Sleepless in Las Vegas (23 page)

Looking at the little red dot, she murmured, “Well, aren’t you James Bond.” Except… “This is illegal.”

“If Marta were to find the burner, who’s to say it’s mine? No registration, no other viable ID.”

She gave him a skeptical look, remembering how he’d grilled her about breaking the law as though he never crossed that line. “Thought you always walked the straight and narrow, Drake.”

“When it comes to Yuri,” he said, conviction tightening his features, “there are no rules.”

His chilling tone frightened her. She knew only pieces of his troubles with Yuri, and that parts of it involved his family. But there was no doubt in her mind that Drake Morgan would do whatever it took, even commit barbaric acts, to defend those he loved.

She knew how that felt.

“…tracking is live until the phone’s battery runs out of power in two or three days. Tap the history button.”

Val pressed the button, and a report displayed.

“See how it lists the date, time and duration of all driving periods and stops?”

“Yes.”

“After leaving Diamond Investigations this afternoon, Marta traveled to an address in Summerlin South.” He pointed at the entry. “Which is one of the more affluent neighborhoods in the Las Vegas Valley. Notice she only stayed at the address for five minutes before driving again. Memorize that address, then close the app.”

She repeated the address to herself, then closed the program.

“Now, open Google and run a reverse on the address.”

She opened the browser and entered the address. “It’s a jewelry store named Mousseux. Oh! That must be where the ring is being appraised.”

“Good thinking.” He leaned closer, looked at the screen. “These tracking programs aren’t always exact. They pick the
nearest
address, so you usually need to travel to the location and check around, see which business the car is parked in front of. From the photo, I see Mousseux doesn’t sit on a block with other businesses. It’s by itself, so we nailed that location.”

He sat so close, his thigh pressed against hers. She could feel his body heat radiating through her dress, warming her bare skin. His nearness, the roughness in his voice were almost too much to bear.

As he talked about the various ways satellite signals to a GPS device sometimes got blocked, she let the husky timbre of his voice curl around her spine. Easing in a lungful of his manly scent, she held it within her, filling herself with his essence, never wanting to let it go.

As she slowly exhaled, she studied his eyes. She had witnessed different moods and needs through the shadings of those gray eyes. Yet at this moment she observed something new—the silvery-gray looked almost blue, like the sky at dusk or the color of distant mountains. And had she noticed before that he had the tiniest white scar at his hairline?

Staring into his eyes, she had a woozy feeling, as though she were plummeting into their depths, being drawn into a swell of secrets, longings and need.

It seemed as though the summer heat had seeped through the walls and permeated her body. Her blood was on fire, a fever burned within her and any second her entire being would burst into flames.

“Val?” Drake murmured huskily, “you’re trembling.”

Her heart beat so furiously she could hardly hear above its thundering and pounding. All she could think, imagine, desire was the touch of his lips, the taste of his kiss…. Blame it on the excruciating summer heat, the stress of handling a business in her boss’s sudden absence or the plain fact that she hadn’t touched or kissed a man in years—not some backseat fumble, but the real, get-down-and-feel-it deal.

She had to accept that she’d never be cool, never be refreshingly uncomplicated. Life was complicated, messy, confusing, but most of all, fun. If you didn’t seize the moment, it went away, and she was tired of playing are-we-or-aren’t-we with this man. She was going in to take it, now, right here, propriety be damned.

She zeroed in, half-aware of the surprise in his eyes, more aware of the smile on his lips. Those firm, full lips. She grabbed onto his collar and reeled him in the rest of the way, ready to indulge in one big, high-voltage lip-meld.

She caught a movement in the corner of her eye.

Someone gasped loudly.

Val jerked back with a start, her hands still gripping Drake’s collar.

There, in a wheelchair, sat a petite elderly woman, swathed in a pink-and-orange satin caftan, a halo of white hair radiating from her head. A Siamese cat lay curled on her lap, its tail coiling lazily in the air.

Next to her stood Drake’s mother, her mouth agape, her hand over her heart as though it might fail her any moment, looking shocked and furious at the same time.

After a tense silence during which Val wondered if she’d be asked to leave the house or leave Drake alone or both, his mother said, “Drake, I’m expecting a call any minute. A friend who’s going through some difficult times. I just put the meat loaf in the oven because it will take longer to cook than…cheese enchiladas.” On
cheese enchiladas,
she cast a stinging look at Val that made her feel like a pile of steaming roadkill, then slid her gaze to her son. “I’ll be back shortly.”

Her head high, Dorothy walked briskly out of the room and down the hallway.

In the awkward silence that followed, Drake, Val and Grams darted glances at each other.

“My darling,” the elderly woman finally said to Val, the rings on her hand sparkling as she gestured, “let me make you a martini.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

D
RAKE
STOOD
HASTILY
, muttering a soft curse as he bumped his knee on the coffee table. He held out his hand for Val. She grappled to hold on to it as she shakily stood.

They stood there, awkwardly holding hands, looking at his grandmother, who appeared calm and a little amused.

“Grams,” he said, “this is Val LeRoy.”

She extended her hand to Grams. “I’m delighted to meet you, ma’am.”

Grams lifted her hand and they shook.

This evening had been doomed before it even began. Lying to his mom about Val’s identity was bad enough, but letting Val fabricate more stories about the mythical Heath was the kiss of death. Maybe he should make an excuse and whisk her out of here to a fast-food joint where they could absolve their guilt with a greasy Quarter Pounder and fries.

But before he could make the suggestion, his grandmother cast a sweet smile at Val.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, as well. Please call me Grams or Glenda, your choice.”

A shy smile curved Val’s mouth. “I like Grams.”

She tilted her head and looked inquisitively at Val’s hair. “Do I see purple in there?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My,” she said, “aren’t you fun.”

Val smiled. “What’s your cat’s name?”

“Maxine. She has a bit of the devil in her, but so do I, so we get along fabulously.”

“Hello, Maxine,” Val cooed, reaching out, “may I pet you?”

Drake put his hand on Val’s arm. “I wouldn’t—”

He watched, amazed, as cranky spitfire Maxine purred, her eyes glazing over, as Val petted her head. First his dog took a liking to her, now the meanest cat on the planet, and his grandmother’s face was creased with smile lines, her eyes sparkling. It was obvious she’d taken a liking to Val.

His mother, different story.

She would dislike Val. Immensely. Of course, she had good reason based on the stories she’d been fed. Val lived with her boyfriend, Heath, whom she was considering marrying, yet she was sneaking around behind his back and putting the moves on Drake, who worked with the two of them. It had all the makings of a bad office-romance soap opera, and Dorothy Morgan wouldn’t like it one bit that her son was in the middle of it.

But there was another reason his mother wouldn’t be fond of his new intern. Even if Val had lived her entire life in a convent, her bloodline traced back to British royalty and she was the sole heir to the Rubik’s Cube fortune, his mother still wouldn’t like her.

Because Val was in the private-investigations business.

He could maybe smooth over the lies and misunderstandings, but he could never fix that.

He peered toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. His mom was in hers by now, probably talking to her friend, listening to her problems, pretending nothing distressing had just occurred in her life. His mom liked to be strong for others, needed to be needed.

He related to that.

When she came out, he’d talk to her. Maybe after being distracted by someone else’s problems, her mood would be better.

He looked at Val and Grams, who were chatting about Maxine. The cat lay in his grandmother’s lap, purring and cuddling as though she didn’t have one freaky-mean bone in her body.

“She likes you,” Grams said to Val.

“And I like her. Where did you get Maxine?”

“A neighbor. Her Siamese cat had a litter, and she was giving away the kittens, except nobody wanted the runt because she was feisty. She was ready to take the kitten to a shelter, because it was terrorizing the other cats in her house, when I said, ‘Give her to me.’ I know she’s a challenge at times, but—” when she looked at Val, the color of her eyes softened to a sea-green “—everybody deserves a chance.”

Val stared at her shoes for a moment, then looked up, her eyes moist. “Sometimes my impetuous streak gets the best of me. Grams, I am so mortified, so sorry about…” She bit her lip.

His grandmother sighed. “Impetuous streaks are quite common. I have one of those myself. It’s gotten the best
and
the worst of me, but I must say, my life has been more far more interesting thanks to it. Now,” she said, putting on a serious face, “I have a confession. I’ve been rude.”

Val blinked. “What? No, you haven’t been at all.”

“Yes, I have been. I should have first asked if you like martinis.”

“Why, yes, I do.”

“Gin martinis, I hope?”

Val smiled. “Is there any other kind?”

“Somebody obviously raised you well.” Grams pressed a button and the chair slowly pivoted. “Drake, sweetheart, did you find that app for me?”

“Yes.”

“Goody. My smartphone is on my dresser. Perhaps you’ll download it while Val and I are mixing our drinks.” Grams motioned for Val to join her, then she pushed the joystick and the wheelchair moved slowly forward.

“My grandson doesn’t like martinis,” Grams said. “He’s strictly a beer man…or did you already know that?”

“Not really. I mean, I knew he drank beer, just didn’t know he never branched out.”

Drake took a swig of his brew, watching them as they headed toward the kitchen, Grams’s hands gesturing as she talked, the rings glittering, Val walking alongside, head tilted so as to not miss a word of what she was saying.

“Yes,” Grams said, “he’s definitely not the type to branch out. Once he finds something he likes, he sticks with it.”

Standing alone in the living room, Drake frowned. He never branched out? His grandmother made him sound like a stick in the mud. So what if he drove the same pickup he’d had for years? It was a Ford, and it ran like a tank. He swigged again. And when it came to beer, who wanted to drink overpriced craft beers with cutesy names like Hopped Up and Polygamy Porter, the latter’s tagline being Why Have Just One? Beer was beer, and he’d be a Bud man till the day he died.

He headed toward the hallway. If that made him a stick in the mud, then more power to the sludge.

A minute later, he stopped outside his grandmother’s room, his hand on the knob, and listened to the gentle cadence of his mom’s voice behind her closed door at the end of the hall.

Once she found something she liked, she stuck with it, too. Same hairstyle, same style of clothes, and he wouldn’t be surprised if one day those Tevas ended up in the Smithsonian for the longest-worn pair of shoes in North America. Not that any of it was negative. She reminded him of one of her favorite actresses, Katharine Hepburn. Tough and self-determined, sticking with styles that were uniquely theirs.

Dorothy Morgan stuck with things she
didn’t
like, too. Her anger over Brax’s lifestyle. And probably her first bad impression of Val.

He ran a hand over his bristly hair. It wouldn’t be easy to talk to her about his lying and Val’s made-up stories, but he trusted she’d come around. He and his mom were usually able to work through their misunderstandings.

He doubted, though, that she’d ever be open to talking about Brax again. She would die stuck in that rut of anger, unable to forgive. Not that she was wrong for closing the door on Braxton, but he wondered who got hurt more in the long run—she or his brother, her other son?

He recalled something his father said in his last days. That his life seemed to have passed in the blink of an eye. Maybe everyone felt that way in the end. It pained Drake to think that his mother, in her final moments, might regret that she’d stayed pinned to her anger over Braxton.

He entered Grams’s room, headed for the smartphone on her dresser. He set his brew on the dresser, then paused, looked at the bottle.

One of these days, for the hell of it, he might try one of those microbrewed beers.

* * *

V
AL
SAT
ON
a chair next to Grams at a small table against the kitchen wall. On the table was a small crystal bucket of ice, which Grams had filled from the refrigerator’s ice maker, a bottle of vermouth, a box of toothpicks and a jar of olives.

Maxine was noisily eating from a bowl of kibble on the floor under the table. As Grams had explained, it was their evening ritual. While Grams mixed her martini, Maxine ate her dinner. “It’s our cocktail hour.”

“Darling, check if the glasses and shaker are frosty.”

It was a long, narrow kitchen. The rest of the house had a comfy, lived-in feeling, but the white, steel and glass kitchen reminded Val of Jayne’s office. It had a sterile feel about it, as though it had seceded from the rest of the home.

In New Orleans, the large, messy kitchen had been her and Nanny’s favorite room in the house. Towels tossed on tables, dirty dishes piled in the sink and Ball jars everywhere, filled with everything from coffee beans to grits. As Nanny used to say,
Be thankful if you have food to make a mess with, and people to make a mess for.