Down and Dirty

by Crystal Green

  “Why the hell would you do that?”

  “A gut feeling.” He was hardly about to apologize. That was his style, too. “And the realization that you’re too hazy to be looking closely at him yourself.”

  “If I thought I should be looking close, I would’ve.”

  Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true. Isaiah had come at her like a sandstorm you saw gathering a hundred feet away, whipping up speed and sucking in everything around it—including her.

  “Kat,” Gideon said, tipping his hat back even more so she could see his light brown eyes and how apologetic they were. “Boomer did a search on ‘NFL, Isaiah Smith.’ It seems he found your particular man but, aside from his busted football career, he keeps a low computer profile, takes care not to reveal too much about himself online except on this one history forum board where he’s been asking a lot about Rough and Tumble.”

  “So? He’s doing research on this place.”

  Gideon looked around before he spoke. “He was asking the board about rumors of buried silver in the area.”

  Red flags went up in Kat, blinding her with memory.

  With that night . . .

  Ten years ago . . . she was just old enough to tend bar in the R&T . . . Clay O’Rourke sauntering in one afternoon with a pirate’s grin, his dark eyes lighting up at first sight of her.

  “Where can a man get a good drink, beautiful?”

  Right here, she’d thought, falling into him, deeply, quickly, stupidly. He’d told her he was a “collector,” on his way through Vegas to take care of business. Lying in his arms for five mind-blowing nights, she’d never thought to ask what he collected, but when he’d quizzed her about the stories around Rough & Tumble—Where had old mobsters gone to bury bodies? Where were the places around here in the desert no one ever really went?—she wondered what was with all the questions.

  When Clay had disappeared for a time, she’d moped around the saloon. And that’s how Beatrice, a woman who also had a pirate’s eyes and a swashbuckling smile, had found Kat.

  Or Katrina, as everyone had called her then—back when she’d been smiley and girly and open. Back when Grandpa Jenkins had been alive and had been willing to do anything for her.

  Beatrice had been trying to find Clay because they were business partners. Kat told her she wasn’t sure where he’d gone, why he’d gone, but he’d sure asked a lot about the desert and where bodies were buried.

  With even friendlier eyes now, Beatrice had invited Kat to hop in her Chevy, get something to eat at someplace half fancy on the Strip, her treat. They could talk about Clay, share secrets like girls did.

  Was Beatrice involved with Clay? Kat had wondered. But dinner was dinner, and she was twenty-one years old and didn’t know any better, and she’d gotten in the car, taking any chance she could to enjoy the Strip with someone who seemed like she could be a friend. After all, Beatrice knew Clay, and Kat wanted them all to get along.

  They didn’t head for the Strip.

  “Where did you tell Clay to go?” the woman asked as they drove toward the night-shaded mountains.

  Confused and young, so young, Kat had told Beatrice the stories about buried bodies near Roadrunner Mountain, a landmark only locals talked about. A private area the cops never bothered to go, much less regular people.

  So the woman had driven there: side roads into nowhere . . . a night with clouds that approached the moon with cautious fits and starts . . . a knife suddenly at Kat’s side after Beatrice pulled over to an empty wasteland manned by cacti under the shadow of the mountain.

  “This is where you told Clay about?” Beatrice asked, dragging Kat out of the car.

  Mind fogged with panic, fear, but Kat had answered yes. She’d stammered that she wasn’t sure where Clay had gone, what he was up to . . .

  “Tell me, Katrina—did Clay take the silver with him or are you hiding it somewhere for him?”

  Silver?

  “You know I’m gonna find out sooner or later,” the woman said, “so just tell me now . . . make this easy on yourself.”

  No answers. The knife against her skin as Kat shook with strangling terror. But Beatrice wanted answers. . . .

  A cut. Blood. A gasp of shock from Kat.

  “I don’t believe you, Katrina.” Beatrice, whispering in her ear. “Just because a man fucks you for information and some entertainment doesn’t mean you owe him any allegiance. Or did he promise some of my silver to you if you helped him find a good place to hide it? Somewhere away from civilization but notorious enough so you’d be able to track it down it again? That silver came from my dear departed husband’s investments, you know. Clay thought he fucked me well enough to run away with all of it. . . .”

  Insinuations crashed together in Kat’s mind, none of them making sense except for fragments: Husband. Murder? Partners?

  But she was bleeding, a gash in her side that she had to press her hand against to staunch. The knife was ready to strike again, and then—

  A shot in the air, Beatrice, jerking, stumbling away from Kat and dropping the knife in her wide-eyed, choking surprise.

  Kat, scrabbling on the ground, mindlessly trying to get away, but the knife, it was there in the dirt, and she grabbed it while fighting hysterical sobs.

  Footsteps, a tall silhouette in the moonlight.

  “Goddammit,” Clay said, the shotgun pointed at his partner, who was trying to claw away from him. He fired into her again, blood spraying, splashing onto Kat’s skin.

  She crawled faster, hearing him behind her.

  “Stop even trying.” Clay’s voice, weary, sad. “You’re not getting anywhere. I heard her trying to terrify you, Katrina. It’s really too bad she had to involve you. . . .”

  Was he saying that Kat knew too much? Was he going to kill her just like he’d done with Beatrice so she’d never tell anyone anything?

  As Kat looked over her shoulder at him again, she saw a car down the road—his Cadillac. Had he crept up on Beatrice’s car with his lights off, using the murky moon for guidance, maybe following them from a distance? Or had he already been out here and they’d surprised him?

  She never asked for answers, because she knew she was about to die.

  Kat got to her knees, hiding the knife against her side, holding the bleeding gash at her ribs. She let herself cry, flashing her big blue eyes at him—eyes he’d told her he loved.

  “Please,” she said. “I won’t ever say a word to anyone, Clay.”

  “I know that. All I was trying to do was get a life again, plant that silver, then come back for it when the heat is off. I was going to hide it from that dumb bitch I’ll be putting in the ground with the shovel I used to bury her silver. I just didn’t know she’d find me so soon—she wasn’t as much of an idiot as I thought.” He chuffed, then sobered. “You really don’t deserve this, Katrina, but there are people in this world who can’t suffer loose ends. I’m one of them. Shit, I wish I didn’t have to do this. . . .”

  He bent down to touch her face, his dark eyes filled with the same soft emotion she thought she’d seen before in him, the look that’d fooled her, the temporary love she thought she’d discovered. The love that’d died with a shot blast to Beatrice’s chest.

  “Katrina,” he said in a whisper, “I’m so sor—”

  It was over in an instant—the slice of the knife, his wide eyes, the gurgles he made as he clutched at his throat, blood seeping through his fingers.

  Sitting there watching him, she wished she could feel nothing—just like he’d felt for her—but she was fighting sobs, still fighting the horror of this . . . reality. Pure, bleeding reality.

  Finally, when she knew he was dead, she wrapped her bleeding wound with her shirt, knowing she’d have to stitch herself up, then did the only thing she could think of.

  She walked until she got reception on her cell, then called Grandpa Jenkins.

  He came fast, bringing the items he needed to sew her up, just as the clouds were covering
the moon. He helped her erase everything out there in the middle of nowhere, and he never mentioned it again—not even before he died a year later. . . .

  As the memory faded from Kat, the color red rolling away from her vision, she saw Gideon standing before her again, watching her with brotherly concern.

  One night, she’d drunkenly told him, Boomer, Cash, and Ben everything, because the secret had been killing her. And they’d never told a soul, either.

  All that silver out there somewhere, Kat thought. She’d paid for every bit of it but had never searched for the blood riches.

  “You think Isaiah might know,” she said in a jagged whisper. “Somehow, some way . . .”

  “Boomer can find out if he does,” Gideon said, bracing his hands on her shoulders. “And I’ll have your back, every step of the way, too. Meanwhile, don’t ever be alone with Isaiah Smith.”

  Anesthetically, Kat nodded, holding back the hurt, the years of keeping something so surreal and horrifying inside that the secret had rotted within her.

  Gideon hugged her, and she held him back tightly, her scar feeling like it was bleeding all over again, even though it was as sealed as she thought her secrets had been.

  17

  Ben wondered how an elevator ride up to the penthouse of the Macau Casino and Hotel could be too slow and too fast at the same time.

  Too slow because he was holding Poppy, and the dog was squirming as if she wanted to jump out of the elevator at the first chance possible to escape the family dinner, as well. Then again, everything was going too fast mostly because Ben would’ve done anything to freeze this moment in time with Liz.

  He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her since the wardrobe spree: she’d polished up more than nicely, thanks to the care of the personal shopper and the beauty salon in the store, making her into a socialite within just a few well-spent hours. Her red hair was sleek, swept back from her face with all the glamour of a movie siren. Her makeup had been applied with a light yet expert hand that had brought out those violet eyes and pink lips, giving her a constant glow. And that dress? Good God. Frothy and elegant, it transformed her into a work of classic art that fit the image of what a respectable wife should be, almost like a commissioned portrait to be hung over a mantel.

  But there was something else besides physical appreciation tapping at Ben’s chest as the numbers on the elevator panel counted up to the luxury suite. Something that made him want to touch Liz’s face and linger there. Something that made unformed words knock at him, needing to get out—words he faintly remembered saying on their first night together. I adore you, Liz. . . .

  Why did it feel like he meant them right now? How was that even possible when he didn’t have any use for emotions? He’d seen time and again how feelings had no value to his father, his brothers. Feelings were for people who didn’t know that emotions were as disposable as a billionaire’s income. And even if Liz had liked Ben before she’d found out he was Bennett, it was respect he needed. He didn’t require anything else . . . except maybe the fun and lack of expectation that went along with a convenient marriage like theirs. Besides, it wasn’t as if Ben could ever be a real husband. The Hughes DNA didn’t provide for that.

  Nope, he was going to show everyone that he could succeed at marriage and responsibility for as long as he had to, and he would continue to show them what a good, useful guy he was even after the divorce, continuing to support Liz in public, being the kind of ex that could be admired. That would be the key to his own type of happiness.

  Liz must’ve felt his gaze on her, because she grinned at him, running a hand over her gown. “So here we go, huh?”

  “You’re gonna crush this performance.” His fingers still itched to touch her, but luckily, Poppy required both hands at the moment as the dog stiffened her body, once again making him think she was about to jump out of his arms. He was also trying to keep an inch between the dog and his new Hugo Boss suit, assuring himself that as few dog hairs as possible would stick to him.

  As the elevator slowed, Poppy suddenly buried her face against him like a little baby. Dammit. Dog hairs. But Ben found himself allowing her to stay cuddled against him.

  What the hell—he’d just brush himself off. Also? Dog hugs were nicer than he’d ever thought.

  “Aw,” Liz said, looking at them both like they were the picture of domestic bliss. “Maybe Poppy should be wearing the ring.”

  Was there a note of longing in his wife’s voice, as if she wished the ring weren’t so meaningless? Nah. This was professional, and she knew it.

  Ben glanced at the jewelry shining on her finger, then sent her a confident grin, absently giving Poppy a kiss before he petted her ears, then leaned over to whisper to Liz.

  “Knock ’em dead, Mrs. Hughes.”

  Liz’s gaze went sad for a moment—more longing? But for what?

  The doors slid open and he didn’t have any more time to wonder, because Liz was already lifting her chin and smiling breezily, stepping off the elevator ahead of him.

  Yes, Mrs. Hughes all the way. So why did he keep thinking that there was something bothering her? Was it because of what Gideon had said about emotions being involved, no matter what?

  Ben tucked Poppy under one arm and, with a single stride, caught up to Liz. He offered a crooked arm to her, inviting her to hook her arm through his. She entwined with him, giving him an assured wink, showing no signs of longing or whatever he’d seen in her eyes.

  “You can reward me later, Mr. Hughes,” she whispered.

  Heart flipping, Ben told himself that the sensation was nothing, just nerves, just the rest of his life flashing before his eyes as he led her toward the massive double doors of the suite.

  He rang the bell, and it didn’t take long for someone to answer.

  That someone was a tall, pepper-haired gentleman dressed in a gray suit who’d, for decades, reminded Ben of a long-faced vampire who never smiled.

  “Armstrong,” Ben said, nodding to his father’s “man.” Back at the department store, Ben had given Liz the rundown of how his family functioned, high-level servants and all, and to his satisfaction, she didn’t blink an eyelash at the sight of the stodgy valet.

  At first, Armstrong seemed taken aback by the fact that Ben had a perfectly refined wife—not a trashy good-time showgirl—and that he was also carrying around a puppy, of all things. However, the valet recovered quickly, relieving Liz of the coat she’d been carrying over her other arm. She held on to her clutch pearl-beaded purse.

  “Welcome,” Armstrong said to both of them as he opened the door and stood aside.

  As soon as Ben and Liz walked in, he could hear the catch in her breath. And why not, when the penthouse had a round, multiwindow night view of the sparkling neon city around them? It also had a white baby grand piano that some hired musician was playing soft jazz on while, nearby, a wafer-thin, raven-haired woman in a red gown swayed to the muted rhythm. A winding golden staircase led to an upper floor, and glass sculptures lingered near the windows, reflecting the nighttime lights.

  But, most intimidating of all, Ben supposed, was the stretched sofa . . . and the two men who were sitting on it.

  Jameson stood up first, his blond hair styled and cut just so, his Ralph Lauren suit as crisp as a thousand-dollar bill. He held a martini in front of him, his other hand clenched at his side as he gave Liz a tight once-over. Much to his credit, he didn’t freeze her with the ice-death blast of his gaze—at least not yet.

  Welcome to the family, Liz, Ben thought.

  But she seemed unflappable, especially when the second man, Ben’s father, leaned forward on the sofa, not getting up, merely slapping a hand against a meaty thigh.

  “Well, well, well,” Dad said as he gave Liz a very thorough Hughes scan. After he took his time with every inch of her—damn the old goat—his gaze stayed on her ring finger. “Looks like Bennett finally did fall into matrimony—and she came with a ready-made family.” He motioned toward Poppy.


  “We thought you could meet all of us in one fell swoop.” Ben subtly, yet protectively, pulled Liz a little closer to him. But she was a performer, keeping a dazzling, seemingly natural smile on her face, even if she had to be thinking that Ben should’ve told her that Dad was the reincarnation of Henry the VIII, minus the muttonchops and flat cap. Same girth, same jolly expression, same ruthless streak under the expensive wardrobe. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife. Liz.”

  She didn’t miss a beat. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Hughes.”

  It was all Dad could do to tear his gaze away from her as he balanced his martini between two fingers and peered closely at Poppy again. So far, Ben felt invisible, in third place to his wife and their dog.

  “Armstrong!” his father finally said. “Contact room service so they’ll send the best dog kibble available with dinner!” He didn’t wait for an answer as he continued. “So, a dog, eh?”

  “Couldn’t bear to leave her at home,” Ben said, still playing the game of will-he-or-won’t-he-acknowledge-me with his father. Had Liz noticed yet how Dad hadn’t directly addressed Ben? Was he punishing him for leaving him out of a wedding? For being gone for so long? “Liz found Poppy today, so we washed her up and brought her with us. You know how it is with new members of the family—you can’t stay away from them at first.”

  Ben slid a glance to the woman in red—presumably his father’s new wife—still dancing near the piano. She seemed to have little to no curiosity about them.

  Dad either didn’t catch the reference or he didn’t care. But he did turn toward the brunette, all while still staying on the couch. “Bijou! Come here and meet my prodigal son.”

  Bijou? God, Ben hadn’t even known her name, but he figured it’d be something like Valentina or Pandora—a name suited for one of his father’s own pets of the year. A foreign model who’d struck gold with the old man. Ben had lost track of all the girlfriends versus fiancées versus wives.