• • •
Sam let himself into the suite, another dozen roses in one hand and a small red jewelry box in the other. It was after three. The drapes were still closed, and the room was silent. He was later than he’d intended. He hoped Cleo wouldn’t be upset about that. She’d be royally pissed at him soon enough. He had a lot of explaining to do. First, he had to tell her the truth about not being an exotic dancer. That little lie had gotten all out of proportion. He’d had at least a dozen opportunities to tell her the truth yesterday, but he’d chickened out each time. His new wife might be upset about that, but hopefully she’d let him explain his reasons for lying like he did, but damn, even he didn’t understand it anymore. Then he’d tell her the rest—about his money and who he really was, not just an architect, but the owner of the firm. He was braced for the worst. The way she felt about money would probably make this the biggest hurdle. If he were being honest with himself, it was one of the reasons he’d pushed her to marry him last night, drunk as she was. He’d been almost as loaded, and in his inebriated mind, it had seemed like the perfect way to get her to stay and hear him out.
As Sam stepped into the living room, he didn’t see Cleo—didn’t hear her either—so she must still be in bed. He’d strip off his clothes, crawl in beside her, and make love to his wonderful wife all over again. His wife! They’d both had a lot to drink last night, but he remembered every wonderful minute of it. No one would ever describe him as an impetuous man, but with Cleo, everything changed. Was it possible to drink yourself sober?
He set the roses on the table and opened the ring box. The five-carat, square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds winked at him. He’d planned to get her a diamond ring, but the minute he’s seen the green gem, it had called his name. Green was her color. Nestled beside it was the matching platinum and diamond wedding band. The identical cheap brass ring he’d bought at the chapel was already turning his finger green. He laughed at the irony of it.
He supposed they’d have to renew their vows properly and make it official for all the world to see. Cleo deserved that and more. Liz and Jane would be furious at him for cheating them out of a wedding. They’d want one with all the pomp and circumstance he could afford. No doubt Cleo would want her dad to give her away and Mitch to stand up with her, but he had to be in Wales in five days, and he desperately wanted her with him. He hoped his new father-in-law would forgive him for stealing Cleo away like this, but he couldn’t bear to leave her behind for six hours let alone six weeks.
Eager to see his bride, Sam picked up the ring box and the roses, and opened the bedroom door. He was disappointed to see the drapes open and the bed empty. He went into the bathroom, thinking he’d find her soaking in the tub. There was no one there. He went back into the living room and looked closely at the table. There had to be a note. Fear clawed at his gut. The photograph and wedding certificate were gone.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to relax.
She’s probably gone to show Mitch.
He dialed her room number, but there was no answer. Maybe they were with Charlie. He and Mitch seemed to have gotten along quite well Friday night. He dialed Charlie’s room.
“Hello?” Charlie’s voice was groggy as if he’d awakened him.
“Is Mitch with you?”
“No. She’s probably in her room. She left a few hours ago. I think she said yesterday she and Cleo were going casino hopping. We’re supposed to meet for dinner around eight. Why are you looking for her?”
“I called the room, and there’s no answer. I seem to have misplaced my wife.”
Charlie burst out laughing. “Sure you have, and which wife would that be?”
“Cleo. Charlie, I married her last night, or rather early this morning, and she’s gone.”
“Get the hell out of here. You married her? Does she know who you are?”
“I didn’t get around to telling her.”
“Damn. No pre-nup, I assume? Well, it’s your funeral. I suppose congratulations are in order.”
“They would be if I knew where she was.”
“Maybe she went down to their room to get her stuff.”
“No, we moved everything up last night. She only had one suitcase. We left Mitch a note saying we’d see her today, but I though Cleo would wait for me so we could tell her together.” Acid churned in Sam’s stomach. “Hang on a sec.”
Sam dropped the phone, went back into the bedroom, and opened the closet door. Cleo’s clothes and bags were gone.
The blow was as hard as a physical punch, and he staggered. His wife had left him. He stumbled back into the living room and picked up the phone.
“Her things are gone. I don’t know why she left, but I have to find her.” The dismay he felt must have reached Charlie because his friend’s voice changed.
“Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you at their room. Mitch isn’t leaving until tomorrow. She’ll know where Cleo is.”
Sam hung up the phone. Why had she walked out on him? This was all a misunderstanding. Had he mentioned coming with him to Wales? Maybe she’d gone home to get her stuff.
She lives in Canada, you idiot, She can’t just pop in for a visit.
He made a quick call to McCarran International to check for flights to Calgary. There wasn’t one scheduled until later tonight. He searched the bedroom and living room for a note. When he came up empty-handed, he hurried down the stairs to the thirty-fourth floor. He saw the maid coming out of Cleo’s room and uneasiness gripped him. The woman looked at him strangely and smiled.
“Sorry, room not ready yet.”
“Hi. I’m just looking for my wife. This is her friend’s room.”
“Checked out. I clean. Room almost ready.”
Thank God Charlie stepped out of the elevators at that moment.
“Mitch is gone. The maid’s cleaning the room.”
“What do you mean Mitch is gone? We have a date later.”
Sam scowled. “I mean my wife and her best friend have left. Maybe she’s having cold feet, but I want a chance to prove to her we can make this work. I knew the whole Chippendales’ stunt was a mistake. She was pretty out of it last night, and I took advantage of that to get her to marry me. I figured once we were married, I’d tell her the truth, and while she’d be pissed for a while, I could make it up to her. When we got back to the hotel, I had other things on my mind. I was going to tell her this afternoon. She matters to me, Charlie. I think we have a shot at the real thing. I can’t lose her.”
• • •
The woman on the other end of the phone was obviously as annoyed with him as he was with her, but she was trying to be polite, while Sam wanted to reach through the line and strangle her with his bare hands. This was the third editor he’d been referred to, and she was no more helpful than the others.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, but I can’t give you that information. It’s confidential. I’m sure you know what that means. We can send Ms. Hutchins an email message on your behalf, and of course, you can contact her yourself through the author information on our website and in her books. As for Cleopatra Jones, there’s no such person employed by us in any capacity. I’m sorry we couldn’t be of more help.”
Sam thanked her brusquely and ended the call. If he could get Mitch to reply to his damn emails, he wouldn’t have bothered her publisher in the first place. He’d sent at least three dozen messages since Sunday night. Matt and Roy had taken turns watching the airport, but he’d run out of time. He had to leave for Wales this afternoon.
He hadn’t been able to sleep in his bed since this had happened. He’d managed to get her old room and had stayed there instead. He looked out the window each night before he tried to sleep. The twinkling lights were still there, but instead of joy, they filled him with sadness. She’d said Vegas was a magic place where wishes and dreams could come true. Well, she was his dream come true, and he wanted her back. He’d fallen in love with her.
Charlie en
tered the office without knocking. He was almost as frustrated as Sam was.
“Did you finally get through to someone at the Canadian Embassy?”
“Yeah, but unless I have a legal request, it’s not going to happen. And, without proof of wrong doing on her part, getting a legal request is almost impossible.”
Frustrated, Sam slammed his fist on the desk, making everything rattle and knocking Liz’s bud vase to the floor where it shattered. “Damn.”
“I take it you didn’t get anywhere with the publisher?” Charlie stared at the mess on the floor.
Sam ran his fingers through his hair. “I spoke to three different editors, but they won’t give me the time of day. We’ll have to flood Mitch’s email and hope she gets annoyed enough to reply. They claim Cleo doesn’t work there in any capacity. Did you manage to learn anything?”
“Yes, but you aren’t going to like it. I had my people research Hidden Valley.”
“That should help. She said it’s a small place, five thousand at the most. In a town that size, everyone has to know everyone else. What did they learn?”
“Nothing.”
“What the hell do you mean nothing?” Sam stood up and started to pace. “There can’t be that many people named Jones living there.”
“I mean the place doesn’t exist. There’s a Hidden Valley Ski Resort in the Cypress Hills and a Hidden Valley Golf Course, and finally, a Hidden Valley Campground that’s been condemned after last summer’s floods. There is no such place as the town of Hidden Valley anywhere near High River or Vulcan, both of which do exist. There’s also no Mitch Hutchins in Vulcan either, but because we don’t know her real name, that may or may not be true. But it gets worse. Cleo not only lied about her hometown, she lied about her name.”
Sam stopped pacing and fisted his hands at his side. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Liz took that moment to poke her head in her office. She took one look at the mess on the floor, scowled at him, and walked out again. Sam turned on Charlie his glare demanding an explanation.
“She doesn’t exist, Sam. Cleopatra ‘Cleo’ Jones is the name of the main character in a campy B movie from the 1970s. The character was an undercover agent who modeled as a cover. She was the black female equivalent of James Bond. You’ve been played. We both have.”
“Son of a bitch.” Sam sat down abruptly. “Why would she do that?” His Cleo had lied? It made no sense.
“Maybe for the same reason we lied about being Chippendales—the excitement, the anonymity—it’s Vegas. People lie about themselves here all the time. Whatever Cleo’s reasons are, it’ll make her harder, but not impossible to find. What I don’t get is why I can’t find Mitch. I have a friend at the IRS who gets back from Europe in August. If we haven’t found her by then, I’ll call in some favors. Mitch is a published author. Her books are real. She has to pay taxes. I’ll find her.”
Sam wasn’t sure what upset him the most, the fact that he couldn’t find Mitch, who was the key to finding Cleo, or the fact that Cleo had lied to him. He might not know a lot about her, but if she’d lied about her identity, she had to have a damn good reason. It would explain her reluctance to talk about herself and her father. He was certain of one thing. She might not be Cleopatra Jones, but she was Cleopatra something. She’d been adamant about the fact when they’d met. She wouldn’t have done that if it hadn’t been true; there’d have been no reason to make a big deal of it.
“I don’t care if she lied. I want her found. She can explain it all in person.”
He reached for the copy of the wedding picture and the license he’d managed to get on Monday. He’d done it without telling the reverend why he’d needed it. He’d said something about a copy for her father. He must have sunk pretty low, lying to a man of the cloth.
Sam studied the photograph. She looked happy, damn it, and so did he. Why had she run away like that? Why hadn’t she given them a chance? What was the secret she’d hidden in her lies? He stared at the signature. He’d thought the first word was Cleo, but now he wasn’t sure. The penmanship was poor thanks to copious amounts of alcohol, but could it be two letters? Initials? He handed the copy to Charlie.
“No matter what else I believe, I’m convinced Cleo’s her name. Get a handwriting expert to look at that signature. Maybe there’s a clue there we can’t see. I don’t know why she lied about herself, but I refuse to believe she did it to play me. What did she get out of it? Some inexpensive jewelry, a helicopter ride. If she were after my money, being married to me would give her carte blanche. No, there’s something else going on.”
“You’re still thinking with your cock. My money says she’s no different from any other woman. She’ll come after you when she’d good and ready. Have your checkbook out.”
“I suggest you work on revising your opinion of my wife.” Sam’s voice was deadly calm. No matter what Cleo might or might not have done, he wasn’t ready to let Charlie criticize her like that.
Liz came into the office with an identical rose in a similar vase. “Testosterone’s so thick in here you can cut it with a knife.” She placed the vase on her desk. “I added it to your tab. Try not to break anything else. This is my office, not yours. I take it the publisher wasn’t helpful?”
“No. The woman wasn’t in the least bit forthcoming.”
“Imagine that, an editor who keeps confidential information to herself. Amazing.”
“Knock it off, Liz. The last thing I need is your sarcasm. She did tell me Cleo doesn’t work for them, and Charlie here tells me Cleopatra Jones is the name of a movie and its main character.” If looks could kill, the one Liz gave him would put him in the ground.
“Don’t be an ass. Maybe she freelances.” Liz walked over to the window and stood beside Charlie.
Sam shook his head. “I’m not following you. I don’t need another crazy theory. I need to find my wife.”
“Hey, Conan, that growl may work on your employees, but it doesn’t wash with me. I’m offering a logical theory. Do you want to hear it or not?”
Sam fisted his hands in his lap and nodded.
“Did Cleo actually say she worked for Mitch’s publisher?”
Sam furrowed his brow. Had she? He wasn’t sure of anything.
“I don’t remember,” he huffed out.
“Let’s look at what we know.” Liz began to tick points off her manicured fingertips. “Mitch Hutchins is an author and Cleo’s best friend. Mitch Hutchins is also a pen name, and our author guards her identity zealously. Cleo told you she works as a proofreader/reviewer. If she freelances, she may work for the author directly—some of them do. There are a lot of freelance editors, proofreaders, and reviewers out there, and they don’t use their own names. I looked them up last night. There’s one called Crazy for Books, another called Reading Maniac, and there’s a third I found when I checked Mitch’s books specifically. She calls herself Queen of the Nile. That fits with Cleo. As far as I can see, Mitch’s books are the only ones she reviews.” Liz walked over and sat on the edge of her desk.
“I liked Cleo, Sam, and I refuse to believe she lied to you to hurt you. I saw her face when she was worried about you and those men. She wasn’t acting. There’s got to be a reason she fled. Let’s assume she’s telling the truth and works as this Queen of the Nile. What else did she tell you?”
“I’ve been going over everything she told me, and now that I know she lied about her name and where she lives, I don’t know what else is true. I’ve made a list of everything I remembered, but it could all be lies.”
“I doubt that. Use your head. She mentioned her dad, do you think that was a lie?”
“No.” Sam smiled, a glimmer of hope taking shape in his heart. He turned to the list. He went down it checking off items, putting question marks next to others. “These are the things I’m sure are true. The ones with the question marks may be lies, but there might be a grain of truth in there too. Every time I brought them up, she changed the subject.
”
“It’s a start. Charlie and I will find her. I promise. Have we ever let you down?”
Matt knocked on the partially opened door and entered Liz’s office. “Any word?”
Sam shook his head.
“I’m sorry.” Matt hunched his shoulders. “The plane’s ready any time you are. I’ll wait for you at the car.”
“Thanks, Matt. I’ll be right there.”
The last thing he wanted to do was go to Wales, but you didn’t cancel out on a future king and his castle, not unless you were willing to throw away your own future and that of your company and your employees.
“Liz is right.” Charlie put his hand on his shoulder in a comforting gesture. “Go, do what you have to do. We’ve got fingerprints and DNA. It’ll take time, but we will find her. This is the twenty-first century. No one can hide today. As you pointed out the other night, she isn’t an Orion slave girl. She’s human, and she hasn’t left the planet. Regardless, I don’t need to know where she is to start divorce proceedings. I gather an annulment is out of the question?”
Sam choked on the mouthful of water he’d just swallowed.
“Divorce! What the hell are you talking about, Charlie? I don’t want to divorce her. I want you to find her so I can crawl on my belly if I have to and beg her to listen to me. I need to tell her the truth. I’m praying once she knows it, she’ll be willing to forgive me, and give us a chance.”
“Truth? What truth? What haven’t you told me?” Liz looked quizzically at Charlie and then piercingly at him. “Samuel James Mason, what the hell have you done? What lies did you tell her?”
“Nothing really awful. I just let her think Charlie and I were Chippendales.”
Liz’s jaw dropped, and she gawked at him. “You did what?”
“I let her think I was a rich entertainer, man candy. Hell, you’re down there drooling at least once a week. Her friend Mitch thought we might be—I actually don’t know where she got the idea—but you know since Lena I haven’t seen women in the best light …”
“Idiot!” Liz yelled in his ear. “You bloody idiot. Women don’t want to marry man candy; they want to admire it. We’re not really big on sharing the men we love, certainly not that way. Tell me, did she spring her false identity before or after she discovered your new profession?”
Just for the Weekend Page 17
