Книга - Hearts in Vegas

Hearts in Vegas
Colleen Collins


You're not going into this alone.P.I. Frances Jefferies is the perfect person to slip into Las Vegas's underworld to recover a priceless necklace. With her elite investigative skills, not to mention her jewel-thief past, she knows she can get the job done. That is, until a sexy stranger gets in her way.Braxton Morgan's past is as secretive as her own. There's so much about this man she wants to discover–but not at the cost of her case. For that, she must stay focused. Then Braxton suggests adding his security expertise to catch the criminal. And suddenly they're mixing smarts with danger and a whole lot of passion!







“You’re not going into this alone.”

P.I. Frances Jefferies is the perfect person to slip into Las Vegas’s underworld to recover a priceless necklace. With her elite investigative skills, not to mention her jewel-thief past, she knows she can get the job done. That is, until a sexy stranger gets in her way.

Braxton Morgan’s past is as secretive as her own. There’s so much about this man she wants to discover—but not at the cost of her case. For that, she must stay focused. Then Braxton suggests adding his security expertise to catch the criminal. And suddenly they’re mixing smarts with danger and a whole lot of passion!


“Frances, wait.”

“Need to leave,” she said between clenched teeth, taking another halting step away from Braxton.

He slid his arm around her back, bracing her against him. “Lean on me.”

She ducked her head, wondering when she’d slipped her arm around him. Her fingertips grazed the silky weave of his shirt, sensing his taut muscles underneath.

They were in the hallway now, and she released a sigh as the cooler air soothed her heated skin. She started to pull away, but he tightened his hold.

Her world rocked in place as they accidentally cuddled. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel. The strength of his body against hers, his masculine scent rode the woody, jasmine aroma of his aftershave and shot to some primal part of her brain, triggering a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.…


Dear Reader,

Hearts in Vegas is my third “private eyes in Las Vegas” Mills & Boon Superromance (the first being The Next Right Thing, March 2013, and the second Sleepless in Las Vegas, December 2013).

This third book picks up with the story of P.I./security consultant Braxton Morgan, the twin brother of Drake Morgan, the hero in Sleepless in Las Vegas. On the surface, Braxton looks like the kind of guy for whom life is easy—he has rock-star Adam Levine looks, cool designer threads, a wry Hugh Grant sense of humor. But Braxton is a man who’s made his share of mistakes in life, resulting in a lot of losses, from his former home and big-money career to his family’s support. He’s fighting hard to rebuild a new life, piece by piece.

And then he meets Frances Jefferies, who walks into his life the way sultry Lauren Bacall first walked into Humphrey Bogart’s in The Big Sleep. And just like Bacall, Frances is mysterious, smoky, elusive...and Braxton says goodbye forever to his former playboy ways.

I really enjoyed writing the character of Frances, a magician’s daughter who’s skilled at sleight of hand. To learn more about this technique, I read several dozen articles by magicians and watched numerous videos of their performances. In my research, I fell in like with Teller, the quiet half of the duo-magician act Penn & Teller—in fact, I went to several of their shows in Las Vegas, and afterward met Teller, who is as charming and smart as you might imagine.

Braxton and Frances’s story is about two people who once failed the ones they love, and whose priorities include earning back their families’ respect, and maybe, finally, letting their hearts open again to love.

I enjoy hearing from readers, so I invite you to drop by my website, colleencollinsbooks.com (http://colleencollinsbooks.com), and let me know how you liked Hearts in Vegas!

Best wishes,

Colleen Collins


Hearts in Vegas

Colleen Collins






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Colleen Collins is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Mystery Writers of America and Private Eye Writers of America, and has written several dozen novels in the romance and mystery genres, as well as three nonfiction books on private investigations. Similar to Frances in Hearts in Vegas, Colleen’s favorite magician is Teller, the silent half of the comedy magic duo Penn & Teller.


To Marilyn Doyle


Contents

CHAPTER ONE (#u5f20b862-ae45-50f3-a190-2534a192779a)

CHAPTER TWO (#u10191bf2-f821-5250-bfcf-14b470d4f945)

CHAPTER THREE (#ueade8f5c-a495-5612-85aa-15232aebed3a)

CHAPTER FOUR (#ue0008d96-8f85-5fc8-b8c3-aceb7faa8e74)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EXTRACT (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

IF TWENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD Frances Jefferies had learned anything from her years as a pickpocket, it was the importance of blending in to one’s surroundings.

Today, February 5, her task was to steal a valuable brooch from Fortier’s, a high-end jewelry store in Las Vegas. To blend in with the Wednesday bling-shopping crowd, she’d put on a red-and-leopard-print top underneath a loose-fitting Yves Saint Laurent white silk pantsuit, and a pair of killer Dolce & Gabbana stilettos.

Time for one last practice run.

She retrieved two similar-size brooches from a dresser drawer. One, a rhinestone flower-petaled pin, was an exact replica of the diamond-encrusted Lady Melbourne brooch stolen ten years ago from a museum in Amsterdam. Its whereabouts had been unknown until it suddenly, and mysteriously, surfaced at Fortier’s a few days ago. She slipped the replica into an inside pocket of her jacket and set the other pin on her dresser.

Watching her reflection in the dresser mirror, she practiced the sleight-of-hand trick, deftly plucking the brooch from the pocket and swiftly replacing it with the other pin, three times in succession. Each switch went smoothly.

Now for the finishing touch. She selected a pair of antique garnet earrings from her jewelry box and put them on.

Leaning closer to the mirror, she swept a strand of her ash-blond hair off her face, tucking it lightly into her chignon. Her gaze slipped to her lower cheek. This close, she could see the faint outline of silicon gel underneath her meticulously applied makeup. For anyone else to see it, they would have to be inches away, and she never let anyone get that close.

A few moments later, she walked into the living room, where her dad sat in his favorite chair, shuffling a deck of cards. A basketball game was on TV, the crowd yelling as a player dunked the ball.

“Still working on The Trick That Fooled Houdini?” she asked.

He grinned and set the cards on a side table. “Like Houdini, I can’t figure out how Vernon did it, either.”

Dai Vernon, Houdini’s contemporary, had devised a card routine where a spectator’s chosen card always appeared at the top of the deck. Houdini, who bragged that he could figure out any magician’s trick, never solved this one.

Her dad, who’d worked as a magician his entire life, had never solved it, either. Sometimes he jokingly referred to it as The Trick That Fooled Houdini and Jonathan Jefferies.

“Going to work?” he asked.

His thinning dark hair was neatly parted on the side, and a pair of reading glasses hung on a chain around his neck. He had a slight paunch, but otherwise stayed in shape from daily walks and a fairly healthy diet, if one overlooked his love of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.

She looked at his faded Hawaiian-print shorts and Miami Heat T-shirt with its ripped sleeve, wishing he’d let her buy him some new clothes. But he liked to stick with what was “tried-and-true,” from his haircut to clothes.

“Yes, off to work. If I leave in a few minutes, I should be there by three. The owner got back from a late lunch an hour ago. He and the security guard will be the only employees in the jewelry store the rest of the afternoon.”

“Good girl, you did your homework.” He paused, noticing her earrings. “Oh,” he said, his eyes going soft, “you’re wearing your mother’s jewelry.”

Frances’s mother, Sarah, had been her father’s tried-and-true soul mate. When she eloped at nineteen with a little-known Vegas magician, her wealthy family disinherited her. If my upbringing had been happy, she’d told her daughter, disowning me might have mattered. Instead, it released me to a better life.

The only items Sarah Jefferies had of her family’s were a small jewelry collection, gifted to her by her late grandmother.

“Mom’s earrings will be my calling card today,” Frances said, touching one of them. She loved antique jewelry, especially early-nineteenth-century Georgian, the era of these earrings and the Lady Melbourne brooch.

“She’s happy to know she’s helping. We’re proud of you, Francie.”

He often spoke of his wife in the present tense, which used to bother Frances, but she accepted it more these days. Sometimes she even envied her dad’s sense of immediacy about his late wife. Frances was painfully aware it had been four years this past summer—July 15, 1:28 in the afternoon—when they’d lost her, and shamefully aware of the pain she’d brought her parents in the months leading up to her mother’s death.

Nearly five years ago, Frances had been arrested on a jewelry theft. It had been humiliating to be caught, but agonizing to see the hurt on her parents’ faces. Especially after she admitted to them the theft hadn’t been a onetime deal. After learning sleight-of-hand tricks from her dad as a kid, she’d segued into picking pockets in her teens, then small jewelry thefts by the time she was twenty. At the time, she selfishly viewed her thefts as once-a-year indulgences, but it didn’t matter if she’d stolen once or dozens of times—what’d she done had been wrong.

Jonathan Jefferies blamed himself for his daughter’s criminal activities, believing she had resorted to theft because he’d been unable to adequately support his family as a magician. When Frances was growing up, the family had sometimes relied on friends for food, or went without electricity, or suffered through eviction because there hadn’t been enough money to pay the rent.

The judge, moved by Frances’s difficult upbringing and her mother’s failing health, had offered her a second chance. Instead of giving her a ten-year prison sentence, he’d suspended her sentence as long as she met certain conditions, a common solution for people with a high potential for rehabilitation.

For Frances, her conditions were threefold. One, either attend college or obtain full-time legitimate employment, including any position where she applied her skills for a positive end. Two, pay restitution to the victim. Three, do not break any local, state or federal laws.

The judge had added an ominous warning to the last one. Miss Jefferies, that means you don’t even pick up a dime off the street if it isn’t yours. As much as your suspended sentence is a gift, it is also your burden. For the duration of your suspension, if you appear before the bench for any infraction, no matter how minor, the court will evaluate your case with a more critical, censorious eye. And that’s mild compared to what a prosecutor will do.

As if she had a yen to ever break a law again.

As far as college or a job, her probation officer matched her “skills” to Vanderbilt Insurance, a company that was looking for an investigator to track stolen jewels and antiquities.

Sometimes these investigations, such as the one today, required her pickpocket skills. She would be taking back the Lady Melbourne brooch, which was the legal property of Vanderbilt Insurance, since they had already paid the fifty-thousand-dollar insurance claim from the museum.

“Remember to feed Teller around six,” Frances said. “Any later, he gets cranky.” She’d named her cat after her favorite magician.

“He gets cranky?” Her dad shot a look at the fat golden-haired Persian cat lying sprawled across the back of the couch. “That cat is so laid-back, sometimes I put a mirror under his nose to make sure he’s still breathing.”

“I know you think he has no personality.”

“I never said that. I merely suggested he might be suffering from narcolepsy.” Yells from the crowd drew his attention back to the TV. “Idiot refs,” he muttered, “calling fouls against Miami again. Might as well take off those black-and-white shirts and wear Celtics jerseys.”

With a smile, she touched her dad’s shoulder. He grumped a lot at these sports games, but she’d take that any day over those lengthy silences after he first moved in.

It hadn’t been easy convincing him to move out of the apartment he’d shared with her mom. It wasn’t long after her mother’s death, and when her dad wasn’t frozen with grief, he was going through old photo albums, cleaning or filling ink into one of her favorite fountain pens, watching movies they’d seen together, even the “chick flick” ones he swore he’d never see again.

He didn’t want to be a burden, and Frances hadn’t wanted to suggest he needed help.

“Still auditioning as an opener for that lounge act?” she asked.

He flexed his fingers. “Don’t think so. Need the ol’ hands to stop giving me a bad time.”

His arthritis flare-ups were making it increasingly difficult for him to perform magic tricks. Moving his fingers as he practiced the card trick helped keep his joints somewhat mobile and stymied the arthritis.

“Gotta take off now, Dad.”

“Meeting Charlie afterward?”

“Yes.”

She typically met with Charlie Eden, her boss and mentor at Vanderbilt Insurance, right after an assignment to discuss the case. Although it was more common for Vanderbilt investigators to only provide written reports to their bosses, her situation was unique, as Charlie submitted monthly accounts to the court on her progress at Vanderbilt.

Today, if all went well, she hoped to also hand him the Lady Melbourne brooch.

But there was more to the case.

Vanderbilt believed the thief who stole the pin had also stolen four fifth-century-BC Greek silver tetradrachm coins worth several million dollars from a New York numismatic event two years ago. Both thefts had similar crime signatures, including state-of-the-art technology to circumvent surveillance systems and cutting torches to access vaults.

“That Charlie, he’s a good man. Husband material, if you ask me.”

“Dad, I’ve told you before, I don’t feel that way about him.”

“But he’s gobsmacked over you.”

“Gobsmacked? What does that mean?”

“Astonished. Over the moon. Heard a sports announcer use it the other day.”

“Did he say he was over the moon about me?”

“No.” He picked up his cards and started flipping through them. “Don’t need to be a mentalist to read that man’s brain. He’d like to make you his Zig Zag Girl.”

Zig Zag was the name of a magic trick Jonathan Jefferies used to perform with his wife, where he appeared to cut her into thirds, yet she’d emerge completely unharmed. The secret was that the true magician was her mom, who knew when to zig and zag to make the illusion look real. Jonathan, who credited his wife with the magic that made their marriage work, liked to call her his Zig Zag Girl.

He flipped the top card over and frowned. “Plus, he’s a lawyer.”

Charlie, nearly fifteen years older than Frances, was a very successful lawyer. Women in the office swore he looked like Michael Douglas in his salad days, which was probably why Frances thought of the villain Gordon Gekko every time she saw him. Charlie had the distinguished career, dapper clothes, perennially tanned, handsome looks, but...something about him turned her off. Couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“God help me if he were a neurosurgeon.” She leaned over and planted a light kiss on her dad’s forehead.

This close, she caught a whiff of peanut butter. The man was incorrigible, and she was ready to say as much when she caught the pain in his eyes as he glanced at her cheek.

She quickly straightened, looked around for her clutch bag. “There’s some leftover Chinese in the fridge. Maybe enough lettuce for a salad. Lay off the peanut butter, okay? I know,” she said, anticipating his argument, “it’s full of nutrients, and saturated fats are a good thing, but the doctor said one serving a day, which I believe you’ve already had.”

“Bought some Spam the other day,” he said, ignoring her instruction. “I’ll probably make a sandwich with it.”

“We’re pathetic. One of us needs to learn how to cook.”

“Yeah, your mom spoiled us. She’d never opened a can of soup when I met her, but after we got married, that girl...” He gave his head a wistful shake. “Studied cookbooks the way she did her old college books. By the time you were born, she made the best cheeseburger this side of Milwaukee. Some fancy French foods, too, when we had the money. What was that one with chicken and wine?”

“Coq au vin.”

“Yeah, that’s it. We should learn how to make that one of these days.”

But they wouldn’t. Sometimes Frances wondered if the two of them used their lack of cooking skills as a way of holding on to her mother. If neither of them replaced Sarah Jefferies’s role as family chef, then that spot would always be hers.

“Wonder where I left my bag,” she muttered, looking around.

“On the dining-room table we never eat at. Hey, baby girl, call me when you’re done? I’ll keep my cell phone next to me. I worry about you on these cases.”

“You know me, Miss Cautious. I’ll be fine. But I promise to call when I’m done.”

Her dad had never owned a cell phone before she bought him one after he moved in. He thought they were frivolous—said phones were things to get away from, not have strapped to your body at all times. But after she explained she wanted to stay in touch, especially when she was out working a case, he gave in.

Walking briskly to the dining room, Frances called out, “I should be home around eight.”

“So it’s dinner with Charlie, eh?”

“Business dinner,” she corrected, grabbing her bag. She opened it to double check that she had the key fob for her rental car.

“Valentine’s Day is next week, you know,” he yelled. “Maybe you two could—”

“No, we couldn’t,” she yelled back. “Love you. Bye!”

As she shut the front door behind her, Frances wished her dad would get off this Charlie matchmaking kick. She made good money, could comfortably support the two of them, so unless Ryan Gosling wandered into her life with a “Frances Forever” tattoo over his heart, she was fine without a boyfriend or husband.

Frances glanced at the distant dark clouds and hoped they weren’t an omen. Despite her analytical side, she had a superstitious streak. Even after days of preparation, she’d still get “preshow” jitters.

Part of her suspended sentence had been to see a therapist, a lovely older woman named Barbara. She’d suggested that whenever Frances got the jitters, to remind herself she could only control what was in her power and let everything else take its course.

Only problem with that thinking was that Frances liked to control every aspect of her cases. Liked to know every nuance of an investigation, every possible fact she could dredge up. It gave her confidence. Some people felt she had too much confidence, but that was their perception. Or, she liked to think, an acknowledgment of her well-crafted illusion.

But letting everything else take its course?

That would take magical thinking on her part, something even a magician’s daughter couldn’t conjure up.

* * *

SITTING AT THE DESK in the reception area at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations, Braxton Morgan read the text message from his grandmother Glenda a third time, mostly because he couldn’t believe it the first two.



I entered you in the Magic Dream Date Auction at Sensuelle on Valentine’s Day. Raise $$ for Keep ’Em Rolling & the guy who brings in the highest bid wins a car!



It wasn’t that Braxton was against raising money for Grams’s favorite charity, Keep ’Em Rolling, which provided wheelchairs for those in need. The cause was close to her heart, as she was a wheelchair user herself. And he’d love nothing more than to ditch his clunker and drive a new car. Until recently he’d avoided any activity that put him in the public eye, but he was ready to get out and about again, test the Vegas waters.

Not so long ago, as the manager of the high-end strip club Topaz, he’d lived la vida loca en Las Vegas—plush penthouse, Italian designer suits, kick-ass Porsche. At first he pretended not to notice when his boss, a Russian named Yuri Glazkov, muscled people for money or forged documents. After a while he had to admit Yuri was a thug, but Brax figured that as long as he kept his nose clean, no problem.

But like that old saying “You are what you eat,” you’re also who you hang out with.

After a few years working with Yuri, Braxton had been willing to break a law here and there for his boss, justifying it by telling himself he never indulged in violence or threats, just fudging a few numbers. Hell, everybody cheated on their taxes, right? But after Yuri got arrested for tax fraud, Brax couldn’t pretend he wasn’t on his way to being a thug, too.

But, when he tried to leave his job at Topaz, Yuri threatened to go to the authorities with evidence and witnesses to a crime Braxton had supposedly committed. All mocked-up evidence, given by “witnesses” who were Yuri’s buddies, but Braxton didn’t want to be railroaded into prison, so he stayed, waiting for the day he could make a clean break.

Which he finally got last August when he and his brother, Drake, along with a handful of Vegas police officers and a sharp arson investigator named Tony Cordova, headed up a sting at the Mandalay Bay Hotel and Casino that resulted in Yuri’s arrest on a slew of nasty felony charges, including attempted murder and extortion. After Yuri’s defense attorney got him released on a half-mil bond, the Russian thug had been keeping a low profile. Which was fine with Braxton. No Yuri meant a happy, peaceful life, even if he had been forced to rebuild his from scratch.

At least he still had his designer clothes, but he was back living with his mom and grandmother, and drove a banged-up turquoise Volvo with two balding tires. He hated turquoise.

He looked at his grandmother’s text message again.

He’d done his best to man up, never complain about his shift from big spender to budget shopper, but no way was he parading like a slab of beef in front of hordes of women fueled by hormones and free booze.

He glanced at the grandfather clock. Quarter after three. His mother would still be at her Wednesday bowling league, but Grams was either at home or her boyfriend’s down the street. Since she’d just texted this message, she was probably available to read his response right now.

He began tapping the keypad on his smartphone.



Grams, I’m not a slab of...



The desk phone jangled. Why Val LeRoy, his brother’s wife and P.I. partner, insisted on keeping this dinosaur landline service was beyond his understanding.

“Brax,” yelled Drake from the back office, “get that? I’m on another call.”

Braxton lifted the handset, mentally cursing the tangled phone cord that tied him like a leash to the phone.

“Morgan-LeRoy Investigations,” he answered, staring at his unfinished text message to his grandmother. Sounded hostile. Not good. He punched the back arrow to erase letters.



Grams, I’m...



“My apologies,” a man said, “I thought I dialed Diamond Investigations.”

The caller had a strong Russian accent, which brought back bad memories. Although he detected a faint, almost imperceptible British lilt, which he’d never heard in any of Yuri’s crowd.

“The agency name changed to Morgan-LeRoy Investigations last October,” Brax explained, waiting in case the man had questions about the former owner, Jayne Diamond. Sometimes callers didn’t know Jayne had died last October after a brief illness or that she’d bequeathed the agency to her protégé, Val LeRoy, and Val’s husband, Drake Morgan, Braxton’s identical twin brother.

“Ah, I see. I would like to speak to Mr. Morgan, please.”

Probably meant his brother, as Braxton had only come on board recently as a security consultant. “Drake is on another call. I can transfer you to his voice mail.”

Adjusting the sleeve of his blue-striped Armani shirt, he frowned at the phone, wondering if he knew how to do that. He tapped a button on the phone console that apparently turned on the speakerphone, because when the caller spoke again, his voice echoed through the outer office.

“Braxton Morgan,” the man clarified. “I wish to speak to Braxton Morgan.”

Brax hesitated. The Russian thing... Nah, he’d let the paranoia pass. Couldn’t afford to turn down an inquiry for his consulting services. He set the handset on the desk and leaned back in the swivel chair. “Speaking.”

“Excellent! My name is Dmitri Romanov, but my friends call me Dima. I am calling on behalf of my community. We would like to retain your services to help us.”

“Which community?”

“The Russian community.”

Which was a large one in Las Vegas, at least three thousand people. Didn’t mean this call had anything to do with Yuri. “The problem?”

“We are concerned about our image and our ability to run legitimate businesses because of recent negative publicity regarding one individual. We want to know where he spends his time in Las Vegas and if he is still conducting criminal activities. His name is Yuri Glaz—”

“You called the wrong guy,” Braxton snapped, wishing he’d listened to his instincts and canned this call. “Got problems with Yuri? Call the cops. Better yet, call the D.A., who I hope skewers that bastard to the wall at his trial next month.”

Drake strode into the room. To the caller, he said, “Give us a minute.”

He tapped the mute button so he could talk to Brax privately. Dressed in dark trousers, a dress shirt and their dad’s tailored gray jacket, Drake rubbed his palm across his forehead. He wore his hair in a buzz cut, which only men with great-looking skulls could get by with, something Braxton learned when he was forced to buzz his hair, too, last August when he and Drake switched places. These days, Braxton’s dark brown hair had grown back and bad in a short faux-hawk cut, which in his humble opinion made him look like Adam Levine.

“Maybe we should hear this guy out,” Drake said.

“Over my dead body.”

“Information is power.”

Brax got the message. By hearing what this Dmitri guy had to say, they’d learn whatever dirt he might have on Yuri. If it was muddy enough, they could pass it on to the D.A. who could sling it at the upcoming trial.

He pressed the speaker button.

“Sorry, Dmitri, for my reaction,” he said, adopting a more professional tone, “although you probably understand why.”

“Certainly, Braxton. I, too, am upset with Yuri’s unscrupulous ways. I am a respected businessman, ready to fund a significant venture, and I do not wish Yuri’s reputation or his current activities to stand in my way. I am prepared to pay you well for your investigative efforts.”

Braxton looked at the north-facing window and the steady stream of cars traveling along Graces Avenue, their hum like white noise. Sometimes there was only one way out of a problem, and that was to go straight through the messy dead center of it.

“I’m interested in the case,” he said, giving his brother a here-we-go look. “Fill me in on the details.”

“As you undoubtedly know all too well, Yuri is currently awaiting trial and under house arrest. An interesting phrase, house arrest, because with a little creativity and a GPS jammer, those ankle bracelets can slip on and off like a cheap bangle. Rumors are Yuri continues to loan-shark through a check-cashing store and fence goods hijacked from trucking companies.” He exhaled heavily as though blowing out smoke from a cigarette. “We want you to investigate these rumors. If true, the community needs to distance themselves from these enterprises and advise the authorities that none of us are involved. If they are false, we can proceed with a clear frame of mind.”

Braxton leaned back in his chair, wondering why the court had thought a bracelet could stop a guy like Yuri. “This will require two investigators, my brother and myself, each at one-hundred-seventy-five an hour, plus expenses.”

Drake cocked a questioning eyebrow. At Morgan-LeRoy, the hourly rate varied depending on the case, but it had never topped $125.

After a beat, Dmitri said, “That is acceptable. Is one-fifty per diem sufficient for expenses?”

“This is Vegas, Dima, not Boise.”

Dmitri chuckled. “Boise, my friend, is poised for a new era of entrepreneurship. Did you know China is establishing a state-of-the-art technology zone south of Boise?”

No, Brax didn’t know. But he was catching on that this Dmitri fellow was knowledgeable, educated and loaded. As in money. Lots of it.

“Three hundred a day for expenses,” Braxton said, making a rolling-dice gesture to his brother, “plus an additional two hundred each for vehicle rentals.”

For the next few moments, he listened to the faint tapping sounds over the speaker, which he guessed was Dmitri adding up numbers on a calculator. Drake leaned against the far wall, his arms crossed, a look somewhere between amusement and incredulity on his face.

Hot dog, he mouthed.

Although the brothers’ relationship had been frosty during the six years Brax had worked for Yuri, these days they shared their old camaraderie. Often they picked up on the other’s thoughts, sometimes even finishing each other’s sentences.

Brax grinned. When he’d accepted his brother and Val’s offer to work as a security consultant at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations, he’d told them his number one goal was to bring in the bucks, so he was always pushing for higher retainers, bigger cases. “I want to be the agency hot dog,” he’d told them.

Like him, Drake and Val were rebuilding their lives. Drake’s home had been destroyed in a fire last summer, and Val, after losing everything in Hurricane Katrina, had started over in Las Vegas a few years ago.

Dmitri finally broke the silence. “On days when there are two investigators, we’re talking one thousand for expenses, plus a three-fifty hourly fee. You are expensive, Mr. Morgan.”

For a moment, Brax thought about explaining how chasing Yuri could get complicated and costly, fast. Plus, if he pulled up to a five-star restaurant or a high-end casino in his turquoise Volvo, he might as well spray-paint on it Gumshoe Tailing Somebody.

Instead, he said politely, “You’re welcome to hire another P.I., Dima, but gotta tell ya...no one in town knows Yuri the way I do.”

Val, wearing a simple black dress, entered the room from the hallway that connected the agency to her and Drake’s living quarters in the back. The overhead lights caught streaks of violet in her bobbed brown hair.

When she heard the name Yuri, her brown eyes grew wide. She sat in one of the guest chairs, her hand on her bulging tummy.

“I accept your terms,” Dmitri said over the speaker, “with the understanding that we review your progress at the twelve-thousand-dollar mark. That is the amount of the retainer check my associate will drop off at your agency tomorrow morning at nine.”

Val mouthed Twelve thousand? to her husband, who gave her an acknowledging nod.

“Braxton,” Dmitri said, “I have an urgent appointment, so I must end this call, but I have something else I would like to discuss with you. May I speak with you later?”

After giving Dmitri his cell number, Brax ended the call and looked at his sister-in-law and brother, cupping a hand to his ear in a let’s-hear-it gesture.

“You are the hot dog,” Val said approvingly.

“Agency hot dog,” Drake corrected.

Brax flashed them an I’d-try-to-be-humble-but-it’s-so-true smile.

“As much as I would so love to be part of this case,” Val said, “My feet are starting to swell somethin’ fierce—no way I could keep up on a foot surveillance.” With a sigh, she looked at her left hand. “Fingers are swelling, too. Dropped off the family heirloom ring with Grams this morning so she can wear it for a while.” She looked back at the brothers. “Since I’m out, you two split the retainer.”

“You’re the lead investigator,” Drake said to Braxton, “plus you’ll be working more of the case, so...sixty-forty?”

Brax racked up the numbers in his mind. “Seven thousand, two hundred...sounds like enough to get my own place.”

Finally. His own bachelor pad. Not as posh as before, of course, but a place where he could play his music loud, toss a shiny new black satin cover on a king-size bed, invite a special lady over for his renowned spaghetti alla puttanesca, a bottle of Chianti and a homemade tiramisu dessert that would make an Italian mama weep.

Ah, a pared-down version of the life he left behind was almost his again....

He looked down at his cell phone.



Grams, I’m...



He didn’t mind, much, paring down when it came to his new life, but forget stripping down, as in going shirtless, which was what he’d heard guys did in these date auctions.

But it wasn’t an issue to be discussed in text messages. He needed to talk to Grams in person, offer a compromise, like his donating some money from his hefty retainer instead. Yeah, that might fix this problem.

He looked back up at Val and Drake. “Guys, mind if I take off early?”

Val did a double take. “You finally have a date, Brax?”

“Sorta.” More like a sit-down negotiation with one of the grandest old ladies who ever graced this planet.

“That didn’t come out right,” Val continued. “Sounded as if you can’t get a date when that’s so far from the truth. Why, with your stud looks, you could be courtin’ a different girl every night, so it’s just odd you’ve been livin’ like a monk for months now.”

“Honey,” Drake murmured, “you might be stepping over a line.”

She looked at her husband, all innocence. “Because I mentioned an obvious fact? Why, even Grams is worried about him! That’s why you—” She pursed her lips.

Braxton leaned back in his chair and checked out his brother, who was scratching his eyebrow. Which he always did when he was uncomfortable. Or guilty. “What’d you do, bro?”

“I, uh, paid the entry fee.”

“Entry fee,” he repeated, not liking where this was going. “To this brawn fest.”

“Magic Dream Date Auction, yes.”

Brax rocked forward on his chair, the front legs hitting the floor with a thud. “You think I can’t get a date?”

“Hey, Brax,” Val cut in, making a placating gesture, “it’s not like that, really. It’s just that ever since you moved in with Mama D and Grams, you stay home every night, get to bed by ten, never answer your former girlfriends’ calls. You seem, well, defeated, flat...nothin’ like my former bro-in-law.”

“I don’t stay home every night,” he muttered, wondering if it were Mom or Grams who’d snitched about his not returning those calls. Probably both.

“Right,” Drake said, “one evening you drove to a convenience store and bought a quart of milk.”

Brax blew out an exasperated breath. “I can’t believe this! I spend years being estranged from my family for hanging out with thugs, dating questionable women and skirting the Nevada criminal justice system, during which time Mom banned me from our childhood home. But now that I’m law-abiding, and yeah, okay, so I haven’t been involved with a woman for a while, but that’s my choice, by the way...” He gave both of them an and-you-better-believe-it look. “Where was I?”

“A law-abidin’ citizen,” prompted Val.

“Right. Now that I’m an upstanding citizen, my family can’t hear enough about my uneventful, boring life? I suppose Mom’s spilled that I still watch cartoons sometimes, too.” He jabbed an accusing finger at Val, then Drake. “Maybe it’s you people who need to get a life!”

“Brax,” Drake said, “don’t take it the wrong way.”

“What’s the right way? To joke about my do-nothing, go-nowhere, get-nothing life?”

“It’s all right, dawlin’,” Val said, drawing out the word dawlin’ like a slow pour of molasses. “It must be awful bein’ a former playboy. Like bein’ an ol’ James Bond sent out to pasture.”

As if he needed that mental picture. An old Bond bull with a bunch of over-the-hill Miss Moneypennies.

“Look,” he said, “I know you two mean well, but let’s put the brakes on the matchmaking, ’kay? That includes any blind dates, Craigslist ads, surprise walk-ins, you get the picture.”

Val frowned. “Surprise walk-ins?”

“Some hot blonde walks into the detective agency, needs to talk to a P.I. He falls for her story and her, and that’s when his real troubles start. It’s in every clichéd private-eye film.”

“F’true,” Val said, her eyes lighting up, “I recently saw Chinatown, and just like you said, the trouble started when a blonde walks into private eye Jake Gittes’s office.”

“I dunno,” Drake said. “You’ve been a monk so long, maybe you need a little blonde trouble.”

“Monk.” Braxton snorted. “Now you’re stepping over the line, bro.”

“Yeah?” Drake countered. “Well, since I’m already there, gotta ask...still watching Donald Duck cartoons?”

“I don’t need this.” Brax picked up his phone and stood. “I’m heading home to tell Grams that as much as I appreciate her—and your—concern to find me a date, I’d prefer not being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

He started walking to the door.

“Good luck saying no to Grams, bro.”

“I never claimed to be a wise man,” he said over his shoulder. “Just a savvy, determined monk.”


CHAPTER TWO

CLOSE TO THREE, Frances cruised her rented Mercedes sports car past the Passage-of-Love drive-through wedding chapel, its tunnel bright with gaudy lights and gold-painted cherubs. In the lot next to it was a run-down duplex, where a scrawny girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sat hunched on the porch steps, solemnly watching a couple ride a motorcycle into the chapel. To Frances, those two buildings summed up downtown Las Vegas—glitz, business and tough times.

At the end of the block, she pulled into Fortier’s lot and parked. After patting the inside pocket of her jacket to confirm the presence of the replica brooch, she exited the car.

The winds were picking up, but brooding clouds still hovered, as though unsure whether to take action or not. February forecasts were like crapshoots in Sin City—if the weather report called for fair skies, it might snow.

Heading toward the silver-tinted jewelry-store windows, she spied Enzo Fortier’s Bentley, one of the inheritances from his late father, Alain Fortier. Enzo’s siblings were angry their father had given the bulk of his estate, including the Bentley and jewelry store, to his youngest son, Enzo. The ongoing family drama, with its litigation, accusations of extortion, fraud and theft, had left Enzo distracted and vulnerable to criminals.

That was what she and Charlie believed, anyway. The person who stole the Lady Melbourne brooch had taken advantage of Enzo’s distraction to fence the pin. Not that Enzo was innocent—he had to know he was receiving stolen goods, but was probably too frightened to say no.

Whatever the situation, Charlie had tapped her for this case because she knew about Georgian jewelry. Being a woman didn’t hurt, either, he’d said, because Enzo had a roving eye.

So one reason Charlie had picked her for this case was because she was pretty enough to attract Enzo’s attention.

Not much of a compliment, really, as it was her artifice, not her, that would attract him. Not to say she wasn’t proud of her skill applying silicone gel and concealer. Sometimes she even wondered if she could market this talent, help other people struggling with facial scars.

And then sometimes, usually late at night when she’d run out of distractions, she wondered if any man could ever accept...touch...kiss the imperfection that lay beneath.

Stepping inside the jewelry store, she smiled pleasantly at the middle-aged security guard stuffed into a blue uniform accessorized with a shiny gold A-1 Security badge and gun holster.

She noted the surveillance camera in the ceiling to her right, which recorded her five-nine height—five-seven without the heels—as she strolled past the height ruler tacked on the inside of the entrance door.

A skinny middle-aged man in an Armani suit approached her. Despite his dazzlingly white smile, apprehension clung to him like a fog.

“Welcome. May I help you? I am the owner, Enzo Fortier,” he said in a thick French accent, bowing slightly.

“Elise Crayton.” On undercover cases, she always offered a name that couldn’t easily be spelled. She absently adjusted one of her earrings, drawing his gaze to it.

“Exquisite,” he said approvingly. “Antique, yes?”

“Georgian,” she said casually, dropping her hand. “My favorite style.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, his face lighting up, “I just happen to have several Georgian pieces available.” With a flourish, he gestured toward the back of the room. “This way, madame.” He paused. “Or is it mademoiselle?”

“Mademoiselle,” she murmured, letting her gaze lock with his for the briefest of moments, giving the illusion she just might be interested in him, too.

Nothing was more powerful, or more real, in life than the illusions people put forth. She guessed people didn’t have the time, or inclination, to dig deeper, so they accepted whatever was presented on the surface.

Maybe because she was a magician’s daughter, she understood that the best illusions were the result of weeks, often months, of practice, so she tried never to be overconfident in her own first impressions of others.

Moments later, she sat on a cushioned bench, eyeing a sparkling earring set and the Lady Melbourne brooch in the glass display case. As far as she knew, only the brooch had been taken from the museum. Later, she’d describe the earrings to Charlie, see if they could dredge up information about whether those had been stolen, too.

“What a lovely pin,” she said. “May I see it?”

“Absolument.”

As he retrieved the brooch from the case, she pretended to fix her hair while scanning the layout of the surveillance cameras. The closest one, in the ceiling almost directly overhead, captured a tight view of the two of them and this case. Another camera, positioned farther back in the ceiling to her left, recorded a long-range view of the back area of the store.

Fortier gingerly laid the piece of jewelry on a black velvet tray.

“Fourteen-karat yellow-gold pin stem,” he said. “The center diamond is two carats, and the petals are covered with...one hundred and twenty diamonds.”

Actually, there were one hundred and fifty diamonds, which was probably why he hesitated. He either hadn’t done his homework or he’d forgotten whatever information the thief had provided.

He also hadn’t mentioned that each stone had been mine-cut, one of the last hand-cut diamonds before the age of machinery took over. Although sometimes lumpy in shape, mine-cut diamonds reflected their natural shape, making each truly unique. A significant point to collectors.

“May I see the backing of the brooch?” She slid off an earring. “I’d like to compare it to the backing on this....”

As she handed him the earring, it dropped with a soft fomp onto the black velvet.

“Oh, pardon!”

He stood, his features pinched with worry. As he carefully lifted the earring, she leaned forward, angling her right shoulder toward the nearest camera. Her right hand slid into her left jacket pocket as the left plucked the Lady Melbourne brooch. The switch was complete within a few seconds.

Enzo, still examining the earring, murmured, “I do not see any damage.”

She had purposefully let it fall on the velvet tray so it would land safely. Nevertheless, she frowned with concern.

“Thank goodness,” she murmured. “So clumsy of me.”

“No, mademoiselle,” he said, returning it to her, “it is I who should have been more watchful. If you see a problem, you must bring it back and we shall repair it, at no cost, of course.”

“Thank you.” She slipped it back onto her ear.

“Even if you don’t find a problem,” he said, lowering his voice, “bring it back on your beautiful ear, and we shall take it out to a late lunch.”

She smiled coyly. “How late?”

The look in his eyes darkened. “As late as you’d like.”

She glanced at the brooch, back at him. “Maybe we can take the brooch to this late lunch, too.”

He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t take my jewelry out to lunch or anywhere else.”

“You think I’d steal it?”

He stared at her for a moment. “No, of course not. But someone else might.”

“I was joking about taking it out,” she said offhandedly, “but I am curious....” She inched her hand across the glass counter, her fingers almost touching his. “Where did you find this exquisite pin?”

He glanced at her hand. “A collector.”

“Did he give you those Georgian earrings, too?”

“Yes.”

So the “collector” was a man. Since the brooch had been stolen in Amsterdam, she asked, “A European collector, perhaps? Because I know a gentleman in Brussels who has an impressive Georgian collection.... Maybe we know the same person.”

“No. Not Brussels.”

One look at his wary expression and she knew he wouldn’t say more. Switching gears, she returned to a safer topic.

“So, is the backing on my earring the same as—”

Releasing a pent-up breath, Enzo picked up the flower brooch and turned it over. “This foil backing is similar to your earring, yes.”

“How much for the pin?”

“Thirty-seven thousand.”

Ten years ago, it had been valued at fifty. Which made it easily worth seventy or more today. He also hadn’t referred to it as the Lady Melbourne brooch or mentioned its history. According to legend, it had been a gift from Queen Charlotte to Lady Melbourne, one of her ladies-in-waiting.

He obviously wanted to sell it, fast. Maybe he had been promised a cut.

“Let me think it over,” she said pleasantly.

He gave her his card, and she left the store, smiling at the security guard on her way out.

As she drove out of the lot, she lightly touched the Lady Melbourne brooch, safely tucked into her inside jacket pocket. The replica now lay in its place at Fortier’s, and unless his “collector” acquaintance checked it closely, no one would know about the switch. That was, until she, or maybe Charlie, returned to interview Enzo about his role in fencing the brooch. Depending on when, or if, she found the master thief, which could take days or weeks. Maybe months. Investigations always had their own timeline, based as much on the investigator’s skill as patience.

Driving down the street, she saw the duplex ahead to her right. The young girl still sat on the porch steps, her eyes glued to the wedding chapel next door.

Frances pulled over and parked. Opening her clutch, she retrieved a bill that she’d tucked away a week or so earlier. Years ago, someone had given her such a gift. Now that she made a good income, she liked to give back in the same quiet way.

The girl’s dark eyes widened with curiosity as Frances walked briskly up the cracked concrete walkway. The youngster scanned her linen pantsuit, all the way down to her Dolce & Gabbana heels, then raised her eyes to the glittering earrings.

Frances paused at the bottom of the steps and looked at the pile of old car parts stacked in a corner of the worn wooden porch, the bent metal frame of the screen door. They reminded her of a similar building she had lived in nearly twenty ago, and how for a few weeks she and her parents had spent their evenings in the dark because of an unpaid electric bill.

Not total darkness, though, because her dad lightened their moods, literally, with magic tricks. He’d light candles with a wave of his hand, make lightbulbs glow with a touch of his finger. She and her mom had seen the tricks dozens of times, knew the secrets behind the maneuvers, but they had laughed and clapped as though experiencing them for the first time.

Their responses had been real, not contrived. Although there was always trickery behind a magic act, something mystical bonded an audience to a magician. They shared a belief, as far-fetched as it might seem, that everything would be all right. That the rabbit would reappear, the magician would escape the water tank, the lady sawn in half would be whole again.

Frances met the girl’s gaze. “What’s your name, hon?”

“Whitney.”

She handed the girl a bill. “Whitney, do something nice for yourself and your family.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open as she looked at the fifty-dollar bill, then her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I don’t do nuthin’ for money.”

“It’s a gift.”

“Why fo’?”

“For you to pay it forward someday.” She saw the confusion on the girl’s face. “Which means...when you’re all grown up, give a gift to another young girl and her family.”

As Frances headed back to her car, she heard the girl’s barely suppressed squeal, followed by the thumpity-thump of feet running across the porch and the slam of a screen door.

* * *

WHILE DRIVING PAST the Clark County courthouse a few minutes later, Frances punched in the speed-dial number for her dad’s cell, hit the speaker button and set the phone on the console. It was against Nevada law to make handheld cell-phone calls. In her opinion, that meant as long as she wasn’t holding her phone, she stayed legal.

After all she’d been through, Frances was definitely keeping her life on the right side of the law. In five years, she would no longer be under court supervision, her payments would be completed for the necklace she stole and her felony conviction would be discharged. When that day came, she would have a second chance to live her life right.

“Hey, baby girl,” her dad said over the speaker, “how’d it go?”

“Slick as glass.”

“Get the brooch?”

“Of course.”

“That’s my girl!”

As she idled at a stoplight, a black cat dashed across the street in front of the Benz. She muttered, “That’s not good.”

“Something wrong?”

“I just saw a black cat.”

“You and your superstitions,” her dad said with a chuckle. “On your way to meet Charlie now?”

“He’s in meetings until five. Figured while I’m downtown, I’ll pull some files at the clerk and recorder’s office to see if Enzo has recently used his jewelry inventory as collateral for a loan.”

“This has something to do with the brooch?”

“Enzo’s up to his teeth in litigation, probably having trouble borrowing money from banks right now. People in tight spots sometimes turn to questionable money sources, especially in Vegas. If Enzo took out a loan within the past week or so, which of course coincides with the brooch mysteriously surfacing, the identified lender might be the thief, too.”

“My daughter, Sherlock—or should I say Shirley—Holmes.”

In her rearview mirror, she saw swirling red lights from a white Crown Victoria hugging the bumper of her Benz.

Anxiety rippled through her. “Looks like I got company. Unmarked cop car’s pulling me over.”

“That’s odd. Why an unmarked?”

Seemed odd to her, too, but she didn’t have time to analyze the situation. “Charlie’s office and cell numbers are written on the bottom of the whiteboard in the kitchen. Leave messages on both that I’ve been pulled over on Third, across from the courthouse. Gotta go.”

After stopping the car, she eased the brooch from her pocket and set it carefully between the leather seat and the console, then rolled down her window and killed the engine. Slowly, she placed her hands on the steering wheel where they could be seen.

Exhaust fumes and the scents of hot dogs from a nearby street vendor wafted into the car as she watched the man in her rearview mirror unfold himself from the vehicle and swagger to her car. He wore jeans, white T-shirt, windbreaker—universal undercover-cop attire.

His steps crunched to a stop next to her window. Leaning over slightly, his blue eyes fastened on hers like steel shards to a magnet.

“Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked politely.

“Howdy,” he said, all friendly like, “mind handing over your phone and car keys, ma’am?”

Not asking for her license and registration? “Uh...isn’t this out of the ordinary?”

Looking around, he puffed out his chest while stealthily opening his jacket just enough for her to see his shoulder holster. Was this for real? The guy was acting like some kind of yahoo, showing off his big bad gun. If she wasn’t so unnerved by being pulled over like this, she might laugh.

But even yahoos could be law enforcers, and she wasn’t about to argue with a loaded gun, so she handed over her phone and key fob.

He powered off her phone and dropped it into his jacket pocket. “Step out of the car, please, ma’am.”

Once she did so, he swiftly tied her hands behind her with a plastic handcuff, then leaned in close and whispered, “Where’s the brooch?”

Maybe Enzo had been sharper than Frances had given him credit for, realized she’d lifted the real pin and left behind a look-alike. At least her dad was calling Charlie, alerting him to this snafu. He’d call the police department, get this ironed out. What a hassle.

Meanwhile, it’d be stupid to play dumb.

“Between the front seat and console,” she said, more irritated than nervous at this point because she’d just blown the case.

Sure, Charlie would make nice with the police, and Vanderbilt would be pleased about the return of the Lady Melbourne, but she’d screwed up any possibility of tracking what Vanderbilt had wanted most—the fifth-century-BC coins. Although jewelry was her forte, she’d felt a connection to those coins after learning they were the last currency to be individually hammered, not minted. It reminded her of Georgian jewelry, the last to be made with hand-cut diamonds.

After the cop retrieved the brooch and her clutch bag, he thumbed the key fob to lock the car doors.

As he escorted her to his vehicle, she memorized the numbers on his license plate, mostly out of habit. Later she’d suggest to Charlie that the next time he wanted her to steal back Vanderbilt’s property, at least give somebody in the police department the heads-up that she was working undercover and prevent a foul-up like this.

Of course, Charlie had his reasons for not alerting the police. He worried that details about her undercover work, as well as her true identity, would get disseminated too widely throughout the police department, compromising her ability to work.

He said it had happened before to other investigators.

“Watch your head, ma’am.” The officer planted his hand on her skull as if it were a basketball and guided her into the backseat of the unmarked car.

Looking through the passenger window, she eyed the dozen or so people on the sidewalk who’d stopped to watch the arrest-in-progress. A middle-aged woman in a blue sweatshirt with the word Lucky in glittery letters licked her double-dip ice-cream cone, her wide eyes glued to the event as if it were a reality TV show.

After getting into the front seat, the cop held up her clutch bag. “I want you to know that I have not opened your purse. It will remain on the front seat of my car until I return it to you.”

He was letting her know that its contents were safe, which protected him from any later accusations of theft. Definite police protocol. Yet he hadn’t followed other standard procedures.

She shifted, trying to get comfortable, an impossibility with her hands bound behind her back. “So,” she said, trying to sound unconcerned, “weren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”

“Why, thank you, ma’am,” he said, turning the ignition. “Guess I just plumb forgot. Lemme see...just like that Bud Buckley song about keeping secrets, you have the right to remain silent...anything you got any inkling to say can and will be used against you in a court of law....”

He drove, reciting her rights as if they were country-song lyrics, missing the turn to the detention center. Clearly, this wasn’t a standard arrest, and the joker behind the steering wheel wasn’t like any cop she’d ever known. A lot could go wrong while carrying jewelry worth seventy thousand dollars.

“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to sound calmer, stronger than she felt.

“I forget,” he said, “did I mention the part about if you can’t afford a lawyer? Hey, that reminds me of that ol’ Willie Nelson song ‘Mama, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.’ Has that line about lettin’ kids grow up to be doctors and lawyers. And such.”

As he started singing the song, she looked out the window, feeling more annoyed than scared. As insane as this ride-along was, she didn’t have the sense she was in any danger. Her instincts told her something else, too.

She was on her way to meet the person who’d stolen the Lady Melbourne brooch.

* * *

TEN MINUTES, TWO country songs and one headache later, the unmarked car pulled into the parking lot behind the Downtown 3rd Farmers Market.

The building sat at the apex of Stewart Avenue and North Casino Center Boulevard, two streets that always bustled with traffic. Since the market only opened on Fridays, the lot was empty except for a sleek black limousine with darkened windows. In a corner of the lot, some teenage boys practiced their skateboarding moves, the wheels clattering and grinding along the asphalt. Across the street sat a bright red coffee hut.

The officer, flashing her a big ol’ welcoming grin, opened the back door and helped her out. She closed her eyes against a gust of chilly wind as he undid the plastic binding. The scent of French-roast coffee drifted past. Opening her eyes again, she rubbed her wrists while watching the limo.

“After the meeting, I’ll drive you back to your vehicle, ma’am.”

So this had been planned. “Fine,” she muttered, “just no more singing, okay?”

“Does humming count?”

She exhaled heavily. No wonder he didn’t need to recite Miranda warnings—hanging out with him for a few minutes made anyone want to remain silent.

As they walked to the limo, her nerves kicked back in.

No one is going to kill me in a luxury limo. Especially one parked in broad daylight, blocks from the Las Vegas Metro Police station. Plus those skateboarding kids were close enough to easily describe her, the officer, his vehicle and the limo.

But even after mentally rattling off logical reasons that she was safe, she still wanted to throw up.

The cop opened a back door, and she leaned inside the limo, sliding onto a curved leather couch that faced a wet bar, leather chairs and small desk. Two men sat farther down the couch.

With the daylight spilling inside, she had a good view of the occupants. The man closest to her was in his early forties, with pronounced Slavic features, startlingly blue eyes and light, short-cropped hair. He wore leather loafers, slacks and a tailored blue shirt that revealed a muscled physique. On his far side sat a thirtyish man with a tight-lipped expression and wavy dark hair. His clothes weren’t as nice—green-checkered gingham shirt, jeans, scuffed sneakers—and he wore an earbud, its wire connected to a smartphone.

The officer, quiet for once, handed the Lady Melbourne brooch to the older man, then shut the door without coming in.

“Hello, Frances,” said a man with a Russian accent.

A ceiling lamp flicked on, lighting their seating area.

She wondered how he knew her real name. “And you’re...?”

“An admirer...and a potential friend.”

Considering how matter-of-factly he accepted the brooch, as though it were his, this had to be the criminal working with Enzo. The mastermind Charlie and Vanderbilt Insurance wanted her to find. And to think she’d been convinced she’d blown this case.

Great. She’d found him. But who was he? Apparently a Russian who had an undercover Vegas cop on his payroll.

The man picked a box off the couch. As he leaned forward, holding it toward her, she caught a whiff of his cologne, a potent mix of burned cherries and leather.

“Please help yourself,” he said. “Chocolates from the Krupshaya confectionery factory of Saint Petersburg.”

“Are you from Saint Petersburg?”

He made a clucking sound. “Don’t be impolite, my dear. We’ve barely met and you’re already asking personal questions.” He gestured to the box. “I suggest the dark chocolates. They’re creamy and sweet, unlike the dry, bitter variety one finds in America.”

“No, thank you,” she said. She vaguely remembered someone telling her that refusing a Russian’s offer of food or drink was considered rude. “I’m allergic to chocolate.”

“Allergic to vodka, too?” He helped himself to a piece of candy.

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Would hate for you to miss out on all of life’s pleasures.” He settled back on the couch and, after popping the confection into his mouth, nodded to the other man, who moved forward, turning his smartphone so Frances could see the screen.

A video began playing of her and Enzo at the jewelry store, talking across the display case. It had been taken from the camera on her left, a good twenty feet away, yet it looked as though it had been shot from much closer.

Thoughts ricocheted through her mind. Enzo was either a terrific actor, emoting cluelessness as she lifted the brooch, or he had no idea she’d done it. Considering his current legal problems, she doubted he could pretend to be anything other than what he was—a troubled, weary man.

Which meant this Russian had somehow gotten hold of the surveillance film, but since he had the brooch again, why show this to her?

He said something in Russian to the younger man, who tapped the screen. The image froze just as she swapped the replica with the Lady Melbourne brooch.

“Nice work, Frances,” the older man said. “You’ve obviously done this before.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your government has a marvelous facial-recognition database that contains every U.S. driver’s license photo. My associate Oleg hijacked the signal from the surveillance camera to his smartphone, selected a clear image of you and ran it through that database. It linked to your license photo and gave us your name.”

Hacking into a government database with such ease was mind-blowing. Either they had somebody on the inside or this younger guy was a computer genius. Good thing her driver’s license had a bogus street address, courtesy of Vanderbilt and the state of Nevada.

“Oleg has been monitoring that surveillance camera for several days,” he continued, looking pleased. “You see, I planted the Lady Melbourne brooch at Fortier’s because I hoped to attract a thief—make that a talented thief—who is knowledgeable about Georgian jewelry.”

This was a twist she wasn’t expecting, although she had a good idea where it was leading. “You want me to steal something for you.”

“Yes.”

“I would have thought you already had such contacts....”

“Ah, I did have an experienced jewel thief lined up. An accomplished gentleman, but he’s getting older and having health issues. Because I’ve been absent from your country for a while, I’ve unfortunately lost touch with other contacts.” He shrugged. “My excellent team has been working hard for several months.... Silly to kill a project because one person drops out. You see, we are like a pirate ship, staying on course despite turbulent seas, determined to find the buried treasure marked with an X on our map.”

“Seems risky to continue, though, if the person who dropped out is key to the plan.”

“But a key can be forged. I found you, didn’t I? As to risk...what beats in the heart of every thief is the thrill of uncertainty and peril. Without those, we lose our edge, our—” he rubbed his fingers together, as though touching a silky fabric “—finesse.”

His words resonated with her. She could still remember the rush after a successful pickpocket, a giddy high she had never gotten anywhere else in life. As an investigator, she sometimes felt that way after lifting an item, but it wasn’t the same. The risk was there, but it was nothing like the thrill of the illicit hunt.

She shifted slightly. “What do you want stolen?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Helena Diamond necklace....”

“Of course,” she murmured.

The Helena Diamond was a heart-cut diamond necklace secretly commissioned by Napoleon with the help of friends during his exile on the island of Saint Helena in memory of his long-lost love, Josephine. Legend claimed that within the Helena Diamond was the pattern of two perfectly symmetrical hearts, only visible to the eyes of destined lovers.

The necklace disappeared after Napoleon’s death, supposedly confiscated by his enemy, Prince Metternich, whose family hid the diamond after the fall of the Austrian Empire. Decades later, it resurfaced in the hands of a London diamond merchant who sold it for fifteen million dollars to an unnamed American businessman.

“That necklace is worth millions,” she said.

“Twenty to be exact. It will be on display next month at the Legendary Gems exhibit at the Palazzo. We have the electronic know-how, locksmiths and muscle to grant you safe passage in and out. Your knowledge of Georgian jewelry—essential, as you will be mingling with antique-jewelry collectors and dealers—and your sleight-of-hand skills will do the rest.”

Her stomach fell to somewhere around her feet. What he was describing confirmed to her that he’d also been behind the theft of the ancient coins that she was so eager to find. And more than that, he was reeling her into his next major heist.

For most of her five years as an insurance investigator at Vanderbilt, she’d worked garden-variety thefts. Mid-range jewelry and antiquities stolen from homes and small businesses.

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

THE 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.”

* * *

THE 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.

He realized he was smiling back.

“So,” she said, her voice turning husky, “do you know where I can find Braxton?”

Oh, now she’d done it.

He’d always been a sucker for women’s smoky, raspy voices, and she’d just given it to him twofold. She was a young Lauren Bacall. Cool, unflappable, smooth. And he was Sam Spade, private eye, ready and willing to help the damsel in distress.

Ka-boom.

He straightened, laughing as he realized what he’d just fallen for.

“Oh, you’re good,” he said, giving his head a shake. “The hot blonde strolling in here, bringing trouble into my life. That pantsuit fooled me at first. Who’s your stylist? Hillary Clinton? That uptight schoolmarm bun, whoa, we’re talking foxy...like Frau Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies. But I have a thing for blondes, which they probably told you. And that husky, smoky voice. Wow. Tie me up and make me write bad checks all night long, baby.”

He laughed. She didn’t.

“So,” he said, turning down the dial on his frivolity, “who put you up to this? Drake?”

A sly half smile played on her lips. “Right, it was Drake. He told me Braxton would be sitting at this desk at nine.”

“Yeah, I open up most mornings.”

She placed a manila envelope on the desk. “Then this is for you, Braxton Morgan. Have a nice day.”

Neatly printed on the envelope were the words To Braxton Morgan, personal and confidential and Dmitri Romanov in the top left corner. The papers from Dmitri. And the check. Smoky-husky was his associate?

When he looked up, the blonde was walking away. No goodbye. Just a silky-smooth exit, like a trail of smoke from Lauren Bacall’s cigarette.

Was that how the clichéd private-eye story ended? After the hot blonde walked into the detective agency and exchanged a few words with the P.I., who of course fell hard for her, she walked back out? Just like that?

Not in this movie.

Braxton grabbed his phone and headed after her.

* * *

HEADING TO HER CAR in the Morgan-LeRoy Investigations lot, Frances shivered as a chilly breeze flittered past. Two hours ago, the skies had been deceptively blue and the sun so bright she’d tossed her sunglasses into her purse. Now clouds were moving in, obliterating the sun, casting the world in a surreal, hazy light.

Footsteps slapped behind her.

“Hey, Babe!”

She looked around. The only other person nearby was a guy in a cap with earflaps and pom-poms ambling down the sidewalk, so “Babe” had to mean her.

She turned back to Braxton, who was walking briskly toward her. Hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket or coat, so he had to feel the cold, but he seemed oblivious to it. Flashed her a smile and waved as though out for a stroll on a balmy spring day.

He was tall, a little over six feet, she guessed. That tucked-in fitted shirt emphasized his V shape—from the width of his shoulders down to his toned chest that tapered to a flat, lean waist. Although he wore his trousers stylishly loose, the material seemed to skim his muscled thighs as he walked.

A sensual awareness prickled over her skin.

Back in the Morgan-LeRoy office, she’d found him to be cute in a goofy kind of way, but he’d also been sitting down, so she didn’t get an overall impression. Plus she’d been juggling other thoughts—trying to get a fix if this was Braxton, as she wanted to hand over the envelope to the right person, thinking about her brunch meeting today with her boss.

Her thoughts scattered as Braxton stopped in front of her. He blew out a breath and grinned—an infectious, sheepish smile that filled his whole face. Standing this close, inches apart really, she got the full force of his gray eyes, really more of a light gray-blue that reminded her of early-morning skies.

“I said some dumb stuff back there.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry.”

His flustered boyishness—like a teenage boy worried about what to say to the girl—took her by surprise. Where’d the cocky, in-your-face guy go? The one who blurted that line about tying him up and making him write bad checks all night?

Sudden heat crawled up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Shouldn’t have thought about that.

“Must say,” she said casually, willing the heat to subside as she looked over at an old pickup, its suspension squeaking, lumber along Graces Avenue, “I’ve never been compared to Frau Farbissina before.”

“I thought someone was punking me—didn’t know you were really here on business.”

As she turned to face him, a gust of wind blew his soapy, masculine scent toward her. She held back a shiver, not from the cold this time.

“Don’t worry about it.” She meant it. Whatever had been going on back there in the office didn’t make sense, but it was a small issue in a world of big ones.

“I don’t deserve to get off the hook so easily,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble she felt all the way down to her toes.

“No, you don’t,” she agreed, trying not to smile.

They’d only met a few minutes ago, but she felt the rhythm, the current between them, as though they’d done this dozens of times. Playing, teasing each other. Doubted any woman could resist his charm.

Braxton had what her mom would have called “matinee-idol good looks.” Illegally handsome and exuberantly male. Plus he exuded an unlabored, playful sexiness that if left unbridled could gallop into full-on killer charisma. She imagined he had to hold the reins tight, practice some self-imposed restraint, try to wheel it out on special occasions only.

She glanced at the old Volvo, the only other car in the small lot. Had to be his. Why did a charismatic, good-looking guy with a sharp sense of style drive a rusting, bald-tired car?

“Piece of junk,” he muttered, following her line of vision.

Everything within her froze.

She stared at a patch of peeling paint on the hood, a rusted dent on its side. Braxton couldn’t see her imperfections, but if he did, would they be standing here, playing mental footsie?

She doubted it.

After all, he looked like the perfect male—classic good looks, sculpted bod, designer clothes. Maybe it wasn’t fair to assume he’d seek the same perfection in life—be it a woman, car, house, whatever—but considering how he looked down on that poor Volvo, maybe he would.

“You should fix up your car,” she said quietly, “then you’ll like it better.”

Pulling the key fob from her pocket, she headed to her Benz. Breezes whipped past, chilling whatever warmth she’d felt.

“Hey, did I say something wrong?” he said, following her.

Her heels clicked across the asphalt. She punched a button and the door locks on the Benz clicked open.

“I’ll get it,” he said, bounding ahead.

He looked so gallant opening the driver’s door for her, those sparkling gray eyes seeking her approval, but she didn’t want to play this game anymore because it was destined for a happy-never-more ending. He was the matinee-idol prince and she was the frog princess.

And no way that prince would ever want to kiss this frog princess.

Deliberately avoiding his gaze, she started to get into the car when their bodies bumped and she stumbled.

He grabbed her by the elbow, steadying her.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

She could feel his eyes wanting to connect with hers, but she couldn’t go there again. They’d experienced a few frivolous moments, and now it was time to get back to reality.

“I have a meeting,” she said evenly, lowering herself into the driver’s seat.

“What’s your na—”

The rest of his question was cut off as she closed the door with a sharp clack.


CHAPTER FOUR

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Frances took a seat at the table, immaculately set with linen, crystal and a bottle of champagne—Taittinger, no less—chilling in an ice-filled silver bucket. The lights were moody low, the classical music softly romantic.

Her boss, Charlie Eden, was dapper in a charcoal Ralph Lauren suit that complemented his silvering hair. He looked at her with shining, attentive eyes from across the table.

She and Charlie had sometimes ordered cocktails during these meetings, but champagne on ice? This was a first. Made her uncomfortable. Did he think this was some kind of date?

She flashed on several women at the Vanderbilt Insurance office who’d run over their own grandmothers to be in Frances’s shoes right now. In the company kitchen, they’d whisper breathlessly about his Porsche 911 and how its custom paint job matched its baby-blue cockpit, his Tuscan-style home on a golf course, his European vacations.

What they liked was his money, of course, not his withering looks when displeased or his condescending tone when addressing someone he viewed as an imbecile, which seemed to be half of the earth’s population. It amazed her how some people, like Charlie’s office groupies, viewed the almighty dollar as if it were the most important attribute in a potential mate, rather than traits like kindness and devotion.

Or maybe Frances was more attuned to what money couldn’t buy based on her mom’s stories of her privileged, but painfully lonely, upbringing.

So here Frances sat in a luxurious restaurant, feeling awkward. Maybe she wouldn’t have thought twice about the decor and champagne on ice if her dad hadn’t been so insistent that Charlie had a thing for her.

Did he?

She’d never picked up on any signals from her boss, but then she’d always related to his professional role, not the man behind it.

Something about Charlie she’d always picked up on loud and clear, though. He wasn’t a gambler. His every action had a plan and a purpose. Nothing with him was ever simple or spontaneous.

Which meant his reasons for selecting this restaurant were more convoluted than his setting up a date. Eventually, he’d tell her what they were.

“Hope the bubbly wasn’t too expensive, Charlie,” she said, setting her smartphone on the table, “because I won’t be drinking any. Way too early for me.”

He flashed his Gordon Gekko smile. “It’s almost noon.”

“It’s a few minutes after ten.”

“Frances, as always, you are enmeshed in the minutiae. Observe, document, categorize.”

“If everybody saw the forest instead of the trees, nobody would know how to plant a seed.”

Charlie did a slight double take, but didn’t say anything as the waiter appeared at their table. He wore a white jacket with Chez Manny stitched in blue on the pocket and gave them a practiced smile. After setting a basket of “hand crafted” rolls and butter on the table, he gestured toward the champagne. She noticed initials inked on the inside of his ring finger, which made her wonder why people got tattoos with personal messages, as though anything in life were that permanent.

“Now that your guest is here, shall I pour the champagne?” he asked.

She held her hand over her glass. “No, thank you.”

The waiter bent his head in understanding and poured the bubbly into Charlie’s crystal flute.

Her boss had wanted to meet at this restaurant last night, too, but she’d canceled, explaining she felt drained after the odd undercover-cop escort and limo meeting.

She was glad she’d gone straight home last night, because her dad had been worrying himself sick since their aborted phone call. He’d also thought he’d failed her because although he’d left messages for Charlie, he didn’t know if Charlie had heard them, so her dad fretted about her possibly being behind bars with no one coming to her aid.

Wanting to ease her dad’s concerns, she’d glossed over what had happened during their dinner of Spam sandwiches and leftover Chinese food. Said the undercover cop had pulled her over for a broken taillight and let her go with a warning. That she would have called her dad after that but had been pulled into a last-minute meeting at a downtown coffee shop with a Vanderbilt client.

After dinner, she wrote an email to Charlie filling him in on all the details, including that she’d be conducting a delivery in the morning for the Russian, after which she could meet Charlie. He wrote back later that he’d be at Chez Manny by ten.

“Would you perhaps like a Baby Bellini, a nonalcoholic drink made with peach nectar and sparkling cider?” the waiter asked her.

She ordered one, plus an omelet. Charlie ordered the cedar-plank-roasted salmon special.

After the waiter left, Charlie lifted his glass of bubbly. “To my star investigator.”

“Hardly a star. All I did was talk to the Russian.”

He took a sip of champagne, set the glass back on the table. “But he trusted you enough to invite you into his inner sanctum, Frances, which is a coup. You’ve been an investigator long enough to understand the significance of that.”

She caught an edge of apprehension in his tone.

“Pass the bread?” she asked pleasantly, studying his face, wondering what was going on with him.

He held out the basket and she helped herself to a “hand crafted” roll. She spread some of the butter—which the waiter had mentioned was “lavender laced”—on the warm roll and took a bite, savoring its herb-infused, yeasty taste.

For several moments they said nothing, listening to a gentle violin played over other diners’ murmured conversations.

“I have good news and bad news,” he finally said, “or possibly good news and good news, depending on how successful you are in this case, Frances.”

“I’m not sure I like how this sounds,” she murmured.

“I shouldn’t call it bad news. More correctly, it is potentially good news for both of us.”

“But you said this depends on how successful I am, so apparently my actions dictate how this...whatever it is...will affect both of us.”

“Correct.” He drew his lips into a tight, reflective grin. “I’ve been interested for some time in opening my own antiquities insurer company, but haven’t found enough interested backers. Fortunately, the CEO of Vanderbilt—an old friend of mine, we attended Cornell together—has offered me the helm of a new Vanderbilt division that will handle all high-end antiquities insurance policies. I’ll be building an elite team of appraisers, underwriters and fraud investigators whose focus will be to reduce claims fraud on our more valuable jewelry and antiquity items. Frankly, I haven’t been happy with most of our investigators—their sloppy work has resulted in Vanderbilt paying extraordinarily hefty claims without recovering insured items. But you, Frances, have a solid track record of solving cases. I’d like you to join my team as my first investigator, but...”

But what? He was giving her high praise one moment, then seeming critical of her the next. She held his gaze for an awkward moment or two, watching the sparkle go out of his light brown eyes until they reminded her of dead leaves.

“Spit it out, Charlie.”

She’d never spoken like that to her boss, but it was grating on her nerves he didn’t just speak his mind. She might tell white lies to her dad so he wouldn’t worry, fabricate stories and identities in the course of her investigative work, but sometimes the best way to deal with an issue was to put it out there.

As the violin music trilled in the background, Charlie stared hard at her, finally saying, “You can’t fail at this case.”

“Because you want to show Vanderbilt I have what it takes to be part of your elite group.”

“Correct.” He took another sip of champagne.

“I know how much Vanderbilt wants me to find those coins, Charlie, but there are never any guarantees. You know that.”

“I do. Just bring your A-game, Frances. That’s all I’m asking.”

Which brought up the issue she’d tossed and turned over last night. Sometime between 2:00 and 3:00 a.m., she’d finally dozed off, still torn about whether or not to make this request.

“I’m not sure I should investigate this one,” she said.

He frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s out of my league. I can bring my A-game, but it’s like asking a—” she listened to the violin warble “—a small-time fiddler to play first violin in an orchestra. You want me to find coins worth millions of dollars...but, Charlie, you seem to forget I was a teenage pickpocket who later lifted a few pieces of jewelry. My biggest theft was a diamond-and-ruby necklace worth eighteen grand retail, and I got caught.”

Charlie obviously saw her concern because his expression turned soft, almost apologetic. “Let’s table that discussion for a minute.”

She nodded.

“Speaking of that eighteen-grand necklace, you’ve almost paid off the restitution, right?”

“Almost.”

“I’m proud of you, Frances.”

She didn’t feel any pride over what she’d learned these past five years, but she definitely felt humbled.

It hadn’t been easy paying the restitution. Besides the cost of the necklace, the court tacked on their case-processing fees, plus an assessment for the victims’ compensation fund, which brought her financial obligation to just over $22,700. A hefty payoff considering her fence, a pawnbroker named Rock Star, paid her only $4,500 for the necklace, the standard 25 percent going rate.

At first she’d felt sorry for herself for getting into that mess. Then one day her probation officer called and said the victim, a woman named Leona, who’d recently lost her daughter in Afghanistan, wanted to meet her. Frances had balked, anxious about facing Leona’s justified anger, especially as the necklace had never been recovered.

Her mother, in the last weeks of her life, although Frances and her dad didn’t know it at the time, simply said, You owe it to her.

The following week, Frances had sat in a spacious, airy living room, eating chocolate cookies with Leona, a plump, fiftyish woman with eyes the color of water. She didn’t get angry. Didn’t mention the necklace, either. Instead, she talked for two hours about her daughter, Dena, who’d played the flute, raised bees and dreamed of being a veterinarian. She never mentioned Dena’s death, only said she’d joined the army to help pay for her college.

Later, Frances thought how she’d gone to Leona’s so the woman could yell and vent her justified rage. Instead Frances received something far greater. Forgiveness.

“But you weren’t caught stealing that necklace,” Charlie continued, “which is commendable.”

Frances was surprised he’d used the word commendable about her theft. For all Charlie’s education, sometimes he had the depth of a puddle.

“It was the fence that snitched you out, right?” he said pleasantly, as though this were a light, inconsequential conversation.

“The buyer of the necklace coughed up my fence’s name to the police, who in turn coughed up mine.” Loyalty among thieves.

“Which is my point—you’ve never been caught in the act,” he said, “because you’re good at what you do. Which our mystery Russian recognized after watching your brilliant audition on the surveillance feed.”

The waiter returned with her Baby Bellini, poured more champagne for Charlie and informed them their food would be served shortly.

After he left, Charlie said, “You’re not out of your league, Frances—you’re stepping up to it.”

As he paused to take another sip of champagne, she tasted her Baby Bellini, enjoying its peachy fizz, thinking she should call Leona and ask how her bee farm was going.

“Was the Russian at his office this morning?” Charlie set down his drink.

“Don’t know. Oleg was in the front area, working on a computer, but the other doors were closed.”

“Did Oleg discuss your work there?”

“Just to be there Monday morning around nine and to ask for him.”

“Oleg,” he mused, “is a very savvy hacker if he’s breaking into a government facial-recognition database. If the feds were to nail him, he could spend up to ten years in prison.”

“These people don’t leave electronic tracks.”

“No, they get caught after doing something stupid, like leaving behind a half-eaten sandwich covered with DNA.”

A famously stupid mistake in one of the largest jewel heists in history. After several years of rigorous planning, a brilliant jewel thief named Leonardo Notarbartolo executed a meticulous break-in of the Antwerp World Diamond Centre and its supposedly impregnable vault. Afterward, he tossed his half-eaten sandwich, along with receipts for some of the break-in tools, in a farmer’s field near the scene of the crime. The farmer called the police, angry people were dumping trash on his property, and read them the information on the receipts, which the police recognized to be the tools used at the crime. After running a DNA analysis on the sandwich, they identified Notarbartolo, who spent several years in prison, although he never divulged the whereabouts of the diamonds.

Cases like that taught investigators to never dismiss seemingly unconnected leads. That the jewelry was never located wasn’t a surprise, however, as in nearly half of such thefts, the gold would be melted and the gems recut.

Which made intact historical jewelry pieces, such as the Helena Diamond necklace and the fifth-century-BC coins, all the more valuable.

“Think the big man’s from Saint Petersburg?” Charlie asked.

“Chocolates were from there, but that doesn’t mean he is. Saw a name—Dmitri Romanov—on the envelope I delivered this morning to Braxton.... Apparently that’s the name he goes by, but I don’t know...could be an alias, too.”

“I don’t think we know enough about him. What else did you notice?”

“I’ve gone over and over our meeting in my head. He wore no jewelry, had no visible scars from what I could see, but the lighting was dim in the limo. I described that other set of Georgian earrings at Fortier’s in my email—learn anything about them?”

“The slight blue cast of the diamonds is unusual, but there’s no record of their theft.”

“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.

* * *

BRAXTON 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.

To earn her love.

She blinked and the spell was broken.





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