Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (16 page)

“No.” She swallowed hard. “I really did call my dad.”

“You needed privacy to do that?”

“Yes.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you don’t want Braxton to have your dad’s phone number.”

That was blunt and to the point. And partially correct. If Frances had made the call from Braxton’s phone, her dad’s cell number would have been stored as an outgoing call. Investigators had all kinds of tricks they could run with phone numbers, such as plugging them into proprietary and specialized phone-number databases. A really good investigator could take a seemingly insignificant result from one of those researches and extract new leads from it, and she didn’t want to risk Braxton identifying her as a Vanderbilt investigator.

But mostly, she didn’t want Braxton or anyone else to overhear her telling her dad her scar was starting to show, and to please come quickly, and bring her makeup bag off her dresser. She’d whispered all this to him over the stranger’s phone while standing in a corner stall in the women’s bathroom, the door locked. He hadn’t questioned her shaky-voiced request, just said he’d be on his way.

“What time is it?” Frances asked.

After shooting her a quizzical look, Dorothy checked her wristwatch. “Six-forty.”

She probably should have called a cab instead of her dad, but Frances had felt rushed, panicked. With the mess of traffic along the Strip, who knew when he’d get here. Her scar was already visible, would be more so as the minutes ticked past....

“Frances, this is already an awkward conversation, but it would help if you looked at me while we’re talking. I feel as though I’m talking to your shoulder.”

Frances nodded, knowing that her stance, mostly turned away, likely came across as rude. Cupping her hand over her scar, she turned toward Dorothy, her head bowed.

“I need special makeup,” she whispered.

Dorothy leaned closer. “I’m having trouble hearing you....”

Frances raised her head a little. “I always keep special makeup in my purse, in my car, but I couldn’t get to them.” Her nerves wound tighter with each second, her worries bubbling and churning like boiling water.

She swallowed hard, wondering if she should go outside and wait for her dad, but it was chilly out there and she couldn’t keep Braxton’s coat, and who knew how long she’d be waiting, surrounded by crowds of strangers, and she didn’t want anybody seeing, staring.

She glanced at the ladies’ restroom, which, although a short walk, was packed with women standing in line.

Her panic rising, she looked across the casino at the swarms of laughing, chatting people, at the restaurants crammed with customers, more lines of people waiting to get inside.

There was nowhere to go....

“Special makeup,” Dorothy said, gazing at her curiously. “I don’t understand.”

Frances nodded, a headache throbbing to life behind her eyes. She’d shared her darkest, ugliest secret with so few people in her life—five or six, maybe—but never with a stranger.

With her free hand, she gripped Dorothy’s arm and tugged her closer, so close she could smell the older woman’s rose-scented perfume.

Turning her head slightly, she uncupped her hand, holding her fingers stiffly at the side of her face, like a fan, so passersby wouldn’t see.

“Oh, Frances,” Dorothy murmured.

Cupping her cheek again, she met Dorothy’s worried gaze.

“Please,” she whispered hoarsely, “help me hide.”

* * *

A
S
D
OROTHY
GUIDED
Frances—her head bowed, hand cupped on her cheek—across the crowded lobby, Frances felt like a kid being steered across a street by a no-nonsense crossing guard.

When she’d first met Braxton’s mom, Frances had been hit with how different she was from her son. Rigid and critical, compared to his fervent charisma. Even her clothes were practical, whereas Braxton’s were designer all the way. She’d kept her cool, while Braxton had a tendency to run hot.

But Frances saw one trait mother and son shared—they both had caring, protective natures.

The jingling slot machines and pop music faded as they entered the sports book, a theaterlike auditorium. People, many with drinks in their hands, sat in rows of seats facing walls embedded with screens silently playing different sports events. Occasionally there’d be yells and clapping, along with a disgruntled sports fan barking an expletive.

“You like white wine?” Dorothy asked.

“Sure.”

As they passed the bar, she said to a silver-haired bartender, “Two glasses of house white, Ross. Taking my friend to the boys’ booth.”

He nodded. “Haven’t sold your jacket yet.”

Moments later, Dorothy ushered Frances into a red vinyl booth nestled in the back of the sports book, quietly ensuring that her right cheek faced a wall. There were a few scattered tables nearby, all empty. Lights were dim back here, the area giving Frances an added sense of safety.

“Two chardonnays,” announced a skinny waitress with pale skin whose name tag read Jan—Fresno, CA. As she set the glasses on the table, Frances noticed a silver tag engraved with a heart and the date 03-16-2009 dangling from a chain around her neck.

Dorothy reached for her purse.

Jan waved it off. “Ross says it’s on the house.”

“Tell him thank you,” Dorothy said. “How’s Denny?”

“Turns five next month. Has his heart set on going to Disneyland and eating lunch with Mickey Mouse, but the cost for gas, hotel, Disneyland... I’m trying to convince him Chuck E. Cheese’s is as much fun as Mickey. Wish me luck.”

She reached over to another table, picked up a small object and set it on their table. Frances saw it was a rock with writing on one flattened side.

“Menu for Rocky’s Deli,” Jan explained. “We started serving their food a few weeks ago. I recommend their pastrami on rye.”

“Got a roast cooking at home,” Dorothy said. “Hungry, Frances?”

She was starving, but wanted to wait to eat dinner with her dad. “No, thanks.”

After Jan left, Dorothy said, “Jan’s a single mom. She had it rough when Denny was diagnosed with epilepsy a few years ago, but fortunately medicine is helping control his seizures.” She made an amused noise. “Lunch with Mickey Mouse. When Braxton was that age, he was all about Donald Duck. Bought him a pair of Donald Duck pajamas, which he insisted on wearing
every single day.
I explained they were
pajamas,
to be worn at
night,
but once that boy gets his mind stuck on something, watch out, world. I gave in—bought four more pairs of Donald Duck pajamas so there’d always be a clean set handy.”

“Donald Duck,” Frances mused, thinking of his classy clothes style. “The first of a long line of designer labels.”

“Ha! Never thought of it that way, but too true. He also loves nice cars, nice restaurants...although he’s a better cook than most chefs, if you ask me. The way he makes spaghetti
alla puttanesca,
you’d think he had an Italian mama. You like to cook?”

“I make a mean slice of toast.”

Dorothy laughed, clinked her glass against Frances’s. “We all gotta start somewhere, dear.”

After they sipped their wine, Frances edged into a topic that had been weighing heavily on her heart.

“Did I blow it with Braxton?”

For all the times she’d told herself getting involved was a bad idea, now she was second-guessing herself.

Dorothy mulled that over for a few moments. “I’d love to say no, but I’d be lying. Once he’s made up his mind about something, he tends to stick to it. Too much pride, like me.” Pause. “Ever been married?”

“No.”

“Neither has Braxton.”

“Has he ever been engaged?”

Dorothy arched an “are you kidding me?” eyebrow. “Let’s just say there was a time he made Hugh Hefner in his heyday look like a wallflower.”

“Wow.”

“Wow’s right. He didn’t get that playboy streak from his father or me. But those days are behind him.” She paused. “Have to say, I’ve never seen him carry on about a woman the way he has over you.”

Frances’s heart shrank a little.
He won’t be carrying on about me anymore.

“What time is your father getting here?”

“It’s a half-hour drive from my condo, but with Strip traffic being bumper to bumper...”

“Good idea to call him, check his estimated time of arrival.” Dorothy rummaged in her purse. “I’ve got to stop buying monster-size purses,” she muttered. “I can never find a damned thing... My other sock! Wondered where that was. Okay, found it....” She set her cell phone on the table. “Parking’s a hassle, so tell him to wait in the loading zone across the street, and I’ll walk you to his car.”

Frances hesitated, again questioning the wisdom of leaving a digital footprint on any device. Seemed silly to worry about it, but...

“Same problem using my phone as my son’s?”

A bit stunned by the older woman’s accurate assessment, Frances fumbled for what to say. But she couldn’t lie. Not to Dorothy, who’d seen the scar
and
Frances’s panicked reaction, without feeling the need to pummel her with questions. How’d it happen? When? Where? How do you feel, what is it like, will it ever go away....?

Who’d accepted Frances without conditions.

Not only did she trust Dorothy with the truth, she owed it to her.

“You’re right,” she finally answered.

“I like your honesty. As my husband, Benny, used to say, honesty is less profitable than dishonesty, but it feels better. Have to say, anybody who’s this nervous about borrowing someone’s cell phone is hiding something. So, let’s start at the beginning. Is your name really Frances Jefferies?”

Frances almost laughed at the older woman’s forthright approach, the exact opposite of her own mother, who’d had a tendency to be soft-spoken and overly polite.

“Yes, that’s my real name.”

“And...you really work at this company where my son interviewed today?”

She paused. “Yes.”

“You seem unsure.”

“It’s complicated.”

“Most things in life are, dear. Braxton’s security position seems fairly straightforward, however.”

“As part-time bodyguard positions go, I suppose.”

Dorothy pursed her lips. “I didn’t know that.”

“I only know about the bodyguard position. There’s another job Dmitri’s hired him for, but I know nothing about it.”

After the older woman took a sip of wine, she asked, “Are you really a vice president?”

“No. I’m an...insurance investigator.”

“Oh, dear God.” Dorothy downed several sips of wine in quick succession.

Of all the possible reactions, that was the
last
one Frances anticipated.

“I’ll call my dad now,” she murmured, picking up the phone.

A moment later, he answered. “Baby girl, you okay?”

“I’m fine, Dad. A friend is with me.”

“Charlie?”

“No. Her name’s Dorothy. I’m using her phone. When you get here, park across the street in the loading zone and call me. You should have the number in your call log.”

“I’m glad you’re with someone. I’ve been worried sick about you.” He cleared his throat. “Hey, whatcha want for dinner?”

After a brief discussion about Spam, Chinese take-out or frozen pizza, the latter winning out, she ended the call.

“He should be here in ten minutes,” she said, putting the phone down.

“Good.” Dorothy paused. “Sorry about my outburst.”

“Sorry about my meltdown earlier.”

The older woman’s eyes softened. “You’re a naturally beautiful woman, Frances.... Don’t let that scar get in your way of living life. Besides, we all have scars—most people’s just aren’t visible.”

“Thanks,” Frances said quietly, circling her finger around the base of her glass. “Since we’re being honest, is there a problem with my being an investigator?”

Dorothy gave a wry smile. “Oh, I hate the profession and refuse to have another family member work in that field. But other than that, no.”

“But...I’m not a family member.”

Dorothy didn’t say anything, just gently laid her hand on Frances’s.

Frances looked down at the older woman’s hand, so large it swallowed hers up, the skin threaded with veins, yet so warm. She imagined Dorothy’s hands tending to her children, writing, cooking, caressing a loved one.

They finished their wine and headed toward the bar. Dorothy paused in a private area next to a fake palm. “I need to pick up my jacket from Ross—wait here for me?”

As Dorothy walked away, Frances smiled to herself, thinking about five-year-old Braxton wearing Donald Duck pajamas.

Hit with another thought, she quickly crossed the few steps back to their booth, where she fished the four one-hundred-dollar bills out of her pocket and placed them under the rock menu, imagining another five-year-old boy’s glee when he finally met Mickey.

* * *

E
XITING
B
ALLY
’
S
, D
OROTHY
and Frances scurried down the sidewalk packed with pedestrians, vendors hawking tickets and street performers. They paused at the corner of Flamingo Road to wait for the light to turn green, hunching into their coats as chilly winds blustered past.

“There’s my dad,” Frances said, pointing to a metallic blue Honda Accord parked in a loading zone across the street.

As they approached the Honda, her dad jumped out of the driver’s side, jogged to the passenger door and opened it. Frances quickly introduced Dorothy to her dad, then kissed him on the cheek and slid inside the car.

He slammed shut the door and Frances sank into her seat. The motor chugged quietly, the heater on high, and she luxuriated in the warmth.

She looked through the windshield at Dorothy, who stood on the sidewalk, bundled in her brown hooded jacket, talking to her dad. With the windows up and the heater running, Frances only heard bits and pieces of the conversation.

“I insisted...coat home,” Dorothy said.

Sounded like Dorothy was explaining she insisted Frances wear the trench coat home.

After an unintelligible exchange, her dad looked down at his bulky Miami Heat sweatshirt, then back at Dorothy. Frances swore he said
thermals.
Was he talking about his thermal underwear? Whatever it was, it made the older woman smile.