Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  Something moved in the dark.

  She froze.

  “Somebody’s out there,” she said. Or tried to, but it was as if her throat had locked, with only a garbled wheeze coming out.

  “Frances?” Braxton asked.

  Nodding like a bobblehead doll, she pointed in the direction of the movement, half realizing Braxton couldn’t really see her in the dark.

  “Something,” she rasped, “is out there.”

  “Where?”

  Frances leaned back, her pulse pounding in her ears, and scanned the night for a shape, a movement, but only saw darkness beyond the bright strip of concrete. “Are the doors locked?”

  “Yes. What’d you see?”

  A shadow broke from the night and stared at their vehicle.

  Her heart racing in panicked fits and starts, she pointed madly at it and shrieked.

  “Frances, calm down, it’s only a coyote.”

  The animal skulked the periphery of the headlight’s reach, its eyes glinting as it looked back one last time before slinking away.

  Frances sucked in a shaky breath, dabbing the back of her hand against her forehead. “Sorry. Obviously I’m a city girl.”

  “Didn’t you know it was a coyote?”

  She knew he probably meant well, but that comment made her feel even more pathetic.

  “No,” she said tightly, “I thought it was a poodle.”

  He laughed.

  “I was kidding.”

  “I know, Babe. That’s why it was funny. You have a great sense of humor—should let it play outside more often.” His voice turned serious. “That coyote’s got me thinking. If Dmitri really wants to use this airstrip, somebody will be checking the runway and landing conditions. I’ll come back tomorrow and set up a motion-detector camera. Drake can help me set up apps that’ll run feeds to my smartphone and yours.”

  The analytical part of her mind took over, easing out the frantic, worried part.

  “Sounds good. I’ll let Charlie know.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “I know a place that serves killer roasted-pepper-and-goat-cheese sandwiches.”

  “Goat cheese,” she murmured. “You remembered my mom’s soufflé.”

  “We’ll get a few sandwiches to go, and I’ll drive you back to your place.”

  “Great. I think we have some wine that’ll go great with goat-cheese sandwiches.”

  “Sorry, I can’t stay to eat. I have a dance lesson.”

  “I didn’t know you were taking dance lessons.”

  Braxton turned the ignition key, and the engine growled to life. “It’s a temporary thing.”

  And that was that.

  * * *

  AT FIVE ON WEDNESDAY, Frances exited the Russian Confections office, relieved to finally be leaving. Not that things weren’t going well. Dmitri had been exceptionally polite, constantly asking how she was doing, if she wanted anything—coffee, chocolate, vodka?—complimenting her clothes and hair.

  After her dressed-down, bad-hair first day, she’d returned to wearing tailored pantsuits, sleek chignons and more makeup. Her efforts apparently made an impression on Ulyana, who eventually toned down her surly act. Not to the point of being pleasant, but at least there were fewer eye rolls and she willingly handed over the key to the ladez bathroom.

  In a phone call with Charlie last night, Frances had relayed these positive changes, after which he asked if she’d picked up any clues about the stolen coins.

  She’d bit back the urge to say, Without injecting Dmitri with truth serum, no. It wasn’t as if she could suddenly ask, What about those Greek tetradrachm coins stolen from the New York numismatic event several years ago? Seems you were living there at the time. Have any idea what the heck happened to them?

  Instead, she told Charlie no, she hadn’t picked up on any clues and that unless she mentioned them in some context—which would only spark Dmitri’s paranoia—the chances of tracking leads to their whereabouts were nil. Without the coins, she questioned Charlie about the necessity of continuing her undercover work—could her testimony about what she’d learned so far about the heist be enough to put Dmitri away?

  At which point Charlie launched into a spiel about the pointlessness of such testimony as it was circumstantial evidence, way too thin for prosecutors to file and juries to convict; therefore, if she couldn’t find a lead to the coins, Vanderbilt needed a confession.

  Meaning that unless she came up with concrete evidence, the sting was on.

  All of which she thought about as she headed down the building exit, the click of her heels echoing in the empty corridor. But the thoughts scattered, blown away like dust in a wind, as she approached the glass doors.

  Braxton waited outside for her, dressed casually in jeans, a gray T-shirt and shades...but his demeanor was anything but casual. Maybe it was his nonchalant, cocky stance or the way his toned chest and arms seemed to strain against his shirt, but even separated by heavy glass doors, she could feel his sexuality stoking her internal temperature.

  He...was...so...damned...hot.

  Slowing her steps, she took a steadying breath, working to empty her mind of their heated encounters—the way he’d pressed her against those very glass doors, their passion as fierce and turbulent as the storm outside...the way he’d pulled her into his home and into his arms, his warm, full lips dragging a trail down her face, lingering at the corner of her mouth...

  Hard to diet if you’re thinking about truffles.

  So much for emptying her mind.

  With Dmitri’s and Oleg’s offices having views of this parking lot, she and Braxton had agreed to keep it low-key and professional during these walks to her car, not do anything to raise others’ questions or doubts.

  Easing in a calming breath, she proceeded to the door.

  “No purse today?” Braxton asked as they started walking across the lot.

  The warm breezes and clear blue skies hinted of spring, but locals knew better. Just because February weather flashed a smile didn’t mean it wouldn’t be brooding later.

  “I’ve decided not to bring a purse to work anymore—don’t want it locked in somebody’s office again.” A passing breeze lifted wisps of her hair. She smoothed them back into her chignon. “I’m keeping my phone and keys in my jacket pockets. Anything else can stay in the car.”

  They stopped next to her Benz. She retrieved the key from her jacket pocket and unlocked the doors.

  “I’ve got the motion-detector cameras set up at the airstrip,” Braxton said casually, glancing up at the skies. “Tomorrow I’ll download the app to your phone so you can view the feed.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “I’m busy tonight.”

  Something flickered in his eyes that made her uncomfortable. Was he hiding something?

  “Another dance lesson?” she guessed.

  He hesitated, then nodded.

  She flicked a glance at Oleg’s office window. Time to cut this short.

  “Have a good class,” she said, reaching for the door handle.

  “I’ll get that.” He opened her door, shutting it behind her. Leaning over, he peered at her through the tinted driver’s window, jabbed a finger at the door latch while mouthing, Locked?

  She started the engine, rolled down the window.

  “Yes indeedy,” she said brightly, gaily punching the lock button on the arm console. “See
you later, Fred!”

  Ignoring his baffled look, she closed the window and took off, peeling a little rubber in her not-exactly-smooth exit.

  There was a lot on her plate these days. Thwarting Russians, finding coins, dealing with bosses, solving mysterious transactions in sports books, monitoring mysterious airstrips, calculating seconds....

  But there was room on that plate for one more task.

  She was going to get to the bottom of this dance-lesson thing.

  * * *

  ON THURSDAY, AS Frances walked down the corridor at five, she saw Braxton waiting outside the warehouse doors again. He’d texted her once today, just one word.

  Fred?

  Yesterday she’d called him Fred, as in Fred Astaire, which had been a spur-of-the-moment whimsy on her part, mostly because she was afraid if she didn’t say something light she might say something heavy like Are you seeing somebody else?

  Which probably would have come out very badly, making her appear to be some kind of jealous girlfriend. Which she wasn’t, not really. They’d never called themselves anything like boyfriend or girlfriend, just Babe and Braxton, or he’d called her Moon, and then there were his early endearments, Frau Farbissina and Hillary Clinton...

  But never girlfriend.

  She wondered why.

  Not that it mattered. Babe had a sassy ring to it and Moon was beautiful and bright and alone. On second thought, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to be called Moon anymore—that alone part was too depressing. Frances didn’t like feeling this vulnerable, either...and insecure...and jealous...

  Braxton opened the glass door for her, and she stepped outside into the last golden light of the day, felt a cool breeze on her face and caught a scent of his musky cologne. She liked how his navy blue shirt deepened the color of his eyes to a shadowy blue and how its top button was undone, revealing a few wiry strands of chest hair. She even liked his brown oxford shoes.

  She didn’t feel so alone now.

  “You look very pretty,” he said quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  She’d prepared for this encounter by wearing strappy sandals with a filmy print dress topped with a flowy blazer. It had taken her forty minutes this morning following step-by-step instructions for a “sexy updo” hairstyle, which she’d anchored into place with half a dozen flowery barrettes. A few weeks ago Frances would never have worn them because they were too girlie.

  Almost thirty, and she was embracing her inner girlie for the first time.

  As they walked to her car, Braxton asked, “Fred?”

  Ignoring his question, she asked sweetly, “Shall we download the app now?”

  “Sure. Your place?”

  She nodded. “I was going to order Chinese. Interested?”

  He paused. “I, uh...can’t stay for dinner.”

  “Dance lesson?”

  “It’s over after tonight. Well, tomorrow night.”

  “Over?” She paused. “That almost sounds as though you’re breaking up with someone.”

  He did a double take. “What?”

  He looked so surprised, she wondered if she’d been worrying over nothing. But he hadn’t really given her an answer, either. Well, she’d opened the door—might as well charge right on through and ask the big question.

  “Is there someone else?”

  “You mean, am I seeing anyone else?”

  She nodded.

  Braxton glanced up at Dmitri’s office windows, then back to her. Lowering his voice, he said, “Frances, this is a heck of a time to have this discussion, but trust me, my playboy days are over.”

  She forced a small smile, but she felt more uncomfortable than ever. He could have said no, but instead he let her know that he was no longer a playboy.

  That word over had started this conversation and ended it, but it wasn’t an answer. It was a dance around the issue.

  * * *

  “WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, ‘it’s over after tonight’?” her dad asked.

  “No idea.” Frances turned on the kitchen faucet and held a dish towel underneath it. “After that he said, ‘Well, tomorrow night.’”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “Like I said, we were in the parking lot, and I didn’t want to get into an awkward conversation.”

  And she didn’t want to tell her dad that she’d asked Braxton if there was someone else and hadn’t really gotten an answer.

  She turned off the faucet and faced her dad. “Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. With you seeing Dorothy tonight for dinner and all...”

  Her dad wore a chambray shirt and trousers he’d purchased today in “some mall,” along with the shiny black lace-up shoes he usually only wore to his monthly International Brotherhood of Magicians dinners, but had worn twice this week when visiting Dorothy.

  She caught a scent she’d hadn’t smelled before—a light mix of spice and citrus—apparently another purchase he’d made today, as he hadn’t worn cologne in years.

  “You know I won’t say a word about this to Dorothy, baby girl.”

  “I know.”

  One thing about magicians, they knew how to keep secrets. Without secrets, there’d be no magic, just cheap tricks.

  She hesitated. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I’m no mentalist, but...yes, it makes me wonder if...”

  “There’s somebody else,” she finished.

  He looked uneasy. “But it could be...”

  “He’s trying to end it with her.”

  He nodded solemnly. “Still...”

  “He should have told me.”

  It wasn’t as if she and Braxton had been seeing each other for weeks or months. It had only been a few days, so it was understandable there might be someone else hovering in the background. Maybe someone he’d been casually dating, but because of his developing relationship with Frances, he wanted to make a clean break with Miss X.

  Relationship. That word was haunting her as much as girlfriend right now. And to think the other night she’d actually thought she was maybe...in love.

  Braxton had never indicated he felt that way about her, though.

  A nauseous feeling settled in her stomach. Had she been trying to sell herself an illusion, one where she loved and was loved in return? Where there was a shared life together, through richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till the end of their days?

  Because if there was no truth behind this illusion, there could never be magic.

  “He’ll be here any minute, so I’m going to wipe down the table,” she said, heading toward the dining room. “It’s caked with dust.”

  Braxton had never been inside her condo. When he’d picked her up the other night for their airstrip investigation, they’d left right away. Tonight she planned to sit in the dining room, as it was roomy and convenient to work at the table. But more than that, she didn’t feel comfortable inviting him farther inside her home, her private world.

  The last light of day sparkled through the small square windows on the far wall, casting hazy patterns of gold and orange light around the room. This room had been one of the reasons she bought the condo. At the time, she had the wild idea she’d throw dinner parties or host soirees filled with lively conversations about books and film, although she’d never thrown a dinner party in her life and only knew the people in her Yahoo film buffs group by their login IDs.

  Funny how introverts indulged in extroverted fantasies.


  As she began wiping the table, her dad entered, a wad of paper towels in his hand.

  “Figured I’d help out,” he said, ripping off one of the towels, “I’m not leaving for another fifteen minutes.”

  “Taking Dorothy to dinner?”

  “I asked, but she insisted on making her famous meat loaf, which apparently has won some awards.”

  She swirled a few circles on the table surface, thinking how tonight’s home-cooked dinner might also turn into breakfast. Should she ask if he was planning on staying out all night? Or not ask and wonder when he’d be getting home?

  Maybe it wasn’t any of her business. Wasn’t as if he was a teenager going out on a date and she was the parent, but in an odd way, that’s how it felt.

  “So, uh...” She rubbed at a spot. “Planning on staying out late?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Which she guessed meant Yes, if things go well. “Dorothy likes you. I mean, she hasn’t told me that, but I can tell.”

  He carefully refolded a paper towel. “And I like her.”

  She straightened, figuring it was time to put this next topic out on the table, so to speak.

  “I like her, too, Dad.”

  For several moments, they stood on opposite sides of the table, reading each other’s gazes, listening to a bird twittering outside.

  “I sometimes feel like I’m cheating on your mother,” he said quietly.

  The comment surprised Frances at first, but one thing she’d always known about her dad was that he owned his truth. He never talked around it, or pretended it was something else, just acknowledged it. Deception and secrets were for magic, not real life.

  “Have to admit,” she said, “it feels odd imagining another woman in your life...but it’s time, you know?” She paused, wanting to be sure her voice remained steady for what she wanted to say next. “Finding love again doesn’t mean you need to cut Mom out of your heart. She can still have her special place.”