Betting on Grace (3 page)

Grace remembered her father saying Claude was a throwback to the little people. A reference to spoken lore that linked the Romani ancestry to the Celts, although Grace knew that the original Gypsy lineage started in Asia when Turkish invaders pushed the tribespeople from their lands in northwest India. Over the centuries, the various lines had broken apart and become absorbed by other cultures.

Her family called themselves Roms or Romani, but in fact that connection had weakened over the years. Grace had researched her family’s genealogy, but she’d always sensed an unspoken rule that said the information was best not shared with strangers.

“Are you accompanying us, Alexandra?”

Claude’s tone was formal, appropriate for addressing a princess, as Ernst had dubbed his daughters.

“Not this morning, Uncle,” Alex said, shaking her head.
Her short, thick, nearly black waves were a feature Grace had always coveted. Of all the girls, Alex most resembled their father. Blue-black hair and thick brows that had troubled her no end until she’d discovered laser treatments.

Tall and thin, with a milky-white complexion, Alex was gorgeous—although Grace could tell she was in pain. “I have a doctor’s appointment. Rita is covering for me, but I meant to ask if you’d help out at story time.”

Uncle Claude was as gifted a storyteller as their father had been. In some ways, he was even more entertaining than Ernst because he was smaller and more nimble. “I’d be delighted to do so. And after lunch perhaps Maya could join us at the ranch?”

Claude’s eldest son and his wife owned a small acreage west of town near Red Rocks where Claude raised and trained Shetland ponies.

Kate and her daughter were still discussing the matter when someone knocked on the door leading to the garage. Liz opened it. “Hi, MaryAnn,” she said. “Come in.”

Grace studied the woman in the ill-fitting business suit who stood on the stoop but didn’t cross the threshold. MaryAnn was literally the girl next door. Six months younger than Alex, MaryAnn had been around for as long as Grace could remember. In the background at parties. A friend. Not quite a part of the family—until she married Gregor.

“Hello,” MaryAnn said, fiddling with the waistband of her navy-blue polyester skirt. Unbuttoned, Grace noticed. MaryAnn was always on a diet, but nothing seemed to help her lose weight. “Are you ready, Maya? Luca and Gemilla are waiting outside.”

Her children were eight and four and a half. Luca rode the bus to school, but he started his day at The
Dancing Hippo since MaryAnn left for work before his regular school started.

“Are you coming to lunch today, MaryAnn?” Yetta asked, helping Maya into her backpack.

MaryAnn looked startled by the question. “Oh,” she exclaimed. “I almost forgot. Things have been so busy. But, yes, I think I can make it.”

“Was Charles invited?” Grace asked. The idea made her oddly uncomfortable. She didn’t know why. He was often included in family gatherings.

That was before you decided to go into business with him,
a voice said.

Yetta started to answer, but MaryAnn interrupted. “I don’t know, but he has a prior commitment.”

She didn’t expound on the statement. At times MaryAnn acted a bit proprietary where Charles was concerned. At other times, she almost seemed to loathe him.

“No problem,” Grace said. “He left a message asking to see me today, and I figured if he was going to be at the luncheon, I wouldn’t bother stopping by the Xanadu after I pick up our guest of honor.”

MaryAnn looked at her intently. “Charles called you? About what?”

“Some business we’ve been discussing,” Grace said evasively. The last thing she wanted was to bring that topic back to the table. “But it’s really no big deal. I’ll be at McCarran, anyway.”

MaryAnn didn’t respond. Instead, she turned to Maya and said, a bit sharply, “Hurry up, Maya. You don’t want to miss circle, do you?”

Grace watched as her niece dashed away, eager to join her cousins. Once the entire group was out of earshot, she said, “Is it just me or does anyone else think MaryAnn is losing it?”

“Well, she’s married to the laziest man in town,” Kate said. “And he has a gambling problem.”

Liz gave Kate a stern look. “Actually, MaryAnn told me Greg’s been very good about not visiting the casinos lately and he’s been working for Charles for a good six months. But I do think you’re right, Grace. MaryAnn has seemed kind of spacey lately.”

“Personally, I think she’s in over her head as Charles’s personal assistant,” Alex put in. “I warned her not to take a job with him, but she said the money was too good to pass up. And his company offers great benefits.”

“Speaking of benefits,” Grace said, snapping her fingers, “did you find out whether your new insurance will cover another operation? If you need one, that is.”

“No. Because I’m not going to have one. Period,” she said, taking a sip from her mug. Grace could tell by the little square label that dangled over the side that the beverage was green tea. “And speaking of Charles, we never finished discussing your plans.”

Grace made a face. Talk about a blatant change of subject.

Charles had been involved with their family for so long that she tended to regard him as a fixture, but Alex and Charles had a different kind of relationship, probably stemming from Alex’s rejection of him. Plus, Grace had to admit, Charles could come off as quite pompous and self-involved at times. Still, she felt obligated to defend him—in case their new business worked out. “Must you always say his name with such obvious bias? Charles has always been pretty generous about helping out any Romani who got in trouble with the law or needed a job.”

Liz let out a long sigh. “I agree, but can’t we show our gratitude without risking your trust fund?”

Yetta frowned. “What does Grace’s dowry have to do with Charles Harmon?” When nobody answered right away, she added, “If you’re suggesting that Grace might marry Charles, you’re very much mistaken.”

“No, Mom, that’s not part of the discussion,” Grace said, giving her sister a dirty look.

Before she could say anything else, Yetta nodded. “Good. Because Charles Harmon is many things, but he is
not
a prince.”

The room went so still Grace could hear the low drone of a television in one of the bedrooms. Her stomach felt queasy—and she knew it wasn’t from too many pastries. She was embarrassed for her mother. Although no one wanted to hurt Yetta’s feelings, the fact was none of them believed in their prophecies anymore.

Too much had happened to undermine their faith. First, Yetta had had no premonition whatsoever of Ernst’s stroke. Second, she’d insisted that Mark was Alex’s soul mate. Mark Gaylord—a gaujo cop who’d broken Alex’s heart when he’d gotten his partner pregnant and married her instead of Alex. Then, there was the matter of Yetta’s blind faith in Ian Grant, Kate’s ex-husband, who went to jail for embezzlement.

Nope, Grace thought, the future was a murky, unexplored vastness where anything could happen. She wasn’t about to pin her dreams on some iffy, unproven prince who needed her help to find his nobility. She planned to put her money on something more tangible. Charles didn’t set Grace’s heart atwitter, but he did have something she coveted: location, location, location.

N
ICK
L
IGHTNER CLOSED
his eyes and let his head tip back against the padded headrest. After his call from Yetta, it had taken the powers that be a week to set up his cover story and necessary connections, but this morning he’d left snowy Detroit behind and was on his way to Vegas. Flying wasn’t his favorite means of travel, and his sore calves and aching shoulder muscles didn’t appreciate the cramped space of coach.

He’d spent the previous day repairing a thirty-foot section of fence in his parents’ backyard that had succumbed to high winds and too much snow. The ground was all but impenetrable and the single-digit windchill factor hadn’t made the task any easier, but Nick had finally managed to make the enclosure escape-proof. He hoped.

Rip was a good dog, but turned wily when left alone too long. Normally, Nick’s parents jumped at the chance to dog-sit, and they’d insisted Rip stay with them while Nick was in Vegas, but Nick had been tempted to board Rip at the vet. He didn’t want to do anything to add to his dad’s stress level.

Although Pete hadn’t advertised the fact, one reason for his sudden decision to retire had been a cautionary medical report. “Slow down or your body will slow you
down in a way you aren’t going to like,” his doctor had told him.

That was another reason Nick was against his parents’ radical move. That and the fact he hated change. Period. His mother blamed this on abandonment issues he’d never completely resolved, but Nick disagreed. He’d had an extremely stable childhood. He simply liked things to stay the same. What was wrong with that?

But his parents had made their decision. Oregon—and their grandchildren—beckoned. They’d expressed a hope to have the house on the market by the time Nick returned from Vegas.

Nick’s stomach made a low, rumbling sound. Airplane food, he figured, sitting up a bit straighter. To get his mind off home, he put on his headphones and turned on the small tape recorder he’d brought with him. The Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department, or Metro, was already investigating Harmon for insurance fraud. Internal Affairs had been called into the picture because of allegations that several police officers were suspected of filing false or inflated accident reports and taking kickbacks from the insurance adjusters who were on the take from Harmon. When informed of Nick’s “insider” status, they’d whipped up a covert plan to get Nick close to Harmon’s inner circle.

Nick hadn’t expected to be asked to do more than provide a contact number for Yetta Radonovic, but then his father had intervened. Pete saw this as Nick’s avenue to promotion, and he’d contacted an old buddy of his on the Metro force. Zeke Martini, who’d dealt with the tight-knit Romani community in the past, had been happy to welcome Nick aboard.

“The insurance fraud is just the tip of the iceberg where Lucky Chuck is concerned,” Zeke had told Nick on the phone. “Your primary goal will be to identify the dirty cops who are facilitating these phony accidents, but I want you to keep your eyes open for any evidence of money laundering, drug deals or white slave traffic.”

Zeke’s voice was one of two on the tape Nick was listening to now. The other belonged to an assistant district attorney.

“Harmon is smooth,” the A.D.A. said. “Never been caught with his fingers in the till, but he’s been mentioned as a ‘person of interest’ going back ten years.”

Martini’s gruff bass added, “Probably studied the law so he’d know the best way to break it without getting caught.”

“That type always makes a mistake sooner or later. And getting cops to do his dirty work was a very bad idea.”

“But he’s kept himself pretty well insulated in the past,” Zeke added. “That’s where Pete’s boy comes in.”

Nick almost smiled. He hadn’t been a boy in many, many years. Maybe never. That’s what happened when your mother died and your dad handed you off to strangers, who, though kind and welcoming, couldn’t completely erase the sadness and sense of loss.

Even after his move to Michigan, certain memories followed. Elusive images of laughter and music in the warm glow of firelight. Figures dancing. The rapturous feeling of being enveloped by warm loving arms.

His brain insisted a baby wouldn’t retain anything from birth to almost three, which is how old he was when his parents left Vegas for Los Angeles. But his re
curring dream was strangely seductive; it made him curious about his paternal relatives.

In an effort to keep the focus on his reason for flying to Vegas, Nick opened his eyes and started to leaf through the material he’d brought with him. The more he learned about Charles Harmon, the less he bought Harmon’s squeaky-clean image.

Although he didn’t talk about it, Nick had a sort of sixth sense about certain people that was almost never wrong. His dad had taught him not to say anything that could be construed as suspect profiling, but Nick still trusted his gut instinct when it came to reading people.

Nick’s mother speculated that his gift came from his Romani heritage, but Nick knew it was something even simpler. In Nick’s world, everything came down to trust. And he only trusted himself.

He picked up a second photograph in the file. Grace Philippa Radonovic. Age twenty-eight. College graduate with a degree in business. Restaurant owner. Single. Living at home. Two speeding tickets before she turned twenty. Three minor fender benders.

Those were the facts, but they told him little. Her picture was another matter. Hair a cascade of loose, highlighted brown waves that framed her heart-shaped face, brows a bit too bushy to be fashionable, large dark eyes. Brown, according to the fact sheet, but Nick would have called them tawny. A nicely shaped nose that fit her face.

His gut said
civilian.
But something about this woman triggered a reaction he couldn’t quite read. It made him uncomfortable, which meant he needed to be on high alert once he stepped off the plane. Because, according to Yetta Radonovic, Grace would be picking him up at the airport.

As if on cue, the large jet touched down with a screeching jolt.

“Please wait until the airplane has come to a complete stop….”

Nick couldn’t wait. He pulled his carry-on bag from underneath the seat in front and dug in the side pocket until he found his phone. As soon as the flight attendant announced that passengers were free to use electronic devices, he flipped it open and said, “Dad’s cell.”

While he waited for Pete to answer, the seat-belt light was extinguished. Nick stood up and reached into the overhead bin for his coat, which he shrugged on while juggling his phone.

The line hummed, unanswered. This would be Nick’s last public call using his phone. Zeke and Pete had agreed that in keeping with Nick’s cover story—jobless ex-con who needed a leg up in a new town—he shouldn’t carry a cell phone.

“Pete Lightner. Leave a message.”

The passengers near the front of the plane began to disembark. Nick looped the webbed strap of his carry-on bag over one shoulder and followed. “I just landed. You forgot to give me Zeke’s contact number. You’re slipping, old man.” He added a chuckle so his father would know he was kidding. “Well, if Zeke’s half the cop you said he is, he’ll find me, I guess. Talk to you later. Give Mom a hug for me. And tell Rip I said to behave.”

He pocketed the phone and marched up a gangplank into an open, brightly lit terminal.

“Holy shit,” he softly exclaimed, taking in the neon, the glitter and, most remarkable of all, the slot machines. “I’m not in Michigan anymore, am I?”

Moving out of the way of hurrying passengers, he rested his tote on the back of a bench and buried the small phone deep in the cheap canvas bag. In his closet back home sat matching leather luggage. Those he’d agreed to leave behind, but his leather flight jacket was another matter. He loved his coat. It felt like a second skin after three winters in Detroit. If anyone asked, he’d tell them he got it at a consignment store.

Nick followed the signs to the luggage area. While he walked, he looked around—curious about this town where he’d been born. He knew nothing of Las Vegas, except what he’d seen in the movies. Several of his buddies made annual pilgrimages to Nevada casinos, but Nick preferred tropical beaches or cities that interested him, like New York, New Orleans and San Francisco. If asked to join his pals in Vegas, his standard answer was “Sin City? Are you nuts?”

Except for the shadowy images in his dreams, he had no tangible memories of Vegas or the Romani community that he’d apparently been born into. All he knew about his early years is what his parents had told him: “Your mother was killed in an accident and your father was so grief stricken he wasn’t able to care for you anymore, so he generously let you come and be our little boy.
Adoption
is another word for chosen.”

Nick couldn’t remember if he’d bought that line at the time or not, but when Judy, who was the Lightners’ natural child, told him the
real
story behind his adoption, Nick had believed her unequivocally. “Your parents were Gypsies. They stole you from your birth family and when they got tired of you, they left you on my parents’ doorstep. Mommy and Daddy felt sorry for
you so they let you stay with us, but someday the Gypsies are coming back. They’re going to sneak into your room some night and take you away. That’s what Gypsies do.”

From that point on, Nick had refused to go to sleep without a light on and he’d suffered terrible nightmares for years. The family’s move to Detroit had helped. Nick liked Detroit and had felt reasonably safe from the threat of his past catching up with him.

Until last week.

Over the years, Nick had met other adopted kids. Many had expressed a need to find their birth parents. Not Nick. Although mildly curious about his mother, he hadn’t even looked into the circumstances surrounding her death. But from the reading he’d done to prepare himself for this role, he’d learned that family was extremely important to the Romani. If that was so, he wondered, then why hadn’t any member of his birth family intervened when his father had given him up?

Not that he planned to ask Yetta when he saw her. But, he had to admit he was curious about her so-called second sight. They’d talked twice on the phone since her initial call. Each time, she’d opened up a little more about her abilities.

“I used to feel more confident about my gift,” she’d told him last night. “But after my husband died, my brain turned fuzzy. Like someone had dropped a blanket over my head. I could see images, but couldn’t make sense of them.

“I thought my gift was gone, but Elizabeth explained that the pills the doctor gave me—antidepressant pills, I believe they were called—somehow disconnected me
from the person I know myself to be. I’m feeling stronger now, and the visions are starting to return.”

“A vision,” Nick had repeated. “That whole snake thing, right? You’re sticking with that story?”

“Nikolai,” she’d scolded, although her tone was indulgent, “you didn’t grow up Romani or you’d understand. In this case, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Charles has something my Grace wants, which has made her blind to the danger he presents.”

“He’s a scumbag. She has to be more than blind to consider going into business with him.”

Yetta had been quick to defend her daughter. “If you’re implying that Grace is somehow involved in any wrong-doing, you’re completely off base. Charles is wealthy, handsome and successful. Grace isn’t the only one who can’t see beneath the facade that he shows in public. Blackness is more than the absence of light, you know.”

No, Nick didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he was going to find out. That was his job. And in a few minutes, he’d meet the first of four “princesses.”

Alexandra, Elizabeth, Katherine and Grace,
he repeated from memory. Yetta’s late husband must have been some kind of egomaniac.

As he entered the large, noisy baggage claim area, he looked around for his
royal
cousin. The Lightners didn’t have much extended family. Pete was an only child whose parents had died within a few years of each other when Nick was a toddler. Sharon had two sisters but wasn’t particularly close to either. Nick’s aunt Emily lived a mere six or seven miles away from his childhood home, but he only saw her once or twice a year. Her children, who were all older than Nick and Judy, were virtual strangers to him.

A voice on the speaker announced where passengers from his flight could find their suitcases. Nick hung back from the milling crowd to scan the room once more. Maybe she wasn’t going to show up. Maybe she was late. Maybe she planned to pick him up curbside.

He’d just taken a few steps when he heard a voice call, “Um, hello? Excuse me? Are you by any chance Nikolai Sarna?”

The name sounded strange to his ears, but he turned to look. The woman from the photo. Same large, slightly rounded eyes—a warm brown, as he’d guessed. She was a bit taller than he’d pictured, but then he looked down and saw four-inch heels. Her hair was artfully streaked with strands of gold and copper. The colors brought out the tan in her complexion.

She was beautiful in a way he couldn’t describe. All Nick knew was that her photograph didn’t do her justice.

“It is you, isn’t it?” she asked, smiling.

Her smile produced a gut-level response that took him completely by surprise. What the hell was this about? a part of him wondered. So she’s pretty. Get over it. She could be evil, too. Don’t forget, if she isn’t part of Chucky’s scam she’s exceedingly stupid for getting involved with a criminal, right?

“Mother said to look for tall, dark and blond. An oxymoron, of course. But, now I see what she meant. You do have a certain dark brooding quality despite the blond hair. Sort of Heathcliff meets Surfer Boy.”

“I beg your pardon?” He tried to keep his tone neutral, but she made a face that a parent might give a child who’s just scraped his knee. She put her hand on the sleeve of his leather coat. “Oh, dear, I’ve offended you.
I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to, of course. I babble. It’s what I do when I’m harried. And I just got flack from the parking guard. You’d think this was a maximum-security prison.” She gave him a mortified look and her cheeks flushed. “Another inane thing to say. Can I start over?”