Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
Las Vegas
November 3
Morning
A
s far as Socks
was concerned, Miranda Seton’s house smelled like a bakery and sounded like a catfight. Cherelle was screaming at Tim and kicking the furniture around. The faded rose couch cushions and the chipped white wicker frame sat drunkenly askew. The table lamp with the rose-beaded fringe was lying on its side. A framed picture of Tim at his middle-school graduation was facedown in a corner, its glass shattered.
That was when Socks had retreated to the kitchen. The metal frame on that photo had damn near brained him.
The furniture had taken the first hit of Cherelle’s fury when she finally pried out of Tim the information that he’d hocked two of his gold objects for four hundred dollars.
Total.
“You have the brains of dog shit!” she yelled, kicking out at the couch again, making the light framework jump. “How could you be so stupid! I told you they were worth real money!”
Tim held his hands in front of himself, palms out, and watched Cherelle warily. He had seen her pissed off before, but never like this. She could have sucked up bullets and spit molten lead.
“Hey, precious, take it easy. There’s more gold, right? We’ll make plenty. And four hundred isn’t exactly chump change.”
Cherelle was still screaming—
”Fucking moron!”
—when Socks came back into the living room with a double handful of peanut butter cookies.
“Put a cork in it,” he told Cherelle around a mouthful of cookie. “You’re upsetting Tim’s ma. She’s hiding in the kitchen with her hands over her ears, and the cookies are burning.”
“Yo, roadkill,” Cherelle said, rounding on Socks. “How much did you get for your two pieces?”
“The same.”
“Lying sack of shit. Empty out your pockets.”
“Hey,” Tim said, “no need to call Socks names.”
“I’m not calling him names,” Cherelle said without looking away from Socks. “I’m describing him. Roadkill. Lying sack of shit. Cocksu—”
“Shut up, bitch,” Socks yelled over her words. “Just shut the fuck up! We
were
broke, and now we
ain’t
broke. So
shut up!
”
Cherelle considered kicking him in the crotch he thought so much of. Instead, she took a few deep breaths and tried to think past her rage at so much money slipping from her grasp. Hurting Socks would be satisfying, but it wouldn’t change anything. Roadkill would never get any smarter.
Tim wasn’t much when it came to brains, but he was better than roadkill. She turned back to her lover. “How much money do you have left of the four hundred?”
He shifted uneasily. “Uh, I bought a little blow, some booze, this shirt—nice, isn’t it?”
She ignored the change of subject and the impressively loud Hawaiian shirt he’d showed up wearing a few minutes ago. “How much?”
“Two fifty. It’s a nice shirt. You got new clothes,” he added, gesturing to her pale green silk slacks and shirt. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“I didn’t pay for these!” Her eyes closed while she struggled against the rage that came more and more easily lately. She really should cut back on the crack, but there wasn’t much else in life that felt good.
She was surrounded by morons.
With a raw sound she sucked in air. “Take the rest of your money and buy back the armband.”
Tim looked at Socks, who shrugged and said, “Joey was doing me a favor. He’ll probably be glad to get some money back.” Especially after Socks leaned a little. He was beginning to think he’d been hosed by Joey. Not just a bit like always. A lot. “I have to do it for you, though. He don’t like strangers.”
And Socks didn’t want Tim to find out what he really had been paid for the four pieces of gold.
“Roadkill,” Cherelle whispered on a wild, shuddering outrush of air. “Fucking roadkill thinks pawnbrokers do favors. Christ Jesus deliver me from such
morons.
I’m going to tell you a little secret, roadkill. Those four chunks of gold you sold for eight hundred bucks are worth at least a million.”
“Oh, yeah, sure they are.” Socks laughed and remembered a line from a talk show. “You’re a real funny girl. You ever think of getting your own show on cable?”
She just shook her head. Despair replaced the rage. So much money lost . . .
The tears shimmering in her eyes shocked both men. Neither of them had ever seen Cherelle cry. Not once. Not even when her car broke down and she was picked up by a guy who beat her, raped her, and dumped her out by the side of the road.
Socks and Tim looked at each other uneasily. Both were thinking the same thing.
What if she’s right?
What if we let a million bucks get away?
Socks resettled his jeans, which were riding unusually low because of the gun stuffed beneath his bright new Hawaiian shirt. “Think I’ll go see Joey.”
“I think I’ll come along,” Tim said.
“Think. You
think.
” Cherelle started laughing wildly. Then she wept without a sound. “Tim.”
He turned back to her. “What is it, precious?”
“Don’t come back without that armband. Ever.”
It was a voice neither man had heard from her before. Neutral. Deadly neutral.
Both men sighed with relief when the front door of the little house shut behind them.
Las Vegas
November 3
Morning
I
n the midst
of the cheerless cries and smoky desperation of one of Las Vegas’s old-style, downscale grind joints, Slim John stared at his Golden Fleece paycheck stub and wished he could shove it up the head of security’s ass with a wire brush.
“Who do they think they are, Mother Teresa?” he asked Merry Clare, a blackjack dealer at Say Paris! “Firing me because I help out a working girl, and then Mr. Godalmighty Tannahill’s latest punchboard waltzes in and gives a big hug to another hooker and they swing their butts all the way to the employee elevator.”
Merry shrugged and shifted so that the rump-sprung booth poked into a different part of her ass. The beer in front of her looked as flat as she felt. Anyone who thought dealing cards was an easy way to make a living was welcome to her job. Other casinos let their women dealers work in slacks and flat shoes. Not Say Paris! The boss insisted on French-maid gear complete with fishnet stockings that cut into the soles of her feet like wire.
“Yeah, life’s an unfair bitch.” Merry leaned forward and took a quick drag on Slim John’s cigarette. Her heavily colored lips left a pink ring around the butt. “So who’s Tannahill dicking these days?”
“An employee.” Slim John swiped his cigarette back. He hated the taste of lipstick, which was why he screwed Merry but he rarely kissed her.
“Which one?” Merry asked.
“Risa Sheridan.”
“Yeah? Hadn’t heard that.”
He snorted. Lipstick and gossip were Merry’s passions. She hated being without either one. “You don’t hear everything in Vegas. You just think you do.”
“Yeah? Buy me another drink and I’ll tell you how you can get even with Shane Tannahill.”
“Even with Tannahill? Oh, yeah, sure, right after I become a billionaire.”
“I’m serious.”
Slim John hesitated, held up a five-dollar bill to catch a cocktail waitress’s eye, and watched Merry. Another beer appeared with remarkable speed. Merry poured, savored the bite of frisky beer, and swallowed.
“Okay,” Slim John said. “Tell me how.”
“Word is that a lot of important people have a hard-on for Tannahill. He won’t play their game, and that makes it tough for some of the biggest casinos.”
“You’re breaking my heart.”
Merry’s pink mouth curled up. “Yeah, I can see you’re bleeding. Anyway, if you drop a whisper in Firenze’s ear, he’ll be so happy I bet he finds you work in his casino.”
“What the hell could I tell Carl—”
“Not him,” Merry cut in. “The uncle. Not that it matters. Either one would get the job done.”
“So what am I telling John Firenze?”
She gave him an amused look. “Slim John, you really should listen when people talk about what’s happening on the Strip under all the glitter and shine.”
He grunted. “So talk.”
“Some people want a handle on Risa Sheridan.”
“Why?”
“Who cares? The pay is the same no matter what the reason. The fact that Sheridan’s chummy with a hooker might be just what they want to hear. You know the hooker’s name?”
“One of ’em.”
Merry pulled a cell phone out of her purse. “Make the call.”
He looked at the phone and shrugged. “Hell, why not? What do I have to lose?”
Las Vegas
November 3
Midmorning
S
hane’s computer screen
was displaying the information on the hold for baccarat last week and every week before that. Frowning, he ran through the graphs again. Like the slots, the baccarat tables had been unusually profitable recently. The increase was under 10 percent, but it was there. And it added up to millions in extra profits. A few million he could have written off to the Japanese whales, but even they couldn’t account for the extra seven million.
His fingers were poised to begin a probability scan on the baccarat numbers when his private phone rang. His very private one. He tried to be annoyed. He didn’t succeed. Each time he started running the Golden Fleece’s numbers, he realized how little he was enjoying what used to be meat and wine for him.
He picked up the receiver. “Yeah?”
Niall asked, “You recording?”
“Just dump all of it in my Rarities file at your end and give me the high points now.”
“I don’t like having you in my computer, boyo.”
“Get used to it. Just like I’m used to the idea that Factoid spends every spare second he has trying to get into my computer. Thank God you keep that boy real busy.”
At the other end of the connection, Niall laughed. Shane’s genius with computers irritated the hell out of security-conscious Niall, but he liked Shane anyway. Probably because he trusted Shane not to use his gift against Rarities.
“Sauce for the goose and so on,” Niall said, winking at Dana as she walked in his office door.
They were alone in his office, except for a wall of screens keeping track of Rarities Unlimited, much as Shane’s “eyes” kept track of the Golden Fleece. She locked the door behind her, walked over, ruffled Niall’s hair, and blew in his ear. Then she bit it.
Niall’s concentration took a dive.
“I’d like a few facts with my cooked goose or gander or whatever,” Shane said. “Forget the age, hair color, weight stuff type of information, unless it goes against anything in Risa’s employee file.”
Niall’s right arm swept out and dumped Dana onto his lap. The office chair skidded a bit, then held.
“As kids, Cherelle and Risa were trailer-park neighbors in Johnson Creek, Arkansas,” Niall said as his right hand glided over Dana’s firm thigh.
She smacked his fingers.
He ignored her. She knew the rules—bite his ear and take the consequences whenever and wherever.
Now, for instance. Right here.
“The place was as big a dump as it sounds,” Niall said. “Cherelle is either two or four years older than Risa, depending on whose foster-child records you believe.” His hand kneaded over Dana’s belly to her breasts. “Both girls showed up as bright lights on the early IQ tests, but it was Risa who really smoked the curve. That is one very intelligent woman.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I’m trying.” Niall’s thumb and little finger spanned the gap between Dana’s nipples. Circled. Flicked. The break of Dana’s breath made him grin like a pirate. “Cherelle took Risa under her wing.”
“Mama-chick and baby-chick.”
“Yeah.” Niall unbuttoned Dana’s slippery blouse and slid his index finger inside her bra strap. A quick tug and one of her breasts was bare. Without knowing it, he licked his lips. The nipple rose as though he had stroked it. He closed his eyes, but he kept his hand right where it was, teasing her, making her back arch and her hips move slowly in his lap. “Anyway, they were thick as thieves. Apt phrase, that. Cherelle got caught boosting stuff several times but always got off with a tap on the wrist. Risa was nailed once.”
“How old?”
“Eleven.”
“I thought juvenile records are sealed.”
“Same way the Rarities computer is sealed, boyo, until some bright computer jockey comes along.”
Shane chewed on that in silence.
Niall peeled down the other bra strap.
Dana tried to steady her breathing.
“Up until Cherelle took off with a man, she and Risa ditched school, stole candy bars and such, painted words on walls, the usual ass-off delinquent thing. After Cherelle left—Risa was barely sixteen—Risa’s record is spotless,” Niall said. And stroked Dana’s pouting breasts. “She settled right down under the tutelage of a maiden-aunt schoolteacher, made up all the academic work and then some. National Merit finalist. Not bad for a girl whose adoptive mother died when she was five and her mother’s stepsister took her on but never really cared one way or another about the child.”
Niall switched to speakerphone and slid his newly freed hand under Dana’s skirt. She gave him a look that promised she would get even when he least expected it.
He smiled.
“Risa went to UCLA,” Niall continued. “Challenged most of the undergraduate courses at the end of the first year and passed. Two years total for a B.A.” His fingers traced lazy upward circles on Dana’s thighs. “A few more years for a combined master’s and Ph.D. Top one percent of her class. Worked at the L.A. County Museum as an intern—”
“And the museum loved her like a little flower, did handsprings to bring her along, and wept buckets when I stole her away,” Shane interrupted. “Tell me more I don’t know.”
Niall’s finger slid beneath delicate underwear, found sultry heat waiting, and he barely managed to bite back a husky sound of satisfaction. “That’s just it, boyo. Once Cherelle blew out of town, there’s nothing you don’t know about Risa. After age eighteen, everything we found and everything Risa volunteered on our employment application match. It adds up to a checkered childhood and saintly adulthood. She pulled herself out of poverty with raw intelligence and will.”
“Okay. What about the lovely Ms. Cherelle?”
“Ah, yes.” Niall slid one finger in beneath the lacy underwear, felt the helpless clench of Dana’s response, held her close, hard, deep, withdrew, returned, and smiled as she arched to drive him deeper still. He wanted his dick where his fingers were, but he wanted to torture her more.
“Niall?” Shane prompted.
“Just checking something.”
Dana bit back a sound and tried to squirm off Niall’s lap. He didn’t let her. He simply kept her pinned between his chest and his hands, pleasuring her.
“After Cherelle left Arkansas,” Niall said, “she was picked up for vagrancy, small shoplifting, hooking, underage drinking, petty grifts, that kind of thing.”
“Drugs?”
“Never made it stick. She took up with several men, one at a time, mostly, and—”
“Pimps?”
“Unknown.” Slick fingers probed, plucked, teased, until Dana gave up trying to get away and settled in to finish what she had started. “I’m guessing not. Cherelle only got busted for hooking once. If she’d been a full-time pro, she’d have been busted more often.”
“What’s she doing in Vegas?”
“Ask Risa.”
“What do
you
think Cherelle is doing in Vegas?”
With one arm Niall lifted Dana off his lap so that he could reach his zipper. “At best, she’s borrowing money from an old friend.”
“At worst?” Shane asked.
“She’s a petty thief, a grifter, and a part-time whore. You do the math.”
“Risa seems pretty tight with her,” Shane said neutrally.
“Question is, how tight?”
Just bloody perfect
, Niall thought as he filled Dana.
“The kind of friend you do things for?” Shane asked.
Fiercely Niall held himself still, held Dana still, felt their mutual pulse beating thickly. “Are you saying you don’t trust Risa?”
“I’m saying Risa might have her loyalties divided between her childhood pal and her adult responsibilities.”
“I’m voting for the adult to win that race.”
“So am I,” Shane said. “But the child can trip you up every time. Dump the stuff in my file.”
“It’s done.”
Shane disconnected.
Niall didn’t bother. He just started driving into his lapful of woman until they were hot and slick and came in a wild kind of silence that was filled with the hammering of their hearts.
“Bloody hell,” he said against her neck when he could talk again, “what got into you?”
“Besides you?”
He started to laugh, then groaned as she clenched around him, released, and sighed in the aftermath of climax.
“The Kama Sutra ivories arrived,” she said, shivering. “Exquisite. Simply exquisite. As soon as I cataloged them, I knew I had to . . . tell you about them.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Not quite,” she said, clenching around him again.
His breath broke. “Learn anything new?”
“Did I mention that each position is demonstrated not by a single carving of a man and a woman but rather by interlocking carvings?”
“Interlocking?” He smiled slightly. “How?”
“Guess.”
He moved.
“Good guess,” she said. “Now let me show you an interesting variation on that theme. First I turn this way.”
“Here, let me help.” He lifted her just enough to give her wiggle room.
“Perfect,” she said, half facing him. “Now this leg goes here, and that one goes up there, and then I pull up your leg and lean this way and . . .” Sensation shot out from the pit of her stomach, taking her to the edge of climax in a single instant.
He sucked in a breath past the raw lust exploding inside him. “Bloody hell, but that feels good. How many figurines are there?”
“Enough to kill us.”
His eyes gleamed. “What are we waiting for?”