Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (7 page)

“And the license-plate numbers I forwarded?”

“Limo’s registered to Konfety, which appears to be a bogus corporation. That undercover cop’s vehicle is the real deal, though, as it’s registered to the city. My guess is he checked it out. I won’t subpoena the police for those records, because it would alert them that Vanderbilt has an interest in his identity, which of course would tie you to Vanderbilt.”

“That guy was nuts.”

“Maybe on purpose.” He lifted his glass.

“To throw me off?”

“He’s an undercover cop. You’re an undercover investigator. Both of you are good at deceiving people in the course of your work, right?”

If the singing detective was a Dmitri gofer, he could have acted that way to hide his real personality. On the other hand, if he was one of the good guys, maybe he’d acted silly to put her at ease, which had worked. That also meant the Las Vegas Metro Police were working their own case against Dmitri.

“You said the Russian asked you to deliver something this morning—what was it?”

“A manila envelope that felt like it had papers inside, but I didn’t want to open it and give myself away.”

“Who’s this private investigator?”

“Name’s Braxton Morgan. Works at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations downtown, but his brother’s the partner, not him. Apparently, Braxton is more of a security consultant.”

“Private dicks,” Charlie muttered, a look of distaste crossing his features. “Lowlife snoops in trench coats pretending to be Sam what’s-his-name.”

“Sam Spade?”

“Right, Sam Spade. Now,
that
was a private eye. Smart. Detached. Unflinching. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him.”

She almost laughed. Did pompous, corporate-America Charlie secretly yearn to be a tough-guy Sam Spade?

But Charlie had Braxton wrong. He wasn’t a lowlife in a trench coat. He wasn’t detached, either, but he was definitely smart.

On her way over here, she’d quickly checked him out on the internet, impressed with a news story about his saving a politician’s life years ago. Acting as a legislator’s bodyguard, Braxton had perceived a threat at a political rally and taken action that saved the official’s life. Such quick, calculated thinking proved his intelligence.

She’d have to do further research on Braxton Morgan.

“Most of those shamuses will do anything for a buck,” Charlie said, buttering a roll, “including break the law. Which this guy Braxton must be doing, too, if he’s hooked up with our Russian. How’d he react when you handed him the envelope?”

More like, how did he react to
her
.

“Seemed to be expecting it,” she answered.

“What’s your impression of him?”

“Early thirties,” she said matter-of-factly, “dresses professionally, which tells me he takes his work seriously. Don’t think he’s dirty, though.”

The last part slipped out before she’d given it any thought, but something about Braxton had struck her as honest.

“How do you know?”

“Just a sense I got.”

“Interesting. You don’t usually give much credit to first impressions.” He let that hang in the air for a moment. “Anyway, as you get more involved in this Dmitri fellow’s heist, keep your ears open for how Braxton fits into the picture.” He checked his watch, a shiny gold Rolex.

“Are you late for something?” she asked.

“Told my ex I’d pick up the kids, take them to see a movie. Let me make a quick call.”

He’d mentioned his exes before—there were two, but only one lived in Vegas—and Frances had seen framed photos of several boys and a girl in his office, although Charlie didn’t talk about them much, just passing references to having them for the weekend or taking them to some event.

Frances was surprised that he made the call at the table rather than stepping away, so she looked around the restaurant to give him a semblance of privacy. Scanned the brocade draperies that sealed off the far windows, listened to the beginning of a spirited piano concerto, caught scents of garlic and spices as waiters passed with steaming plates.

She couldn’t hear Charlie’s conversation as he kept his voice low, although at one point he snapped, “The credit card is
maxed out,
Cynthia!”

A few moments later he ended the call, slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Where were we?”

He looked pissed, but also confused, which was strange, since Frances had never seen Charlie betray any hint of vulnerability.

“Now that you’re on the inside of this Russian’s racket,” he said, shifting back to business mode, “Vanderbilt wants you to learn the players on his team, their roles and, as we’ve discussed, anything you can find about the coin theft. Any dirt you can dig up will be smiled upon, too. Sometimes these guys get a lot chattier when faced with prison, and we’d like him to chat about those coins.”

“What about the brooch?”

“Icing. This Russian promised you the pin as payment after the heist, but Vanderbilt is more interested in your finding the coins before then. It wants to sink this Russian and his crew.”

An uneasiness swept through her as she imagined a pirate ship plunging to the ocean’s depths.

“The jewelry show is March first,” she murmured, running her fingertips lightly over the tight weave of the linen tablecloth. “A little over three weeks from today. What if I don’t find enough evidence by then?”

“Vanderbilt will undertake a sting. Swap out the necklace with a duplicate, which you’d steal, the critical point being when you hand it over to Dmitri. You’ll need to play this tight with Dmitri, get him to a spot you help choose—a hotel room, for example—where Vanderbilt technicians can be in the next room taking covert footage of him accepting the necklace, discussing the heist and so forth....”

Her nerves jumped. Those few videotaped minutes would make or break a multimillion-dollar case—the kind of high-stakes shakedown she’d never conducted, yet Vanderbilt thought she could pull this off in one shot? Even Meryl Streep needed more than one take to get a scene right.

“I’ll do my best to find evidence in the next few weeks, Charlie, but please remember I’m an investigator, not a miracle worker.”

“A
lead
investigator,” he said, raising his glass. Whatever confusion or irritation she’d noticed before was gone from his face. He smiled his signature Gekko smile. “On behalf of Vanderbilt Insurance, I’d like to congratulate you on your
first
promotion, effective immediately, which includes a seven percent raise, more stock options...and I finagled an extra week of annual vacation time, but keep that to yourself.”

“I’m being promoted?”

“That’s what the champagne and the classy restaurant are all about.”

“Really?” she said, feeling embarrassed that she’d wondered if this brunch was a date setup.

“Yes, Frances,” he said. “Typically, other executives would attend, but since you’re working undercover, Vanderbilt is keeping this celebration low-key. By the way, when you join my division as its initial investigator, your title will be Manager of the Special Investigative Unit.”

The food arrived. As the waiter fussed over them—“Another Baby Bellini,
mademoiselle?
”—she unfurled her napkin into her lap, titles and money and her future swirling in her brain. She took another sip of her Bellini, its carbonation stinging her lips. From thief to investigator to manager? Was this real?

Of course it was. One thing about Charlie, he’d never lied to her. Now it made sense that he’d been handing her tougher cases this past year. He’d been testing her, grooming her to join his team.

He rapped his fingers on the table and leaned forward with a smile. “You need to stop doubting yourself, Frances. You’re perfect—not only for this case, but also for manager of the special investigative unit.”

She took another sip of her Bellini, thinking about that word
perfect,
something she’d accepted long ago she could never be...unless she faked it.

* * *

B
RAXTON
SAT
IN
his Volvo on a side street next to the restaurant Chez Manny, one of those old-time Vegas restaurants that once catered to movie stars, famous singers and the usual assortment of high-living organized-crime types. These days it still had the reputation for great food, but the neighborhood had gone downhill. Run-down apartment buildings, empty lots cluttered with weeds and debris. An elderly man pushed a shopping cart, its wheels clattering over the broken sidewalk, eyeing Braxton as if he might jump out of his Volvo and try to steal the cart.

Not the kind of neighborhood that gave a person the warm fuzzies, but it was safer than a good third of Vegas’s hoods, unfortunately. At least Frances was meeting someone here during the day.

Braxton had been sitting here, wondering who that someone was.

When he’d bumped into her back at the agency parking lot, he’d slipped his cell phone under her driver’s seat. Then, after she’d left, he’d tracked his phone’s location via his online “Find My Phone” software. Not exactly a classy move on his part, but how was a guy supposed to ask out a girl if he didn’t even know her name?

Although that girl might not be too happy learning what he’d done. But if she were furious, he’d try to at least charm her into giving back his cell phone.

In spite of the cold, he’d rolled down his driver’s window, hoping a few stray breezes might freshen the old, musty smell inside the Volvo. A previous owner apparently liked to smoke while driving, because there were lingering scents of stale cigarettes, too. Scents of cooking food wafted his way from Chez Manny...baked chicken and something yeasty-garlicky he imagined to be rolls or calzone or—

Click. Click. Click.

He heard high heels on sidewalk. It was probably her.

He’d parked on the side street so she wouldn’t see him when she walked to her car parked in the lot behind the restaurant. Problem was, he couldn’t see her, either, until she entered the lot. But the clicks of those heels sounded as if she were coming down the walkway from the restaurant’s front door.

He pricked his ears, trying to identify other footsteps with hers. None. Good, she was alone.

Then she entered his line of vision, slim and gray, those hips swaying lightly as she headed to her Benz.

He jumped out of his car, taking care not to slam the door, then jogged across the street.

“Hey, Babe!” he called out, not wanting to scare her by running up too quickly.

She turned, a startled look in her eyes.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, slowing his pace as he crossed into the lot, trying to read her body language, but she stood so stiffly, that was impossible. Moving closer, he tried to catch a hint of her reaction to his surprise appearance and saw, well, surprise.

At least she didn’t appear to be pissed off. Things were looking up.

She carried a paperback-size clutch purse, which she held tightly against her chest. Her gaze narrowed as he approached, those sparkling amethyst eyes clouded by suspicion.

Things weren’t looking so up.

He stopped, held open his hands apologetically. “I, uh, accidentally dropped my phone in your car.”

She tilted her head, flashing an
is that so?
look.

“So, I, uh...” His throat suddenly felt parched, as if he’d been sucking dirt.

“So you checked your phone-locator GPS program and realized with great surprise that you’d
accidentally
dropped it in my car.”

Man, she was sharp.

“Something like that.”

She made a noise that said more than most people could in a paragraph, mostly that she knew he’d dropped it on purpose to track her, so stop the bull.

Really
sharp.

When up against that kind of smarts, it was time to stop peddling a story and offer the truth.

“You’re right.” He smiled.

She didn’t smile back.

At least she’s still standing here, not getting into her car
.

“Okay, I admit it,” he said, adopting a good-natured tone, “I dropped my phone in your car so I could find you. Which I was wrong to do,” he added quickly, “and I’m sorry.”

She released a torrent of breath he could hear ten feet away.

“I don’t like your stalking me.”

“I’m not stalk—”

“Tracking my location with a GPS device, without my consent, is a crime in Nevada.”

“Dumb move to track you, but I didn’t want you to get away.” That sounded bad. “I mean...”

A horn honked.

She looked over and waved at a light blue Porsche 911 that drove down the street. Glass was too tinted to see the driver’s features, but from the size and lack of hair, Braxton guessed it to be a male. A rather well-to-do male based on his choice of vehicle.

As if he cared.

Okay, he did.

He looked back at Frances, who still stood in the same spot, clutching her clutch, staring at him.

Handle this with aplomb
.
Don’t show you’re jealous over Porsche Guy
.

“Who was that?” he asked, trying to sound politely interested.

“What’s it to you?”

He caught an intrigued look in her eyes, or maybe he was hoping for a positive sign that she’d stopped thinking he’d committed any felony class D actions.

“You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

“He’s an associate.”

She’d dropped her edginess, which he took as a sign that she was open to talking more. “Dmitri?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“How many associates do you have?”

An almost-smile curved her lips. “How many women do you talk this way to?”

“Only the ones I like. A lot.”

He gave his head a shake, realizing vagueness wasn’t going to help his cause.

“You,” he clarified. “Only you.”

She swept a strand of hair off her forehead, the shadows leaving her eyes as she relaxed, and this time that almost-smile made it to her lips.

And in that instant, he felt a mysterious kinship with her, a connection that defied words. He just
felt
it. Sensed the depth of her emotions in those eyes...her wistfulness, dreams, disappointments. And with a yearning that almost hurt, he wanted nothing more than to make this woman happy and satisfied.