Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (23 page)

Another round of quiet.

“I’m not happy about this,” Charlie finally said, staring hard
at her. “But under these circumstances, bringing Braxton in makes sense. But
I’ll have to hard-sell him to management, since I can’t hide his past from them.
But...I’ll explain why he’s our best option right now and that he will
never
work an investigative task alone but always in
tandem with you. Which makes you responsible for his actions, Frances.”

“Thank you, Char—”

“It bears repeating,” he said, his expression darkening, “that
you will be responsible for his actions. If he slips up, it’s on you.”

She knew exactly what he was saying—if Braxton messed up,
Vanderbilt would terminate her employment, which meant the court would revoke
her suspended sentence.

Apprehension prickled her skin at the thought of serving out
her sentence in prison. But she trusted Braxton, believed without a doubt he’d
work hard and smart on this case with her. Minor slipups happened all the time
in investigations, but she could easily smooth those over, and no one would be
the wiser.

Charlie was talking
major
snafus,
and she’d ensure none happened by anticipating potential problems ahead of time
and working them herself.

“I understand what you’re saying, Charlie. You can reach
Braxton at—”

“Morgan LeRoy Detective Agency,” he said, as though the name
itself disgusted him.

Which almost made her laugh. That and the childish pout on her
boss’s face, like a prep-school boy forced to make nice with some dirty
hooligan. Poor Charlie. Soiling his lofty standards by associating with a
private dick.

“I need something to lift my spirits,” he grumped. “Maybe I’ll
try a vegan doughnut.”

“You won’t regret it, Charlie.”

“The doughnut or the shamus?”

“Both.”

She’d make sure this worked, no matter what it took.

Because failure was not an option.

* * *

A
T
SIX
ON
Tuesday evening, after a
bumpy ride in the dark across several acres of barren desert, Braxton braked his
rented Jeep Cherokee in front of a wide strip of concrete, which had an
otherworldly glow in the headlights.

“There it is,” he said to Frances, “Grover’s old airstrip. The
last of the renegade runways.”

The gloomy skies and winds of the past few days had finally
dispersed, leaving a clear night sky dotted with stars.

“How wide is it?” she asked.

“Probably sixty feet. Pretty narrow for an airstrip. I was
going to kill the engine, but I won’t if you still want the heater
running....”

“Please, turn it off.”

After Braxton escorted her to her car after work, she’d rushed
home and changed into jeans, a turtleneck and her down jacket for their
investigation tonight. Perfect attire for the chilly outdoors, but bordering on
a sweat lodge inside a well-heated vehicle, so she’d peeled her jacket off on
the twenty-minute ride over and tossed it into the backseat.

He turned off the ignition. Except for the distant hum of
traffic from Interstate 15, it was eerily quiet.

“Should’ve told me you were uncomfortable,” Braxton said. “I
would have turned off your heated seat.”

Heated seat. She felt a rush of warmth fill her cheeks.
Couldn’t seem to escape being overheated in one way or another tonight.

“Your
car
seat,” he elaborated.

“I know what you meant.”

“Didn’t want you to think I was flirting with you or anything.
I’m playing by the rules. Not exactly what I’ve been known for in the past, so
this is an exercise in character building. For me, I mean.”

Frances wasn’t sure how to respond, so she decided not to.
Talking about denying their sexual chemistry was like being on a diet and
talking about not eating chocolate truffles.

It was probably good that the vehicle’s interior was so dark
she couldn’t see the play of emotions in Braxton’s gray eyes. Or that way he had
of quirking an eyebrow, which always made her want to laugh. Or the sexy,
teasing curve of his lips when he smiled. Or that brown leather bomber jacket
he’d worn tonight, giving him an edgy, motorcycle-gang look that could make a
nun kick out a church window.

Clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she forced air into her
lungs.
Should’ve stuck with thinking about
truffles.

“After you went back to work this afternoon, I came out here to
check the airstrip while there was still light,” Braxton said. “Didn’t see any
fresh tire marks, and farther down the strip there’s brush growing up through
some cracks in the concrete, so I’m guessing it hasn’t been used in a while.” He
paused. “Drake and I were teenagers when we visited Grover with our dad. Kind of
sad seeing his old house boarded up—it’s a quarter mile or so to the north. And
the hangar is totally gone. I mean, not even a stick of wood where it used to
be, like it vanished into thin air.”

His comment struck a chord with her.

“Lately,” she said, “I’ve sometimes thought how people work so
hard to gain things. Money. Cars. Houses. When really, life is about letting go,
hopefully gracefully, of everything.”

“Are we doing deep thoughts now?”

“Don’t make me slug you.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to do that. You could probably take me
mano-a-mano.”

She laughed softly. “Why do I put up with you?”

“There must be
some
reason, because
according to Charlie Eden, you highly recommended me to be your investigator
underling.”

On the drive over here, they’d discussed Charlie’s call to
Braxton earlier today in which he’d offered him a consulting contract. Braxton
said their conversation had been “stilted” but professional. Frances took that
to mean her boss had been on his best behavior, which was a good sign.

“Did he really say
underling?
” she
asked.

“No, I added that part. He said you would be the lead
investigator on this case, and I was to work in tandem with you, never alone.
Which is stated in the contract he emailed to me, as well. Three times.”

“He’s worried about you taking on something solo, messing up
the case.”

“I would never do that, Frances,” Braxton said, his tone
serious. “Like I said before, I want to help you.”

She looked out into the night, irked that Charlie had put the
requirement for their always working in tandem
three
times into the contract. Did he think Braxton was an idiot?

Charlie thinks most people are idiots.
Probably treated his exes like that, too. And they’re going to make him pay
and pay for it.

“Awfully quiet over there,” Braxton said gently. “Something
wrong?”

“Charlie,” she muttered. “He can be such a...” She blew out an
exasperated breath.

“Pompous asshole?”

She smiled. “Yes. He made it clear today that should you slip
up, it’s on me. He had his reasons, of course, but it’s more about keeping his
reputation shiny at Vanderbilt. I told you he’ll be heading up a new division
soon, right?”

“Yeah, and that you’ll be his star investigator-manager.” He
made a concerned noise. “What did he mean, it’s ‘on you’?”

“I’m responsible if you mess something up. Which I know you’d
never do, of course,” she added quickly.

“I know that, Frances.” He paused. “Responsible as in...they’d
fire you?”

“Probably.”

“But that could mean...prison.”

She felt as though she’d swallowed ice cubes. “I have to admit,
there was a minute or two after I first met Dmitri when I wondered if prison
were preferable to working this case,” she said quietly. “But the thought of
losing my freedom—losing the chance to be with you—terrifies me more than
anything else.”

“Baby,” he murmured, pulling her close.

Sinking against him, she snuggled into his warmth, taking in
his familiar masculine scent.

She felt him shift as a groan, guttural and needy, escaped his
throat, shooting a thrill through her.

His hands moved up to her face, cupping it and tilting it
slightly so she looked up into his shadowed features. In the ambient glow from
the headlights, she could almost make out his dark eyes and the shadow of his
mouth, so close she could feel his breath on her face.

“Sometimes I’ve imagined you to be like the night,” he murmured
huskily, “mysterious, full of secrets. And then sometimes like the
moon...beautiful, bright, alone. But you’re not alone. I’m here, and I will
always be here.”

She felt hypnotized by the roughened quality of his voice, the
heat of his palm cradling her cheek, almost as if protecting the scar, shielding
it for her. She closed her eyes, imagining how it would feel to let go, finally
let go, never worry about probing stares, whispered comments...to really be his
beautiful, bright moon.

“But I promised you no frisky business,” he said in a strangled
whisper, “and I will keep my word, even if it kills me. And that means not even
a kiss. I’m being strong for both of us, Moon.”

With a soft laugh, she reluctantly pulled away. Settling
herself back in her seat, she gazed out at the airstrip. “Looking out Dmitri’s
window today, I wouldn’t have been able to find this unless you’d told me where
to look. Would anyone else have a better view?”

“It’s visible while driving along a short section of Interstate
15, but without planes or a hangar, it doesn’t stand out as an airstrip.”

She stared into the inky night, imaging Grover living alone on
five acres of desert, playing hide-and-seek with the airport.

“How’d Grover keep it secret? We’re, what, eight miles from
McCarran? Wouldn’t air traffic control have noticed?”

“Grover never called for takeoff or landing permission, so
there was no reason they’d find out.”

“What about radar?”

“That doesn’t always detect small, light airplanes, especially
if they’re flying at a low altitude.”

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.

* * *

A
T
FIVE
ON
W
EDNESDAY
,
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?