Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

by Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance)

  And lay on the floor, blinking up at one of the dangling red hearts with the words “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

  Women ran over, hands fluttering over the fallen woman. Someone plucked a won ton off Frances’s shoulder.

  Rubbing her aching hand, Frances looked over at the curly-haired woman who was sitting up and rubbing her jaw, staring blearily at her pals who were asking her if she knew what day it was and did she want to see a doctor?

  Frances had never hit anyone in her life. There’d been some words exchanged with girls at school, but never a physical fight. She’d had no choice but to defend herself with that wild punch, but hurting another person made her feel sick.

  And to think she’d just gotten in touch with her inner girly.

  A man’s shiny black shoes stopped next to her.

  Her gaze travelled up a crisp blue police uniform to steely blue eyes that looked oddly familiar.

  The realization came in a horrific rush.

  Dmitri’s go-for, the singing detective. The undercover cop who’d pulled her over after she stole the Lady Melbourne brooch. Maybe he’d seemed like Kindhearted Andy of Mayberry then, but he looked like Dirty Harry now.

  Last time, he’d driven her to a chatty meeting in a limo.

  From the look on his face, she was headed somewhere more remote, lonely and cold.

  * * *

  AS BRAXTON HEADED to the backstage area, he gave a last look at the Shelby in the distance, glistening cherry red and perfect, never to be his.

  To say that losing the chance to win that car didn’t hurt would be a lie. It definitely hurt. Like the girl who got away, that ’Stang would always be more beautiful, more perfect, have a better bod than any other car he’d ever own. He’d still dream about it, compare other cars to it, hanker for it, but it was gone, baby, gone.

  Whoever wins that car tonight better treat it right.

  As he walked down the steps to the backstage area, one of the Keep ’Em Rollin’ volunteers, a friend of his grandmother’s, Betty-something, strode up to him, her mane of salt-and-pepper hair floating with her. Grams had told him that Betty had been one of the organizers of the Women’s Strike for Equality in the seventies. In her khaki skirt, Lennon glasses and socks-with-Birkenstocks, Betty looked as if she were still leading that movement.

  “Let’s document your tips,” she said matter-of-factly, opening a black notebook. She plucked a ballpoint pen from behind her ear. “Name?”

  “Captain Brax Sparrow, and I’m afraid I didn’t make any tips.”

  She arched a gray eyebrow. “None?”

  “Zero.”

  She looked at his hat, down his chest—which didn’t seem to impress her—past his red velvet breeches to his boots, then quickly back up to his eyes.

  “Not a year for pirates, eh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Hold this please,” she said, handing him the pen.

  Reaching into a pocket, she pulled out a ten-dollar bill and tucked it neatly into his waistband. She held out her hand.

  He passed her pen back to her.

  She spoke out loud as she wrote. “Captain Brax Sparrow, ten dollars.” She smiled at him. “Maybe you didn’t win today, but you’re an outstanding loser. Now, please give back that ten-dollar bill.”

  He did.

  And as she marched away, her Birks slapping, Braxton felt like a winner. Maybe not a winner-winner, but a guy who’d gained a lot today despite losing. Learned that real men could wear red velvet, and that even a guy with two left feet could do a mean free-form dance.

  And when Frances had shown up, looking to him for help, he’d risen to the occasion. He’d made her needs his priority without getting wrapped up in their surroundings. Maybe he’d never have Drake’s class, but he’d proven today that he could still be a stand-up guy. He could still be the person Frances needed him to be.

  Li’l Bit shuffled up to him, making smacking noises with his mouth. “My mouth is, like, mothball-dry, man. I’m laying off the popcorn for a while.”

  And he’d re-learned that he’d never, ever understand this guy. At least he wouldn’t have to hang out with him anymore after tonight.

  “Gotta learn some self-control, Li’l Bit. Get some healthier eating habits.”

  “Yeah, I dig what you’re saying. Was watching an Oprah rerun the other day...and Dr. Oz was talking about a forty-eight-hour cleansing diet that keeps your colon flowing regularly. Lots of strawberries and flax-something, can’t remember. Anyway...while we’re here sharing this moment, I wanted you to know I’m not bringing up the brother thing anymore. It’s enough that we’re, like, harmonious opposites that interact within a greater whole.”

  Whatever that meant. “Aren’t you supposed to be on stage right now?”

  He nodded. “There was some kinda chick smackdown with wontons.... After the cleanup crew finishes, I’m on.” He dragged his hand through the mass of frizz on his head. “Not trying to spread bad vibes ’cause I dig being an auction hunk ’n all, but some of those ladies are a little out there, know what I mean?”

  “Too much estrogen and booze,” he said, thinking of Val’s comment.

  “Woodstock meets menopause, man.” Sadness flickered in his eyes. “Sorry you had a bad dance day. Losing the Shelby ’n all.”

  “Yeah, well, probably a reminder to me that my fast-lane lifestyle is a thing of the past. Time to slow down, appreciate life more.” He was surprised to realize that he actually meant it. For the most part.

  “What matters is how we look at things, not how they are in themselves.”

  “Yeah, well...” Time to leave Planet X. “Told Frances I’d meet her in the tent, so...”

  “She’s not in the tent, dude.” He pointed somewhere past Braxton’s left ear. “She’s with the fuzz, over there.”

  Braxton turned.

  Frances and a police officer stood near the entrance to Sensuelle. She stood stiffly, listening intently to whatever he was saying, her hands clutched together. Nervous and pale, but focused.

  The officer walked away and Frances stood there, alone, seeming to shrink into herself. Less bright, less sure. As though the moon had fallen to earth.

  “I’ll be right back,” Braxton said.

  * * *

  “MY FIRST THOUGHT when I saw the cop,” Frances said to Braxton, keeping her voice low, “was that he was going to arrest me, which would’ve violated the terms of my suspended sentence and...and, well, you know what that would’ve meant. Seems every time I turn around lately, prison is staring me in the face.”

  She gulped a calming breath, still stunned at the surreal events that had transpired in the last fifteen minutes. Things had only begun to normalize when, moments after Detective Parks walked away, Braxton had appeared and folded her into his arms.

  Walking to the backstage area, their arms still around each other, she told him about the crazy woman charging her, the won tons, her wild sucker punch, and now, as they sat on folding chairs behind the stage, the latest twist in the case.

  “Remember my telling you about that goofy undercover cop who sang country songs while driving me to that first meeting with Dmitri in the limo?”

  He nodded. “The dirty cop on Dmitri’s payroll.”

  “Except he’s not dirty. His name’s Detective Parks, and he heads up the Las Vegas police department’s narcotics section. They’ve been investigating Ulyana’s involvement in a drug distribution ring.”

  “He knows you work for Vanderbilt?”

  She nodded. “After he dropped me off at my car following my limo meeting with Dmitri, Parks ran my ID through some government databases and learned about my real job.”

  “Did he call Charlie?”

  “No. Parks said that he wanted to contact me directly be
cause of the sensitivity of his case. He didn’t feel comfortable calling me or showing up at my condo in case Dmitri was keeping tabs on me, so he followed me here to talk about his investigation and how we might help each other.”

  “Does he know about me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t arrest that nutcase who started the fight.”

  “He didn’t see how it started and I didn’t tell him. Besides, if he’d gotten caught up in making an arrest, he and I wouldn’t have had a chance to talk. Plus, that woman’s friends were taking her home, so it’s not like she was going to hassle anyone else.”

  “So, is this Ulyana case too sensitive to discuss with me?”

  “You’re my Vanderbilt coinvestigator, so I can tell you. They suspect the dealers work in gift shops that sell those Russian chocolates.”

  Braxton thought about that for a moment. “I’m going to guess those guys who talk to her at the Bally’s sports book are runners placing orders. They go to the shops, get the numbers, come back and give them to her.”

  “Drug Order Central.”

  “Right. The gift shop employees never meet her, just the runners.”

  “Runners go with her to each casino?” she asked.

  “Probably. So Detective Parks is investigating her involvement, but not Dima’s?”

  “He said they can’t tell yet if she’s running her own operation, or if Dmitri’s involved.”

  A group of laughing teenage girls walked past, a collage of creamy, perfect skin, glossy hair, long limbs. Several ate thick slices of pizza, the smell of melting cheese and tomato sauce doing a wicked number on Frances’s concentration. Even with the craziness of the past few hours, and the other things she should be focusing on, all she could think about was a deep-dish pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza, heavy on the sauce, and a diet cola with lots of ice.

  “I’m starved,” she said. “Shall we continue this over pizza?”

  “We’re back!” boomed the announcer’s voice.

  Frances jumped.

  “We apologize for the break in the evening’s festivities, but now we’re ready to continue. Are you ready, ladies, to start bidding for a date with a hunk?”

  Squeals and clapping.

  “Our next Manwich is Li’l Bit Goes a Long Way....”

  She watched Li’l Bit head to the stage in a robe and flip-flops.

  “He’s not dressed,” she murmured.

  “No, that’s his costume.”

  She got it. “The Dude.”

  “Who else?”

  “They’re going to eat him alive.” She half-shrugged. “Or love him to death. Whatever happens, we need to give him our support, then get pizza.”

  “Sure.” He took her hand. “C’mon, I’ll take you to a spot where we can watch.”

  As they walked, Frances thought about Braxton’s lack of enthusiasm. She had heard his grudging tone, saw a put-upon look cross his features, and wondered again what his issue was with Li’l Bit. Granted, she didn’t know Li’l Bit all that well, but he seemed close to Braxton’s family. Maybe he was a bit eccentric, too hung up on The Big Lebowski, but there were worse things in life to get hung up on.

  Last night, she’d heard Li’l Bit get choked up when he told Braxton he wanted to be his brother. His triplet. He’d sounded like a child asking to be accepted, to be loved.

  Braxton had offered to be friends instead. But she knew him well enough to hear that he didn’t mean it.

  She hadn’t grown up with a sibling, so she didn’t understand all the complexities in those relationships. But she understood loneliness as much as she understood putting up walls. Which was the real dance those two were acting out.

  Braxton led her to the side of the stage and stopped. “We can see everything from here.”

  In the center of the stage, Li’l Bit stood duck-footed in his flip-flops, the sunglasses perched on his nose. The robe hung open to reveal his baggy plaid shorts and tee. He was a furrier, chunkier version of The Dude, but with the same life-goes-on-man Zen.

  “Honey, did you take out the trash?” someone yelled, followed by laughter.

  An ominous guitar riff screeched over the speakers.

  “Can’t believe he chose this song,” Braxton muttered.

  A heavy guitar riff kicked in. Li’l Bit began snapping his fingers and rolling his shoulders.

  “Bring back the firefighter!” a woman shouted.

  Unfazed, Li’l Bit kept swaying and snapping, his entire body getting into the movement.

  At the exact instant a wailing guitar and growling singer crescendoed, Li’l Bit whipped off his robe, and began swirling his hips, slowly, purposefully, his arms stretched out as though ready to hold and swirl with each and every one of them.

  Hands started waving money. A pair of red-and-black panties flew through the air onto the stage.

  “Damn,” murmured Braxton, “swirling really does drive women crazy.”

  As a guitar wailed and jungle drums hit a pounding frenzy, Li’l Bit suddenly stopped, his eyes wide open, his arms reaching, as though frozen in time and space.

  Then he fell back like a mighty redwood, crashing onto the stage floor.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BRAXTON AND FRANCES stood in a corner of the stage, watching the paramedics carefully lift Li’l Bit onto a gurney. As one adjusted the IV bag, the other quietly spoke to Li’l Bit, who lay with a strap over his forehead that kept his head immobile.

  As Li’l Bit’s lips moved, the paramedic leaned closer, listening attentively.

  “I can’t hear him,” Braxton murmured.

  Frances squeezed his hand. “Your grandmother’s here,” she said quietly.

  He looked out at the audience of women, some of whom were holding up lights and saw his grandmother drive up to the edge of the stage in her wheelchair, his mom walking alongside.

  “Be right back,” he said quietly.

  He headed to the edge of the stage and crouched down to talk to them.

  “How is he?” his grandmother asked, tears welling in her eyes.

  “He’s able to talk to the paramedics.”

  He didn’t want to say there was concern he might have suffered a cervical spine fracture. Li’l Bit was able to blink and talk, but the rest of his body was still, motionless.

  “Do they have his insurance information?” his mom asked, her face etched with worry.

  “Yes. He’s alert, and was able to tell them where to find his wallet.”

  He heard a clattering sound, turned to see the paramedics pushing the gurney off the stage.

  “Gotta go,” he said, standing.

  “I’m driving Grams home,” Dorothy said. “It’s been a long day, and she needs to rest. Richmond’s out of town tonight, so I’d like to stay with her.”

  “I’ll call when I have news.”

  Heading back across the stage, he spied Li’l Bit’s robe where it had landed during the dance. He picked it up and gently draped the soft robe over his arm, choking back a teary laugh at its scents of popcorn and ganja, regretting all the times he hadn’t been kinder.

  Braxton caught up to the paramedics as they were gently lowering the gurney off the back end of the stage onto the marble lobby floor below, aided by several Manwiches who murmured words of encouragement to Li’l Bit, still lying motionless, his shiny eyes staring at the ceiling.

  As the paramedics pushed the gurney, Braxton jogged alongside.

  “You’re gonna be okay, man,” he said, forcing himself to sound a helluva lot more together than he felt.

  Li’l Bit slid his eyes to look at Braxton.

  “Got your robe,” he said with a smile, holding it up.

  Li’l Bit blinked. Twice.

  Brax
ton flashed on a TV drama he saw years ago. A guy was paralyzed from the neck down and could only communicate through blinks.

  At least Li’l Bit can still speak.

  Like that’ll give him comfort when he has to deal with all this crap.

  Then it dawned on Braxton that Li’l Bit’s life wasn’t about “dealing” with things, but accepting them. And he’d find a way to live with a dude dignity other people wished they had.

  What Braxton was finally learning was that it wasn’t about getting, but loving.

  As the clattering gurney approached the main casino doors, doormen opened them while hotel security directed crowds to step back.

  One of the paramedics ran ahead to open the ambulance’s back doors, while the other slowly navigated the gurney.

  Walking alongside, Braxton placed his hand on Li’l Bit’s, startled at how cool it felt.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Braxton asked.

  A general question. Nothing specific. Didn’t want to scare Li’l Bit.

  “I don’t know much,” the paramedic answered, “and I shouldn’t even talk to you unless you’re a family member.”

  As the gurney rattled to a stop, Braxton looked down into Li’l Bit’s eyes.

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m his brother.”

  Li’l Bit’s eyes moistened. His lips moved.

  Braxton leaned over, placing his ear closer.

  “Yeah, well, you know,” Li’l Bit whispered hoarsely, “that’s just, like, your opinion, man.”

  * * *

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Braxton, who’d changed back into his jeans and sweater, and Frances sat outside the ER treatment room, drinking coffee from paper cups, waiting for news about Li’l Bit. They sat quietly, surrounded by the murmured conversations of other family members and friends waiting for news.

  The air had a slight disinfectant smell, reminding Frances of the many days she and her dad had visited her mom in the hospital during those long, long months of her illness. Frances hadn’t been in a hospital since.

  Braxton’s voice pulled her out of her reverie.

  “I called him my brother.”

  She knew instantly what he was talking about, of course, although he didn’t know. She also knew from the tone of voice, how deeply Braxton regretted hurting Li’l Bit.