Authors: Kay Keppler
Hope looked in the mirror. “Does it look like I can have fun in this hat?” she asked.
Tanner looked at her. “You can have fun wearing anything. It isn’t the accessory, it’s the attitude.”
Hope twisted in front of the mirror to get a different view. “Baby doesn’t think so. She thinks if you have a fun attitude, it will come out in what you wear. And I’m thinking, maybe something with a little more color.”
“That’s what I said. Mostly. This one’s nice.” He handed her a dark hat with a band of rust-colored feathers. Hope dropped it on her head.
“I don’t know,” she said, turning her head in the mirror.
“Nothing’s going to look good that way. Here.” He stepped closer and lifted the hat slightly, adjusting it to slant forward over her forehead, curling down one side of the brim, nudging the crown into a sharper crease. He brushed a strand of hair off her cheek, looked into her eyes, and smiled.
“There,” he said.
Hope stepped back, feeling a little breathless, and looked into the mirror. The hat
did
look better.
“Um, maybe,” she said. She glanced at Tanner, who scrutinized her.
“Look down,” he said.
She looked down.
“I think I need a—” she started.
“Bigger brim,” he finished.
She looked up and smiled at him. “Yes,” she said.
Damn, she was pretty.
When he’d adjusted that hat, it was all he could do not to kiss her. Except of course if he’d tried, she probably would have ripped his head off. Or accuse him of thinking about Baby.
But how interesting was it that she was all whacked out of shape about Baby, for some reason? Baby was hot looking, for sure. He’d met hot women hundreds, maybe thousands, of times in his career. Shit, even FBI Special Agent Darla was hot. And twenty years ago—even ten years ago—hot would have been enough. But he was a lot older now and, he hoped, somewhat wiser. Hot didn’t get him there any more. Hot was nice, but he needed more than just sizzle now. He needed substance. He needed someone smart, complicated, interesting, testy, insecure, and confident. Someone with goals she was willing to work toward and people she intended to celebrate her achievements with.
He needed someone who needed a hat.
He picked up a pale straw hat with a band of bright turquoise stones.
“Try this one,” he said.
Hope took the hat and put it on her head. She tilted it forward over her forehead the way Tanner had done. She bent the brim down.
Tried
to bend it down. The brim was too crisp. It didn’t curl right.
“Let me,” Tanner said.
He stepped closer, putting his hands on the hat brim just above her ear. She could feel his fingers brush her ear lobe as he gently curled the hat brim down. He stroked his hands along the brim toward the front and back of the hat, smoothing it carefully, bending it the way he wanted. His fingers brushed her hair, her cheek, her neck as he shaped the straw.
She stood very still and watched him in the mirror as he concentrated on the hat. He frowned slightly as he worked. His hair was overgrown and shaggy, his eyes glued on what he was doing. She felt his attention like a beam of light. Every inch of him was focused right this minute on her, on making this hat the best it could be for her.
His touch was as light as thistledown. She felt a little shiver even as her skin grew warm. Her breath became light, shallow.
He took a long time getting the curve just right. He urged the straw to curl down, the crown to stay sharp. He nudged the hat just a little lower over her eyes. The whole time, she couldn’t move. Her feet were rooted to the spot as Tanner nudged and brushed and floated his fingers over her face, her ears, her hair, her neck, always adjusting the hat.
Finally he turned her to face the mirror. His hands were warm on her shoulders, and then they were gone. But he stood so close behind her she could feel his heat against her back as they both looked at her reflection.
“There,” he said.
The hat was fantastic.
The color, a pale golden straw, lit up her hair and skin. The wide brim framed her face, the turquoise stones on the hatband set off her eyes, now almost navy as she looked back at him in the mirror. The crown added a good three inches to her height, so now she appeared only a few inches shorter than Tanner, who must be six two if he was an inch. She looked tall and strong and ready for anything. She looked adventurous and daring. She looked
hot.
She was grateful to Tanner for taking her here and picking out this hat.
“Pumpkin, that’s the hat.”
The warm and grateful moment faded.
“The hat is great,” she said. “Don’t call me pumpkin.”
“Why not? You are a
total
pumpkin.”
She turned to frown at him. “No endearments. Plus—orange, fat, round. That’s why not.”
“That’s how you see pumpkins? Orange, fat, and round? And your sister an organic farmer. It’s sad, that’s what it is.”
“What on
earth
are you talking about?”
“Pumpkins. The most beloved item at the farm. When everybody goes out to the country in the fall to pick vegetables, what do they look at first? Do they run to the corn field? No. To the tomatoes? No. Do they go and shriek with happiness at the green peppers? No. They rush to look at the pumpkins. Why is that?”
“I’m not following you.”
“The pumpkins. People want their special pumpkin. Each is separate and distinct, unique. Their color is glorious, the color of kings, of riches, of sunsets.”
Hope rolled her eyes. “Jeez, Tanner. You are so full of it.”
“And the pumpkin is the hardest working vegetable in the garden. It can be soup, or soufflé, or pudding. You can mash them, boil them, or bake them. Even fry them. For something sweet, there’s nothing like pumpkin pie. Or cake. Or bread. Muffins. Pancakes. You want a vegetable that will feed you forever, in more ways than you can count, in ways you never will tire of, you go with pumpkin.”
Hope blinked. Tanner’s voice was soft and hypnotic. They were alone in the aisle, facing the mirror, and he was looking into the mirror at her, and she was looking back at him. He was standing so close behind her that she could feel the roughness of his shirt against her bare back. She was too warm. She couldn’t breathe. And she couldn’t make herself look away.
“And when you go to the field to pick out your pumpkin—well, you’ve seen how it happens. You’ve probably done it yourself. You don’t pick the first one. You look at them all. You hold them. You feel them. You stroke them. Are they the right fit? The right size and shape? A good color? You have to be sure.”
“Oh,” Hope said. She felt herself swallow. Tanner’s voice was very soft.
“And then, you see it. The pumpkin that’s yours. The one you’ve been looking for. The one with the glowing skin and a few bumps to make it interesting. The one with luscious, perfect curves. Shaped by creases and folds and indentations, so a man’s hands can stroke it and always find something new.”
Hope felt her breath catch.
“Maybe it’s not a perfect pumpkin. Maybe it’s got a few little flaws. But you know when you see it, when you touch it, that’s the one you want to take home. That one and no other.”
For a second more, they faced the mirror. Hope’s feet were frozen in place, her whole body electric, her breathing shallow. She saw her own blue eyes wide and dark in surprise, Tanner’s brown ones alight with heat. When he leaned into her and kissed her softly on the neck, Hope thought she’d melt completely away and leave nothing but a big messy puddle right there in aisle five.
Chapter 14
Johnny Red, so named because he had had the luck, good or otherwise, to be born in Moscow before the collapse of Communism, strode out of the terminal at McCarran airport in Las Vegas with the other business travelers. Like them, he wore a dark suit and carried a cell phone. He had a large rolling suitcase that he’d checked, a briefcase that he’d carried on the plane, and a business plan that he intended to execute on this business trip. But Johnny Red wasn’t planning to use time management to execute this plan. No, when Johnny Red was ready to execute his agenda, he’d use his Glock, now packed away in his checked baggage.
Johnny Red arrived with an entourage of four men who would help him execute the plan. One of them was young and strikingly handsome, medium height with dark, wavy hair, blue eyes, and the physique of a Greek god. The other three men were older and bigger, resembling ex-professional athletes who’d stayed in shape and turned to security work, which is what they were. All three wore identical bad suits and could have passed as triplets.
Johnny Red exited the airport terminal with his arm raised for a cab and stopped in the middle of the sidewalk so suddenly that the four men following him piled into each other, like ducklings following a cautious mother to the water.
“By the purity of all the saints and the holy Russian motherland they walked on, it’s hot out here,” he said.
This observation was dutifully confirmed by the triplets.
“Not like Moscow,” said Yakov. “Nice and cool in Moscow.”
“Forty degrees Celsius here,” said Markov.
“At least,” said Igor.
“Around here, they would call that a hundred degrees Fahrenheit,” observed the young and handsome one. “More like a hundred and four.”
Johnny Red grinned suddenly and reached out, ruffling the young man’s hair. “That’s Alexei for you,” he said, grinning at the triplets. “Always the scholar.”
Alexei grinned back, knowing that he was not quite one of them.
“Success is in the details,” he said. “That’s why you’re sending me to law school.”
“
Da
,” Yakov said. “And to keep us oudda trouble.”
There was a murmur of agreement around the circle.
“Okay, enough with the standing around like the peasant representatives to the First International,” Johnny Red said. “We must get to the hotel. We need to plan. Comrade!” He beckoned imperiously to the next cab in line.
The cab inched forward, and the driver, a dark-skinned man wearing a turban, got out to help them with their bags.
“Comrade,” Johnny Red said as they got in, “are you from one of the great Soviet Socialist Republics? Perhaps one of the Asiatic republics?”
The cabbie glanced in the rear view mirror. “New Delhi,” he said.
“Ah, well,” Johnny Red said. “Can’t be helped. You know the Desert Dunes Resort and Casino?”
“Very nice place,” the cabbie said obligingly.
“It’s a pleasure palace for the decadent bourgeoisie,” Johnny Red said, “but we must go where duty lies. Onward, my friend!”
The cabbie nodded, thinking that in Vegas, decadence usually trumped duty. Still, as this fare demonstrated, it took all kinds. He glanced over his shoulder and edged into the lane of traffic.
The Desert Dunes Casino and Resort was everything the Russians wanted in a Las Vegas accommodation.
“Look at this place,” said Alexei, swiveling to catch the murals on the ceiling, the Carerra marble on the floor, and the Tiffany glass behind the concierge desk.
“Look at the action,” said Johnny Red, checking out the entrance to the private bacarrat room, the poker tables, slots, and roulette wheels. “We could make a killing here.”
“We
will
make a killing here,” said Markov, surprised.
“Shut
up!
Jesus! Tell the world,” said Johnny Red. “Call the cops, why don’t you.”
“Look at the broads,” said Igor, the most awed of all. “Even the ugly ones is gorgeous.”
They all paused for a moment in reverent silence to the gorgeous broads.
“Boys, we have found Paradise,” Johnny said, as they stepped up to the check-in clerk.
“Can I help you?” the young woman in the tangerine suit behind the desk asked.
“Yes, you can,” Igor said reverentially. “You can come up to my room, whatever it is, when you’re off.”
The woman smiled professionally.
“You’re here to check in, Mr. –?”
“Rudnitsky,” Johnny Red said. “Call me Johnny Red. I reserved the suite.”
“
You’re
sweet,” Igor said to the clerk.
“For a week,” said the clerk, not smiling. “You’d like to keep it on your card? How many keys?”
“Three,” Johnny said. “One for me, one for Alexei, and one for the morons here.”
They finished their transaction. The clerk slid a small envelope with three keys over to Johnny Red.
“You’re in suite seventeen-oh-one,” she said. “Take the elevators to the left.”
“When are you off?” pleaded Igor.
“Have a pleasant stay,” said the clerk.
“Come on,” said Johnny. “Let’s go up to the suite, get cleaned up, and see what’s happening.”
“Did you see her?” asked Igor, as he walked backwards toward the elevator, keeping his eye on the clerk. “She was gorgeous.” He smacked into a pillar.