Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  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 k
now 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.