Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  Finally he murmured, “No wonder you’re like the night. You work solo?”

  “No,” she answered, curious what that night comment was about, “I’m an investigator at Vanderbilt Insurance.”

  She could have said her new job title—Lead Investigator—but it still felt foreign. And a little pretentious. She’d mostly worked alone at Vanderbilt, had never really “led” another investigator, so as far as she was concerned, tagging on the word lead meant she made a little more money, not much else.

  He gave a low whistle. “Vanderbilt’s one of the heavy hitters. How’d you go from felony conviction to being— Oh, I get it. They wanted your jewel-thief skills.” He gave her an appraising look. “You must have been pretty good.”

  “As a kid, I learned sleight-of-hand tricks from my dad, which I later segued into pickpocketing and a few jewel thefts, although my parents had no idea what I was doing. As for being good, it’s all in the details. And the practice. If I’d been smarter, I would have practiced accounting. Pet grooming.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe jewelry making.”

  “How’d you get caught?”

  She wasn’t sure she liked his tone. Or even how he phrased his question. Or maybe it was her shame about her past that bothered her.

  “A fence turned me in. I hated him at first, but it turned out to be the best thing that could have happened, although I wish my parents had been spared the embarrassment.”

  His gray eyes seemed to soften to the color of mist. “I hear you on that one,” he said gently.

  He relaxed against the couch. “So...you’re pretending to be a VP of sales at Russian Confections in order to investigate a theft of jewels?”

  “Vanderbilt suspects Dmitri stole some ancient Greek coins two years ago.”

  He gave a small, cynical laugh. “Gee, no mention of that on his due-diligence report. Our boy did a masterful job forging a Dayden Group assessment.”

  “There’s more. He’s planning a jewel heist.”

  A beat of silence. “He never was developing a—” he held up his fingers like quotation marks “—high-end casino.”

  “Right.”

  “And this Russian Confections is a front for planning the heist.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Wow,” he said, staring off into the distance, “I feel like I’ve parachuted into a Bond film.”

  “How fitting,” she muttered, “considering Dmitri has one serious Bond complex.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “He’d probably call this heist Diamonds Are Forever.”

  “Cute.”

  He held her gaze for a drawn-out moment, so long it was starting to feel like one of those see-who-blinks-first games, but what he didn’t know was she was really, really good at that game. Not the blinking part. That was surface. The not-divulging part. Making her face a canvas on which the viewer could imagine his vision, and only his vision, because what lay beneath it was blank.

  Braxton’s face, on the other hand, provided an ongoing picture show. He could have been a silent-film actor, telling an entire story through looks. She was already interpreting the I-give-up cues on his face. A capricious arched eyebrow worthy of a vaudeville villain—a funny villain—whose charm was better than his bite, who used exaggeration to deflect defeat.

  “Well,” he said, “now that we know we’re kindred P.I. spirits, give me the dirt on this heist.”

  She told him how the Helena Diamond was a heart-cut diamond necklace reputedly commissioned by Napoleon during his exile on the island of Saint Helena, where he pined for his long-lost love, Josephine. That according to legend, the diamond cutter crafted an image within this diamond of two perfectly symmetrical hearts that could only be seen by destined lovers.

  “After Napoleon’s death,” she said, “the necklace disappeared. Some claim it was stolen by his enemy, Prince Metternich, and that for several generations Metternich’s descendants hid the diamond. Then in the early 1960s, it resurfaced in the hands of a London diamond merchant, who eventually sold it for fifteen million to an unnamed American businessman.”

  That eyebrow again. “I take it this mystical diamond necklace is now in Las Vegas?”

  “Almost.”

  “It’s arriving soon.”

  “Yes.”

  “On the neck of some trophy wife?”

  “No. In a jewelry exhibit.”

  “Is this one of those heists where the bad guys drill through the floor or wall, then sneak in when the exhibit is closed and steal the jewels?”

  “No, this is where the jewel thief goes into the exhibit during broad daylight and pickpockets the jewels.”

  “Ballsy.”

  She shrugged. “Most jewel thieves are. Dmitri’s no exception.”

  “This is his plan.”

  “Yes. With input from Oleg. Some hotshots—safecracker, electrician, alarm expert—are bringing their skills to the table, too.”

  He frowned. “Wonder why he hired me to investigate Yuri.”

  “My theory? Dmitri’s paranoid about Yuri learning about the heist and wanting a piece of the action. After all, Yuri’s better connected in Vegas, could put some serious muscle on Dmitri. I think your real role is to spy on him.”

  “I think you’re right.” He gave her an approving nod. “Got another one for you. My real role is to spy on you, too.”

  That one took her by surprise. “Dmitri hired you to spy on me?”

  “Yep.”

  “Have you?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does he suspect I work for Vanderbilt?”

  “If he did, we wouldn’t be sitting here. He’s paranoid, not stupid.”

  “And as cagey as he is, sometimes transparent as glass.” She flashed on the window in his office. “I find it interesting he picked an office with a view of McCarren Airport. Why? Even if no one ever caught on to his heist plans and he pulled it off successfully, there’s no way he’d hop a commercial flight afterward. Authorities would be tracking tickets and passports for weeks, months to come.”

  Braxton stood, paced a few feet across the oatmeal-colored rug. “Maybe it’s not McCarren he’s looking at.”

  “Not much else is out there. Suburban home tracts, desert...”

  “Dima said something the other day when we were talking about a flashy helicopter escape in a Bond film. ‘If only such escapes were possible in real life.’”

  “Wouldn’t say that unless he’s planning his own.”

  He paced a few more feet, stopped and gave her a slow smile. “From Dima’s window, toward the southeast, there’s an old, abandoned airstrip on several acres of desert owned by a crusty old character named Grover who was friends with my dad. Sometime in the ’80s, he turned the dirt road in front of his place into a makeshift airstrip. Grover moved to Florida four years ago, around the time my dad died, but didn’t sell his land.”

  “Can we drive there? See if there’s still a viable airstrip?”

  “Sure.”

  “Great.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Let’s get each other’s numbers.”

  “Thought you’d never ask,” Braxton murmured, retrieving his cell.

  After typing his number into her phone, Frances said, “I should go.”

  “Before you do...I need you to know that...I’d do anything to help you, Frances. Any time of the day or night, if you need me, just call and I’ll be there.” He squeezed shut his eyes and groaned. “I sound like the lyrics of a bad pop song.”

  She laughed softly. “I like bad pop songs.”

  He squinted at her. “Okay, we’re getting silly. Or stupid. Or both. Definitely time for you to go. I’ll walk you outside.”

  He was kidding with her, but she saw through the teasing to what lay unde
rneath. The tenderness in his eyes, the warmth in his voice...and she felt a shift in her heart. A melting. And an unexpected, hazy thought surfaced to the forefront of her mind.... Could this be...love?

  The ridiculous possibility startled her. Made her feel vulnerable, exposed, how she felt earlier at Bally’s without her scar covered.

  She ran her suddenly trembling fingers down the buttons on her coat, wondering if a person could really fall in love after a only few days...except her own parents had. The instant I saw him, her mother used to say, I knew we belonged together for the rest of our lives.

  Frances smiled, feeling a little giddy, a little scared, a whole lot confused. These past few days had been stressful and crazy....so throw a hot, irritating, flirtatious guy into the mix, and, well, what woman wouldn’t go for it, maybe imagine it to be love?

  It wasn’t real, of course. This had nothing to do with love, and everything to do with needing some feel-good energy, a distraction in an otherwise tough, hard case.

  But what if it wasn’t?

  “Shame you have to go,” he murmured, “when I have so many more bad pop songs I could recite to you....” He inhaled a deep breath, looked around the room before meeting her gaze again. “For the record, I get why we’re playing it cool. If we don’t, it puts you—us—at risk....” He closed his eyes and released a long, ragged groan, then looked at her. “I promise you I will abide by your wishes. When’s this jewelry show?”

  “March first.”

  He moved closer and whispered in her ear, “I can’t wait for March second.”

  * * *

  AS BRAXTON WALKED Frances through the living room, an old Frank Sinatra hit, “Come Fly with Me,” was playing. Grams and Richmond sat at the dining-room table, her head on his shoulder, the two of them singing along.

  Val, clearing the table, looked up with a funny expression on her face. She mouthed something with great earnestness to Braxton, nudging her head toward the front door.

  He’d never been a lip reader, especially from twenty feet away, but obviously she wanted to convey a message of great importance about...the front door?

  Moments later, he and Frances stood in front of it.

  Listening to the off-key Sinatra sing-along in the background, he checked out the wooden panel door. Like the TV room, it hadn’t changed much over the years. He could still make out the sanded-down scratch marks of their long-ago beloved family dog, Buddha, a black Lab with the heart of a giant, who’d politely scrape at the door whenever he wanted go outside.

  As he opened the front door, he finally understood Val’s mimed alert.

  The porch light cast a yellow glow over the concrete driveway, where a blue Honda sat. His mom leaned into the open driver’s window, her voice lilting through the air, interspersed with a man’s lower octave.

  He flashed on the girlish look he’d seen on his mom’s face when she’d learned Frances’s dad was outside.

  He wasn’t ready for this.

  “Oh, hi, you two,” his mom called out, her head rising over the car roof, her voice sounding light and happy.

  A breeze fluffed her hair, which she didn’t bother to pat back down.

  Braxton didn’t want to deal with this.

  Frances started walking to the car. “I’d like you to meet my dad.”

  My dad.

  God, how he missed his.

  No one was supposed to take Benedict Morgan’s place. Not as a dad, a husband, a friend, a boss.

  Growing up, his father had been like a giant tree, always rooted, fiercely strong, his wide-reaching branches green with leaves. A powerful presence that always offered shade, a place to rest, a quiet lesson. Such mighty trees were never supposed to fall, yet one day his did, the slow, silent crash to earth shattering the world into a million jagged pieces that would never fit together again.

  And yet, somehow they had.

  Time softened the edges, memories filled the spaces and the wide-reaching, quiet lessons gradually blossomed with new life.

  “Braxton?” His mom waved to him, the wind ruffling her hair.

  There was a giddiness in her voice, shiny and bright as a new leaf.

  Which was all that really mattered, right?

  He thought of Grams earlier tonight saying that stories were fundamentally what people were, then thought about how many new stories were starting in his family...including the one between his mom and Frances’s dad.

  As Braxton approached the car, the driver’s door creaked open, and Mr. Jefferies got out. The inside dome light spilled into the night, highlighting his polished black lace-up shoes, slacks, Miami Heat sweatshirt. As Frances made introductions, the two men shook hands, and Braxton sized him up. About five-ten, a gut that showed his love of food, a grip that signaled confidence.

  “Thank you for loaning your coat to my daughter.”

  “Anytime.”

  He glanced at his mom and did a double take. She wore a faux leopard-print coat, the one he recalled Val wearing earlier that evening. Apparently his sister-in-law had helped his mom primp for this encounter.

  A car rumbled down the street, its tires crunching on the asphalt. Rap music thumped from inside. A dog howled. And howled.

  “Neighbor’s beagle,” Dorothy muttered. “One bark is never enough.”

  “A howling dog is bad luck,” Frances said. “Means the spirits of the dead are out walking around.”

  “Don’t worry, baby girl,” her dad said. “I won’t let the ghosties get you.”

  “We should go,” she said.

  Braxton headed around the car to the passenger door, opening it for her. “I’ll be waiting at the warehouse doors tomorrow, same time.”

  “Thank you, Braxton,” she murmured, slipping inside.

  He slammed shut the car door, double-checked the handle to ensure the door was locked. Satisfied, he turned, surprised to see Jonathan standing on this side of the car, belatedly realizing he probably always opened the door for his daughter, but tonight Braxton had instead.

  And that Jonathan might not be ready for this change, either.

  As he walked back inside the house, Braxton heard his mom’s laughter behind him, a happy sound like wind chimes, and smiled.

  CHAPTER TEN

  TUESDAY MORNING, FRANCES arrived at Russian Confections a few minutes after nine only to find that the door was locked.

  She knocked. Knocked again. Pressed her ear to the door and thought she heard footsteps inside, along with muffled voices. So people were inside, but the door was locked?

  She knocked again, harder this time.

  At least she’d worn her beige quilted jacket today, over her light camel wool Dolce & Gabbana jacket and pants, so she wasn’t freezing in the hallway, but still...it was a pain in the butt to have to stand out here, knocking and waiting, hoping somebody would let her in.

  Somebody being Mistress Ulyana, the Gatekeeper. Unless Frances lucked out and Oleg or Dmitri happened to wander through the waiting area and hear someone knocking at the door.

  She didn’t have Uly’s cell-phone number, and even if she did, that Russian dominatrix wouldn’t respond. And although she’d had Oleg’s number yesterday, he said he changed it every day...which didn’t make a lot of sense to her, but she didn’t have today’s number, so that took care of that.

  She knocked again, her knuckles starting to hurt from rapping on the cold metal door.

  Thanks, Dmitri, for being too fricking paranoid to give me a fricking key.

  She couldn’t text Dmitri and let him know she was out here because he didn’t like to be texted unless it was an emergency, which he’d told her three times yesterday after Uly-Byotch gave her the men’s bathroom key, which Frances didn’t realize unt
il she’d walked all the way down to the women’s bathroom and noticed the key with the clunky chain was attached to a blue candy box, for men, and not a red candy box, for ladez, so Frances had to schlep all the way back to the office, her bladder screaming, only to find the Russian Confections door locked and no response when she knocked and knocked.

  She probably should have just schlepped back to the men’s bathroom, but she was nervous about running into Dmitri or one of his Balkan safe cracker thugs at the urinals, so she’d texted Dmitri, asked if he could please open the Russian Confections door as she was locked out.

  He’d opened it all right.

  Looking like a pissed-off James Bond after wrestling with the metal-toothed assassin-villain Jaws, as though Frances had purposefully locked herself out just to irritate him.

  After giving her a lecture about never texting him unless it was an emergency, he snapped his fingers and Ulyana, looking surprised and concerned—an acting role that should earn her a Best Supporting Actress nomination in the Duplicitous Receptionist category—ran over with the key to the ladez room.

  Frances checked the time on her smartphone. Nine-fifteen.

  She thought of that English band The Clash’s song “Should I Stay or Should I Go?”

  Thinking of funny old songs made her think of Braxton last night with his bad old pop lyrics.

  She pulled out her phone and texted him.

  Uly locked me out of office

  He texted her back immediately.

  I’ll be right there to break down the door

  She heard a sharp click and tested the knob, which now turned easily. Apparently Uly had decided to allow Frances inside. She texted back.

  Door open

  Good. Lunch?

  She was meeting Charlie over coffee at two this afternoon, which she’d told Dmitri was a doctor’s appointment. Plenty of time for lunch before that.