“I can’t work when I don’t know what could come out of your mouth next.”
That’s what it boiled down to. Dorian couldn’t predict his next move and she hated that. Well, damned if he could predict what happened next, either.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“WHAT DO YOU THINK of these guys?” A young woman named Evangeline leaned close to Dorian a half hour into the party on the penthouse floor, her voice raised to be heard above the throbbing dance music. “Are they for real or are they just full of themselves and a weekend of big gambling wins?”
Dorian took the question seriously as she sipped her ginger ale with lime from a martini glass and hoped the private bartender who’d given it to her wouldn’t sell her out for refusing alcohol. Most of the thirty-some attendees were already ordering booze by the bottle, the atmosphere only a shade more upscale than the VIP lounge of a strip club. Most of the twenty-one women in attendance wore clothes with a seriously provocative attitude from backless sheathes to plunging necklines and thigh-high slits that showed off generous amounts of leg. One woman in the center of the dance floor playfully stripped off her friend’s blouse, the two of them working their attributes for all they were worth.
Clearly, some of the guests had bought into Matt Gaines’s promises of unlimited income opportunities. She’d found out by talking to a handful of the women that Matt had invited most of them, but Anatole Konstantinou and another man had invited a few others. Dorian grew more and more certain that Matt and the other man worked on commission while Konstantinou was the top guy behind the prostitute disappearances.
“I don’t know. They’ve got enough cash for a major bash, though.” Dorian hoped no one expected her to dance like the women cavorting around the temporary flooring laid around the raised hot tub. First of all, she lacked the coordination to hump a dance pole. Second, her affinity with Murphy’s Law meant someone would splash water from the tub on the parquet, and she’d end up sprawled on her butt in the most expensive sequined dress she’d ever worn. She was pretty sure the department would bill her if she ruined the outfit because of poorly executed booty-shaking.
“I’m sure they have the cash to pay for whatever they like,” Evangeline agreed, eyes flitting over to where Anatole Konstantinou sat in heated conversation with Matt and two other men who seemed to be offering security to the party.
Off to one side of the group, Dorian noticed Simon lingering by the champagne fountain. No doubt he was trying to overhear what was being said.
When Dorian didn’t respond, Evangeline continued.
“But will they be decent guys who uphold their end of the deal? Something about Konstantinou seems sort of cold, you know?”
Did she ever. Dorian wished she could tell all the women present to run like hell and not look back, but that wouldn’t help solve the core problem, and it wouldn’t facilitate the convictions they needed to keep them safe in the future.
“Do you work alone?” Dorian asked, wondering how long it would be before the party hosts would get around to making their move. The exits to the hotel were being watched to prevent anyone from leaving the party with one of these women, but Dorian could think of a million ways a subtle operator could elude the police trying to monitor a casino with thousands of people walking in and out every night.
“Yes. I have a young daughter at home so I can’t afford to take any chances with roommates who aren’t cautious. My baby is my whole life so I keep my home off-limits.” Evangeline popped open a locket behind her heart-shaped watch to show Dorian a gorgeous little girl with yellow ribbons around brown pigtails.
The warmth in the young woman’s voice socked Dorian in the chest along with a peculiar sense of connection. She could have been talking to her own mother twenty years ago, because that’s exactly the kind of thing Candy would have said about her own home life. About her own daughter. But it was different to hear the words from her mother as a kid than to hear the words from someone Dorian’s age. The love in Evangeline’s voice couldn’t be mistaken.
“She’s beautiful,” Dorian said finally, realizing she’d been staring into the little girl’s face like a ghost from the past. “You must be very proud.”
Just then Matt took the microphone away from the deejay and turned down the record. He jumped onto the dance floor right between the half-naked women.
“Attention, everyone, thank you for coming and welcome to Anatole’s temporary palace of delights. There’s more fun to be had at our subterranean lair. Just follow the champagne tray down the private elevator, and we’ll lead you to stage two of our shindig. See you downstairs.”
Stage two?
Dorian’s skin chilled at the change of venue, never a good sign in criminal behavior. It took a supreme effort of will to look at Simon with no more than a vacuous giggle and a toss of her hair. Was the party moving because their suspects were wise to being watched? Or did Anatole and friends simply want to make abducting their next victim that much harder to trace?
From his position next to Anatole, Simon winked at Dorian while—interestingly—Anatole seemed to watch the exchange carefully. Did he think it suspicious that Simon was Dorian’s pimp and had pretended not to know her yesterday in the elevator?
Brushing off the fear, she told herself that kind of protectiveness—riding up in the elevator with them—was typical of a pimp. Still, Anatole’s obvious interest in them made her uneasy. Would he discount Dorian as a possible target for abduction if he thought Simon might come after him for his share of the cut?
Or would Anatole have Simon hurt—or worse—to eliminate any threat?
“Looks like not everyone’s moving on to stage two,” Evangeline observed as she peered over her shoulder.
The dancers of the impromptu striptease were being escorted into another part of the suite along with a handful of other women. Even without glancing across the room at Simon she could sense his tension at the scenario. No doubt he was thinking the same thing as her. What if it was the other group of women who’d been pegged for potential abduction, and Dorian couldn’t be there to oversee what happened?
Nerves jangling uneasily inside her, Dorian forced herself to keep pace with Evangeline as they walked toward the private elevator that wouldn’t be easily detected by the police backup who were watching the exits of the building and the penthouse floor in particular. Use of the elevator might not raise the red flag it should if trips were kept to a minimum and the noise of a party continued inside the hotel rooms. And since the penthouse elevators were operated with private keys, the access would be limited.
“I guess we’re the lucky ones,” Dorian murmured, wishing she could have worn a weapon within closer reach than the small pistol strapped on the inside of her thigh. She felt claustrophobic as ten guests crowded into one elevator, a feeling that increased when she realized Simon wouldn’t make it into the same lift as her. The rowdy group sang and laughed and drank as they introduced themselves on the way down. Down. Down.
Where the hell were they going? The man in charge of the elevator keypad had used a key to open an access box that seemed like the type of thing only hotel staff should be able to use. Was a hotel staffer taking the group to a level that would be off-limits to the public? She hoped Simon had a way to contact their backup and alert them to the location change, because cell phone contact would be impossible if they were really headed below street level, like Dorian suspected.
Damn.
They needed more backup. More manpower if they wanted to keep all the women here safe.
But she had Simon. The wildcard fed who didn’t stick to a plan but somehow got the job done anyway. And since her plan for this sting was going to hell in a hurry, maybe she’d be better off following the lead of a man who specialized in creative problem solving and bullshitting—that is, improvising his way through sticky situations.
Because as the elevator doors swished open on a gray, dark floor, Dorian suspected their trouble had only just begun. The party crowd
spilled into the echoing basement space that appeared more like a food warehouse than a scene for festivities. This was definitely not a public-access area. It looked like the overflow storage space for the kitchens, judging by the crates of canned goods lining one wall.
To make matters worse, the two buff young male escorts who greeted them each carried a machine gun strapped over his shoulder.
“THIS IS WHERE WE PART, Mr. Rainier.” Anatole Konstantinou called Simon by his undercover name, but his polite tone didn’t disguise the malice in the man’s eyes.
Simon had been separated from Dorian by an elevator ride and who knew how many floors, and now Konstantinou wanted him to walk away? Not on his life. And if Simon had to call upon a few unorthodox tricks to get his way, he damn well would. He’d worry about the lecture from Dorian after. Her life was more important than running the operation by some rule book.
“I thought we were friends?” Simon did his best amiable-drunk-guy routine. “Come on. The night’s still young and you’re hoarding all the hottest chicks to yourself? Where’s your sense of fair play?”
Anatole didn’t respond, but his eyes cut over to a couple of his goons who seemed to be charged with making Konstantinou’s every wish come true.
“I’ve got it,” Simon continued, pretending to be oblivious to how much he was pissing off his host. “This is Vegas, right? How about a little friendly wager on the girls? Double or nothing? I’ve had my eye on the brunette hanging with Denise all night.” Simon remembered Anatole only knew Dorian by her hooker name, Denise. “Ten thousand says I take her home with me and I get Denise back, too.”
Anatole’s eyes narrowed.
“What? You think I don’t know you’re trying to tie her up for yourself? You’ve had a hard-on for her all weekend. If I lose, she’s all yours. If I win, I keep her and I get her friend, too. We put the ten thousand on the table just to keep things interesting.”
Simon kept the elevator doors in his peripheral vision, since he’d have to sprint for it while trying to ward off the armed lackeys if Anatole didn’t go for the bet. Simon’s cover would be blown, but it didn’t matter if Dorian was at risk. He could sense the time to make their arrests was fast approaching.
The mood in the room turned tense for a long moment until Anatole burst out in a short bark of laughter.
“Very well, Rainier.” He gestured toward the elevator, the invitation Simon had been waiting for. “If you’re willing to have my man hold your money.”
Simon took the open path to the elevator, unwilling to risk Anatole’s changing his mind. Only after he was safely inside the cabin with Konstantinou and two guards did Simon grin.
“Was I born yesterday?” Simon flashed his mark like it was no big deal, grateful the casino had staked the efforts this weekend so he could back up his words. “I’ll give my mark to Denise’s friend to hold. Deal?”
Behind the facade of his living-on-the edge cover persona, Simon made plans for his next move. Would he play out the game as promised? Or would he need to act as soon as the elevator doors opened? A lot depended on how much more evidence they needed for the intended crime and, more importantly, what condition Dorian was in wherever they’d taken her. If they’d hurt or drugged her, all bets were off and the D.A. would have to go after Konstantinou and friends with whatever evidence they’d already seen. But if Dorian wasn’t hurt and didn’t seem inclined to break cover yet, he’d wait on her cue.
He just hoped she didn’t wait too long. Sometimes being too cautious caused more heartache in the long run. Witness their rocky relationship. As the elevator chimed on arrival, he promised himself he wouldn’t wait around any longer for her to see they belonged together. As soon as they made some arrests tonight, he’d take Dorian someplace private and tell her as much.
“After you, Rainier,” Konstantinou offered up from beside him in the elevator car.
The bowels of the Pompeii Hotel and Casino building were dimly lit and smelled like industrial laundry. The service elevator must hit this floor for access to the washer-and-dryer facilities or room service options since boxes of food goods divided the space into mazelike tunnels.
Simon strolled out of the lift with easy movements even though he was tense as hell inside. There was no music, no bar, no hint of a party here. Where was Dorian?
He spent precious seconds waiting for his eyes to adjust to the light.
“Damn, Konstantinou. How the hell do you deal cards in the dark? Or will you just trust me when I say I’ve got a full house?” Simon used the lack of light to pull a concealed 9mm from his waist.
“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind on the terms of our wager, friend.” Konstantinou’s voice echoed in the barren stretch of corridor and structural beams. “Why don’t we skip the game and you can give me your mark and the women, too?”
“And deprive you of learning from my gambling skills?” Simon kept rolling with the cover, pushing his luck for as long as he could until—
He spotted Dorian.
Mouth taped, hands bound, guarded by a guy with an automatic weapon, she sat behind one of the structural beams beside another woman Konstantinou had taken.
Her eyes were wide and white in the dark, and they communicated a fierce indignation and fighting spirit that told him everything he needed to know. She was ready to take on these guys. No holds barred.
He just needed to give her an opening.
A damn fine time to discover he could read this incredible woman’s mind.
Ah, hell. Simon squeezed the trigger on the weapon he’d hidden by his hip, taking the gunman down with a surprise shot to the leg before he spun to take out Tex. Dorian’s friend shrieked behind her gag while Dorian sprang to her feet, her hands already half undone as she went for her gun under her dress.
Simon turned on his heel to face Konstantinou’s guys. Even through the gunfire he could hear Dorian shouting a cry for help into her cell phone. She must have freed her gag to call for backup.
The whole shoot-out probably took less than a minute, but the movements seemed to go by in slow motion. Gunfire lit up the basement with occasional bursts of light, illuminating the action in a strange, strobelike reality. Simon felt a bullet wing his shoulder as he ducked and rolled to take out the two guards with Konstantinou. Women screamed behind him, and he nearly pissed himself to hear the fire of an automatic weapon, the shots pinging with echoing intensity in the basement.
Heart burning with more fear for Dorian than pain from the bullet he’d taken, Simon took out Konstantinou with a kick to the groin. A cheap as hell shot that a man could get away with using when the odds were this far out of his favor.
Simon ripped a gun out of one of the fallen guard’s hands to crack across the back of Konstantinou’s skull. The bastard would stand trial for what he’d done so no way would Simon let him take the easy way out by dying.
“Simon!” Dorian’s shout broke through the smoke and acrid burn of gunpowder, the sudden silence deafening.
His gut twisted at the fear in her voice, but at least that meant she was alive. He glanced around to find her holding an AK-47 over two other guards being wrapped in duct tape by her friend. In the distance he heard the thunder of footsteps clamoring down the stairwell and a second later their backup swarmed the place.
About time.
“Told you we’d nail the bastards,” he shouted back, grinning because they were both alive and because he loved his job. Or maybe he was grinning because he was crazy about her.
“They hit you.” She was standing over him all of a sudden, and he reached out to touch her since she looked a little shaky from the stress. Then, spotting his blood on her skirt where she knelt beside him, he realized she was holding him steady because he was dizzy as hell from blood loss.
“Great,” he muttered, liking the feel of her cool hand on his forehead as she bent over him in her skintight sequin dress with a rip in one shoulder. “No telling what a guy will say when he’s wounded. Doesn’t blood lo
ss act like truth serum or something?”
Dorian tore off a piece of his shirt, her hands probably working quickly, though everything felt slow to him.
“I sincerely hope so.” She wound bandages around his shoulder while patrol officers and other detectives began searching the basement for any other suspects and cordoning off the crime scene. “Because I’d like to know—for real—if you’re ever going to change your ways as a wild man. I’ve never seen a man take so many chances in the space of sixty seconds. Were you insane to start shooting before I even got myself all the way untied?”
Her jaw might be tight with anger, but there were also tears in her eyes.
“Too many questions in there. Yes, I’m insane. No, I can’t change. But I swear I’d try to if I could for a woman as kick-ass as you.”
Bet Me Page 21
