Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (5 page)

This past year, though, Charlie had been pushing her to tackle tougher, big-ticket-item cases. A theft of jewels worth half a million from a Las Vegas entertainer’s home safe. A briefcase of valuable coins stolen from a taxi. She’d solved both after weeks of investigative work, but tracking this mysterious Russian’s shenanigans with the Lady Melbourne brooch
and
the ancient Greek coins was starting to feel as arduous as Napoleon’s invasion of Russia.

This case was darker, more complex and frankly scarier than any she had handled before.

Part of her wanted to tell Charlie this job was out of her league and to get her out of it. But if Vanderbilt took issue with her backing out of this case and reported her insubordination to the court, the court could withdraw the suspension of her sentence, and she’d serve the remainder in jail.

“What do I get out of this?” she asked.

“Upon my receipt of the necklace, two hundred thousand dollars cash. And because of your fondness for the Lady Melbourne brooch, that, as well.”

No jewel thief would work for such a measly percentage, but of course that wasn’t what this was about for Frances. She had what most investigators worked weeks, months, for—she had an
in
. An invitation to the inner sanctum of her subject’s world.

Charlie would be thrilled. Nailing a master thief would be a career coup. Vanderbilt would promote him and likely invite her to stay on after her probation ended. Or she could go into business for herself as a specialized antiquities investigator.

Which meant this case, if she succeeded, could skyrocket her career. But if she failed, cripple it. Maybe permanently.

Whatever the outcome, her life would be forever changed.

“I accept your offer,” she said quietly.

CHAPTER THREE

T
HE
RADIO
PERSONALITY
had just announced the four-o’clock news as Braxton parked his old Volvo S70 in front of his mom’s ranch-style home. He took a moment to look at the rock-gravel front yard, in the middle of which sat the desert willow his dad had planted on a long-ago Mother’s Day.

Several years ago, after his mother informed Braxton he was no longer welcome in her home, his childhood home, he would sometimes drive by and look at that tree, envying it for having roots when his had been ripped out. More than once, he had parked down the street, trying to work up the nerve to go the front door and ring the bell. In his mind, his mom would answer, her hair fluffed in that short style she’d always worn. She’d stare at him, her eyes shining with joyful tears, and he’d say,
Mom, please forgive me.

He’d probably seen too many sappy movies growing up, but that was what he’d envisioned. But it didn’t matter, because he knew she couldn’t forgive him. Hell, he still struggled with forgiving himself.

Then one night last August, after he’d helped the Las Vegas police, Drake and the arson investigator orchestrate the sting that put Yuri in jail, he drove straight here and knocked on the door. He knew his mother had already heard what happened, including how Braxton had severed all ties with Yuri’s organization.

She’d opened the door, looking just as he’d imagined. Started crying, too. But before he could ask for forgiveness, she grabbed him in a hug and said, “Welcome home, son.”

He was opening the front door when his cell rang. Recognizing Dmitri’s number on the caller ID, he answered. After exchanging a few pleasantries, the Russian got to the point.

“That strip club you managed...it’s been shut down for liquor violations and failure to pay local taxes.”

Braxton walked across the living room, decorated in the same Swedish modern furniture his parents had picked out more than twenty years ago, and tossed his jacket across the back of the couch.

“Long time coming,” he murmured.

He heard a faint ping from down the hall, the cue that his grandmother had started her electric wheelchair. He checked the red dice wall clock on the wall above the TV. A few minutes after four was close enough to five.

He headed to the kitchen. After he moved in last August, he’d been surprised how cold and clinical that room had felt with its white walls, white appliances and stainless-steel refrigerator. Hadn’t been that way when he was a kid. Back then, the kitchen had been a mess most of the time, usually due to his recipe experimentations, and there had been family pictures everywhere.

Since moving back in, he’d taken it upon himself to bring some energy back into the room. He painted the walls a cheery yellow, hung curtains decorated with sunflowers and put family photos everywhere, including a picture of his dad with his favorite comedian, Jerry Lewis, at Bally’s. The only time his dad had asked someone he’d just met to call him Benny.

But more important, Braxton cooked here almost every night, often with his mom, the two of them filling the room with delicious smells, a few recipe bombs and a lot of laughter.

He headed to Grams’s special cabinet and grabbed a martini shaker while listening to Dmitri.

“Everyone I’ve talked to in the Russian community,” he continued, “said you, Braxton, not Yuri, were the reason behind Topaz’s success.”

Braxton wasn’t sure how to respond to that, because the compliment was a double-edged sword. Yeah, he’d been a good manager, in fact a
damned good
one, but he’d gotten dirty along with the business.

“Does this have something to do with what you wanted to discuss?” He nestled the phone against his shoulder and filled the shaker with ice.

His grandmother, wearing a shiny cocoa-colored caftan and gold shoes, glided across the linoleum floor in her wheelchair, her puf of white hair glowing like a sunlit cloud under the lights. Seeing he was on the phone, she halted and pressed her finger to her ruby-red lips, indicating she’d be quiet.

He winked at her, wondering how many other eighty-five-year-old women purchased half a dozen tubes of crimson lipstick after reading that “women of a certain age” should only ever wear more discreet shades. Grams, the makeup activist.

“Yes, it does,” Dmitri answered. “I’m opening a club in Vegas later this year and wondered—”

“I’m not interested.” It turned his stomach to even think of going back to such a job. In the six months since he’d stopped managing Topaz, he’d been inside a strip club only once, and that was for a buddy’s bachelor party.

“I like you, Braxton,” Dmitri said quietly, “but this is the second time you’ve gotten angry before I’ve had a chance to explain. It reminds me of a story my mother used to tell me about a frog who kept jumping to conclusions. He puffed himself up so much each time with his self-justified reasons, eventually he burst.”

Braxton held the phone away from his ear, giving himself a moment to cool down. He didn’t need some frog story to remind him he had a problem containing his temper when it came to Yuri.

He glanced at his grandmother, her jade-green eyes shiny with concern. Over these past six months, they’d shared many long talks over martinis about his guilt over hurting his family. Then one night she suggested his guilt might fade when he stopped being angry at himself.

He put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Dmitri. Please, go ahead.”

“People have informed me that you have extensive knowledge in the field of security. What areas, may I ask?”

So polite, so sophisticated. Even had a better English vocabulary than most Americans whose paths Brax crossed. Dmitri might have Russian roots, but he was nothing like Yuri. Time to give him some credit, discuss this project as he would any legitimate business deal.

“Got my first job in hotel security at eighteen through my dad, who headed up security at Bally’s—” he grabbed a jar of olives from the fridge “—followed by several years of business security consulting and personal protection gigs...then you know about Topaz.” He set the jar on the small kitchen table, next to a bottle of vermouth.

“Personal protection... You mean, as a bodyguard?”

“Yes.” He retrieved two martini glasses and held them up for Grams to see. She smiled.

“Ah, not only a man with brains, but brawn, too.” He paused. “I might want to use you as a bodyguard soon. But back to my business venture—I will need a qualified head of security, which would also include living expenses, a car and substantial stock options.”

Brax paused in front of the fridge, remembering how years ago Yuri had promised all those things, too....

“Uh, one moment, Dmitri.”

He opened the freezer door and placed the glasses inside, willing the blast of chilled air to knock some sense into him. He couldn’t forget that life was good at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations. He had office space for his security consulting business and the best co-workers nepotism could buy, but damn, it would be a lie to say he didn’t miss having plush digs, a slick car and a stake in a potentially profitable business.

He shut the freezer door and looked at a photograph on the fridge of his family at a sea resort years ago. He could still remember the soft splash of waves, the sun heating his skin.

His parents had one rule: no going into the water unless accompanied by adults. Which was like waving a red flag to ten-year-old Braxton. One early evening he sneaked down to the shore and waded in, only everything was different than it had been earlier in the day. The waves had churned, the skies had darkened. Then something pulled him underneath the water—later his dad said it had been a riptide—where he flailed in the dark, wet cold, fighting for air.

Strong arms jerked him out of the water. His father carried him back to shore, where they both fell onto the sand, gasping. After a few minutes, his dad had said,
On the surface, the sea can look like a beautiful dream. Now you know what lies beneath it.

As good as Dmitri’s offer sounded, Braxton wasn’t sure he wanted to test what lay underneath it. The guy could be as straight-up as they came, but this was still Vegas, the sin capital of the world.

“Appreciate your thinking of me,” he said into the phone, “but to be honest, I like my life right now. It’s calmer, more predictable.”

After a beat, Dmitri said, “I admire a cautious man. Before you make up your mind, I invite you to conduct a due-diligence check on my holdings and other business projects, because you will not find a single black mark. Better yet, I will save you the work and forward a recent due-diligence report conducted by The Dayden Group. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes.” He had sometimes used The Dayden Group, a business-assessment service, to conduct corporate background checks.

“My associate will drop off their report along with the retainer check tomorrow morning.”

After ending the call, he looked at Grams, who raised her eyebrows. “That sounded like a job offer.”

“It was. But...I don’t know. I’ve never met this guy, except by phone, but at least he’s giving me some information to review.”

“He’s Russian, I take it.”

“How’d you know?”

“That troubled look. You only get it when Yuri’s name comes up.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face, as though he could wipe off any remaining trace.

“I used to make snap decisions all the time, Grams, rarely second-guessed myself. But these days—” he gave his head a shake “—I overthink everything to the point of wearing out the idea before it gets a chance.”

“My darling—” the rings on her hand sparkled as she gestured toward the shaker “—let’s make those martinis and talk.”

* * *

T
HE
FOLLOWING
MORNING
, Braxton arrived early for work at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations. Dmitri had said the retainer check would be delivered at nine o’clock and Brax didn’t want to be late.

After turning on the lights and starting the coffee, he sat at his desk in the waiting room and checked email on his smartphone. At his old place, he liked to crank up the tunes first thing in the morning, his favorite bands being Green Day, Florence and the Machine, and anything by Maroon 5 and its lead singer, Adam Levine. Although sometimes nothing soothed his soul like an old country classic by George Jones.

But lately, he’d been keeping the noise down in the mornings so Drake and Val, who lived in the back apartment, could get some rest. His brother had recently been working some late-night surveillances, and Val, in the last trimester of her pregnancy, had been having trouble sleeping. Instead of blasting the office, Brax plugged in his earbuds and bobbed his head to the beat of “Moves Like Jagger.”

A text message from his grandmother popped up on his smartphone.

We forgot to talk last night about the Magic Dream Date Auction on Valentine’s Day!

Last night over martinis, they’d talked about everything
but
the auction—Dmitri’s job offer; Braxton’s dilemma over possibly leaving Morgan-LeRoy Investigations; Grams’s crazy cat Maxine’s bladder infection; and Gram’s boyfriend, Richmond, whom she called her boy toy, although he was only six years younger.

But they’d forgotten to discuss the auction. Or maybe, subconsciously, he hadn’t wanted to burst her bubble. Grams loved volunteering at Keep ’Em Rolling and made it a point to stay in contact with people who had received wheelchairs from the organization. Several times he’d driven her to people’s homes so she could visit them in person. He
wanted
to support her.

It was just...he wasn’t up for playing stud boy,
especially
on Valentine’s Day at an auction catering to lonely hearts waving fistfuls of money as he sashayed down a runway in tight jeans and no shirt.

Somebody shoot me now
.

Couldn’t avoid the topic much longer, though. The auction was next Friday, February 14.

“Hello?”

He looked up, yanked the buds from his ears.

A woman, late twenties, stood in front of his desk. American accent, so he doubted she was Dima’s associate; he’d mentioned something about having only a few Russian friends in the area. She wore a sophisticated gray pantsuit, lipstick the color of raspberry gelato and a bun knotted at the base of her neck. He glanced out the front window and saw a shiny lemon-yellow Mercedes Benz parked next to his Volvo.

Irked him that he drove that piece of junk.

Irked him more that she drove a Mercedes.

Pantsuit. Bun. Benz.

Oh, yeah, he got her number. Probably read
The Economist
cover to cover, or pretended to, wore sensible pumps and followed Hillary Clinton on Twitter. Her idea of a good time was to shop at Ikea, followed by brunch, where she ordered lettuce with a side of lemon.

“Are you Braxton Morgan?” she asked.

“Are you looking for a security consultant?”

Her eyes rounded in puzzlement. “No.”

“Then why are you asking for Braxton?”

She stared at him for a long moment, as though he were a bauble she was thinking about acquiring.

That was when he noticed the color of her eyes. A light purple, like amethyst. Yet so clear, he could see into them, catch glints of gold in their depths. And something more, too. A wistfulness that didn’t match the resolute lines of that pantsuit, the slick knot of that bun.

But it was more than what he saw. He
felt
her. A restlessness that swept over him like winds off the Mojave, as warm as they were unsettling. At the same time he sensed her vulnerability, which clashed with her business-power packaging, but fit right in with her flowery scent.

Distant yet close. Seductive yet standoffish.

He didn’t think he’d ever met a woman who gave off more conflicting signals.

“Because,” she finally said, “I have something for him.”

He forgot what he’d asked her. Or why he was here, the day of the week, the current president of the United States. Oh, right, he’d asked why she wanted to see Braxton. Whoever that was.

A corner of her mouth lifted slightly, as though amused by his caginess. Although he preferred to think it was inspired by his overwhelming manliness. Anyway, it was a nice mouth. Soft, curvy lips. Their color so light and ripe, he could almost taste their raspberry sweetness.