Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (24 page)

At which point Charlie launched into a spiel about the
pointlessness of such testimony as it was circumstantial evidence, way too thin
for prosecutors to file and juries to convict; therefore, if she couldn’t find a
lead to the coins, Vanderbilt needed a confession.

Meaning that unless she came up with concrete evidence, the
sting was on.

All of which she thought about as she headed down the building
exit, the click of her heels echoing in the empty corridor. But the thoughts
scattered, blown away like dust in a wind, as she approached the glass
doors.

Braxton waited outside for her, dressed casually in jeans, a
gray T-shirt and shades...but his demeanor was anything but casual. Maybe it was
his nonchalant, cocky stance or the way his toned chest and arms seemed to
strain against his shirt, but even separated by heavy glass doors, she could
feel
his sexuality stoking her internal
temperature.

He...was...so...damned...hot.

Slowing her steps, she took a steadying breath, working to
empty her mind of their heated encounters—the way he’d pressed her against those
very glass doors, their passion as fierce and turbulent as the storm
outside...the way he’d pulled her into his home and into his arms, his warm,
full lips dragging a trail down her face, lingering at the corner of her
mouth...

Hard to diet if you’re thinking about
truffles.

So much for emptying her mind.

With Dmitri’s and Oleg’s offices having views of this parking
lot, she and Braxton had agreed to keep it low-key and professional during these
walks to her car, not do anything to raise others’ questions or doubts.

Easing in a calming breath, she proceeded to the door.

“No purse today?” Braxton asked as they started walking across
the lot.

The warm breezes and clear blue skies hinted of spring, but
locals knew better. Just because February weather flashed a smile didn’t mean it
wouldn’t be brooding later.

“I’ve decided not to bring a purse to work anymore—don’t want
it locked in somebody’s office again.” A passing breeze lifted wisps of her
hair. She smoothed them back into her chignon. “I’m keeping my phone and keys in
my jacket pockets. Anything else can stay in the car.”

They stopped next to her Benz. She retrieved the key from her
jacket pocket and unlocked the doors.

“I’ve got the motion-detector cameras set up at the airstrip,”
Braxton said casually, glancing up at the skies. “Tomorrow I’ll download the app
to your phone so you can view the feed.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’m busy tonight.”

Something flickered in his eyes that made her uncomfortable.
Was he hiding something?

“Another dance lesson?” she guessed.

He hesitated, then nodded.

She flicked a glance at Oleg’s office window. Time to cut this
short.

“Have a good class,” she said, reaching for the door
handle.

“I’ll get that.” He opened her door, shutting it behind her.
Leaning over, he peered at her through the tinted driver’s window, jabbed a
finger at the door latch while mouthing,
Locked?

She started the engine, rolled down the window.

“Yes indeedy,” she said brightly, gaily punching the lock
button on the arm console. “See you later, Fred!”

Ignoring his baffled look, she closed the window and took off,
peeling a little rubber in her not-exactly-smooth exit.

There was a lot on her plate these days. Thwarting Russians,
finding coins, dealing with bosses, solving mysterious transactions in sports
books, monitoring mysterious airstrips, calculating seconds....

But there was room on that plate for one more task.

She was going to get to the bottom of this dance-lesson
thing.

* * *

O
N
T
HURSDAY
,
AS
Frances walked down the corridor at five, she saw Braxton waiting
outside the warehouse doors again. He’d texted her once today, just one
word.

Fred?

Yesterday she’d called him Fred, as in Fred Astaire,
which had been a spur-of-the-moment whimsy on her part, mostly because she was
afraid if she didn’t say something light she might say something heavy like
Are you seeing somebody else?

Which probably would have come out very badly, making her
appear to be some kind of jealous girlfriend. Which she wasn’t, not really.
They’d never called themselves anything like boyfriend or girlfriend, just Babe
and Braxton, or he’d called her Moon, and then there were his early endearments,
Frau Farbissina and Hillary Clinton...

But never girlfriend.

She wondered why.

Not that it mattered. Babe had a sassy ring to it and Moon was
beautiful and bright and alone. On second thought, she wasn’t so sure she wanted
to be called Moon anymore—that alone part was too depressing. Frances didn’t
like feeling this vulnerable, either...and insecure...and jealous...

Braxton opened the glass door for her, and she stepped outside
into the last golden light of the day, felt a cool breeze on her face and caught
a scent of his musky cologne. She liked how his navy blue shirt deepened the
color of his eyes to a shadowy blue and how its top button was undone, revealing
a few wiry strands of chest hair. She even liked his brown oxford shoes.

She didn’t feel so alone now.

“You look very pretty,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.”

She’d prepared for this encounter by wearing strappy sandals
with a filmy print dress topped with a flowy blazer. It had taken her forty
minutes this morning following step-by-step instructions for a “sexy updo”
hairstyle, which she’d anchored into place with half a dozen flowery barrettes.
A few weeks ago Frances would never have worn them because they were too
girlie.

Almost thirty, and she was embracing her inner girlie for the
first time.

As they walked to her car, Braxton asked, “Fred?”

Ignoring his question, she asked sweetly, “Shall we download
the app now?”

“Sure. Your place?”

She nodded. “I was going to order Chinese. Interested?”

He paused. “I, uh...can’t stay for dinner.”

“Dance lesson?”

“It’s over after tonight. Well, tomorrow night.”

“Over?” She paused. “That almost sounds as though you’re
breaking up with someone.”

He did a double take. “What?”

He looked so surprised, she wondered if she’d been worrying
over nothing. But he hadn’t really given her an answer, either. Well, she’d
opened the door—might as well charge right on through and ask the big
question.

“Is there someone else?”

“You mean, am I seeing anyone else?”

She nodded.

Braxton glanced up at Dmitri’s office windows, then back to
her. Lowering his voice, he said, “Frances, this is a heck of a time to have
this discussion, but trust me, my playboy days are over.”

She forced a small smile, but she felt more uncomfortable than
ever. He could have said no, but instead he let her know that he was no longer a
playboy.

That word
over
had started this
conversation and ended it, but it wasn’t an answer. It was a dance around the
issue.

* * *

“W
HAT
DOES
THAT
MEAN
,
‘it’s over after tonight’?” her dad asked.

“No idea.” Frances turned on the kitchen faucet and held a dish
towel underneath it. “After that he said, ‘Well, tomorrow night.’”

“And what does
that
mean?”

“Like I said, we were in the parking lot, and I didn’t want to
get into an awkward conversation.”

And she didn’t want to tell her dad that she’d asked Braxton if
there was someone else and hadn’t really gotten an answer.

She turned off the faucet and faced her dad. “Maybe I shouldn’t
have told you. With you seeing Dorothy tonight for dinner and all...”

Her dad wore a chambray shirt and trousers he’d purchased today
in “some mall,” along with the shiny black lace-up shoes he usually only wore to
his monthly International Brotherhood of Magicians dinners, but had worn twice
this week when visiting Dorothy.

She caught a scent she’d hadn’t smelled before—a light mix of
spice and citrus—apparently another purchase he’d made today, as he hadn’t worn
cologne in years.

“You know I won’t say a word about this to Dorothy, baby
girl.”

“I know.”

One thing about magicians, they knew how to keep secrets.
Without secrets, there’d be no magic, just cheap tricks.

She hesitated. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I’m no mentalist, but...yes, it makes me wonder if...”

“There’s somebody else,” she finished.

He looked uneasy. “But it could be...”

“He’s trying to end it with her.”

He nodded solemnly. “Still...”

“He should have told me.”

It wasn’t as if she and Braxton had been seeing each other for
weeks or months. It had only been a few days, so it was understandable there
might be someone else hovering in the background. Maybe someone he’d been
casually dating, but because of his developing relationship with Frances, he
wanted to make a clean break with Miss X.

Relationship.
That word was
haunting her as much as
girlfriend
right now. And to
think the other night she’d actually thought she was maybe...in love.

Braxton had never indicated he felt that way about her,
though.

A nauseous feeling settled in her stomach. Had she been trying
to sell herself an illusion, one where she loved and was loved in return? Where
there was a shared life together, through richer or poorer, in sickness and in
health, till the end of their days?

Because if there was no truth behind this illusion, there could
never be magic.

“He’ll be here any minute, so I’m going to wipe down the
table,” she said, heading toward the dining room. “It’s caked with dust.”

Braxton had never been inside her condo. When he’d picked her
up the other night for their airstrip investigation, they’d left right away.
Tonight she planned to sit in the dining room, as it was roomy and convenient to
work at the table. But more than that, she didn’t feel comfortable inviting him
farther inside her home, her private world.

The last light of day sparkled through the small square windows
on the far wall, casting hazy patterns of gold and orange light around the room.
This room had been one of the reasons she bought the condo. At the time, she had
the wild idea she’d throw dinner parties or host soirees filled with lively
conversations about books and film, although she’d never thrown a dinner party
in her life and only knew the people in her Yahoo film buffs group by their
login IDs.

Funny how introverts indulged in extroverted fantasies.

As she began wiping the table, her dad entered, a wad of paper
towels in his hand.

“Figured I’d help out,” he said, ripping off one of the towels,
“I’m not leaving for another fifteen minutes.”

“Taking Dorothy to dinner?”

“I asked, but she insisted on making her famous meat loaf,
which apparently has won some awards.”

She swirled a few circles on the table surface, thinking how
tonight’s home-cooked dinner might also turn into breakfast. Should she ask if
he was planning on staying out all night? Or not ask and wonder when he’d be
getting home?

Maybe it wasn’t any of her business. Wasn’t as if he was a
teenager going out on a date and she was the parent, but in an odd way, that’s
how it felt.

“So, uh...” She rubbed at a spot. “Planning on staying out
late?”

“Don’t know.”

Which she guessed meant
Yes, if things go
well.
“Dorothy likes you. I mean, she hasn’t told me that, but I can
tell.”

He carefully refolded a paper towel. “And I like her.”

She straightened, figuring it was time to put this next topic
out on the table, so to speak.

“I like her, too, Dad.”

For several moments, they stood on opposite sides of the table,
reading each other’s gazes, listening to a bird twittering outside.

“I sometimes feel like I’m cheating on your mother,” he said
quietly.

The comment surprised Frances at first, but one thing she’d
always known about her dad was that he owned his truth. He never talked around
it, or pretended it was something else, just acknowledged it. Deception and
secrets were for magic, not real life.

“Have to admit,” she said, “it feels odd imagining another
woman in your life...but it’s time, you know?” She paused, wanting to be sure
her voice remained steady for what she wanted to say next. “Finding love again
doesn’t mean you need to cut Mom out of your heart. She can still have her
special place.”

“She’ll always be my Zig Zag Girl,” he whispered.

Frances blinked back her emotion. For a moment, that fathomless
void that could never be filled threatened to overwhelm her, but she held it
off.

Because what truly mattered right now was for her to be
supportive of her dad, let him know she stood behind him.

“Maybe Dorothy,” she said, trying to infuse some lightness into
their talk, “can be your Aztec Lady.” A reference to a famous stage illusion
where the female assistant magically survives swords and spells.

With a gentle laugh, her dad returned to his polishing. “Did
you know only one magician in the world is allowed to perform the Aztec Lady
illusion? He purchased the exclusive rights from the magician’s family after his
death.”

“I didn’t know that.”

The doorbell rang.

Frances’s insides flip-flopped. Braxton. Was she ready to
embrace her own truth? Tell him how his hesitancy to discuss these dance lessons
had confused her, made her anxious. Or maybe she’d skip that and go for the big
question. Was there someone else?