Wild Card (Wild At Heart Series Book 3)

by Christine Hartmann

  “May I help you find something?” A waif-like attendant hovered in three-inch high heels at her elbow.

  “Can you tell me where the larger sizes are?” Bree held the nightgown against her chest and smiled. It covered barely half her front.

  The attendant nodded and Bree followed her stick-like figure to the back of the store. They rounded a corner, and in an alcove, invisible from the front windows, on racks with little room to maneuver between them stood another set of merchandise. Bree looked from the jumbled display to the museum-like interior of the rest of the store. “Are these the same products?”

  The waif shook her head. “Those lines don’t go up to your size. For people like you, we carry these others.”

  Bree stared. “You mean…”

  The woman scanned her from head to toe. “Plus-size.” Another customer entered the store and she turned on her heel.

  A picture of the woman who looked like Ryder’s former girlfriend sitting in the Tex-Mex restaurant flashed through Bree’s mind. That’s the kind of customer who gets to shop in the front of the store, she thought. The joy of the chase only partly returned as she shuttled hangers from right to left, halfheartedly searching for something she liked. The colors were garish, the styles less sexy, the animal prints overdone. But she found a semi-sheer black lace teddy in her size she knew Mal would enjoy and had the frosty attendant pack it in a gift box.

  Swinging the silver bag with ribbon handles, she strolled back to the lobby, feeling calm. The lingerie store had been just what she needed, equal parts retail therapy and reality check. She was happy with Mal. She was happy with herself. Crazy high school idiots had no business intruding on her current reality.

  When Ryder answered her call on the first ring, her voice was friendly but unemotional. She explained where she was. He said he would meet her in five minutes. She leaned back on one of the round velvet benches, watching the hotel guests check in. There were Arab men in white thawbs next to multi-generational Asian families in tight Lycra and silk, a pale Midwestern man and woman behind a tanned pair of southern California men. In those few minutes, she heard Arabic, Chinese, German, French, and Thai. Predicting what type of person would next walk through the door was impossible. The magnetism of Vegas attracted all spectrums equally.

  Bree focused on the sweater suddenly dangling in front of her.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  She stood and swiped the sweater from his grasp.

  He tried to catch her eyes. “Vegas makes me do things I don’t normally do.”

  “I don’t believe that movie line.” She tucked the sweater under her arm. “But let me make this clear: what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

  Ryder rose and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I had too much to drink.”

  Her eyes flashed. “You had a different excuse last time.”

  “Last time?” He regarded her quizzically.

  She smirked. “I’m not getting into it.”

  Ryder gently grabbed her arm. “Seeing you again changed my life, Bree.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She spun on her heel. “But I’m not going to let you change mine.”

  The automatic doors whooshed closed behind her and she handed the attendant her claim ticket, feeling the warm outside air bathe her. She closed her eyes and inhaled. It was good to have that behind her. She felt like she had stepped off a bobbing raft back onto dry land.

  ***

  Greenwood peered from his car, parked at the side of the immense hotel drive where the uniformed attendant said he could wait. He muttered curses at Brianna Acosta for meandering through the city and followed her with his gaze as she entered the lobby. His engine idled, the air conditioning humming in the strong Vegas sun. He dared not open the windows, for fear the odors within would attract attention and result in his being forced off the property. The already pungent aroma was augmented by the spilled Caesar salad remains that stuck to his clothes and shoes. Standards at hotels in Vegas were more relaxed than elsewhere. But he’d already been mistaken for homeless once.

  He spent over an hour waiting for her to reemerge, his engine burning precious fuel, thankful he’d filled his tank at a station before entering the city two nights ago. His head ached and heart pounded. His stomach rumbled and his hands trembled from fatigue, excess caffeine, and anticipation. When she finally exited, he gripped the shift lever, ready to pull into drive.

  She took the keys from an attendant, handed him a tip, threw a shopping bag onto the front passenger seat, and hoisted herself inside. Greenwood eased his car behind her and stuck to her like a burr on a dog’s coat when she pulled into the flow of traffic.

  The hour gave him time to think of his response to various scenarios he envisioned. If she drove somewhere secluded, he would accost her. If she returned to the hotel, he would jump her before she entered the elevator. If she reacted in fear to his demands for the immediate return of his phone, he would force her at knife tip to comply. With a baseball hat and sunglasses covering his more distinguishing features, he was certain he was unrecognizable. The night before, he had taken the precaution of smearing excrement on his license plate. No one could pin whatever happened on him. Two days in a car eating trash and defecating into plastic bags could change a person. It served him well.

  His fingers drummed his legs, restless like the curved, spindly legs of a crab, while he waited for lights to turn. He would get the phone, drive home, and sort things out with Abigayle. He’d clean himself up and return to the office. His life would return to normal, as though nothing had changed.

  He grinned when she flashed her blinker and turned into the garage. One hand fingered his suit jacket and its pocketful of knives as he followed her around the snaking rows of parked cars. He cursed at her for passing numerous spots in secluded areas. Once, she braked and rolled down her window to question a wandering couple. Greenwood jerked to a halt and sunk low in his seat. The couple shook their heads and the SUV’s taillights dimmed again as it continued its search. On the third floor, she found an empty space only yards from the elevator doors. She pulled in quickly and was out of the car and on the concrete before Greenwood could slam his car into park.

  He jumped from his seat, leaving the driver’s door flapping open and dashed toward her. His voice cracked from disuse. “Hey, lady.”

  As he approached, the hotel elevator doors slid open and released a crowd of raucous twenty-somethings. The woman slipped past them and into the waiting conveyance. But the young men stopped short upon seeing Greenwood. They glared at him and pushed the women in their group protectively to the rear. One of the men stepped forward, one foot in front of the other, body turned slightly to the side, hands held loosely at hip level. With upper arms the size of a man’s thighs, he presented a formidable obstacle.

  “Dude, better turn around.” He nodded toward the exit to the garage. “Go back where you came from.”

  Greenwood took a step closer and pointed at the elevator. “I came from in there.” He put his hands on his hips and scowled, the same scowl that reduced high-powered attorneys and belligerent businessmen to obsequiousness.

  The man shook his head very slowly. When Greenwood didn’t move, the man jerked his thumb at one of his compatriots. “Jessie, want to call security?”

  Greenwood held his position until the second young man removed a cell phone from his pocket. Then he stepped back. After a few more seconds of the standoff, his shoulders slumped. By now, Brianna Acosta would have disappeared into the bowels of the hotel. He turned and shuffled back in the direction of his car. The group moved deeper into the garage, the men throwing dirty looks at him and the women giggling.

  Greenwood flung himself into his vehicle. His jacket with the knives still lay on the passenger seat. He stared down at his shirt front, covered with lettuce. “I look like a fucking maniac.”

  ***

  Bree shivered in the chill of the elevator and rubbed her arms. The group that had exited left the scent
of stale beer in the air. She wrinkled her nose and wished she had taken the stairs. After transferring elevators and returning to the twenty-sixth floor, she stuffed the lingerie shopping bag into the top of her purse before opening the door.

  “Hi, honey.” Four sets of eyes swiveled at her entrance.

  Bree could hear in the utter silence of the room the echoes of a previously heated discussion. She could see the fight as clearly as if it had happened in front of her. It was evidenced in Mal’s slouch, Faye and Val’s flushed cheeks, and Soumil’s stoic expression and physical distance from the other three family members.

  “Let me just put my purse in the bedroom. Then we can all go to lunch.” She smiled and tromped past them, actually pleased at the familiarity of the scene. She hid the lingerie box in her suitcase and grinned at herself in the mirror. You can fix this.

  When she returned, Soumil sat in an armchair by himself, Mal stood with his hands in his pockets by the window, and Faye and Val whispered together by the minibar. Like a German shepherd hurting a flock of errant sheep, Bree circled the room, speaking with each in turn, coaxing them closer and closer together until she had the family standing at the entryway in a tight ball. They weren’t smiling, but at least, through her, they were communicating. Mal’s hand slipped into hers as they exited. She gave it a squeeze.

  The procession stopped twice as it meandered down the hall, picking up Mal’s other siblings and his grandmother. When on the seventeenth floor, a bubbly family of four squeezed into the elevator with them and immediately stopped talking when they met with Soumil’s stony face, Bree revived their good mood and, by the time they all reached the lobby, had the family and three of her four sisters-to-be laughing.

  “Where to?” She raised her eyebrows at Faye.

  Faye shrugged. “Back to Uncle Frank’s?” Faye threw Soumil a look that seemed to say, “I know that’s exactly what you don’t want, sweetie, so let’s go there.”

  Mal crossed his arms and looked up. His sisters became suddenly very interested in the pattern of the marble floor.

  She smiled inwardly as she remembered how, more than once, Stephanie asked her whether serving as the intermediary for Mal’s family fighting gave her headaches. Bree smiled. “I love it.”

  “Don’t you want them all to just get along?”

  She shook her head. “I know how to do nice. My parents were nice. Your family is nice.”

  “That’s what most people strive for.”

  Bree chewed on her lip. “That’s what I’m striving for with Mal’s family too. Only it’s an uphill battle.”

  Stephanie gave her a funny look. “Do you really want that for the rest of your life?”

  Bree shrugged. “You mean a family that needs me? I’ll take that.”

  In the lobby, she offered her usual solution to a two-way impasse: a third, more neutral route. Bree had been keeping it up her sleeve for just such an occasion. Even Faye couldn’t argue with a five-hundred dish buffet, an international smorgasbord where everyone could eat what they wanted, in the quantities they wanted.

  The family sat at a long set of tables push together, half on the white leather bench, half on the cushioned metal chairs. Bree sat next to Mal, with the twins opposite them. Bree procured a beer and enjoyed watching his shoulders relax. Now and then she slid her chair toward the end of the table and peered across the laden plates at Faye and Soumil, who sat across from other in silence. It wasn’t ideal, she thought, but at least they weren’t fighting. Her main concern was Mal. And for him she had a plan.

  “Did I tell you about my texts from this morning?” She skated her phone across the smooth table.

  Mal pulled a shrimp kebab off a skewer with his teeth and shook his head.

  “Remember the woman from the elevator?”

  Mal chewed and nodded.

  “Her friend got married this morning at Red Rock Canyon.”

  One of the twins interrupted. “Somebody got married in a canyon? Sweet.” Bree showed her Celine’s photos and she handed the phone back, shaking her head. “Or not. Sneakers will have no part in my wedding.”

  Bree winked at the twins. “The reception is this evening. I thought we could go.”

  “Mal, don’t answer until she tells you where it is.” The girls giggled.

  Mal held the skewer upright, its one remaining prawn looking like the lost dot of an exclamation point. “Where is it?”

  Bree smiled. “In a local park. No hiking involved.”

  He waved the stick like a baton. “Won’t we be crashing?”

  “It’s not crashing if you’re invited. Besides,” Bree slipped her hand onto his knee under the table, “It’s a barbecue.”

  “She’s got you, Mal,” his sister told him from across the table. “You’d crawl on your belly through live slugs for a barbeque.”

  Bree turned to her. “You watch way too much reality TV.”

  Her younger sister-to-be laughed. “After life with our parents, reality TV is tame.”

  ***

  Bree rolled down the window of the Uber. The twang of country music floated on the breeze that whipped her hair into a tangle. She laughed and closed it. “We’re headed in the right direction.”

  The car wound its way up an incline and dropped them off at the beginning of a parking lot overflowing with vehicles. Under wide floodlights, Bree and Mal strode hand-in-hand toward a big tent lit by rows of battery-operated lanterns. Enormous moths fluttered, confused and helpless, around the lights. Chatter from the party ebbed and flowed in southern cadences. Half the license plates on the cars were from Texas, and half of those belonged to pickups. Bree raised her eyebrows. “Lone Star’s from El Paso, about a ten-hour drive.”

  “Then you should feel right at home.” Mal swung her hand back and forth in time to the music. “Apparently El Paso folks don’t like to fly either.”

  His nose led them directly to the food. Lone Star wore a smeared white apron and a ten gallon hat in the middle of a cluster of smoky barbecue grills. His face glowed a red that matched his hair, which dripped with sweat. He beamed at Mal, who admired the brisket from afar.

  A young woman dashed up to Bree and looped her arm through hers.

  “You made it.”

  Bree gave her a hug. “Celine, this is Mal.”

  He tore his eyes away from the grills and stuck out a hand.

  “This is a wedding. We hug.” Celine squeezed him. He returned the embrace by cupping his hands and laying his fingertips on her shoulders. “I can see where your true love lies.” She yelled over the music and sizzling. “Lone Star, you got yourself a barbecue fan.” She pointed at Mal.

  Lone Star waved a pair of tongs and motioned for Mal to join him. Bree nudged him along, waving her phone, then strolled through the crowds with Celine. “Where’s the bride?”

  Celine’s gaze roamed across the large hats and short dresses. “Used to be you could find Grace in a party. She’d be standing on the edge somewhere talking to one person. But these days…” She shook her head. “Love sure does change people.”

  Bree counted with her eyes. “There must be hundreds of guests.”

  Celine studied her. “You thinking about your own reception?”

  Bree blushed. “My to-be parents-in-law have strict ideas about who should be invited and who should be kept out.”

  Celine raised her eyebrows. “Then you need to send your in-laws on a vacation.”

  “I don’t want to get rid of them.”

  “I’m not suggesting you try to lose them. I’m suggesting they need an attitude adjustment.” She pointed. “There she is.”

  An Asian woman with long black hair in a white halter dress danced on a picnic table in the middle of a throng of people. A crown of woven daisies teetered on her head. When she saw Celine, she jumped down with one hand on the flowers. She pulled her arm. “Come join me. I’m doing the PCT. I just invented it.” She waved her arms above her head, hula style. “Get it. It’s the sun on the Pacific
Crest Trail.”

  Celine laughed. “Hold on there, hiker trash.” She gestured to Bree. “This is my elevator buddy.”

  Grace hugged Bree and, before Bree was half through her congratulations, tugged both their hands, hauling them across the dry grass and onto the picnic table. Bree stood on the seat, eyeing the top with distrust. “If I get on there, it might collapse.”

  Celine yanked her arm. “It’s just like an elevator, girl. If we’re going down, we’re going down together.”

  Bree clambered up and couldn’t help but laugh when watching Celine and Grace gyrate to the applause of the dancing crowd. The two women’s enthusiasm and abandon were infectious. Bree joined in and, the more she let herself go, the wilder Celine and Grace’s moves became. It was a tight squeeze, and the two other women made ample use of the benches, but Bree stuck to the top, afraid she might lose her balance or cause the table to flip.

  Three songs later, out of breath and chuckling, Bree waved goodbye and jumped down into the melee on the ground. K-Rao, Celine’s boyfriend whom Bree remembered from the elevator, hopped up to replace her. Around Bree, people were eating, drinking, dancing, and talking. If Faye were standing beside her with a checklist, Bree thought, Faye would tick all boxes. There was the chef in charge of carving meat. Numerous people helped serve drinks. Flowers adorned tables and people’s hair. A DJ matched music to mood. The guests mixed well, and the dance floor was crowded. Yet it was also something Bree hadn’t imagined a wedding reception could be: liberating.

  Where she had imagined tables of seated guests holding staid conversations, here fast flowing streams of individuals and discussions changed before her eyes. Her future mother-in-law’s stingy portions gave way to a sensuous exhibition of indulgence and abundance. Dancing metamorphosed into reveling, with spontaneous bursts of movement, like flashes from lightning bugs.