Sleepless in Las Vegas (5 page)

“Right,” he muttered, “and I’m Mickey Mouse.”

Sally appeared, set the cola in front of the girl.

He tugged loose a five and handed it to Sally. “Keep the change.”

“Going home?” She slipped the bill into the tip jar.

He nodded. “Time to take my dog for a walk.”

“Don’t be a stranger.” She pulled out her cell phone and headed down the bar.

He didn’t look at “Remy” as he plucked his jacket off the high back of the stool. Folding it over his arm, he headed to the door as the music swelled and Frank warbled a long, long note that faded to nothing.

Drake stepped outside, and the heat hit him like a blast furnace. He wondered when he’d last taken a breath that didn’t smell like exhaust and warm asphalt.

Looking up at the night sky, he picked out the Big Dipper. When he was a kid, the skies had been cleaner, the stars brighter. But like everything else in life, things changed.

He was tired of change. It demanded too much and left too little. Never understood why people liked to say “embrace change,” as though it was fun, like wrapping your arms around the waist of some hot babe on a Harley, the two of you streaking toward some exhilarating destination. Change was more like sitting in the back of a taxi with some hard-nosed cabbie who drove recklessly, padded the fare and dumped you at the wrong address.

That was the problem with being a practical man. You knew life was no easy ride.

Sometimes, though, he envied the dreamers of the world, wondered what it was like to
hope.
To believe without the benefit of physical evidence. Staring at the stars again, he wished he could trust that something lay beyond life’s closed door, because he sure as hell couldn’t find the answers here.

He walked across the parking lot to the darkened kiosk, brushed off the seat of an abandoned stool and laid his jacket neatly over it. Rolling up a shirt sleeve, he watched the traffic along Las Vegas Boulevard. Cars, trucks and those life-changing taxis streamed past, filling the night with scraps of laughter, music and the occasional horn blast.

He scanned Topaz’s parking lot. No yellow Porsche parked in its regular spot. No black Mercedes, either, but it could be parked in a section not visible from here. He’d walk through the lot on his way to his truck, see what was there.

Fighting a yawn, he rolled up his other sleeve. He felt drained. Time to close the lid on today’s troubles, go home, walk his dog, then get some rest.

Click click click.

“Hello, sir?” called out a too-familiar female voice.

So much for closing that lid.

CHAPTER THREE

V
AL
SLOWED
HER
steps as she approached the darkened kiosk. The overhang cast a deep shadow around the building, making it difficult to see what or who was there, but from Dino’s window she had seen Drake stop somewhere around here.

“Hello, you there?” She squinted into the gloom.

“If I told you I wasn’t, would you go away?”

She huffed a breath. “Good thing that bad mood of yours isn’t luggage or it’d be too heavy to carry.”

“You came out here to tell me that?”

“No. You forgot your phone.” She thrust out her hand, more than ready to give it up. Whatever pulsations she had felt, or thought she felt, were gone.

“You want me to come to you?”

“Mercy, must everything be an issue?” Silence. “Yes, I want
you
to come to
me.
”

“Why? Afraid I’ll bite?”

“Yes. But I have to warn you, I bite back.”

She swiped a bead of sweat off her hairline. This damn wig was too tight, too hot. And these fishnet stockings made her legs itch something fierce. They never bothered her when she’d worn them at her old job, but that was indoors with plenty of air-conditioning, not outside where temps were pushing a hundred. Honestly, she could almost feel the steam rising from the pavement, even at this time of night.

She debated whether to set the damn phone on the ground and leave, but she didn’t want to fail at this. F’sure, she’d told Marta there were no guarantees to the honey trap, but what if Drake, her fiance, told her about the weird hooker who claimed she felt pulsations through his phone, channeled his father, then stalked him into the parking lot? Hardly the techniques of a seasoned, knowledgeable private eye.

Marta would demand back every cent of the retainer.

Val would
not
let that happen. She had to suck it up, figure out how to salvage this mess. She and Grumpy were here now, alone. Which meant she had one more chance to sweeten the honey trap.

“You’re right, I’m a girl for sale.” Technically, she sold her investigator services, so that was true. “But I played the wrong man. You’re too smart, too hip to fall for this silly costume and come-on. I apologize.”

Her vision had adjusted enough to the shadows so that she could see his dark silhouette. He leaned against the building, and from the angle of his head, he was watching her. She remembered that gaze at the bar. The faint lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes, their smoky color. How they shone with intensity, as though he was on the verge of asking a question or in the process of formulating one. But when he angered, their color darkened to a flat, dull shade like gunmetal.

She wondered what color they were right now.

“Let’s call a truce, okay? I’ll bring your phone to you, then you can thank me.”

He didn’t respond. She had probably taken him by surprise with her no-harm-no-foul attitude. Or maybe he was mulling over her ability to actually tell the truth. That man sure spent a lot of time in his head.

She walked almost to the edge of the shadow and stopped. “I’d walk to you, but it’s not so easy to see in there, and I’d hate to fumble and drop the phone while handing it over. Of course, it might survive bouncing on the ground a few times, and you wouldn’t need to replace it, so—”

“Stay put.”

He stepped forward. Hazy moonlight slanted across his face, not enough to clearly see his features, but enough to see the pronounced line of his jaw, the bulk of his shoulders. He reached out with both hands and wrapped them around hers.

“Do you still feel those pulsations?” he asked, his voice husky, and unless she had lost her sense of hearing, more than a little suggestive.

“No,” she whispered. His hands were big and warm, triggering pulsations that had nothing to do with the phone. In the space of a heartbeat, the edginess between them had shifted, intensified, from a mental struggle to a physical one.

“Nothing at all?”

He tightened his hold, stroking his thumb in a light, lingering path on the back of her hand. Sensations sparked within her.

“Of course I feel something,” she managed to say around her heart thundering in her throat. “I’m flesh and blood, aren’t I?”

A throaty chuckle. “I like it when you’re honest. One moment, let me put the phone away.”

She realized she was holding her hands in midair, suspended where he’d abandoned them, as though they had no purpose other than waiting for his touch. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

He captured them again. With a squeeze, he drew her closer, then placed her palms flat against his chest. Through his shirt, she felt his heart pumping, its beat steady and strong.
That’s how he is. Steady, strong, focused.

Raising one hand, he kissed her index finger before drawing it into his mouth. She shuddered a release of breath as he suckled it. Maybe she should admit she wasn’t really a hooker.

Slowly, his mouth released its hold on her finger and moved to her wrist, which he kissed and nuzzled.

Or maybe not.

“Do you like that?” he whispered.

“Ye—” The rest of the word ended in a small, ragged moan as his talented mouth and tongue tickled, nibbled and kissed the inside of her arm.

“What’s your real name?” His voice, rough and low, reverberated through her.

“V-val.”

These were just caresses, and some wicked attention from his mouth, yet her insides were rocking and rolling as though they were buck naked in bed. She stifled a building moan and told herself to chill, gain some ground. She was acting as if she hadn’t been touched by a man in years.

Well, she hadn’t. Two years, if she didn’t count that backseat fumble in Houston. A realization that was as depressing as it was embarrassing.

But when he lightly trailed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, then dragged it leisurely down her neck, his touch both deliciously coarse and gentle, the only thought she had was
more, more…

“Why the wig, Val?”

“Hmm?”

“The wig. It’s obvious you’re wearing one. Why?”

She mentally fought her way through the haze of arousal. “Does it…look bad?”

As soon as she asked, she regretted it. Made her sound pathetically insecure about her looks, which was
so
far from the truth. If anything, she had been pathetically insecure about how she’d prepared for her
job
tonight.

“It looks—” he fingered a lock “—like strands of moonlight. Gives you an unearthly, dreamy quality.”

For a man who bottled up his words, he sure knew how to pour them on sweet and thick at the right moment.

“I always wear it with this outfit.” Also true.

“Interesting outfit to wear to Dino’s. Who hired you, Val?”

“Nobody.”

“Was it Yuri? You can tell me.”

“Nobody.”

Interesting, too, how he’d deftly manipulated this encounter so
he
was now in control. He’d plied her with his mouth and touch, worked her with compliments until her reserve dissolved, and she was ready to divulge whatever he wanted to know.

This man had taken over
her
honey trap!

Oh, no. Two thousand dollars, and the small but significant fact that her self-esteem needed her to succeed at her first P.I. gig, were at stake.

Time for the queen bee to regain her territory.

She had a job to do. Maybe she’d flitted here and there, floundered a little in her flight, but she would land this job, and do it right. This was
her
career,
her
future. Val Louvinia LeRoy would prove she had what it took to be a professional private eye.

“I wore an interesting outfit,” she said, sliding her arms around his waist, “in the hope I’d meet an interesting man.”
You drone, me queen, sugar.

She nuzzled her face against his shirt, taking in its clean, crisp scent. Finding a gap between buttons, she slipped her tongue inside, touching the mat of hair on his chest. She probed a little farther and licked the slick, wiry strands, filling her mouth with the tangy, salty taste of his sweat. Closing her eyes, she sensed the warmth rising from his body, imagined what it’d be like to slowly undress him, piece by piece, unveiling his strong, powerful, male body…

Adrenaline surged through her veins. Ah, she felt alive, lost in the sensations. She could stay like this forever, indulging in slow, erotic play, teasing and prolonging the sweet torture until…

With great effort, she shoved down the fantasy.

There would never be an
until,
only these moments now. Of course she knew that, yet something inside of her splintered, the shards slicing, hurting.

“Val?” His voice was gruff, yet tender.

“Sorry.” She opened her eyes. “Got lost in my thoughts.”

“Anything I should know?”

Staring into his face, she cupped his cheek with her hand, half wishing they were indoors so she could read the look in his eyes. Those brooding, wary eyes, always watchful, always vigilant.

“You need to lighten up more.” The words spilled out before she’d thought them through.

“Are we back to my carrying bags?”

“Actually, it was luggage.”

“And my bad mood fitting into it.”

“Actually, I said it was a good thing your bad mood
wasn’t
luggage because—”

“It’d be too heavy to carry.”

Listening to his amused chuckle, she smiled. Didn’t completely ease the pain she felt inside, but it was good to share a moment of playfulness.

“How about I lighten up more now,” he said, his voice dropping to a rugged register that sent a thrill skittering up her spine.

“Let me help…”

Pressing closer, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Molding herself against him, she let him feel the length of her body against his, close and tight, from her breasts to her thighs. Emitting a throaty purr, she opened herself to him and gently thrust her pelvis against his. Then once more—giving him an unmistakable confirmation of her body signals.

She felt him hardening against her.

He lowered his head. “That’s not what I call light.”

Leaning back her head, she parted her lips, shuddering her pleasure as he nuzzled her neck, his big hands kneading her bottom. She felt the change in him, the tensing of his muscles, his labored breaths. Kissing was no longer a game. She was playing with fire, and she wanted to be scorched, consumed.

She pulled his head down to her, closer, closer, until she felt his breath warming her lips.

“Give me some sugar,” she whispered.

With a low, guttural groan, his mouth barely touched hers—

A trumpet blasted a riff.

“Wha—?” He jerked back his head.

She blinked, steadying herself as a clarinet wailed, a snare drum tapped.

Drake looked around. “That sounds like…a Dixieland band.”

“It is.”

“‘When the Saints Go Marching In?’”

“Right again. It’s my ringtone.” She reached into her pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Someone from home was calling. Had to be one of her cousins, probably worried as it was late and they didn’t like her taking buses at night. She hadn’t had a chance to tell them that she was driving a rental for the next few days, or that her car would be fixed soon, thanks to the money from this honey-trap gig.

Now wasn’t the time to talk, though. She turned off the phone and stuffed it into her pocket.

“Let me guess,” Drake said, his voice taut, “that was Hubby.”