0758215630 (R) (11 page)

“A man was at my place in Portland. A man with a scar.”

“And?”

“I don’t know anyone with a scar.”

He set the two Cokes on the counter, studied her face, his own expression flat, unreadable. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“They’ve connected the dots then—between you and Phyllis Worth.”

“Maybe.” She nodded toward where Cornie sat in the den, immersed in the game. “Or worse . . . they followed Cornie to Portland—and are
after
Cornie.”

Joe’s jaw set hard, and he followed her gaze to the teenage girl in the den. When his eyes again met hers, they were concerned, protective—and dark with purpose. The kind of eyes you didn’t want to see in a shadowed alley. “Then they’ll be making a big mistake.”

For the first time since Cornie had insisted April find Joe—against what she thought was her better judgment—she was glad she had. If it was Bronze-age female thinking to appreciate having a big strong man in your corner, color her copper. Especially when you had the two people you loved most in the world in that corner with you. She thought of Rusty clinging to life in the trauma center at University Medical, and wrapped her arms around herself, again feeling cold—almost impossible to do in Las Vegas in August.

“I just don’t get it.” She met his gaze. “Who wants Phylly so much they’re willing to kill to find her?”

He was silent for a long time. “I’m new to the family, remember. But the way I see it, there’s only one person who can answer that question. And that’s the lady herself.” He rested his hip on the sofa back, crossed his arms. “And the person that might help us find that particular lady is—”

“Rusty.” April let out a breath, irritated and impatient. “Who we can’t see until tomorrow.”
And maybe not then unless she improves during the night.

“Yeah, so until then, I say we kick back, relax, and enjoy what the Sandstone has to offer.”

Joe’s eyes were still, but she saw the tension in his body, and he was right—given they had no other choice. April took in another deep swallow of air and told herself to take his good advice. She nodded at him. “And for me,” she said, “the first of those Sandstone offerings is a shower, immediately followed by food.”

He gave her an unreadable look, then stood away from the sofa. “While you have that shower, I’m going for a run.”

“A run? It’s a furnace out there.”

“One of the reasons the treadmill was invented—along with air-conditioning and hotel training rooms.” He headed for the door. Once there he stopped. “Put the security lock on, don’t let anyone in, and don’t order room service. I’ll take care of that when I get back.” His eyes skimmed over her, a sudden lick of flame. “Enjoy your shower.” He was gone, stopping long enough to give Cornie, now soloing on the bat game, her Coke and the same instructions he’d given to April.

April had half-expected some double-edged comment from him, about saving water by showering together, but again Joe surprised her. He hadn’t looked the least interested; he’d looked preoccupied. And, no, that was
not
disappointment stirring listlessly in her chest. It was . . . surprise he hadn’t followed true to form, by being glib and suggestive.

She secured the suite door after him and headed for the shower.

Just as well, he’d taken that magnificent bod of his off to the gym, because she didn’t at all like how her mind—and other parts of her body—responded when she looked at it, or into those silver eyes of his. Joe Worth was a definite babe-magnet, knew it, and relished it. April guessed demagnetizing him wasn’t in the cards. He was the kind of guy a woman played with at her own risk. Not that she was averse to risk—if she knew the odds.

A few minutes later, stripping off her clothes and covetously eying the triple-shower heads in the gymnasium sized stall, she was more determined than ever to learn about the real Joe Worth. For Phylly, for Cornie . . . and for herself. She wanted to know those odds.

She stepped into the shower, and in moments water was cascading over her naked body. She closed her eyes, enjoyed, and refused to dwell on the fact that, in true Las Vegas style, the marble shower was opulent, out-sized, and definitely built for two.

Henry Castor checked into the Sandstone Hotel and Casino and got the last crap room they had, eighth floor, and a fuckin’ mile from the elevator.

He wasn’t in the room ten minutes before he was pulling gym shorts from his bag. He needed a workout, something to peel away a couple of layers of frustration and maybe wash away the bitter taste in his mouth. He hated having to work in a strange town—even if it was Vegas. He hated that he had to wait, kill time instead of people, when what he wanted was to get the job done and get the hell out of here.

Not going to happen.

He couldn’t pick up Tommy Black until tomorrow, and his planned hospital visit to the sister had to wait until much later tonight. He couldn’t risk gambling, because he knew himself well enough to know he’d get carried away, maybe attract attention. All he had left to pass the time was a workout, maybe a massage . . .

Maybe a hooker later.

The idea of that lifted his spirits.

But right now, he was going to the gym, to pretend he was a regular guy on a holiday in
Lost Wages.
Yeah, that was him, all right. Mister Everyman. He snorted.

He stepped into the hall, looked both ways.

One thing about going to the gym, he’d spot anyone trying to follow him. He smiled inside.
Whoever the hell
Q
had on him, he better be prepared for a good sweat.

At the thought of Quinlan Braid, his black mood returned.

If that bastard thought he was going to get the better of Henry Castor, he’d been spending too many years in that mansion of his snorting money dust.

In the elevator, he slammed the palm of his hand on the button marked spa, and in a thoroughly pissed-off state watched the numbers drop along with his mood.

One thing was for sure, if he didn’t work out, he’d end up punching out the goddamn wall.

Chapter 11

Coming out of the shower just off the exercise room, Joe damn near walked over the guy. Although how he didn’t see him was a mystery, the man was damn near as wide as he was high, and he had muscle mass that would be the envy of every gym rat from here to the east coast. “Sorry. I didn’t see you,” he said.

The man stepped back, and a flash of irritation lit up the hard-ass gaze he leveled on Joe. Just as quickly the anger seemed to disappear, as if the guy was pushing at it. “No problem,” he said. “I should have looked where I was going.” He scanned Joe’s naked body. Nothing sexual in his eyes, more like envy laced with admiration. “Shit, you’re in good shape. How much do you bench?”

“Not as much as you, obviously,” Joe said and wrapped a towel around his waist.

“One rep max five hundred.” He flexed his arms and a bicep popped that rivaled a hot air balloon. “Losing it now, though. The age thing sucks.” His expression soured.

Joe reached for his clothes. The guy was maybe in his forties, so age wasn’t his problem. He had a mean look about him that probably had been etched in at birth. A nasty ass, for sure.

The little guy eyed him. “Not that you’d know about that.” Again that spark of irritation as if he’d been shortchanged in some way and Joe was to blame.

With no answer to that, even if he wanted one, Joe shrugged and finished dressing. He didn’t like the guy, and unless he had it wrong, the jerk had serious anger-management issues—and a mile-wide competitive streak. The kind of guy who always picked a fight with the biggest guy in the bar, which, unfortunately for Joe, was usually him.

“Not much of a talker, are you?” he said.

“Got people waiting.” Joe headed for the door. “Enjoy your workout.” He headed for the door.

“Asshole,” the guy muttered from somewhere behind him.

Joe smiled and kept on going. His thoughts quickly leaving the muscle freak and fast-forwarding to getting upstairs.

He wanted to be in the suite. He wanted to be with April—be there in time to see her skin all soft and pink from her shower. See her long hair, damp and clinging to her neck . . . just plain see her.

He’d kept his workout short, but he was edgy, still felt as though he’d been gone too long. Not that security was an issue. He hadn’t told April, but he’d arranged for a guard on their floor while he was in the gym. He wasn’t about to take any chances with either the Cornball or April. A woman who was getting seriously under his skin—so seriously he was running out of the usual gags and one-liners he used to keep his distance and keep it light. Somehow the flirting was flatter than—as Belle Bliss, the wickedest witch among his four foster mothers always said—piss on a plate.

The elevator doors yawned wide, and he stepped into the glass and gilt enclosure, immediately shooting an arm out to hold the doors open for three women who’d hailed him down. They clattered into the elevator with him, clutching drinks and slot tickets, and wearing enough perfume to set off a smoke alarm.

They’d all had too much free booze and kept shooting glances his way.

Finally the blonde said, “Are you, like . . . somebody?”

Inwardly he grimaced; outwardly he smiled and looked longingly at the numbers panel on the elevator.
Three.
“Not last I checked.”

“You sure do look like somebody. Like maybe a movie actor or something.”

Four.
“Nope,” he said.

“Maybe not, but I’ll bet you know how to party.” She ran a red painted fingernail down his arm. “We’re on nine.”

Five.
“My tough luck, because I’ve got a wife and five kids on the next floor.”

“Liar,” she said, without a trace of rancor and smiling when she added, “But you can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Six.
Joe stepped out of the elevator, looked back at the three women. “And I hate to think what I’m missing. Thanks for the offer.”

“Anytime, big boy, and if you change your mind just you come on by: Nine. Four. One. Five. Otherwise known as Parties Unlimited.” They all laughed, the door closed, and Joe let out a breath. It wasn’t the first time women had come on to him, and while it was great for the ego, it always made him vaguely uncomfortable.

“If you’re done with your pickup routine, you might be interested to know that Cornie’s gone.”

He turned to see April glaring at him. He didn’t bother responding to her sarcasm.

“Damn it, I told her to stay put.”

“The equivalent of putting the spurs to her mulish teenage butt.”

While April appeared calm, Joe’s heart beat like a damn jungle drum. “Where is she?”

“She went to a friend’s place. Raina Danson, a girl whose parents run a trail riding stable this side of the Red Rock Canyon. Raina’s dad picked her up. The minx arranged it before we left Phylly’s apartment. Then slipped out when I was in the shower. She’s staying the night.”

Joe hit the elevator button. “We’ll go get her.”

April shook her head. “No, I think we should leave her there. I spoke to the family—which boasts three grown sons by the way—and told them enough that they’ll be sure to look out for her. Plus it’s a long dusty road that leads to their place, so they’ll see anyone coming from a mile off.” She nodded her head. “She’ll be safe there. Raina’s dad will bring her back tomorrow morning—after we see Rusty.” She shoved her hands in her jeans’ pockets. “And I think she needs the horses—the distraction.”

The elevator door opened and closed, and two people dressed for the evening gave them an annoyed look when neither of them got in. Joe didn’t care. “I don’t like it.”

“It’s not for you to like or dislike.” She lifted her chin. “She’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.”

It struck Joe then, what strong women he’d hooked up with. He hadn’t yet seen April flinch, although he knew she was frantic about Phyllis, and the same with Cornie. She was the most independent—obstinate—young girl he’d ever come across, not that he knew many young girls. But it wasn’t raw stubbornness, with the Cornball, it was savvy and a keen intelligence. The Worth woman had done one thing right at least. She’d raised a hell of a daughter. He looked at April . . . two daughters. He wondered again what had brought the women together, what had made Phyllis choose April—lose him.
Shit.
Even thinking those kind of thoughts made him feel like his hair was sticking up and he was wearing overalls. Cursing himself, he got back to the subject at hand. “I still don’t know how she got past—”

“Him?” April gestured with her head to the security guard standing a few doors down from their suite reading a newspaper. “Piece of cake.”

“Great. Las Vegas security at its best.”

She gave him a funny half smile, as though she were enjoying herself at his expense. “You didn’t tell him to stop anyone from going out—just coming in.”

“Maybe because most of my clients are smart enough to stay put when I tell them to stay put.”

“Then they’re not Cornie.”

“No, they’re not Cornie,” he agreed.

She raised her eyebrows. “Now, that’s progress, Joe.”

“What?”

“You said her name.”

He looked down at her, easy because she was barefoot. Toes pink as roses. “And you said mine—without that snarly little twist you usually tack on.”

“I do not snarl or twist.”

He touched her still damp hair, smoothed some strands behind her ear. “But I’ll bet you do. And I’d bet you growl, too—and moan. I’ll bet you’re wild as hell—given the right incentive.”

She went still as morning.

They were standing outside the door to their suite, face-to-face, the air between them suddenly sharp and weighted, and despite the power of air-conditioning, heating to flash point. He touched her ear, ringed the delicate shell of it with his forefinger. When her breath hitched, he knew he wasn’t the only one caught in the undertow. The pull. The reckless wanting, coming from nowhere and heading . . . God only knew where. And it wasn’t all about his cock, predictably rising to the moment. And it wasn’t about getting a quick fuck, more of what he’d had too many times to count.