as though his mother took all the air out of the room when she left. His family members stood so still, so silent, they reminded Braxton of the figures in a wax museum he’d visited on a sixth-grade field trip. Except most of the wax ones had been smiling.

  Drake finally broke the silence.

  “Braxton,” he said in a deep, ominous tone, “like I said earlier, you’ve come too far to hook up with another felon. She’ll only drag you down.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  GROWING UP, BRAXTON and Drake’s dad had two rules about fighting. Have enough self-control to keep it private, and let the loser retreat with dignity. Braxton and his brother hadn’t always followed the last one, but they tried to work out their differences one-on-one.

  Even if they’d been alone, it would have ticked Braxton to hear Drake discredit Frances, but his brother had crossed the line by doing it in front of her and the rest of their family.

  “You didn’t need to say that here,” he growled.

  “I’m only telling the truth, bro.”

  “No, you insulted her.” Braxton clenched his fists, half-ready to let them do the talking.

  “Braxton, don’t,” his grandmother pleaded.

  At the same time, he felt Frances’s hand press lightly on his back, a gentle signal to reel in his anger.

  He slowly relaxed his hands and blew out a gust of air. There’d been way too much melodrama in his life lately—no need to pile on more. Didn’t mean he wasn’t still massively pissed off at his brother, who stood across the room in all his self-righteous glory.

  Val stood behind Drake, her wide eyes peeking over her husband’s shoulder, silently begging Braxton to bring peace back to the land of the Morgans.

  He’d do that. After he cleared up a few things with his brother.

  “Don’t ever again refer to my seeing Frances as hooking up,” he said in a low, threatening tone, “or call her a felon, or say she’ll drag me down. You will treat her with respect.”

  The house creaked as the winds picked up.

  “Had a heck of a time finding the dustpan,” Dorothy said, walking back into the room with it and a broom, “then remembered I’d left it in the backyard after using it to scoop up gravel.”

  As Braxton leaned over to pick up his coat, he thought he caught his mom and Frances exchange a look, wondered what that was about.

  “You look lovely, dear,” his mom said to Frances.

  “Indeed you do,” Val said, flashing her husband a warning look before crossing to Dorothy and taking the broom from her. “Let me help, Mama D.”

  “Richmond, darling,” Grams said, “steer me out of the way so they can clean it up.”

  Braxton had noticed lately that when his grandmother got tired these days, she’d put the chair on manual and ask Richmond to help her navigate it. Considering she was eighty-six, it was damned impressive she’d been managing on her own so long, but it also made him realize she was growing more frail.

  As Val swept up the glass, Frances said to Dorothy, “I should have called first, but I didn’t know...” She glanced at Braxton.

  If I’d want to see her.

  After the way he’d carried on back at Bally’s, of course that was what she’d think, but he was glad she’d shown up.

  Anyway, his mom, who had a built-in barometer about people, found Frances likable and didn’t seem bothered at all by her surreptitious call, so he needed to move on, too, and not dwell on the negative stuff or he’d end up a crusty old fart.

  “Brax,” Drake muttered, motioning him over, a grimace tightening his features.

  Speaking of people in danger of becoming crusty old farts... But they needed to talk, clear the air, so Braxton headed over to his brother, who rubbed his eyebrow while keeping his attention focused downward, as though the hardwood floor was suddenly of monumental interest.

  But Braxton was willing to wait this out because he was due a big, fat apology. And after he got his, Drake was going to give another apology to Frances.

  Drake finally raised his head enough so his glowering eyes melded with Braxton’s. A look that scared the crap out of most people, but only shook up Braxton a little.

  The next instant, their twin psychic link kicked in, delivering the top story of the hour straight from Drake’s gray matter, which in essence was No way in hell am I apologizing for telling you the truth, and if you’d only wake up, you’d realize I’m right.

  Okay, Braxton was pissed again. Irked enough to share the conveyance of information in distinct, colorful terms. As long as his mom and Grams couldn’t hear.

  “So that’s how you’re going to play it,” he muttered to Drake.

  “If you mean sticking to what I said before, yes.”

  Braxton moved in a little closer, whispering emphatically, “You don’t know her.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Really? What’s her middle name?”

  “Like that matters, and keep your voice down.”

  “What’s her address, then?”

  “Summerlin.”

  “That’s not an address, Brax. That’s a region.” Drake gave his head a weary shake. “Look,” he said, his voice gentling, “you got into trouble b
efore because of your association with Yuri, remember? Live by the sword, die by the sword, bro.”

  “Frances isn’t a sword.”

  “You know what I mean,” he snapped. “I’m trying to watch out for you, Brax. Don’t want to see you go down again.”

  Braxton heard the low-throttled hum of France’s voice. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her talking to his mom, who was smiling as she gestured to the wall clock with glued-on dice on its face. Val hovered near them, staring like a besotted fangirl at Frances.

  “We started telling time by dice slang,” his mom explained to Frances. “If Benny said we needed to leave at Nina from Pasadena, that meant we needed to leave at nine o’clock.”

  When Braxton turned back, Drake was exiting through the door to the backyard. As he watched the door close, he felt disappointed that his brother was slipping away because he didn’t want to deal with Frances. Or more correctly, deal with Braxton liking Frances.

  You dope. It’s not just me who likes her. Mom’s crazy about her. And Val can’t wait to bombard her with questions about jewel thieving.

  A wait that was no more as Val, clutching Frances’s hand, began excitedly asking if she’d ever seen To Catch a Thief, and what did she think of the reformed jewel thief played by Cary Grant?

  His mom walked up to him, a conspiratorial smile on her face. “She fits right in,” she whispered.

  Obviously no one had filled her in yet on the showdown between him and Drake while she was in the kitchen retrieving the broom and dustpan.

  “Kinda rushing things, aren’t you?” he kidded.

  She gave him a Mona Lisa smile. “Her father is outside, waiting in the car. I asked her to invite him inside, but she said he didn’t want to interrupt our family dinner.” A shy smile flitted across his mom’s features. “I told her I’m going to fix a couple of plates of leftovers and take them out to her father. Meanwhile, why don’t you take Frances to the TV room where the two of you can have some privacy for a few minutes?”

  “Not before we’re properly introduced to her, dear. Richmond, darling, next to my grandson is perfect.”

  Richmond guided Grams’s wheelchair to a spot next to Braxton. His grandmother sat ramrod straight, petting Maxine the Terrible, who lay curled on her lap, a demonic glint in her crossed eyes.

  After extricating Frances from Val’s Q&A session, Braxton made introductions.

  “Frances, this is my grandmother, Glenda Lassiter, and her fiancé, Richmond Housewright.”

  “Nice to meet you, Frances.” Richmond bowed slightly. “I hope you don’t find my asking this question too gauche, but what is your IQ?”

  She blinked. “I took a test in high school—140, I think. But I’ve never really believed in numbers as labels. A person could have a high IQ and still be a fool.”

  “Brilliantly put,” he murmured.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Frances said to Grams. “What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Maxine.”

  “Hello, Maxine.” Frances reached out to pet her.

  Braxton put a warning hand on her arm. “I wouldn’t—”

  He watched, astounded, as Maxine closed her eyes, emitting a cooing purr while Frances lightly scratched her behind the ear.

  “She doesn’t take quickly to people,” Grams said, her ring sparkling as she adjusted Maxine’s collar.

  Frances pointed to one of the larger diamonds. “That stone has a very unique cut.... Looks like the signature of a Belgian diamond cutter who lived in the southwest U.S. in the early twentieth century. Some people believed the way he cut diamonds imbued them with joy, so there was much demand for them in engagement and wedding rings.” She gave a small shrug. “It’s folklore, but I always liked the story anyway.”

  “I like stories, too. It’s what we are, fundamentally, don’t you think?” Grams held out her hand so everyone could see the diamond. “My great-grandfather purchased that diamond in Breckenridge, Colorado, for my great-grandmother in 1919, and they had a long, joyful marriage. Colorado is part of the Southwest, isn’t it? Maybe that Belgian diamond cutter infused this diamond with joy.” Lowering her hand, she smiled at Frances. “Do you drink martinis, dear?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Gin or vodka?”

  “If it’s not made with gin, it’s not a martini.”

  “Don’t sniff at your IQ, darling, because you’re obviously genius material.” She pressed a button on the joystick and the chair slowly pivoted. “Richmond, sweetheart, let’s whip up another shaker for our guest.”

  * * *

  A FEW MOMENTS LATER, Braxton escorted Frances into the family TV room.

  “Welcome to 1994,” he said, turning on the light in the TV room, which was awash in pastels, chunky sectional furniture and a teak entertainment center crowded with trophies Frances assumed he and his brother had won in high school.

  “What’s this?” Frances said, unbuttoning her coat while peering at a framed drawing on the wall.

  “One of the dozens of pictures I drew of a red Ford Mustang Shelby GT500, my fantasy car. Even dressed like it for Halloween one year.”

  Slipping him an amused look over her shoulder, she headed to the couch and sat. “By the way, it was a bit of a shock to see another you. You should warn people you have an identical twin.”

  “Sorry about what he said.”

  “He’s being protective of you,” she said quietly.

  Drake’s words had hurt, but she wasn’t naive about why he’d said them. Unfortunately, people sometimes made fast, harsh judgments about her past. She’d decided long ago the best way to deal with it was silence. No justifications, no arguments. How she lived her life now was her best defense.

  “We’re going to love having a home-cooked meal,” she said, switching to a happier topic. “Dad and I are hopeless in the kitchen.... My mom spoiled us, I’m afraid. I sometimes still dream about a goat-cheese soufflé she’d make. Crazy, huh?”

  He tossed his trench coat over the back of a chair and sat next to her. “Remembering people we love is never crazy,” he murmured, brushing back a wisp of her hair, letting his fingers linger on the soft skin at her temple.

  Frances stiffened slightly, overly aware of the bright lighting in the room, how close his hand was to her cheek. She took his hand and set it on the couch. “We need to talk.”

  He looked at his hand, then back at her. “I seem to have a bad habit of doing or saying the wrong thing with you and not having a clue what it was.”

  “You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s just time for us to perform the Aquarium Illusion.” She paused. “Sorry, I talk magic a lot with my dad—he’s a magician—and sometimes I forget people don’t know these references. Aquarium Illusion is a stage trick where first the magician’s assistant and then the magician are trapped in a water tank. Of course, they’re never really trapped....It’s what appears to be true, but isn’t.”

  “You’re losing me here....”

  “I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “Ask away.”

  “First, what’s this investigation you’re working on the side for Dmitri?”

  “What does that have to do with—” He made a stopping motion. “I said ask, so here’s the answer. I’m investigating a Russian, name’s Yuri Glazkov, with whom I have a dark, convoluted history—you can read about it on the internet. Anyway, one day this guy Dima called our agency, said he was developing a high-end casino project, something about the Russian community concerned about their business ventures being hurt by Yuri’s negative publicity, and he asked me to investigate if Yuri was fencing money. I haven’t found anything. In fact, my Russian contacts say Yuri’s always home, swilling vodka, moping about his trial next month. He probably slips in and out of that ankle monitoring bracelet, but—” he shrugged “—
haven’t seen any signs of him lurking around Vegas, not yet anyway.”

  A series of banging, thudding sounds made Frances jump.

  “The outside window shutters,” Braxton explained. “I need to secure them, otherwise they’re at the wind’s mercy.”

  She nodded, thinking how they, too, needed to secure their own feelings, and ultimately their safety, which led to her next issue. Not an easy one to bring up, especially considering what had happened when she’d arrived, but necessary.

  And not easy because...she wanted him, although it would sound otherwise.

  “Second, we can’t do what we just did in the other room for a while.”

  He arched an eyebrow, giving her a look that said, You liked it, but now it’s off-limits?

  Oh, how she wanted to tell him that she didn’t just want it—she craved it.

  That just a look from him, like the one he was giving her now—dark, unrelenting—sparked feelings she’d never experienced before. As if her passions had been lying dormant all these years and now they’d been stirred awake.

  She eased in a breath and let it out slowly, willing her racing heart to slow, her thoughts to settle. Because wanting was a world away from indulging. Too much was at stake. For both of them.

  “Do you know how I found your address?” she asked.

  “Figured my mom gave it to you, but what does that have to do with our not doing what we did?”

  “Trust me, this isn’t a non sequitur.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. How’d you find my address?”

  “I ran a reverse on her cell-phone number.”

  “Ran a reverse,” he repeated, looking a little surprised. “You sound like an investigator. Most people have no idea what that means.”

  “Running a reverse” on a piece of data—a name, a street address, a phone number—was jargon investigators often used, meaning they’d plugged a piece of data into a search engine or database to see what information might pop up.

  “That’s because...I am an investigator.”

  For a stretched-out moment or three, they sat, their eyes locked, listening to the wind play with the window shutters.