Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  Mal squeezed back. “Mom thought you’d like it.”

  A large man sauntered through the archway, hands extended, like a hunter about to pluck animals from traps. “Sammy.” He threw his arms wide in the direction of Mal’s father.

  “That’s Uncle Frank.” Mal took a slight step back.

  Mal’s father shook hands with his brother and Frank next moved to Faye, whom he squeezed tightly to his chest, enfolding her slim frame in the folds of a broad suit that stretched across his wide stomach. “Faye, my darling, so good to see you again.” After releasing her, he beckoned to the four Patel sisters, who were standing behind Bree and Mal. “Come here, my little flowers.”

  The young women slunk toward him. As the youngest sister, Amy, passed Bree, she darted her eyes at her uncle and then back at Bree and whispered, “Watch out.”

  Before Bree could respond, she was out of polite earshot. After patting the sisters each on the head, Frank centered his welcome on her and Mal. He clapped Mal so hard on the shoulder that Mal stumbled forward. Then the restaurant owner solemnly surveyed Bree.

  “So this is the young lady who stole my nephew’s heart?”

  She pulled her lips together and met his gaze, a smile playing at the corners of her eyes. If this was a test, she thought, she wouldn’t let Mal down. It took more than a big man with an overbearing personality to make her blush. A grin began to stretch his thick jowls and a plump index finger beckoned her to him. She advanced. He nodded. “He chose well.”

  Bree tilted her head, threw Mal a wink, and stepped into the man’s waiting arms. Her eyes scrunched shut and then popped open. She blinked. Had her uncle-to-be just pinched her behind? She flung a glance around the room. Had anyone else seen that? Amy’s eyes riveted onto hers with an unmistakable message of, “I told you so.”

  As the others traipsed after Frank toward a secluded area of tables in the back of the room, Amy plucked at Bree’s blouse, holding her back.

  “We call him Shiva.” The girl’s voice, coming from a lowered head, was barely audible above the talk of nearby dining customers.

  “The god of death and destruction?” Bree cocked her head.

  Amy squinted at her. “Shiva has many arms.”

  Bree stopped in mid-stride. “But you’re his niece. He doesn’t…”

  Amy flashed her a look of disgust and hurried to catch up with her family. Bree stood, alone amid the myriad plants and tables, with a pounding heart and a light head.

  When Mal told her about his parents’ proposal to use his uncle’s restaurant as their venue, it seemed like a dream come true: a Vegas location big enough to hold all their friends and family, at a price that wouldn’t break the bank. What was not to like? But as with everything in the Patel family, the devil, she learned, was in the details.

  Having a big venue, for one, did not mean there would be a long guest list. At least for the engagement party, for which Mal’s parents were footing the bill, strict limits were enforced. The event was family only. Bree would be one of the few non-Patels present, since most of Mal’s father’s business associates were in some way connected by blood. Bree’s initial frustration swelled in equal proportion to the length of the Patel list.

  “I bet your father’s never even met some of these people.” She flapped a document in Mal’s face one evening at her apartment over spaghetti with clam sauce. “Stephanie’s family is the only real family I have. Why can’t they come?”

  He shrugged. “You agreed to family only.”

  “Sure, I agreed to the kind of family that is flexible, not to blood-test-at-the-door.”

  Mal looked at the floor.

  Bree grimaced. “You have a ton of relatives. I’ve got hardly any.”

  Mal placed the paper on the table and took her hand. His eyes beseeched her. “This is the way life with my parents goes, Bree. I pick my battles.” He kissed her fingers. “We have the wedding. Let’s just let the engagement party go.”

  In the end, Bree agreed it was wiser to focus on the wedding. That became their strategic plan, the battle for which they stocked their weapons and conspired behind enemy lines. They fought for a live band, a diverse menu, and a more equally distributed guest list. And Bree categorized the engagement party as the equivalent of a church trip. Vegas might be one of the most exciting cities in the world and one of the most decadent, but she was going to be seeing it through the eyes of a lay minister.

  When she got to the table where the rest of the family was sitting, Frank pulled out her chair. “You sit next to Daadi, your to-be grandmother-in-law.” His voice boomed and belly shook, but Bree never took an eye off his hands. She seated herself, flashed him a stern look, and leaned over to hug the tiny Indian woman next to her, who was wearing a fuzzy red sweater and a pound of gold jewelry.

  “Juli, it’s wonderful to see you again.” Bree squeezed the shriveled woman carefully.

  The old woman’s face creased into a myriad of tiny folds around her eyes and mouth. Her deep set brown eyes sparkled. Her long, leathery fingers gripped Bree’s small, plump hands tightly. “This family welcomes you.” Her eyes darted around the large table. “You are a big help for us.”

  The heat of sudden tears pricked Bree’s eyes. “I’m the lucky one. I’ve always wanted to be part of a large family.” She unfolded a napkin and put it in her lap. “And watch.” She handed the grandmother a menu from the middle of the table. “Point to any item. I can tell you what it is.”

  “No more thinking korma is corn?” She cocked her head.

  “Try me.”

  Just as a spindly finger pointed at an item, Faye’s voice shot across the table. “Bree?”

  Bree looked up.

  “Daadi’s probably forgotten. But Soumil and I will order for everyone. No need to stuff ourselves, is there?”

  Mal’s knee pressed hard against Bree’s under the table. She flashed him a quick grin, held up the menu to block her face from Faye’s view, and lowered her voice. “Good thing we spied that ice cream shop in the hotel.”

  Mal coughed into his napkin to cover his laugh.

  Juli took the menu from Bree’s hands, folded it, and placed it softly back on the pile. “We will be trying that test again later.” She winked at Bree. “Now, suggest me what I should be seeing in Sinful City.”

  An hour later, all evidence of the main course had disappeared from the table and Faye used the break to rearrange the seating. Her daughters and mother-in-law moved obediently to chairs across from Mal and Bree, while Soumil took a position to Mal’s right. Faye daintily arranged herself to Bree’s left, hemming the couple in. When a plate of sweets arrived, she pushed it to the center of the table. “No time for dessert.” When the waiter offered sugar and cream for the coffees, she waved him away with the flick of her hand. She lent in toward Bree, her gold cross bumping Bree’s arm. “Studies show black, no sugar coffee is better for you.”

  Bree took a sip of the dark liquid and grimaced. “It might be better for your body, but not for your taste buds.” She nudged her cup toward Mal, who had already finished his.

  Faye folded her hands on the table in the shape of a church, with index fingers clamped tightly together, pointing at the ceiling. “God put many things on this earth to tempt us into transgressions.”

  Bree laughed. “Like high fructose corn syrup?” She heard more coughing and swiveled to look at Mal and his father, but both faces wore indifferent expressions. She lay her hand on Faye’s. “I know you wanted a chance to discuss the final details for the party.”

  Faye fiddled in her shoulder bag and emerged with a small spiral-bound notebook. “Soumil and I have had some disagreements…”

  Bree glanced at Soumil, whose eyes remained fixed on the far wall of the room.

  “…about alcohol.” Faye lay her palm on the notebook as though it were a Bible.

  Bree settled back in her chair. She knew the woman well enough by now to read the certain signs of a coming lecture. Triggering events abounde
d even in suburban California, to say nothing of downtown Las Vegas. Faye launched into the intricate details and scriptural foundation of her position on the wickedness of alcohol. Bree crossed her arms and listened.

  Although it was Soumil who converted his family to the obscure Christian sect after the 9/11 atrocities, it was Faye who latched onto the new religion as a salvation from everything in the world that caused her grief. Bree sometimes wondered whether Soumil regretted his attempt to find comfort and answers in a more concrete view of the world. He chose the conversion as an embracing gesture toward the country that was the only home he had ever known. But did the rules and rationalizations of the unusual version of Christianity provide the answers he hoped for? Bree wasn’t sure. It was clear, however, that Faye had found her calling. Faye was wrong that she should have been a doctor. The woman was a preacher at heart.

  “…so I don’t think we have a choice. The Lord’s way is clear.” Faye shut the notebook and placed her right hand over her heart, a beatific look on her face.

  Soumil cleared his throat. “We can’t get around the fact that this is a party in Las Vegas.”

  Faye’s eyes enlarged and her chest puffed. “Are you saying God’s rule should have limits?”

  Soumil’s gaze slid from the spot on the wall to the flowers in the middle of their table. “These are our relatives and our colleagues. None of them shares our religion. We should treat them with respect.”

  Bree sat up in her chair. Six sentences was more than Soumil usually uttered during an entire meal.

  “Whose respect is it you seek?” The words hissed across the table, silencing all conversation.

  Soumil’s eyes rose to meet his wife’s. “My self-respect. Respect for our family. Respect for our son and daughter-in-law to be.”

  Faye closed her eyes. “Lord, forgive this sinner.”

  Soumil sucked in a breath and held it, letting it escape bit by bit with his next words. “I do not sin.”

  The frail, white-haired Juli rose from her chair. She leaned forward holding out both hands, brown with age spots. “Enough.”

  Faye sprung from her seat so quickly that it fell back on the carpet with a dull thud. She waved her notebook at each person around the table in turn. “I fear you not, for I am with the Lord.”

  Bree slapped Mal’s knee and stood up too. “Time to put the gloves back on and holster those shotguns.” She smiled and took Faye’s hand. Faye looked at Bree as though she had sprouted antennae. “I think we decided a long time ago,” Bree said, holding Faye’s icy stare, “that there would be wine and beer but no hard liquor. Am I lying?”

  Faye shook her head. “I have prayed on this, and the Bible says…”

  Through the planters that shielded their table, Bree saw Uncle Frank approaching. She righted Faye’s chair and motioned for her to sit. “I’m sure Uncle Frank ordered everything already. Wasting is sinful too, isn’t it?”

  Faye’s throat jiggled like a boa constrictor struggling to swallow. She choked out a strangled, “Yes,” and let her head flop dramatically into her hands.

  “Holy crap, Bree.” Mal’s whisper a few minutes later sounded more like a rebuke than a compliment.

  She shrugged, raised her eyebrows, and gave him a half smile. “How could we sneak back to the hotel if I didn’t make peace?”

  “Why do we have to sneak back?”

  Bree giggled. “The ice cream store, silly.”

  Chapter 8

  A relentless sun from the clear mid-day sky fired onto the roof of the black Mercedes cruising the top floor of the hotel parking garage. Greenwood, bloodshot eyes hidden behind gold sunglasses, tapped the brake repeatedly as his head swiveled back and forth, checking the rows. His vehicle snaked slowly past the seemingly endless parade of cars’ backsides while inside the air conditioning blasted, the cool draft competing with the stale odor of French fries and hamburgers, whose refuse littered the passenger seat and foot well.

  At the exit ramp from the roof, he slammed his palms onto the steering wheel as the car rolled down to the floor below. There, he pulled into the first available spot and voice dialed the number he had entered as “Asshole #1” in his contact list.

  Before the person on the other end had a chance to say hello, Greenwood spoke. “You sure it hasn’t moved?”

  The voice sounded tired over the car speakers and edged with static. “Still in same place.”

  Greenwood’s hand fished a cold French fry from a nearby container and sucked on it like a cigarette. “I’ve been in this garage for the past eight hours. It’s not here.”

  “With big buildings, reception sometimes bad.”

  Greenwood inhaled the French fry, then spat it into the foot well. “Disgusting.”

  “Not best quality tracker.”

  “Am I supposed to search every garage in Vegas?”

  “Maybe one next door?”

  “Hold on.” Greenwood backed his car from the spot and sped back to the ramp for the roof. When he got there, he pulled to the row nearest the edge of the building, got out of the car with the engine running, and walked to the wall. Across the narrow alley stood another, bigger garage. He cursed and returned to his car. “You’re telling me it could be there?”

  “All I say is no move. Still in same place.”

  Greenwood growled. “You’re damn lucky I’m so far away right now.” He pushed the end call button on the dashboard’s screen.

  On the second floor of the next garage, near the elevator, between a utilitarian black sedan and a truck that looked as though it had driven from halfway across Texas, he spotted the white SUV. He jumped out, a crumpled piece of paper in one hand, and held the numbers on the paper near the license plate. Then he kicked the bumper with his loafer and trudged back to his car, where he sat for a long time in stillness. He was hungry, had to use the bathroom, and hadn’t slept since the brief rest he’d allowed himself after he heard that his quarry had parked in Vegas, presumably for the night.

  Eventually, he pulled forward and drove up and down the row, looking for an empty space. He followed the few hotel guests who emerged from the elevator bank but abandoned them one row over, when he lost sight of the SUV. After a frustrating hour, an older couple maneuvered an ancient Cadillac from a space about thirty yards from the SUV. Greenwood hovered behind them, took the spot, cut the engine, and popped his trunk. He jumped out and rushed to the back, where he pushed aside children’s soccer gear and emerged with two sport water bottles. Back in the front seat, he opened his fly. While he peed into one of the bottles, he kept one eye riveted on the white dot of the SUV. When he finished, he screwed the bottle shut and threw it in the foot well, where it sloshed among empty soda cans. He twisted the key and redialed the last number on the dashboard screen.

  “Can you deactivate the alarm?”

  “Not possible.”

  Greenwood groaned and hung up. He looked at himself in the visor mirror and rubbed a few crumbs from his beard. “The casino must produce worse looking people,” he said to himself and got out.

  His footsteps echoed in the low roofed, concrete building. At the SUV, he scanned the ceiling for surveillance cameras. Three round white balls were clustered near the elevators where the vehicle was parked.

  He shrugged, pushed his sunglasses closer to his face, and cupped his hands against the window. He took his time, moving gradually from window to window. He didn’t hear the approaching footsteps.

  “Lock your keys in?”

  Greenwood spun around, his face a mask of mingled embarrassment, fear, and annoyance. “What’s it to you?”

  The man looped his thumbs under a leather belt with a gigantic Texas-shaped buckle and chuckled. “Try the doors?”

  “What?” Greenwood threw a glance toward the surveillance cameras.

  “Sounds stupid, but I can’t tell you how many times I thought I locked my keys in and never locked the doors.” The man stepped forward and tugged one of the back door handles. It clicked open.


  Greenwood stared and then tried the driver’s side, which swung easily toward him. The passerby thumped him on the arm. “Hope some of your luck rubs off on me at the tables.” He ambled to the elevators.

  Greenwood waited until the man disappeared, then began a systematic search of the SUV. In the glove box, he found the rental agreement. He snapped a photo with his phone.

  “Brianna Acosta.” He spat the words like a foodie spits out day old pizza. “You’re going to give me my phone back if I have to wait all week.” He scoured the doors, floors, seats, crevices, and compartments. When he finished one round, he began again. As his fingers scrambled and his body contorted, images from a previous night he spent in the car flooded his mind.

  He’d picked Paulo up where he always picked him up, four blocks south of Paulo’s home. Paulo stood in the shadows near the entrance of a boarded-up drug store and waited. Greenwood pulled the SUV close, leaned over, and unlatched the passenger door. Paulo clambered in, using the dashboard to hoist himself onto the seat. Greenwood moved one hand to Paulo’s lap and kept it there as they drove wordlessly across the city, over a bridge, and to a small, dark one-story house with boards over the windows and an abandoned sofa on the front lawn. With darkened headlights, Greenwood maneuvered the SUV down the driveway to the back of the house and killed the engine. In the silence that followed, the only sounds were the unbuckling of Greenwood’s belt and the faint breathing of the youth next to him.

  ***

  The same afternoon that Greenwood found Bree’s SUV in the garage in Vegas, his wife bent over a marble kitchen counter in downtown San Francisco going through a stack of legal documents, a cell phone clamped between ear and shoulder. A slick leather briefcase lay open on a barstool next to her.

  “I understand, Angelina, but I have no idea where he is.” She picked up a knife from the counter and sliced open a series of envelopes. “I’m sure he’s cooked up some secret plan, as usual. Let’s not panic until a couple of days have gone by. He’s a grown boy.” She hung up.