Hearts in Vegas

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BRAXTON SAT IN his Volvo on a side street next to the restaurant Chez Manny, one of those old-time Vegas restaurants that once catered to movie stars, famous singers and the usual assortment of high-living organized-crime types. These days it still had the reputation for great food, but the neighborhood had gone downhill. Run-down apartment buildings, empty lots cluttered with weeds and debris. An elderly man pushed a shopping cart, its wheels clattering over the broken sidewalk, eyeing Braxton as if he might jump out of his Volvo and try to steal the cart.

Not the kind of neighborhood that gave a person the warm fuzzies, but it was safer than a good third of Vegas’s hoods, unfortunately. At least Frances was meeting someone here during the day.

Braxton had been sitting here, wondering who that someone was.

When he’d bumped into her back at the agency parking lot, he’d slipped his cell phone under her driver’s seat. Then, after she’d left, he’d tracked his phone’s location via his online “Find My Phone” software. Not exactly a classy move on his part, but how was a guy supposed to ask out a girl if he didn’t even know her name?

Although that girl might not be too happy learning what he’d done. But if she were furious, he’d try to at least charm her into giving back his cell phone.

In spite of the cold, he’d rolled down his driver’s window, hoping a few stray breezes might freshen the old, musty smell inside the Volvo. A previous owner apparently liked to smoke while driving, because there were lingering scents of stale cigarettes, too. Scents of cooking food wafted his way from Chez Manny...baked chicken and something yeasty-garlicky he imagined to be rolls or calzone or—

Click. Click. Click.

He heard high heels on sidewalk. It was probably her.

He’d parked on the side street so she wouldn’t see him when she walked to her car parked in the lot behind the restaurant. Problem was, he couldn’t see her, either, until she entered the lot. But the clicks of those heels sounded as if she were coming down the walkway from the restaurant’s front door.

He pricked his ears, trying to identify other footsteps with hers. None. Good, she was alone.

Then she entered his line of vision, slim and gray, those hips swaying lightly as she headed to her Benz.

He jumped out of his car, taking care not to slam the door, then jogged across the street.

“Hey, Babe!” he called out, not wanting to scare her by running up too quickly.

She turned, a startled look in her eyes.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, slowing his pace as he crossed into the lot, trying to read her body language, but she stood so stiffly, that was impossible. Moving closer, he tried to catch a hint of her reaction to his surprise appearance and saw, well, surprise.

At least she didn’t appear to be pissed off. Things were looking up.

She carried a paperback-size clutch purse, which she held tightly against her chest. Her gaze narrowed as he approached, those sparkling amethyst eyes clouded by suspicion.

Things weren’t looking so up.

He stopped, held open his hands apologetically. “I, uh, accidentally dropped my phone in your car.”

She tilted her head, flashing an is that so? look.

“So, I, uh...” His throat suddenly felt parched, as if he’d been sucking dirt.

“So you checked your phone-locator GPS program and realized with great surprise that you’d accidentally dropped it in my car.”

Man, she was sharp.

“Something like that.”

She made a noise that said more than most people could in a paragraph, mostly that she knew he’d dropped it on purpose to track her, so stop the bull.

Really sharp.

When up against that kind of smarts, it was time to stop peddling a story and offer the truth.

“You’re right.” He smiled.

She didn’t smile back.

At least she’s still standing here, not getting into her car.

“Okay, I admit it,” he said, adopting a good-natured tone, “I dropped my phone in your car so I could find you. Which I was wrong to do,” he added quickly, “and I’m sorry.”

She released a torrent of breath he could hear ten feet away.

“I don’t like your stalking me.”

“I’m not stalk—”

“Tracking my location with a GPS device, without my consent, is a crime in Nevada.”

“Dumb move to track you, but I didn’t want you to get away.” That sounded bad. “I mean...”

A horn honked.

She looked over and waved at a light blue Porsche 911 that drove down the street. Glass was too tinted to see the driver’s features, but from the size and lack of hair, Braxton guessed it to be a male. A rather well-to-do male based on his choice of vehicle.

As if he cared.

Okay, he did.

He looked back at Frances, who still stood in the same spot, clutching her clutch, staring at him.

Handle this with aplomb. Don’t show you’re jealous over Porsche Guy.

“Who was that?” he asked, trying to sound politely interested.

“What’s it to you?”

He caught an intrigued look in her eyes, or maybe he was hoping for a positive sign that she’d stopped thinking he’d committed any felony class D actions.

“You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

“He’s an associate.”

She’d dropped her edginess, which he took as a sign that she was open to talking more. “Dmitri?”

She hesitated. “No.”

“How many associates do you have?”

An almost-smile curved her lips. “How many women do you talk this way to?”

“Only the ones I like. A lot.”

He gave his head a shake, realizing vagueness wasn’t going to help his cause.

“You,” he clarified. “Only you.”

She swept a strand of hair off her forehead, the shadows leaving her eyes as she relaxed, and this time that almost-smile made it to her lips.

And in that instant, he felt a mysterious kinship with her, a connection that defied words. He just felt it. Sensed the depth of her emotions in those eyes...her wistfulness, dreams, disappointments. And with a yearning that almost hurt, he wanted nothing more than to make this woman happy and satisfied.

To earn her love.

She blinked and the spell was broken.