by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)
“Right,” Drake said, “one evening you drove to a convenience store and bought a quart of milk.”
Brax blew out an exasperated breath. “I can’t believe this! I spend years being estranged from my family for hanging out with thugs, dating questionable women and skirting the Nevada criminal justice system, during which time Mom banned me from our childhood home. But now that I’m law-abiding, and yeah, okay, so I haven’t been involved with a woman for a while, but that’s my choice, by the way...” He gave both of them an and-you-better-believe-it look. “Where was I?”
“A law-abidin’ citizen,” prompted Val.
“Right. Now that I’m an upstanding citizen, my family can’t hear enough about my uneventful, boring life? I suppose Mom’s spilled that I still watch cartoons sometimes, too.” He jabbed an accusing finger at Val, then Drake. “Maybe it’s you people who need to get a life!”
“Brax,” Drake said, “don’t take it the wrong way.”
“What’s the right way? To joke about my do-nothing, go-nowhere, get-nothing life?”
“It’s all right, dawlin’,” Val said, drawing out the word dawlin’ like a slow pour of molasses. “It must be awful bein’ a former playboy. Like bein’ an ol’ James Bond sent out to pasture.”
As if he needed that mental picture. An old Bond bull with a bunch of over-the-hill Miss Moneypennies.
“Look,” he said, “I know you two mean well, but let’s put the brakes on the matchmaking, ’kay? That includes any blind dates, Craigslist ads, surprise walk-ins, you get the picture.”
Val frowned. “Surprise walk-ins?”
“Some hot blonde walks into the detective agency, needs to talk to a P.I. He falls for her story and her, and that’s when his real troubles start. It’s in every clichéd private-eye film.”
“F’true,” Val said, her eyes lighting up, “I recently saw Chinatown, and just like you said, the trouble started when a blonde walks into private eye Jake Gittes’s office.”
“I dunno,” Drake said. “You’ve been a monk so long, maybe you need a little blonde trouble.”
“Monk.” Braxton snorted. “Now you’re stepping over the line, bro.”
“Yeah?” Drake countered. “Well, since I’m already there, gotta ask...still watching Donald Duck cartoons?”
“I don’t need this.” Brax picked up his phone and stood. “I’m heading home to tell Grams that as much as I appreciate her—and your—concern to find me a date, I’d prefer not being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”
He started walking to the door.
“Good luck saying no to Grams, bro.”
“I never claimed to be a wise man,” he said over his shoulder. “Just a savvy, determined monk.”
CHAPTER TWO
CLOSE TO THREE, Frances cruised her rented Mercedes sports car past the Passage-of-Love drive-through wedding chapel, its tunnel bright with gaudy lights and gold-painted cherubs. In the lot next to it was a run-down duplex, where a scrawny girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sat hunched on the porch steps, solemnly watching a couple ride a motorcycle into the chapel. To Frances, those two buildings summed up downtown Las Vegas—glitz, business and tough times.
At the end of the block, she pulled into Fortier’s lot and parked. After patting the inside pocket of her jacket to confirm the presence of the replica brooch, she exited the car.
The winds were picking up, but brooding clouds still hovered, as though unsure whether to take action or not. February forecasts were like crapshoots in Sin City—if the weather report called for fair skies, it might snow.
Heading toward the silver-tinted jewelry-store windows, she spied Enzo Fortier’s Bentley, one of the inheritances from his late father, Alain Fortier. Enzo’s siblings were angry their father had given the bulk of his estate, including the Bentley and jewelry store, to his youngest son, Enzo. The ongoing family drama, with its litigation, accusations of extortion, fraud and theft, had left Enzo distracted and vulnerable to criminals.
That was what she and Charlie believed, anyway. The person who stole the Lady Melbourne brooch had taken advantage of Enzo’s distraction to fence the pin. Not that Enzo was innocent—he had to know he was receiving stolen goods, but was probably too frightened to say no.
Whatever the situation, Charlie had tapped her for this case because she knew about Georgian jewelry. Being a woman didn’t hurt, either, he’d said, because Enzo had a roving eye.
So one reason Charlie had picked her for this case was because she was pretty enough to attract Enzo’s attention.
Not much of a compliment, really, as it was her artifice, not her, that would attract him. Not to say she wasn’t proud of her skill applying silicone gel and concealer. Sometimes she even wondered if she could market this talent, help other people struggling with facial scars.
And then sometimes, usually late at night when she’d run out of distractions, she wondered if any man could ever accept...touch...kiss the imperfection that lay beneath.
Stepping inside the jewelry store, she smiled pleasantly at the middle-aged security guard stuffed into a blue uniform accessorized with a shiny gold A-1 Security badge and gun holster.
She noted the surveillance camera in the ceiling to her right, which recorded her five-nine height—five-seven without the heels—as she strolled past the height ruler tacked on the inside of the entrance door.
A skinny middle-aged man in an Armani suit approached her. Despite his dazzlingly white smile, apprehension clung to him like a fog.
“Welcome. May I help you? I am the owner, Enzo Fortier,” he said in a thick French accent, bowing slightly.
“Elise Crayton.” On undercover cases, she always offered a name that couldn’t easily be spelled. She absently adjusted one of her earrings, drawing his gaze to it.
“Exquisite,” he said approvingly. “Antique, yes?”
“Georgian,” she said casually, dropping her hand. “My favorite style.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, his face lighting up, “I just happen to have several Georgian pieces available.” With a flourish, he gestured toward the back of the room. “This way, madame.” He paused. “Or is it mademoiselle?”
“Mademoiselle,” she murmured, letting her gaze lock with his for the briefest of moments, giving the illusion she just might be interested in him, too.
Nothing was more powerful, or more real, in life than the illusions people put forth. She guessed people didn’t have the time, or inclination, to dig deeper, so they accepted whatever was presented on the surface.
Maybe because she was a magician’s daughter, she understood that the best illusions were the result of weeks, often months, of practice, so she tried never to be overconfident in her own first impressions of others.
Moments later, she sat on a cushioned bench, eyeing a sparkling earring set and the Lady Melbourne brooch in the glass display case. As far as she knew, only the brooch had been taken from the museum. Later, she’d describe the earrings to Charlie, see if they could dredge up information about whether those had been stolen, too.
“What a lovely pin,” she said. “May I see it?”
“Absolument.”
As he retrieved the brooch from the case, she pretended to fix her hair while scanning the layout of the surveillance cameras. The closest one, in the ceiling almost directly overhead, captured a tight view of the two of them and this case. Another camera, positioned farther back in the ceiling to her left, recorded a long-range view of the back area of the store.
Fortier gingerly laid the piece of jewelry on a black velvet tray.
“Fourteen-karat yellow-gold pin stem,” he said. “The center diamond is two carats, and the petals are covered with...one hundred and twenty diamonds.”
Actually, there were one hundred and fifty diamonds, which was probably why he hesitated.
He either hadn’t done his homework or he’d forgotten whatever information the thief had provided.
He also hadn’t mentioned that each stone had been mine-cut, one of the last hand-cut diamonds before the age of machinery took over. Although sometimes lumpy in shape, mine-cut diamonds reflected their natural shape, making each truly unique. A significant point to collectors.
“May I see the backing of the brooch?” She slid off an earring. “I’d like to compare it to the backing on this....”
As she handed him the earring, it dropped with a soft fomp onto the black velvet.
“Oh, pardon!”
He stood, his features pinched with worry. As he carefully lifted the earring, she leaned forward, angling her right shoulder toward the nearest camera. Her right hand slid into her left jacket pocket as the left plucked the Lady Melbourne brooch. The switch was complete within a few seconds.
Enzo, still examining the earring, murmured, “I do not see any damage.”
She had purposefully let it fall on the velvet tray so it would land safely. Nevertheless, she frowned with concern.
“Thank goodness,” she murmured. “So clumsy of me.”
“No, mademoiselle,” he said, returning it to her, “it is I who should have been more watchful. If you see a problem, you must bring it back and we shall repair it, at no cost, of course.”
“Thank you.” She slipped it back onto her ear.
“Even if you don’t find a problem,” he said, lowering his voice, “bring it back on your beautiful ear, and we shall take it out to a late lunch.”
She smiled coyly. “How late?”
The look in his eyes darkened. “As late as you’d like.”
She glanced at the brooch, back at him. “Maybe we can take the brooch to this late lunch, too.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “I don’t take my jewelry out to lunch or anywhere else.”
“You think I’d steal it?”
He stared at her for a moment. “No, of course not. But someone else might.”
“I was joking about taking it out,” she said offhandedly, “but I am curious....” She inched her hand across the glass counter, her fingers almost touching his. “Where did you find this exquisite pin?”
He glanced at her hand. “A collector.”
“Did he give you those Georgian earrings, too?”
“Yes.”
So the “collector” was a man. Since the brooch had been stolen in Amsterdam, she asked, “A European collector, perhaps? Because I know a gentleman in Brussels who has an impressive Georgian collection.... Maybe we know the same person.”
“No. Not Brussels.”
One look at his wary expression and she knew he wouldn’t say more. Switching gears, she returned to a safer topic.
“So, is the backing on my earring the same as—”
Releasing a pent-up breath, Enzo picked up the flower brooch and turned it over. “This foil backing is similar to your earring, yes.”
“How much for the pin?”
“Thirty-seven thousand.”
Ten years ago, it had been valued at fifty. Which made it easily worth seventy or more today. He also hadn’t referred to it as the Lady Melbourne brooch or mentioned its history. According to legend, it had been a gift from Queen Charlotte to Lady Melbourne, one of her ladies-in-waiting.
He obviously wanted to sell it, fast. Maybe he had been promised a cut.
“Let me think it over,” she said pleasantly.
He gave her his card, and she left the store, smiling at the security guard on her way out.
As she drove out of the lot, she lightly touched the Lady Melbourne brooch, safely tucked into her inside jacket pocket. The replica now lay in its place at Fortier’s, and unless his “collector” acquaintance checked it closely, no one would know about the switch. That was, until she, or maybe Charlie, returned to interview Enzo about his role in fencing the brooch. Depending on when, or if, she found the master thief, which could take days or weeks. Maybe months. Investigations always had their own timeline, based as much on the investigator’s skill as patience.
Driving down the street, she saw the duplex ahead to her right. The young girl still sat on the porch steps, her eyes glued to the wedding chapel next door.
Frances pulled over and parked. Opening her clutch, she retrieved a bill that she’d tucked away a week or so earlier. Years ago, someone had given her such a gift. Now that she made a good income, she liked to give back in the same quiet way.
The girl’s dark eyes widened with curiosity as Frances walked briskly up the cracked concrete walkway. The youngster scanned her linen pantsuit, all the way down to her Dolce & Gabbana heels, then raised her eyes to the glittering earrings.
Frances paused at the bottom of the steps and looked at the pile of old car parts stacked in a corner of the worn wooden porch, the bent metal frame of the screen door. They reminded her of a similar building she had lived in nearly twenty ago, and how for a few weeks she and her parents had spent their evenings in the dark because of an unpaid electric bill.
Not total darkness, though, because her dad lightened their moods, literally, with magic tricks. He’d light candles with a wave of his hand, make lightbulbs glow with a touch of his finger. She and her mom had seen the tricks dozens of times, knew the secrets behind the maneuvers, but they had laughed and clapped as though experiencing them for the first time.
Their responses had been real, not contrived. Although there was always trickery behind a magic act, something mystical bonded an audience to a magician. They shared a belief, as far-fetched as it might seem, that everything would be all right. That the rabbit would reappear, the magician would escape the water tank, the lady sawn in half would be whole again.
Frances met the girl’s gaze. “What’s your name, hon?”
“Whitney.”
She handed the girl a bill. “Whitney, do something nice for yourself and your family.”
The girl’s mouth dropped open as she looked at the fifty-dollar bill, then her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“I don’t do nuthin’ for money.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Why fo’?”
“For you to pay it forward someday.” She saw the confusion on the girl’s face. “Which means...when you’re all grown up, give a gift to another young girl and her family.”
As Frances headed back to her car, she heard the girl’s barely suppressed squeal, followed by the thumpity-thump of feet running across the porch and the slam of a screen door.
* * *
WHILE DRIVING PAST the Clark County courthouse a few minutes later, Frances punched in the speed-dial number for her dad’s cell, hit the speaker button and set the phone on the console. It was against Nevada law to make handheld cell-phone calls. In her opinion, that meant as long as she wasn’t holding her phone, she stayed legal.
After all she’d been through, Frances was definitely keeping her life on the right side of the law. In five years, she would no longer be under court supervision, her payments would be completed for the necklace she stole and her felony conviction would be discharged. When that day came, she would have a second chance to live her life right.
“Hey, baby girl,” her dad said over the speaker, “how’d it go?”
“Slick as glass.”
“Get the brooch?”
“Of course.”
“That’s my girl!”
As she idled at a stoplight, a black cat dashed across the street in front of the Benz. She muttered, “That’s not good.”
“Something wrong?”
“I just saw a black cat.”
“You and your superstitions,” her dad said with a chuckle. “On your way to meet Charlie now?”
“He’s in meetings u
ntil five. Figured while I’m downtown, I’ll pull some files at the clerk and recorder’s office to see if Enzo has recently used his jewelry inventory as collateral for a loan.”
“This has something to do with the brooch?”
“Enzo’s up to his teeth in litigation, probably having trouble borrowing money from banks right now. People in tight spots sometimes turn to questionable money sources, especially in Vegas. If Enzo took out a loan within the past week or so, which of course coincides with the brooch mysteriously surfacing, the identified lender might be the thief, too.”
“My daughter, Sherlock—or should I say Shirley—Holmes.”
In her rearview mirror, she saw swirling red lights from a white Crown Victoria hugging the bumper of her Benz.
Anxiety rippled through her. “Looks like I got company. Unmarked cop car’s pulling me over.”
“That’s odd. Why an unmarked?”
Seemed odd to her, too, but she didn’t have time to analyze the situation. “Charlie’s office and cell numbers are written on the bottom of the whiteboard in the kitchen. Leave messages on both that I’ve been pulled over on Third, across from the courthouse. Gotta go.”
After stopping the car, she eased the brooch from her pocket and set it carefully between the leather seat and the console, then rolled down her window and killed the engine. Slowly, she placed her hands on the steering wheel where they could be seen.
Exhaust fumes and the scents of hot dogs from a nearby street vendor wafted into the car as she watched the man in her rearview mirror unfold himself from the vehicle and swagger to her car. He wore jeans, white T-shirt, windbreaker—universal undercover-cop attire.
His steps crunched to a stop next to her window. Leaning over slightly, his blue eyes fastened on hers like steel shards to a magnet.
“Is there a problem, Officer?” she asked politely.
“Howdy,” he said, all friendly like, “mind handing over your phone and car keys, ma’am?”
Not asking for her license and registration? “Uh...isn’t this out of the ordinary?”
