Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (27 page)

Val was right. If Frances heard about this from someone else,
she’d wonder why he hadn’t said anything. He’d already lived with way too many
secrets, and knew how damaging even the little ones could be.

Plus he didn’t want her father hunting him down.

“Maybe I should call her now.”

Val shook her head vehemently. “Darlin’, there’s a time and a
place for everything, but trust me, this one isn’t it. Pick a quiet time when
the two of you are alone—”

“Whoa, dude, you got the pirate thing goin’ on!”

Li’l Bit stood there, wearing a bathrobe and flip-flops, a pair
of sunglasses stuck on top of his frizzy mass of hair. He looked like a guy
you’d see wandering around the supermarket at three in the morning looking for a
box of honey-nut cereal.

“You okay?” Val asked him, looking concerned.

“A little shaky, but I’m good,” he answered. “No weed, no
Cheetos for five days... Man, hasn’t been easy. But I’ve lost five pounds. And
thanks to Brax, gained some muscle.”

“Better get your costume on,” Val said, “auction’s starting
soon.”

Li’l Bit looked surprised. “This
is
my costume. I’m dressed like The Dude in
The Big
Lebowski.
” With a proud grin, he pulled open the robe to reveal his
T-shirt with the words
Is This Your Homework, Larry?
and baggy plaid shorts. “Plenty of give in the waistband to hold the
ladies’ bills,” he said, snapping the elastic.

Braxton looked at Li’l Bit’s eyes. Clear and bright without a
hint of pink. Could it be possible Li’l Bit sober was stranger than Li’l Bit
stoned?

“Time to start lining up, Manwiches!” boomed the male
voice.

“Brax, my...friend,” Li’l Bit said, “the time has come.”

* * *

T
HE
M
ANWICHES
SAT
in folding chairs lined
up against the side of the elevated stage. The guys couldn’t see the audience,
unless they stood and looked out over the performance area.

Which Braxton was doing now. The stage floor looked to be about
the size of his mom’s living room. On the far side of the stage, a tired-looking
guy wearing headphones sat hunched over a podium, reading something on a sheet
of paper.

From the edge of the stage, a catwalk extended forty or so feet
into the audience of several hundred women. One section in front of the stage
was roped off for wheelchair access where six or so women sat, chatting and
drinking cocktails.

Beyond the audience, blazing red under spotlights, sat the
Mustang Shelby GT500.

He stared at it for a long moment, coveting it with the heart
of a twelve-year-old Braxton. All those drawings, all those dreams, and here it
was, teasing him all these years later.

He felt a fortifying rush of determination. An almost surreal
belief he could do anything—climb Mt Everest, swim the English Channel, win the
Magic Dream Date Auction. Why not? He’d been paying dues, making amends, fixing
his life—maybe he’d earned one night to dream big.

Tonight, ’Stang, you’re gonna be
mine.

After he sat back down, Li’l Bit—who’d switched numbers so he
and Braxton could sit together—said, “Think I ate too much popcorn. Feeling a
little queasy. Kinda dizzy.”

“Need some water?” Braxton asked.

Li’l Bit waved him off. “No, man, but thanks. After all the
food denial this week, I kinda lost it at the popcorn machine.” He belched,
infusing the air with its buttery scent. “Ate three bags.”

A hissing static-y sound crackled over the speakers. “Is this
on?” said a man’s voice.

The chatter level decreased. Beeping slot machines could be
heard in the distance.

“Welcome, ladies,” the announcer’s voice boomed, “to the Magic
Dream Date Auction! Are you ready to see the fifteen hunky guys who want to be
your
dream date?”

After the deafening response of screams and squeals died down,
the announcer went through the rules, including the warning that if anyone
inappropriately touched any of the hunks, security personnel would escort them
immediately from the event and there would be no refunds.

Once he’d given the audience a chance to boo and hiss, the
announcer said, “And now, let me introduce our first Manwich.”

Michael Benning, bare-chested and tight-jeaned, stood, gave the
other Manwiches a thumbs up, then climbed the stairs. Wolf whistles and clapping
drowned out the rest of the introduction.

Then Mötley Crüe’s badass, guitar-growling metal hit “The
Animal in Me” began playing.

From the howls and screams and women begging Michael to take
their money, Braxton got the sinking feeling his pirate moonwalk was doomed to
walk the plank.

“Dude is killing it,” Li’l Bit murmured.

Captain Brax Sparrow solemnly nodded his agreement.

Manwiches Two through Seven were hit and miss, several cresting
the scream factor of Michael Manwich Number One. As each guy, sweaty and flushed
from exertion, left the stage, auction volunteers gathered the stuffed bills.
Braxton watched as they retrieved at least six hundred dollars off one guy.

Rules were that the women who tipped cash had to document it
via photo, and forward it to Keep ’Em Rollin’ with their names and contact
information. So there was a lot of camera and cell phone photo-taking action
along the catwalk. Flashes to challenge the red carpet at the Oscars.

“Manwich Number Eight!” The announcer’s voice reverberated over
the speakers. “Captain Brax Sparrow!”

Li’l Bit turned to him and grabbed his shoulders. “Listen, man,
you can do this. If you forget a step, just swirl your hips. Drives women
crazy.”

Braxton climbed the steps, his peacock feather waving in his
peripheral version, wondering if
swirl your hips
meant what he thought it meant, and that no matter how bad things might get, no
way was he swirling.

“Ladies,” the announcer said, “let me introduce you to Manwich
Number Eight, Captain Brax Sparrow, the long-lost brother of Jack Sparrow.”

He stood there, his hand on his sword holster, wishing Val had
told him he was actually being introduced as Captain Brax Sparrow. He didn’t
like people outside of family calling him Brax, but so much for that.

“Captain Brax Sparrow,” the announcer continued, “whose
breeches no woman could resist, was last seen sinking into the murky depths
off—” a pause “—Rop-o—” another pause “—off some exotic ocean, cutlass in hand,
frantically hacking at the iron-weighted rope pulling him under.”

“Can the words—start the dancing!” a woman yelled.

Clapping and whistles.

Braxton waited for his music to start... Nothing. He glanced
over at the tired-looking guy wearing headphones who gave him a don’t-ask-me
look back. Brax turned back to the several hundred bored, confused-looking women
who’d turned sullenly quiet. No one even cared to boo.

He was getting the feeling that the Shelby was always going to
be out of reach.

Time for this pirate to exit the Chippendale party.

Anyway, his moonwalk sucked.

As he turned to leave, one brave soul started clapping.

“Bravo, Captain Brax,” yelled his grandmother.

Someone else started clapping with her. “Go get ’em, son!”

He paused.

Then smiled.

He’d always pushed the boundaries, broken the rules. Been a
six-legged spider, the inventor of Brax-Chex Party-Hearty Mix, a pirate bucking
the trend. But the most important thing of all, he finally had what he’d fought
hard for years to earn back. His family’s devotion.

Sometimes life was about making breadboards out of shattered
paddles.

Walking to the edge of the stage, he whipped the peacock
feather out of his hat and loudly announced, “Captain Brax Sparrow will be
giving this exotic peacock feather he brought back from....” What the hell had
Val called it? He’d wing it. “...the Land of the Morgans, to the first lady who
bids...two hundred dollars!”

Once a hot dog, always a hot dog.

The funky percussion intro of the seventies hit “You Should Be
Dancing” began playing, and Captain Brax started dancing. Or the steps he’d
practiced, anyway, doing his best to keep pace with the music. A few women
stood, swaying to the music, bills in their hands.

The Bees Gees hit a spine-tingling vibrato, his cue to do what
Li’l Bit called a free spin. He did it, ended up facing forward, a good sign,
and started his strut to the catwalk.

Maybe he didn’t have the throngs of screaming devotees like the
previous Manwiches, but he had a handful of pirate groupies crowding the
catwalk, waving bills. Money for Grams’s charity, which was all that
mattered.

He remembered to hit the heel spin at the second “dancing yeah”
part, but when it came time to do the moonwalk, screw it. He was free form,
baby, from here on out.

Time to hit the catwalk.

He strolled toward it, giving his step some of the ol’ bad-boy
Brax
attitude,
sliding eye contact to her and her
and her, tossing smiles like Halloween candy.

More women were standing, waving the green. He could feel the
excitement rippling through the crowd. He glanced at the Shelby in the distance,
wondering if it was too late to dream.

He’d never know unless he tried.

He waved the two-hundred-dollar feather like a wand over his
pirate groupies, whose cult was growing. Red, brown, gray hair. Pre-cougar,
post-cougar. Clapping, dancing and singing along, they pressed against the sides
of the catwalk like barnacles to a pirate ship’s hull.

“Captain Brax,” one yelled, leaning provocatively against the
side of the catwalk, holding both arms straight up into the air, a Benjamin in
each hand.

She looked mid-cougar, curly brown hair, eyes too blue and a
top cut too low. He stepped toward her, pretending it was dancing, holding the
feather toward her like a divining rod. She smiled, straight white teeth framed
by slick red lips. As he step-danced closer, she slowly lowered her arms, giving
a little shimmy as she shook the Benjamins.

As the Bee Gees hit a trilling note, she dipped one bill, then
the other, into the waistband of his red velvet breeches, her fingers staying,
her body swaying, those red lips pursing....

Two other hands reached up and grabbed the
hundred-dollar-clutching ones, and yanked them away. Mid-Cougar, nostrils
flaring, took a fighting stance, ready for battle.

Just as Val had warned. Booze, estrogen and too few men were
trouble. He went into security mode. Time to separate these two before things
escalated.

Making a back-off-and-take-it-easy gesture to Mid-Cougar, he
turned and looked at the instigator.

“You need to leave—”

His heart stuck in his throat as he looked into a pair of
familiar amethyst eyes.

CHAPTER TWELVE

L
OOKING
UP
AT
Braxton on the stage, Frances’s heart thumped against her rib cage. Removing that woman’s hands from his pants made Frances look like the poster girl for Miranda Lambert’s song “Crazy Ex-Girlfriend.”

An ex. Before she ever got to be the girlfriend part.

Pulling her sweater jacket tighter around her work dress, she shifted her weight from one strappy-heeled foot to another, wanting to tell him that the real reason she was here had nothing to do with jealousy, but being damned scared since finding a GPS tracking device attached to her car a few hours earlier.

With her dad out for the evening at his monthly magicians’ dinner, she hadn’t felt comfortable staying in the condo alone, especially knowing someone had been on her front porch in the last day or so. So she’d reapplied her gel and makeup, ran a few Google searches based on bits of information she overheard last night, and learned all about the Magic Dream Date Auction, including that Braxton was one of the bachelor hunks.

When she’d walked into Sensuelle a few minutes ago, her frame of mind had been scared, but determined to find Braxton and tell him about the GPS. She wasn’t born yesterday, knew all about bachelor auctions. That part didn’t bother her at all; obviously, he’d been part of his grandmother’s event before he met Frances.

Then she’d seen that woman fastened on to Braxton’s pants, looking like a lonely abalone seeking its shell.

That’s when Frances snapped.

Before she knew it, she was reaching up and not-so-gently detaching those shifty, scheming, badly manicured digits off her man’s red-velvet privateer privates.

Now she stood here, looking up into Braxton’s bewildered expression, mortified by her actions and ashamed she’d hurt his chance to raise money for his grandmother’s charity. She was going to make it up to Grams and Keep ’Em Rollin’ with her own donation.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and she was, but that didn’t change why she was here. “I found something. When can we talk?”

His confusion shifted to concern. “Meet me at the tent. You okay?”

She nodded yes as static crackled over the speakers.

“Captain Brax Sparrow?” boomed the announcer’s voice.

“Present!” Braxton raised his hand as if responding to roll call.

Laughter rippled through the area.

“The Bee Gees have left the building, and the next Manwich, Li’l Bit Goes a Long Way, is in the wings, ready to take the stage.”

“Tell him I surrender the stage to him.” Braxton looked back down at Frances. “You know where the tent is, right?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever it is, Frances,” he said solemnly, his hand on his heart, “I’m here for you.”

His gaze held hers, and in that moment, she believed his words, believed that he would stand beside her no matter what came her way. She could almost believe he might care for her the way she was coming to care for him.

A screech jolted her out of the moment.

“What’s your problem, bitch?”

Frances turned to see who was talking...and every muscle in her body froze.

The curly-haired, stealthy-fingered woman stood a few feet away, glaring at her.

“You had no right to grab me like that,” she said, jabbing her finger at Frances.

“Hey,” Braxton said, “let’s take it down a notch.”

“I’m sorry,” Frances said. “I was wrong.”

Frances had learned one important thing about people over the years. Defending her actions to someone this angry was useless. Things were likely to explode.

But a simple apology could usually soothe even the most ruffled ego.

But not this woman’s. She held up both hands, giving Frances the bird with each.

“Captain Brax Sparrow,” the announcer said over the speaker, “it’s the crow’s nest for you, sir!”

“Coming, coming....” Braxton looked at the other woman, then back at Frances. “I suggest—”

“I’ve got it under control,” she said, her voice cool and steady. “See you in the tent.”

She’d caused enough problems; wanted to show him she could handle this quietly. Anyway, the woman had turned away, was chatting with her pals.

After a slight bow to her, Captain Brax Sparrow headed backstage.

Frances heard a woman swoon behind her. “I’d love to visit that Davey’s locker.”

“Tell it, girlfriend,” murmured another. “When I get home, I’m gonna log on to that website, send a donation in Captain Brax’s name.”

Frances felt relieved.
Maybe I didn’t blow it that badly for him.

A blur of movement caught her eye. The bird-flipping woman sidled closer, flashing Frances yet another energetic one-fingered salute as though to say,
Whatcha gonna do about it?

What was it with women flipping her off lately? First Uly, now Abalone.

Big deal. Time to meet Braxton in the tent. She started to walk away.

“What’s he see in you?” screeched Big Bird.

Take the high road,
Frances told herself.
Keep walking
.

“Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?”

Frances stopped.
Sticks and stones. Don’t take the bait.

“Or did your mama have bad manners, too?”

Frances was damned tired of running away.

Tired of reacting instead of acting.

Tired of playing nice with Dmitri.

Tired of Charlie giving her cases that didn’t feel right.

And really, really tired of waiting to have a complete relationship with Braxton, one where they spent more time together being themselves than being undercover. One where they took walks, watched movies, and made love whenever they wanted.

But as tired as she was of putting up with other people’s crap, she’d try one last time to make amends.

She turned, wishing she’d thought to at least change her shoes when she had the chance because these heels were starting to hurt her feet.

“I’m sorry you don’t believe me,” Frances said, “because I meant what I said. I apologize. And by the way, my mother was one of the kindest human beings who ever graced this planet, so why don’t you cool your mouth-jets on that one.”

All right, the mouth-jets comment wasn’t exactly taking the high road, but it felt good to say it.

The woman curled her hands into fists, her face scrunching into a tight, ugly mask.

The announcer’s voice came over the speakers. “And now, ladies, it’s time to introduce our next Manwich, Li’l Bit Goes a Long Way!”

As the announcer continued his introduction of Li’l Bit, who liked bowling and area rugs, Frances turned her back on the woman and continued her trek to the tent.

She made it all of three steps when something slammed into her, throwing her off balance. Staggering sideways, she fell against a table laid out with plastic utensils and a platter piled with fried won ton, causing the items to crash to the floor.

The area around her grew surreally quiet. Even the announcer stopped talking.

Frances slowly straightened, meeting the woman’s furious gaze, and wondered why her gal-pals didn’t drag her away.

A hundred years of silence passed as they continued their stare-down like a couple of cowgirls at high noon. The air reeked of oily won tons and wine.

The woman lowered her head, bunched her fists, and ran at Frances like a human cannonball.

As women screamed and shouted, Frances decided maybe running away wasn’t such a bad idea after all. She didn’t go far before slipping on a won ton and falling smack on her butt, rolling over in time to see a blur of curly brown hair descending upon her.

Frances threw a wild punch, her fist connecting with a sickening thud on flesh and bone.

Emitting a stifled grunt of pain, the woman fell backward with a loud
fwomp.

And lay on the floor, blinking up at one of the dangling red hearts with the words “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Women ran over, hands fluttering over the fallen woman. Someone plucked a won ton off Frances’s shoulder.

Rubbing her aching hand, Frances looked over at the curly-haired woman who was sitting up and rubbing her jaw, staring blearily at her pals who were asking her if she knew what day it was and did she want to see a doctor?

Frances had never hit anyone in her life. There’d been some words exchanged with girls at school, but never a physical fight. She’d had no choice but to defend herself with that wild punch, but hurting another person made her feel sick.

And to think she’d just gotten in touch with her inner girly.

A man’s shiny black shoes stopped next to her.

Her gaze travelled up a crisp blue police uniform to steely blue eyes that looked oddly familiar.

The realization came in a horrific rush.

Dmitri’s go-for, the singing detective. The undercover cop who’d pulled her over after she stole the Lady Melbourne brooch. Maybe he’d seemed like Kindhearted Andy of Mayberry then, but he looked like Dirty Harry now.

Last time, he’d driven her to a chatty meeting in a limo.

From the look on his face, she was headed somewhere more remote, lonely and cold.

* * *

A
S
B
RAXTON
HEADED
to the backstage area, he gave a last look at the Shelby in the distance, glistening cherry red and perfect, never to be his.

To say that losing the chance to win that car didn’t hurt would be a lie. It definitely hurt. Like the girl who got away, that ’Stang would always be more beautiful, more perfect, have a better bod than any other car he’d ever own. He’d still dream about it, compare other cars to it, hanker for it, but it was gone, baby, gone.

Whoever wins that car tonight better treat it right.

As he walked down the steps to the backstage area, one of the Keep ’Em Rollin’ volunteers, a friend of his grandmother’s, Betty-something, strode up to him, her mane of salt-and-pepper hair floating with her. Grams had told him that Betty had been one of the organizers of the Women’s Strike for Equality in the seventies. In her khaki skirt, Lennon glasses and socks-with-Birkenstocks, Betty looked as if she were
still
leading that movement.

“Let’s document your tips,” she said matter-of-factly, opening a black notebook. She plucked a ballpoint pen from behind her ear. “Name?”

“Captain Brax Sparrow, and I’m afraid I didn’t make any tips.”

She arched a gray eyebrow. “None?”

“Zero.”

She looked at his hat, down his chest—which didn’t seem to impress her—past his red velvet breeches to his boots, then quickly back up to his eyes.

“Not a year for pirates, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Hold this please,” she said, handing him the pen.

Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tucked it neatly into his waistband. She held out her hand.

He passed her pen back to her.

She spoke out loud as she wrote. “Captain Brax Sparrow, ten dollars.” She smiled at him. “Maybe you didn’t win today, but you’re an outstanding loser. Now, please give back that ten-dollar bill.”

He did.

And as she marched away, her Birks slapping, Braxton felt like a winner. Maybe not a winner-winner, but a guy who’d gained a lot today despite losing. Learned that real men could wear red velvet, and that even a guy with two left feet could do a mean free-form dance.

And when Frances had shown up, looking to him for help, he’d risen to the occasion. He’d made her needs his priority without getting wrapped up in their surroundings. Maybe he’d never have Drake’s class, but he’d proven today that he could still be a stand-up guy. He could still be the person Frances needed him to be.

Li’l Bit shuffled up to him, making smacking noises with his mouth. “My mouth is, like, mothball-dry, man. I’m laying off the popcorn for a while.”

And he’d re-learned that he’d never,
ever
understand this guy. At least he wouldn’t have to hang out with him anymore after tonight.

“Gotta learn some self-control, Li’l Bit. Get some healthier eating habits.”

“Yeah, I dig what you’re saying. Was watching an
Oprah
rerun the other day...and Dr. Oz was talking about a forty-eight-hour cleansing diet that keeps your colon flowing regularly. Lots of strawberries and flax-something, can’t remember. Anyway...while we’re here sharing this moment, I wanted you to know I’m not bringing up the brother thing anymore. It’s enough that we’re, like, harmonious opposites that interact within a greater whole.”

Whatever that meant. “Aren’t you supposed to be on stage right now?”

He nodded. “There was some kinda chick smackdown with wontons.... After the cleanup crew finishes, I’m on.” He dragged his hand through the mass of frizz on his head. “Not trying to spread bad vibes ’cause I dig being an auction hunk ’n all, but some of those ladies are a little out there, know what I mean?”

“Too much estrogen and booze,” he said, thinking of Val’s comment.

“Woodstock meets menopause, man.” Sadness flickered in his eyes. “Sorry you had a bad dance day. Losing the Shelby ’n all.”

“Yeah, well, probably a reminder to me that my fast-lane lifestyle is a thing of the past. Time to slow down, appreciate life more.” He was surprised to realize that he actually meant it. For the most part.

“What matters is how we look at things, not how they are in themselves.”

“Yeah, well...” Time to leave Planet X. “Told Frances I’d meet her in the tent, so...”

“She’s not in the tent, dude.” He pointed somewhere past Braxton’s left ear. “She’s with the fuzz, over there.”

Braxton turned.

Frances and a police officer stood near the entrance to Sensuelle. She stood stiffly, listening intently to whatever he was saying, her hands clutched together. Nervous and pale, but focused.

The officer walked away and Frances stood there, alone, seeming to shrink into herself. Less bright, less sure. As though the moon had fallen to earth.

“I’ll be right back,” Braxton said.

* * *

“M
Y
FIRST
THOUGHT
when I saw the cop,” Frances said to Braxton, keeping her voice low, “was that he was going to arrest me, which would’ve violated the terms of my suspended sentence and...and, well, you know what that would’ve meant. Seems every time I turn around lately, prison is staring me in the face.”