Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (25 page)

God, I sound so insecure.

“You toss the rags, I’ll get the door,” he said, setting his
paper towel on the table.

“Dad,” she whispered frantically.

He stopped, turned to her.

“I don’t know if I can do this....”

“Yes, you can. Plus you look so pretty, those flowery things in
your hair, that dress.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “And don’t forget,
answers are sometimes right at our fingertips.”

* * *

W
HEN
B
RAXTON
STEPPED
inside the small
entranceway of Frances’s condo, his first impression was “detached.”

The walls were a misty color, like fog, reflected in several
silver-framed antique mirrors. To his right was a small white half-table on
which sat a pale yellow bowl painted with bees, a set of keys inside.

“She’ll be out in a minute,” Frances’s dad said.

Braxton shifted his attention to Jonathan Jefferies. Although
they’d met the other night, it had been outside in the dark, so this was the
first time he’d seen his face clearly.

Glints of gray showed in his trimmed dark hair, with a sharp
side part that told him where Frances got her perfectionist streak. His eyes
glistened with curiosity, which also reminded him of Frances. But the rest of
his face—blunt, ruddy, open—was his alone.

“Let’s go to the dining room,” Jonathan said, leading the
way.

Maybe it was the soft lighting or the pale yellow walls, but
the room made Braxton think of afternoon light. In the center was an oval oak
table, its surface gleaming like honey.

Except for one fat, bushy spot in its center.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Frances’s cat. Name’s Teller.”

“He’s...large.” Gargantuan was more like it.

“He likes to eat. Get you a beer?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got another appointment in a few
minutes.”

“Oh?”

Braxton looked at Frances’s father, wondering if that was a
question or verification that he really had to leave soon.

“Yes,” he answered, figuring that covered both.

“An appointment this time at night?”

“It’s barely six, right?”

He looked around for a wall clock. A display of fans were on
one wall, a framed poster of Penn & Teller’s Magic and Mystery Tour on
another. No clock.

“It’s exactly six o’clock,” Jonathan said, glancing at his
wristwatch, stating the time with a fatalistic cynicism Sherlock Holmes might
use to address Professor Moriarty.

This wasn’t going well.

Not that Braxton expected to win over Frances’s father at their
first man-to-man chat, but from the suspicious looks he kept giving him, and the
sudden chill in the room, he’d obviously done or said something offensive.

Had to be the cat.
Shouldn’t have asked
what it was.

People tended to take any comments about their pets personally,
not understanding why others might not find their furry children adorable and
loving. Like Grams, who believed Maxine was merely misunderstood, not a
psychotic she-cat from hell.

“Hi,” murmured a familiar, smoky voice.

Frances stood in the doorway, smiling at him, a glass of white
wine in one hand, her cell phone in the other.

Whatever worries or concerns he had drifted away, leaving him
feeling warm and happy, the way he felt after a long, hot soak or a perfectly
chilled martini, only better. She hovered in the entrance to the dining room,
awash in the afternoon light, as beautiful and intriguing as the vision of her
that haunted him every single waking moment.

“I need to go,” Jonathan said, kissing his daughter on the
cheek. He paused, turned to Braxton. “My daughter’s a beautiful woman, inside
and out, and if anybody hurts her...” His voice dropped to a threatening growl.
“They’re going to answer to me.”

“Dad,”
Frances said.

He smiled brightly at her. “You need anything, baby girl, just
call.” After they exchanged “I love you’s,” he left the room.

After the front door clicked shut behind him, she shrugged
apologetically. “What can I say? That’s how dads are.”

“Ready to kill men their daughters are seeing?”

“Don’t be silly, it’s not like that. Can I get you anything?
Beer? Wine?”

“No, thanks.”

“Good,” she said, entering the room, “because this is the last
glass of wine, and I’m not sure if there’s any more beer.”

* * *

A
S
F
RANCES
SAT
in the chair next to Braxton, she had to admit he was right—her dad had sounded
as though he was ready to hunt down Brax with a shotgun if he broke his little
girl’s heart. She’d never seen her father act like that, but then he’d never
seen his daughter all inside-out, upside-down over a guy, especially one who had
some kind of smoke and mirrors act going on.

She handed Braxton her smartphone. “Ready when you are.”

Beep. Beep.

“Got a text,” he said, pulling his phone out of his shirt
pocket. “I should check it.”

As he read the message, she thought she detected an irritated
look on his face. Which made her feel better. Had to mean he wasn’t that into
the other person, whoever it was.

And then he smiled.

Her insides clenched. What did that mean? The other woman
amused him? Had a talent for writing pithy, witty text messages?

“I need to leave soon,” he said, slipping the phone back into
his pocket. “Let’s get this app rolling.”

While downloading the app onto her phone, Braxton explained how
he’d set up two motion-detector devices at each end of the airstrip, one in a
cactus, the other in a fake rock—and how she could see views from both using
this app.

Then he slid her phone between them so they could both look at
the screen.

“When you open the program,” he said, tapping the screen, “it
asks you to make a selection. See?”

“Yes.” She took a sip of wine, wondering if Braxton was in the
middle of making a selection, too.

“You can choose Option 1, this blue icon, or Option 2, the red
one. If you want to look at the north end of the airstrip—”

“Oh, no!”

“What happened?”

She stared, aghast, at the wet patch on her dress. “I just
bought this!”

He took the empty wineglass from her hand, set it on the table.
“At least it wasn’t red wine. If you get it cleaned quickly, it shouldn’t stain.
I know a great dry cleaner if you need a recommendation.”

“Thank you, but I have a great cleaner, too, and it’s only a
few blocks away.” She looked down at the spot. “How clumsy of me. I was leaning
forward to get a closer look at the screen, and wasn’t paying attention to my
glass.” With an exasperated sigh, she stood. “I need to change. Be right
back.”

A few minutes later, she stood in her bathroom, wearing jeans
and a baggy sweatshirt, Braxton’s cell phone in her hands. When her dad said
answers were “right at our fingertips,” she realized there was one sure way to
learn if there was another woman. Check Braxton’s cell phone.

She could contact Dorothy, but his mom had already said she’d
learned her lesson, and wouldn’t be talking about her son’s personal life
anymore. And Frances wasn’t comfortable enough to ask anyone else in Braxton’s
family.

When Frances sat next to Braxton tonight, she wasn’t sure if
she’d really pickpocket his phone. Weren’t deception and secrets for magic, not
real life?

But after observing him read those text messages, and feeling
her heart twist again, she changed her mind. Maybe deception was sometimes the
best way to deal with deception. Fighting fire with fire, so to speak.

During the distraction—spilling her wine—she had quickly lifted
Braxton’s phone from his pocket. The spilled wine also provided an excuse to
leave the room and check his phone in private.

She tapped the message icon and read his most recent incoming
text message.

WHERE ARE YOU?

She stared at the words, wondering why they were capitalized.
Seemed...demanding. A formidable dance instructor?

Or an impatient girlfriend?

The last thought made her feel shaky inside. She didn’t want to
think he was deceiving her, but after his evasiveness this afternoon, she
couldn’t help but wonder.

Hard to believe this was the guy who felt betrayed when she’d
called her dad at Bally’s. The guy who said he wanted her to tell him the truth
to his face.

What a hypocrite.

What had he read that made him smile? She bit her lip.
Maybe I don’t want to know.
This could be the dagger
to her heart.

But also the definitive answer to her question.

Steeling herself, she checked the other most recent
message.

Darling, I’m out of vermouth. Grams

She stifled a laugh.

Then closed her eyes and drew a deep breath.

Her emotions had been on a bumper car ride, bouncing from
shocked to devastated to furious to amused. More emotions in a few minutes than
she’d probably experienced in the last six months!

She had to remember that she hadn’t been promoted to lead
investigator because of her feelings, but for her ability to analyze facts.

She re-checked the first message and identified the sender’s
ID. Boss2.

That’s all she needed to solve this case.

* * *

T
HE
INSTANT
B
RAXTON LEFT,
Frances went
to her computer and plugged
Boss2
into a proprietary
database, learned the ID was referenced in a medical marijuana forum. She
checked it out, found a posting about a Green Meet-and-Greet, and to contact
Boss2 at a certain phone number for reservations. Running a reverse on the
number, she found an address for “N. Davidovitch.”

Then she grabbed her dad’s black hooded canvas jacket and Miami
Heat baseball cap, and headed to her car.

Twenty minutes later, Frances parked in the lot behind a senior
citizen center and headed across the street to the Willow Creek Apartments, a
stucco complex with a few scraggly palm trees instead of willows, and the noisy
U.S. 95 interstate behind it instead of a creek. N. Davidovitch lived on the
third floor, apartment 3B.

Braxton’s rented Jeep was parked in a Willow Creek Visitors
Only spot.

Some dance lesson.

A blue funk crept over her. Nothing like the wretched,
kicked-in-the-gut feelings she’d had before, but a kind of a meandering
melancholy laced with disappointment.

If he’d really wanted to end it with this
other woman, he should have told her. Instead, he popped in at this tawdry
apartment complex for “free-form dancing” night after night. This wasn’t
some casual dating scenario, but somebody he kept returning to
.

Frances had never felt this deeply about anyone before, had
never put her heart out there the way she had with Braxton. It wasn’t going to
be easy reeling her heart back in. It’d gotten a little too free-spirited,
pumped up with dreams and ever-afters....

Heading back across the parking lot toward the senior center,
she thought about picking up some take-out on the way home, eating it at the
dining room table for a change. Time to start using that room. Afterward she’d
spend some quality time with Teller, give Charlie a call, and try not to think
about Braxton and N. Davidovitch.

Wonder what she’s like...

Frances stopped, turned and looked up at the third floor of the
Willow Creek Apartments. Was she blonde, redhead, brunette? Thin, medium, a
little extra? Sexy, studious, laid-back?

She’d always wonder what N. Davidovitch had that Frances
didn’t...and there was only one way to find out.

Her dad’s jacket was way too big for her, but its bulky shape
hid hers. And the beauty of baseball caps were they disguised key features, like
the shape of the head, hair color, and when pulled low enough, the shape and
color of the eyes. No wonder they were bank robbers’ disguise of choice.

Before getting out of the car, she’d pulled her hair up in a
topknot so her hair wouldn’t be visible under the baseball cap. Tugging its bill
lower, she headed back to the Willow Creek Apartments.

After climbing three flights of stairs, she paused to catch her
breath, embarrassed she was this out of shape. Not even thirty and she was
huffing and puffing like someone twice her age. Probably time to start some
exercise regime. Daily walks or exercising along with some TV program.

Which sounded as much fun as wearing pantsuits every day for
the rest of her life.

On the third floor, four apartments lined a narrow concrete
walkway with a metal handrail. An aging palm tree leaned against the midsection
of the railing, its bushy fronds providing a natural cover over part of the
walk. The area outside 3B’s door was crowded with clay pots.
She’s a gardener?

Frances stood there, eyeing the walkway, listening to the
rattle of dry frond leaves, the distant buzz of traffic on Interstate 95,
smelling a smoky scent of barbeque.

Where should she station herself to conduct this surveillance?
Although she was tempted to stay in this spot, a shadowy niche in the stairwell
thanks to the overhead burnt-out bulb, a dark form loitering up here only
invited trouble. Couldn’t hang out on the walkway near 3B. That would be way too
obvious, although she could stroll down it once without drawing attention. She
glanced at the adjacent apartment complex, a gray cinder-block building with
bars on most of its windows. No options there.

For now, she’d take that stroll, and see what she could
learn.

Walking casually down the walkway, she glanced up at the half
moon in the sky as though that’s all that held her interest. Approaching 3B, she
heard the thump thump of a vaguely familiar song. A few steps more, she
recognized the funky, bass-heavy seventies disco song “You Should Be Dancing” by
the Bee Gees, their voices soaring in a vibrato rift about keeping a woman
warm.