Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (14 page)

Cool

Which he took
to mean yes. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he continued following Frances, who was talking about grocery shopping on Saturday.

“I like to go to Whole Foods Market, but my dad thinks it’s too expensive. If we didn’t argue about it we’d probably end up actually grocery shopping more often....”

His gaze slipped down to the seat of those baggy pants that seemed to skim and slip off her small, round behind. Maybe she thought loose clothing hid her assets, so to speak, but the hint of what lay underneath only intrigued him. The mystery underneath. He’d always been the kind of guy who found the suggestion of something far more enticing than the overt. Be it life or women, he preferred following clues, delving deeper to unveil the mystery.

Although sometimes seeking those answers backfired, like that long-ago summer vacation when he’d sneaked into the ocean. Pulled under those churning waves, he’d learned that secrets could be colder and harsher than the sparkling reality he’d hoped to find.

He felt a flicker of concern at what lay beneath Frances’s involvement with Dima, but dismissed it. She was complicated as hell, but he wasn’t picking up on any dark, churning waters under her surface.

“Anyway, it’s basketball season,” she continued, “so these days we prefer to sit in front of the telly and order in Chinese. Obviously no need for a bodyguard when I’m at home.”

He wasn’t sure if she was still talking about Saturday or had moved on to Sunday, but he’d sort it out later.

She stopped at the doors and turned to face him. Rain battered the glass behind her. A streak of lightning flared in the gloom of clouds.

With her back to the glass, her body outlined by hazy, gray light, she seemed like a shadow. He peered into her face, a dusky oval fringed by wisps of blond hair.

“What time do you want me back here?” he asked. When she didn’t answer, he clarified, “To escort you to your car.”

“I thought maybe you’d get the hint from my schedule,” she said, her voice tight. “I don’t need a bodyguard. To escort me after work or at any other time.”

He did a small double take, surprised at her about-face. “What’s with the cold shoulder?”

“I’m simply stating what I want.”

“Meaning you want this
friend
of yours to be your protector instead?” Feeling a surge of anger, he decided to chill and count to ten, made it to three. “Who is this guy, anyway? I know
every
protection agent in town, especially the
best ones.
”

She snorted something about know-it-alls.

“Yeah, well, it happens to be true. What’s his name?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Does to me.”

“Don’t take this personally.”

“How am I supposed to take it?” When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Look, just tell me what your issue is. Your
real
issue. Not that
expressive
bullshit. And what was the other one...? I remember, my
rust bucket
car. I’ve known a fair share of executives, because I happen to be skilled in
executive protection,
but I’ve never met one who resorted to personal attacks to make a point.”

They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out moment.

“I know you can talk, Frances, because you’ve been doing it nonstop all the way down the hall.”

She slumped against the glass door, the outside light casting a faint, silvery line down the length of her neck.

“I’m sorry for saying those things,” she whispered huskily. “It wasn’t fair.”

He hadn’t been ready for an apology.

“I’ve been called worse than
expressive,
” he murmured, shifting closer, liking her scent. Salty, clean. Not like the other day when he caught a more exotic, flowery fragrance. “What was that about?”

She peered up at him, a low, throaty sigh escaping her lips.

“You—” she swallowed, hard “—show your emotions.”

“Is that a sin, Frances?” he whispered, slipping his hand inside his coat, skimming his fingers along the hem of her thermal top. “To reveal what I like?”

She gasped as he touched the bare skin of her stomach. A sound so soft, so quick, yet it struck him like a bolt of lightning, sending a hot, dark thrill through him.

“You haunt me,” he murmured, stroking her impossibly soft skin, his entire body coursing with need, desperate to taste her. He angled his face, his lips almost brushing against hers....

“I can’t,” she whispered shakily.

He paused, felt a shudder pass through her body, her warm breath fanning his face.

He started to pull away.

She grabbed his shirt. “Stay.”

Outside, lightning popped, turning the world a surreal blue, and in that instant he caught an outline of something on her cheek. Then the light vanished and the shadows returned. He blinked, unsure if he’d actually seen anything.

In those few fleeting moments, everything changed.

Frances had slipped away, like a trail of smoke, and now stood several feet to his left, her face turned away from the faint light seeping through rain-splashed glass doors.

She took off his coat and held it out to him.

He accepted it, fumbling for something to say, but it didn’t matter because she was already gone, just like that, her shoes squeaking as she walked back down the long hallway.

He stood there stupidly, wondering what in the hell had just happened, then put on his coat.

Shoving open the glass door, he ducked his head against a blast of rain and wind, thinking it was a helluva lot easier to deal with this storm than with Miss Frances Jefferies.

CHAPTER EIGHT

F
RANCES
SPENT
THE
REST
of Monday in Oleg’s cramped office, which was furnished with an old metal desk littered with computer parts and cola cans, numerous cardboard boxes, a standing coatrack that held a black coat and several shirts, and a whirring rotary fan that clicked when it reversed direction.

On the wall was a banner in Russian:

Сохранять спокойствие и перезагрузка

Which Oleg translated to mean “Keep calm and reboot.” So the computer nerd had a sense of humor. With his dour looks and barely there smiles, who knew?

After reviewing the blueprints of the Palazzo floor plan for several hours, he displayed the driver’s license photos she’d seen earlier on his computer screen, identifying each person by name, background and security specialty.

He then mentioned two other people on Dmitri’s team—Holt, who worked with alarms, and Aldo, a safecracker—and that neither needed to be physically inside the Russian Confection offices, as most of their work was accomplished remotely.

“I hijack feed at Palazzo, send images of alarms to Holt. He study, learn what kind they are. Early on day of heist, we disable.”

“How?” she asked.

“Sometime we do remote.”

“Remotely? You mean, over the internet?”

Oleg nodded. “Or other remote-access connections. If not possible, do old way. Dima’s electrician friend makes visit.”

“Not easy to gain access to alarm systems at a luxury resort such as the Palazzo.”

“True, never easy. But is fun challenge, yes?” When Oleg smiled—the first time she’d ever seen him really smile—she saw he wore braces. The clear kind, so they weren’t obvious when he spoke.

It dawned on her he wasn’t as uptight as she’d assumed, just wary of grinning because he didn’t want people to see his braces. Had to be difficult constantly fighting the urge to laugh, harder than it was for her to slap on gel and makeup.

Yet he’d decided to trust her with a smile.

She wanted to tell him braces weren’t an imperfection and that lots of people wore them. But she knew too well that telling someone to accept something couldn’t make the person magically do so. The person had to feel it inside, want to take a chance on acceptance for themselves, from others. Or so her therapist had repeatedly said.

For a moment, Frances envied Oleg. At least his imperfection would come off someday, maybe soon. Hers never would.

He grew serious again, talked about sending Aldo pictures of locks on the jewelry cases used in the exhibit. Frances realized computer-genius Oleg had hacked into surveillance systems in at least one other place where the Legendary Gems exhibit had been shown.

“From photos, he make keys,” he explained. “Should exhibit change metal locks to digital, Aldo be nearby to...” He frowned, waggling his fingers in the air.

“Break into the digital locks?”

“Yes. Plus there will be...” He threw up his hands.

“A distraction? Interruption?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, interruption.
Boom!
”

Good God. Were they planning on using... “Guns?”

“No guns. Smoke.”

“Smoke bombs.”

“Yes.”

What a circus that would create. But such a plan had been successfully executed a few years ago by a group calling themselves Ice—a slang term for diamond—who’d coolly walked into a French jewelry store and set off a few smoke bombs. In the chaos, they’d quickly slipped on gas masks, smashed several jewelry cases and walked out with three million in jewels.

Even if this heist actually took place, Vanderbilt and Palazzo security would be surreptitiously working with Frances so she’d have easy access to the case containing the Helena Diamond necklace. As Charlie told her at brunch, there’d be a replica there that she’d “steal.” There’d be no need for crazy antics like smoke bombs and safecrackers manipulating digital locks.

Thank God Dmitri and Oleg weren’t planning for her to bring a pickax into the jewelry exhibit, a favorite tool of the international jewel thieves the Pink Panthers, whose M.O. was to smash cases and grab jewels.

“You said no guns,” she said to Oleg.

“
Nyet.
No guns.”

“Good because I never carry one.”

One thing she’d made clear to Charlie at the beginning was she’d never carry a firearm. He’d told her Vanderbilt had similar feelings on the subject—guns and people under stress were never a good combination. After all, an insurance company would be the last to want
that
liability.

Around four that afternoon, Oleg stood and plucked his jacket off the coatrack.

“I take Raisa to doctor,” he explained. “She six months pregnant. Tomorrow, be here at nine. We discuss more security.”

“Can I get a key for the office?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Ask Dima.”

After he left, she continued reviewing the photographs of Palazzo security personnel. As much as she was dying to check out other files on his computer, she didn’t want her snooping to be tracked by any keystroke-logging software Oleg might have downloaded. Plus she’d noticed one surveillance camera in the hallway and guessed there were others in these offices, so even taking pictures with her smartphone—if she’d had it with her, which she didn’t—would be out of the question.

Close to five, she headed to Dmitri’s office to grab her jacket and purse. She’d felt uncomfortable retrieving them earlier because he’d had visitors, but now his door was locked. She knocked a few times, called his name. No answer. She headed back to Oleg’s office, looked out the window at the parking lot. The black limo was gone.

Nice.
That egocentric Russian had left for the day without a second thought that her stuff was locked inside his office.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, she looked at Oleg’s computer, debating whether to shoot an email to her dad to pick her up. No, didn’t want Oleg analyzing the record of her keystrokes and learning about her email account, or her dad’s for that matter.

Of course, maybe she wasn’t stuck. Maybe Braxton was waiting to escort her to her car.... Oh, sure, like that was gonna happen today or ever. After she’d shot him down and walked away without a word, his next call was probably to Dmitri saying “I quit.”

She looked up at the banner on the wall.
Keep calm and reboot.
When bits and bytes went awry, sometimes a quick computer reboot fixed everything. Like magic. She wished she could reboot the mess she’d created between her and Braxton. It was just...this case didn’t need the complications of whatever was going on between them. Plus he saw too much.

Her heart thudding painfully, she recalled that moment. The flash of lightning. His face, the focus of his eyes, caught in that surreal light. He’d no doubt seen a faint line, the contoured edge of the silicone gel.

The tip of her secret.

And she’d bolted. An automatic response.

But it was more than his catching sight of her secret. It was also what he unraveled within her. He made her crazy with heat and wanting. Underneath that boyish charm was more hot male than she could handle. Than she’d
ever
handled. Stir in the demands of this case, and she was one confused, uptight woman.

A thud made her jump.

Her heart pounding, she stood stock-still, listening to a faint, high-pitched whining and realizing it was the wind. Another soft thud. She glanced outside the window, noticed a palm tree bending with gusts of wind, thumping the side of the building.

She needed to leave while there was still daylight.

A few minutes later, she headed down the long, chilly corridor, hugging herself for warmth, trying the doorknobs to the few companies on this floor. Only one, Quick-Silver Courier Service, was unlocked, but the place was dark, empty.

At least she had the four hundred dollars in her pants pocket. She’d go to Sunset Road, a ten-minute walk away, and head down it until she found a restaurant or gas station where she could call her dad.

Ahead, sunlight sparked on the glass doors. A man stepped into view.

Braxton.

She smiled, almost feeling giddy with relief. He’d come back, despite her snub.
A man of his word.
Which made her admire him all the more.

Couldn’t have him drive her home, though. Like other investigators at Vanderbilt, her home address had been removed from all public documents, even assessors’ property records, as a safety precaution. Not even super-hacker Oleg could dredge it up. She’d tell Braxton she’d had a change of plans, that she was meeting friends at a restaurant. Once he dropped her off, she could call a cab or her dad.

As she neared the doors, she saw Braxton more clearly through the glass. He stood tall like a sentry, watching her, his hands in his coat pockets. Sunlight cast a golden sheen on his face. Gusts of wind flipped up the bottom of his coat.

Maybe she’d thought him to be goofy before, but in that light, wearing that coat, he looked tough, uncompromising and hot as sin. A tremor passed through her as she remembered his hand sliding under her top, the shock of his fingers touching her. Like liquid heat. And when he’d moved closer, his lips almost brushing hers, Frances the investigator had murmured
I can’t,
but Frances the woman had wanted desperately to give in....

He shoved open the door. Chilling breezes swirled inside.

“Where’s your jacket?”

Her teeth chattering, she wrapped her arms tighter around herself. “Locked in Dmitri’s office, along with my purse....”

He stepped inside, slamming the door shut behind him, and began removing his coat.

“I can’t keep taking your—”

“Shut up,” he murmured, slipping it off.

He wore a formfitting crewneck sweater that hinted at the muscled contour of his chest, the strength in his arms. Moving nearer, she noticed the hard line of his lips easing into a sensual curve.

Wrapping his coat around her, she relaxed into his familiar scents, his stolen body heat. Standing in front of her, he closed every single button, one by one, top to bottom, then tightened the sash, sealing her into his world.

For one crazy, heady moment, she imagined herself never leaving this sheltering cocoon, bundled into his warmth and smells, sequestered from the world and its problems. A place where she could finally let go, surrender...

Surrender to what?

A sense of melancholy rippled through her as she realized she had no clue how to answer that, only felt the yearning to relinquish something, the way a soldier might lay down arms, a longing that frightened as much as compelled her.

“Where do you live?” Braxton asked. “Wait, let me guess. Summerlin?”

She nodded. Hardly pinpointing where she lived, since Summerlin covered over twenty thousand acres.

“Your Benz tipped me off,” he said. “Used to live out there myself, back in my
la vida
Las Vegas days. My mom’s place—that’s where I’m staying now—is near there, in the old Charleston Heights area.” He checked his watch. “I have an appointment at Bally’s in fifteen minutes—it’ll only take half an hour or so. Lots of restaurants there, so take your pick. It’s my treat. Afterward, I’ll drive you home. How does that sound?”

He was trying to take care of her while juggling another commitment.
Despite
how she’d behaved earlier. It took guts to come back, but even more impressive, it took class to behave like a gentleman, as well.

If only they’d met at another time, under different circumstances...

As if wishing would get her anywhere. Time for the logical part of her mind to take over, say goodbye to that other person she repressed, the one who wrestled with her needs.

“Sounds good,” she lied.

* * *

W
HENEVER
B
RAXTON
WALKED
into Bally’s, it was like walking back in time to when he was a kid visiting his dad at work. Even after twenty-some-odd years, the place was still loud with music and buzzing slot machines, the air laced with cigar smoke and cheap perfume.

He remembered the Chex Party Mix.

Their dad, being in security, had to be on the floor at all times, so he’d leave Braxton and Drake with his good pal, a bartender at the sports book, who’d sneak the boys into a back booth, where waitresses served them endless sodas and bowls of the crunchy, salty mix. Being a fledging chef, Braxton started bringing in extra goodies—corn nuts, Reese’s Pieces, pretzels—to add to it, calling his creations the Brax-Chex Party-Hearty Mix.

“What time is it?” Frances asked.

He pulled out his cell phone, checked the screen. “Six-fifteen.”

They should have been here by five-thirty, easy, but traffic on the Strip had moved like sludge. When it moved at all. On the way here, he’d called Li’l Bit to explain he was running late, suggested they meet near the front entrance.

“See your friend?” Frances asked.

“No.”

From the way she stood—shoulders hunched, head bent—she seemed to have withdrawn into his coat.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded unconvincingly while turning away slightly. Over her shoulder she shot him a wary look, her usually sparkling amethyst eyes now dulled.

“I’m going to the ladies’ room,” she murmured.

He watched her walk away, the overhead lights splashing reds and yellows on her form, half wondering if he should follow. No, when a lady excused herself to the restroom, a gentleman let her go. Only an idiot would follow. And he’d played the idiot enough lately with his open-mouth-insert-foot comments.

He was hoping he hadn’t come across like an idiot again earlier today at their near-thermal meltdown.

On the ride over, he hadn’t mentioned the subject, and neither had she. Hell, he was relieved they were getting along, even though they seemed to talk the weather to death. And the traffic. The kind of topics two nervous people babbled about as they avoided other, more uncomfortable ones.

After the weather and traffic, she’d asked about his meeting at Bally’s, and he’d explained that he was helping a friend named Li’l Bit get into shape, but he didn’t mention the auction.