“A hotel safe.”
Shit.
Nate swore. “If it’s in the hotel’s safe, we’ll need a warrant. Which means we need probable cause.”
Ciara shook her head, leaning her body against his from shoulders to knees. “Not
the
hotel safe.
A
hotel safe. One of the ones in a room. A pretty plush room, by the look of it. White living room furniture and a killer view over the marina.”
“What’s the room number?”
Ciara winced. “Yeah, sometimes the trace isn’t quite as precise as I might wish. I don’t know the room number. But I’m pretty sure it was the woman in pink’s room.”
Nate couldn’t help the skepticism that declaration induced. “The woman in pink,” he repeated.
“You can’t miss her,” Ciara assured him. “She’s probably a showgirl or something. Pink bustier and hot pants. Blonde with silver eyelashes. Pretty tall, I think, though I can’t really be sure. She’s distinctive.”
“So we’re supposed to wander around looking for a showgirl?”
“She’s definitely here,” Ciara insisted. “I saw the Borgata clear as day.”
Nate grimaced. A woman in a pink bustier was his best lead. And even if they found her, he didn’t have a warrant, or even the means of producing a warrant. He couldn’t just go in, guns a’blazing, and steal back the necklace. That wasn’t how things worked in the real world.
He’d come to Atlantic City more to get Ciara to confess than to actually find the necklace. If the Heart of Monaco really was here, and she wasn’t a criminal, then he needed to call it in. He needed to find out from his boss what the procedure was regarding Ciara’s tips. How did they usually get warrants for her finds?
And he should probably let her get in touch with her boss to prove she wasn’t dead.
“If I get you to a bathtub, do you think you could get a better read? Maybe find the room number?”
“Maybe,” Ciara said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I can definitely try.”
Nate nodded, once, decisively. “Done.”
Twenty minutes later Nate unlocked the door to a Fiore suite with amenities described as a deep-soaking tub and shower for two. His credit card had taken a beating, but there was always the slim chance the FBI might reimburse him. Provided he didn’t get fired for running off to Atlantic City with an informant.
Ciara made a beeline for the bathroom and cooed in delight. “It’s
amazing
,” she called out to him as he dropped onto the king-sized bed.
Their things were still back at the other hotel, so his possessions were currently limited to the severely wrinkled suit he had on, a few credit cards, his cell phone and the small piece in his ankle holster. He hadn’t even worn his shoulder holster today, figuring he wouldn’t need it and it would be too damn hot. Now he missed its weight.
“Why don’t you see if you can find the necklace?” he called back to Ciara, digging into his pocket for his cell phone.
Ciara shouted something back to him, but he couldn’t make out the words over the sound of water rushing into the tub. When the door to the bathroom clicked shut, he figured whatever she said must have been in the affirmative.
Nate turned the cell phone over in his hands. He needed to call his superiors. Now that he knew Ciara wasn’t a crook. Or at least he
thought
he knew.
Images of her flashed in his mind. Ciara smiling up at him, her black eyes twinkling. Ciara naked and writhing in the dunk tank. Ciara pressed against him, begging for more as his mouth explored hers.
Was he getting too emotionally involved? Nate winced and pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d made out with her in a taxi, for fuck’s sake. That was a textbook mistake. Would he even know if she were crooked?
What had been proved really? She’d jumped naked into a dunk tank. She’d told him the necklace was here. But he didn’t have any confirmation of that fact. So why did he believe her now? Why did she suddenly feel so much more trustworthy?
He needed to stop thinking with his dick and get his head back into the game. To think about the case, not how quickly he could get out the condom stashed in his wallet.
Nate dialed the office, hoping for a bracing dose of perspective.
A fellow agent picked up his boss’s phone on the third ring. “Cutter,” he barked.
“Sam. It’s Nate Smith. Is Roberts there?”
“Nate. How’s the leg, man? We were hoping to see you in the office this week.”
“The leg’s fine, but I don’t think I’m going to make it into the office. I’m in Atlantic City with Ciara Liung.”
“The psychic? No shit? A psychic in Atlantic City. Why didn’t I ever think of that? You playing roulette? Letting her pick the numbers and shit?”
“Sam, I’d really like to talk to Roberts.”
“The bossman, eh? You can try the cell, but I wouldn’t expect him to answer it. He’s out chasing leads on the Monaco crisis.”
“It’s about the Monaco thing, actually.”
“Yeah? Did you know some chick named Karma’s called the office fifteen times about you and that Liung chick? She sounds pissed as all hell.”
“Yeah, I’ll deal with her later. About the necklace…”
“Your psychic chick find it already? That’s great, but I wouldn’t expect a lot of backup anytime soon. Unless you’ve got something hard. Everyone’s out rattling cages trying to shake something loose so we don’t end up with a fucking international incident. I pulled the short straw to stick around here and sort through the crazies on the tip line. You would not believe some of the messed-up shit people call in.”
“Cutter,” Nate began irritably.
“You want me to add your psychic chick’s tip to the pile? Where’d she say it was?”
“A hotel safe in the Borgata. Atlantic City.”
Cutter snorted into the phone. “Sure it is. Wanna trade caseloads? I’ll take all the ones involving casinos and strippers, and you can have my slimy assholes in back alleys. Seem fair?”
“Just tell Roberts to call me,” Nate said.
“Y’okay, Smith. You got it.”
Nate cut the connection and dialed his boss’s cell. It went straight through to voice mail. He left a message, and then tossed the cell phone onto the mattress behind him. “Dammit.”
Cutter was a likeable guy—even criminals seemed to get along well with him—but if Nate could have picked someone to take his call, Sam Cutter would have been pretty far down the list.
Cutter hadn’t taken him or Ciara’s lead seriously. Nate couldn’t even be sure his message would get passed along. The odds of more resources being allocated to Atlantic City were crappy at best.
He’d certainly come down in the world. Special Agent Nate Smith used to be a name that was whispered with awe around the Bureau. He was a badass undercover agent with an unprecedented arrest record. He had a reputation for being a hardass. A little edgy. Certainly someone no one ever mocked.
Now he was like a toothless shark. He still had the killer instinct, but he couldn’t act on it anymore.
The water had stopped running in the bathroom and he could hear Ciara humming tunelessly. He crossed to the door and knocked on it softly. “Ciara? You getting anything more?”
The sound of water splashing helped him conjure up a vivid image of her bathing nude on the other side of the door.
“Just more of the same,” she called. “No luck with the room number yet.”
Nate dropped his forehead against the door. He couldn’t catch a break. “Keep trying,” he requested. “I’m going to go see if I can find anything out from the hotel staff.”
Technically he was on medical leave and shouldn’t even be here, but he couldn’t wait around here and do nothing. He was not a useless cripple behind a desk. He was a trained field agent. He didn’t need a woman in a pink bustier to find the necklace. He’d solved dozens of cases without psychic intervention.
Maybe someone in hotel security had seen something. Casinos could be real bitches about the privacy of their clientele. Without a warrant, he couldn’t demand to see a guest list or access their security tapes, but often if the guys manning the security monitors felt like running their mouths, he could get all he needed without bothering with the slower-than-hell proper legal channels. He wasn’t without resources.
He would prove this shark still had a tooth or two.
Chapter Eight—Finders Gone Wild!
Ciara tried to wait patiently in the room for Nate to return. Really she did.
She tried finding the necklace a dozen different times, but she just got the same flashes over and over again. Usually she could pick up on some new clue, a visual hint she’d missed the first time, but this time she kept seeing the same woman, the same safe.
Ciara gave up and climbed out of the tub. She dried off and pulled on her dress, which was slightly the worse for wear.
Standing in the luxurious bathroom, Ciara studied herself in the enormous mirror. She looked…frumpy. Her dress had been chosen for comfort rather than style. It hung loosely from her shoulders with about as much shape as the average potato sack. Her hair hung straight and boring to the middle of her back. She’d never bothered with elaborate hairstyles, since fancy salons were out of the question, with the fancy stylists putting their fingers all over her head.
She didn’t have makeup. She didn’t have accessories. Even the little things added to the static—which she still heard. She’d tried
listening
to objects the same way she did to Nate, but she just got the same static feedback. No tuning-fork hum of perfection reverberating through her. But she wasn’t giving up. Ciara had every intention of trying until she figured out the right frequency for the objects. She wasn’t going to give up so easily ever again. She’d wasted too many years believing she couldn’t touch people because she’d stopped trying.
She was a new Ciara now.
She studied her reflection. She needed to look new.
She’d seen a shopping mall off the casino downstairs while she and Nate were trying to find the right bank of elevators to take them up to their room. In the window of one boutique, a mannequin in a sexy red sheath dress had caught her eye.
She would look like eleven kinds of sin in that dress. Nate would never turn down a quickie if she were wearing that.
Two hours later Ciara had discovered there were very few things at the Borgata which could not be charged to your room—designer dresses, cosmetics, a haircut at the spa salon, even poker chips were just a signature away. Charge it to the FBI, darling. They could take it out of her fee.
Strutting from a blackjack table over to the noisy excitement of the roulette wheel, Ciara heard people whispering and pointing, mistaking her for a celebrity. She added a little extra swivel to her hips, managing not to trip over her new three-and-half-inch heels. She felt like Tom Cruise in
Risky Business
, living out every fantasy as fast as she could before reality came crashing down.
The men at the roulette table sidled aside to make a space for her, leering appreciatively, and Ciara smiled to herself.
She felt powerful. She was a goddess tonight. A vampy starlet who took whatever she wanted.
Ciara leaned against the rail and casually flipped a chip onto the table, smiling at the man next to her. He was Jersey from head to toe. Italian, a little heavyset, wearing a dark suit over a brightly colored, partially unbuttoned shirt of some slippery material.
He wasn’t appealing in the visceral way Nate was, but the idea of putting her hands on him was almost narcotic in its appeal.
She could touch him if she wanted. Hell, she could kiss him senseless. She was adventurous. She was wild. What was stopping her?
Doubt. Doubt was stopping her. Those damned what ifs. What if it went away? What if she couldn’t kiss anyone but Nate? Sure, in the last few hours she’d had other people’s hands on her hands, her arms and her scalp, but that didn’t mean her lips wouldn’t trigger a nuclear meltdown. Really, she ought to test it. In the interest of scientific discovery.
Ciara met Joe Jersey’s eyes and gave him a flirty little smile.
She’d leave it up to chance. Ciara stacked three chips on top of the number seventeen. If she won, she’d kiss him. If she lost…she’d play again until she won.
Was this how most gambling addictions started? As an enabler to nymphomania?
The ball spun in a dizzying whirl around the wheel. Ciara watched it intently, excitement bubbling up to a rapid boil inside her. The ball rattled off a series of slots, bouncing erratically, then settled suddenly.
Seventeen.
Ciara squealed, jumping up and down, clapping her hands and playing the lucky winner to the hilt. She pounced on the man beside her, wrapped her arms around his neck and planted one full on his mouth.
After Nate returned to the room to find Ciara had vanished, he panicked and began searching the hotel. The last place he expected to find her was at a roulette table in a juicy lip lock with a perfect stranger.
“Ciara.”
She sprang away from her new friend, flashing him a bright, unapologetic smile. “Nate! There you are. Look, I won!” She pointed to the roulette table, bouncing in her spiky heels.
“Congratulations,” he said grimly. Nate turned to the bastard who’d taken advantage of her excitement.
Who took one look at the expression on Nate’s face and immediately held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, buddy, she kissed me. How was I to know you had a prior claim? Am I right?”
Ciara bent over the table, blithely gathering up her chips. She looked cheerful and bright-eyed and not at all like someone who’d just been kissed against her will.
“You kissed him?”
Not that it mattered who’d kissed whom. It was none of his business.
She
was none of his business. Just an informant. So why did he feel like he’d just discovered his favorite puppy played with other little boys when he wasn’t around?
Ciara caught his arm and tugged him away from the table, carrying a small stack of plastic money against her chest. “I can kiss him,” she gushed.
“That doesn’t mean you should,” he heard himself snap.
Ciara paused beside an abandoned craps table and tipped her face up to him, a feline smile curving her lips. “Why, Agent Smith. Are you jealous?”