So she'd be here when he came back—to kill her.
She shoved her fist in her mouth to keep from sobbing out loud. Lance and Abe may still be out there. She couldn't let them hear her. Couldn't afford to let them know she'd overheard them.
Tears of fear and panic and pain leaked down her cheeks as she eased carefully out of bed and walked as quietly as possible to the door. She placed her ear against it. Nothing.
With everything in her, she wanted to try the door, see if she could force it open and run for her life. But they might still be out there. So she waited. And waited, afraid to make a sound, afraid to give herself away.
Slowly, she sank to her knees, tried to peek through the keyhole. Whatever he'd wedged against the door blocked her view.
Fighting panic, she ached with the urge to light up a joint—just to steady her hands. Just to ease this horrible fear knotted in her stomach.
The cell phone. Yes! Kat had given her a cell phone. She'd call Kat. Kat would help her. She crawled across the carpeted floor, tears streaming down her face, and dug the phone out from between the mattress and the box spring where she'd hidden it.
Then she jumped like a scared rabbit when she heard a door open and close, the sound of footsteps in the other room. Lance. He was back.
She swallowed back a sob. It felt like every muscle in her throat had constricted into a hard, throbbing knot as she waited. Didn't dare make a noise. Didn't dare punch in Kat's number. He might hear. He might come in here.
He might kill her now. Might not wait until later.
Her shaking grew worse. It was so bad she could hardly hold on to the phone. Hating herself, she crawled to the bathroom, shut herself inside. And dug through her makeup case.
She needed a joint. She couldn't help it. She needed to settle herself.
She sobbed openly now, throwing her mascara and blush and lip gloss to the floor, desperate to find a joint. Desperate to feel something other than stark terror.
"Just a little toke. Just a little hit," she promised herself, and finally dumped the entire contents of her case on the floor.
There, finally, was a smoke.
She fumbled with the matches. Cried in horrified frustration when she couldn't steady her hand enough to set the weed on fire.
"Please, please, please."
Finally, it caught. Sweet, sweet relief. She inhaled deep, held the magic in her lungs, exhaled on a long, fractured breath. Again. Again. And again until the panic faded and she could breathe without pain.
She slumped back against the tub. The floor tile felt cool against her butt. Against her bare legs. She stared at the floor. Became fascinated with the tile. Decided to count it. Needed to count it.
One ... two ... three.
Her head was all muzzy. She got mixed up and started counting again. It was important, suddenly, that she count every one of those little bastards. Just to prove she could.
She forgot about the phone in her hand. Forgot that she was in deep, deep trouble. And counted.
Over and over again.
Until her head lolled to the side and she drifted into a marijuana-induced stupor.
Something clattered on the tile beside her. She forced her eyes open. She'd dropped the phone. Kat's cell phone.
Kat. She had to ... had to call Kat.
She reached for the phone, picked it up. And stared.
Where did that come from?
She pressed a button, turned it on. Shushed it when it made a noise.
"Can't let him hear. Can't let him hear."
Can't let Lance hear.
Her eyes grew heavy again. Why couldn't Lance hear? Lance loved her.
Lance wanted to kill her.
She didn't understand. She didn't understand any of this.
What she needed was sleep. Lots of sleep.
She curled up on her side, felt the cool floor against her cheek, and counted tiles. "One ... two ... three ..."
Eve and McClain had just stepped off the plane and walked through the Jetway to the arrival gate at the Vegas airport when the GPS tracker went off.
"Something's happening." Bleary from the red-eye flight, Eve dug into her purse, dragged out the unit. "Tiffany must have turned on the phone."
Beside her, McClain dialed Sven's cell phone number. It rang twice before he picked up. "Is Tiffany on the phone with Kat, by any chance?" Mac asked, slinging his carry-on over his shoulder as he and Eve walked toward the rental car desk.
"No," Sven said, sounding half-asleep. "Kat's right here. Still wringing her hands. Tiffany hasn't called. What's happening?"
"We've got a signal on the GPS. I'll hold on a little longer. It only makes sense that she'll be calling."
And yet, five minutes later, at six fifteen, Kat's phone still hadn't rung.
"Look," Mac said to Sven. "Whether she calls or not, we've got a fix on her location. As soon as we ID the address, we'll head there to see what we turn up. We'll keep you posted. In the meantime, let us know if either of you hears from her."
He disconnected while Eve approached the Avis desk. "Excuse me," she said to the clerk. "Can you tell me what's located at this address?" She gave the clerk the street coordinates indicated on the GPS map readout.
"That's the Topanga Bay. Newest casino on the Strip. South Seas theme. It just opened last month."
"Bingo," they said in unison, and waded through the rental car paperwork with barely leashed patience.
"So, do we call Edwards?" McClain asked when they'd finally stowed their luggage in the back of the rented SUV.
Eve glanced at him from behind the wheel as he slipped into the passenger seat. 'That's what he's paying us to do."
"Doesn't mean we can't go check things out for ourselves."
"My thoughts exactly."
"Well then, punch it, Martha," he said as he unclipped his cell phone from his vest and dialed Edwards's number. "Let's make tracks."
"That was short and to the point," Eve said after he'd hung up.
"Tell me about it. Edwards couldn't get off the phone fast enough once I'd told him I'd located Tiffany's hotel and given him the name and address. But before he hung up, he reiterated that I was not to approach her."
Eve turned onto Las Vegas Boulevard. "It'll take a few hours for Edwards to fire up the corporate jet and make his way west. Plenty of time for us to accidentally run into Tiffany before he gets here. Say, in her hotel room, where she's probably in bed, where most sane mortals are this time of day."
"Accidents do happen," he agreed with a grin. "Like, oh, I don't know. Maybe I could accidentally finesse her room number from the front desk."
"And we could
accidentally
wander up to her floor, maybe accidentally knock on her door."
"Lots of accidents happening around here. Let's just hope none of them prove fatal—for us or for Tiffany."
It was six thirty in the morning when Billie Campbell let himself into the penthouse suite at Topanga Bay. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found the living room was empty. He'd wandered the Strip all night, just to get his head on straight. Just to think. Now he knew what he had to do.
He'd had it with these guys. He was leaving.
All he'd ever wanted was his music. Lance Reno had looked like his ticket to the top. The man had star talent. And he sang Billie's songs like Billie had always envisioned them sung, with passion and soul and the purest, truest voice he'd ever heard. Three months ago when he'd hooked up with Lance and Abe, Billie had been sure they were on their way. They'd generated interest from a couple independent labels, labels that were making things happen. Mr. Mo Mentum had been on their side—and then Lance had hooked up with Tiffany Clayborne and the music had taken a distant second place to her money.
It was time to face the truth. To give up on Lance breaking the pattern. Hell. Billie felt like some country clod who'd rolled off the turnip truck. It had been three weeks since Tiffany had come on the scene. He'd thought he could wait it out, turn his head and ignore what was happening. Figured Lance would get tired of her and when he did, they'd go back to making music.
But Lance seemed to be as addicted to Tiffany's cash as Tiffany was addicted to the coke Lance scored for her and used to keep her complacent and free with her money and her body. She could have that shit. All of them could. Billie didn't want any part of it.
And yet, he'd be in ass deep if he stuck around any longer. Something was up. He didn't know what. He just knew it made him uneasy and he needed to get away from it.
He stared at the closed bedroom door, brooded over the way Lance treated Tiffany. Billie didn't much like her, but he didn't like the way Lance abused her, either. Nobody deserved that. He didn't know why she let Lance use her that way. Sometimes he even wondered what had happened in rich little Tiffany Clayborne's life to reduce her self-esteem to the point where she'd allow herself to be abused by Reno.
And then Billie remembered it was none of his business what she did or had done to her.
He settled in to wait for Reno to get back. When he did, he'd tell him he was through. A man didn't just sneak out without a word. A man owned up to his decisions.
He picked up his guitar, strummed a few bars of a new piece he'd been working on. Unable to concentrate, he set the guitar back down. And thought about what Tiffany must have once been. What she'd become. A cokehead.
Well, he wasn't in a position to judge. He didn't much like what he'd become, either. He'd turned a deaf ear and blind eyes to what Reno did to her, justifying it as not his concern. Not his business.
He glanced toward the master bedroom door. Reno had wedged a chair against it. Jesus. She wasn't much more than a prisoner.
Slowly, Billie rose, walked to the door ... and heard her crying. Nothing new. She was always crying. Either that or stoned out of her head and passed out.
"Please, please."
Her voice was muffled through the door.
"Help me. Please help me."
Something that felt like fear rolled through his gut. What if she was hurt? What if she'd OD'd or something? Did he want that on his conscience?
He glanced over his shoulder toward the front door of the suite. If Lance came back and found him looking in on her, he'd have a royal shit fit.
Still, Billie moved the chair, slowly opened the bedroom door. He stuck his head inside and smelled weed. So what if Lance would be pissed? Billie was leaving anyway. He'd had enough. Seen enough. It was time to cut his losses and move on.
In the meantime, he'd just make sure Tiffany wasn't dying or something.
She wasn't in the bedroom, but there was a light on in the bathroom and the door was open a crack. Hesitant, he walked over, rapped his knuckles on the door.
"You sick?"
All he got was sobs. Jesus. He was going to have to look inside.
She was stretched out on the floor. A joint was burning itself out on the tile beside her. It disgusted and amazed him that anyone could drop this low.
When she saw him, she pushed herself to a sitting position. And he could see then that there wasn't any blood or vomit. She was just stoned again.
"Help me. Please. Please. Help me."
Help her what? Score some more blow?
He shook his head.
Not my problem,
he told himself, and walked back out of the room.
He sank down on the plush leather sofa, grabbed the remote, and turned on the tube, settling in to wait for Lance.
Five minutes later, Billie shut the TV off. Restless, he picked up his guitar again, worked through the bridge of that tune that kept eluding him.
And he tried not to think about Tiffany Clayborne, crying in the bathroom. He tried not to think about the fact that she was someone's daughter, because that made him think of his own parents and how disappointed they'd be if they knew he was standing back and letting this happen to her.
"Not my problem," he repeated, aloud this time, and snagged a pen to write down a promising lick.