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“I...didn’t know they were.” Her eyebrows pulled into an intriguing vee above the bridge of her scrunched-up nose. She looked cutely perplexed. “I suppose that rather falls in line with why I contacted you.”
Leaning back in the chair, he waited for her to continue.
“My father is a...criminal, Mr. Barron. We’ve been mostly estranged my entire life, but especially since that one incident. My brothers have contacted me periodically, checking up on me, occasionally sending money—which I sent back.” She hurried to add that bit of information and again, he almost believed her. “Anyway, the trip to Las Vegas was a complete surprise.”
She blinked at him, still portraying her innocence. “So you had no idea you’d be...” He searched for a word. “Working with them?”
“No! None at all. But...” Her voice trailed off and she wouldn’t look directly at him.
“But what?”
“I have the feeling they aren’t done with me.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Barron, I want nothing to do with them. I like my job. There are things I want to do with my life and they do not include jail time.” She inhaled deeply, huffed out the breath and plastered a serious look on her face. “I have a proposal for you.”
Cash watched, making sure there was nothing on his face for her to read. “A proposal.”
“Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically and leaned even closer.
He glanced down, just to see what she was “offering.” Nothing. Her sweater remained sedately in place. He was almost disappointed. Then her pursed lips caught his attention.
“You see, as I stated, I don’t want anything to do with them, but if you—or the police—can catch them, then I get to keep my life.”
“And keeping your life is important to you?”
She tossed him a cute expression meant to convey “duh.”
“Exactly. Look, I’m a museum curator by education. I want to work in a museum. Being the corporate archivist for RCM is interesting, but I really want to use my history degree. My father and brothers? They’ll ruin everything.”
“And your proposal?”
“Oh! I thought I’d said. I’m pretty sure they plan on dragging me into whatever their scheme is. I can pretend to play along, notify you, and you and the police can swoop in and arrest them.”
“Swoop in.”
She nodded enthusiastically again. “Exactly.”
Cash didn’t believe her, but he admitted things were getting interesting. “Tell me what you do know.”
She rambled along, either filling in blanks or making stuff up as she went. She was an imaginative little thing. He was busy texting Bridger. She had a proposition? He had the beginnings of a plan.
“Um... I still have the dress.”
“Dress?” He looked up from his phone.
“Yes, the one I told you about. The one I wore to the casino? It still had the tags when I wore it and I was told not to tear them off because my brother planned to return the dress for credit. Or he shoplifted it and just told me that.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I want to send it back to the store...or at least find out if someone actually paid for it. I might keep it if Braxton did. He’s a pig.”
Somewhere along the way, Cash had lost control of the conversation, though the flurry of texts he exchanged with Bridger had been enlightening. According to their account rep at RCM, Roxanne Rowland had been hired as an archivist—basically a glorified librarian charged with cataloging and preserving ad campaign material. They were thrilled to have her, she’d been a model employee, and was there a problem?
He wasn’t quite sure when—or why—he made the decision he did, but with one final text, he put his plan into motion.
“Okay, here’s the deal. You’re moving in with me.”
Roxie’s face registered shocked denial. “What? No!”
“I don’t think you understand, sweetheart. Until this situation is resolved, we’re joined at the hip.”
“First, I am not your sweetheart.”
“Boy, ain’t that the truth.” He muttered the sentiment under his breath.
“And second, I can’t. I have work.”
“That’s been taken care of. You’re on loan to the Barron Companies.”
“Wait... I...that can’t be! I’m in the middle of a project. You...what in the world will I do for the Barron Companies?”
“The same thing you do for RCM, Red. Bottom line, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Color tinted her cheeks, and her eyes glinted like bright sun shining on a broken whiskey bottle. “Oh? Really? How does that work, precisely? Are you going to handcuff me to the toilet when you shower? Tie me to the bed?”
“That can be arranged.”
Four (#u425a392b-c8b9-5f64-8b48-c8613b744528)
Evil. He was just pure evil. Roxie’s temper flared even as a wave of unadulterated lust surged through her insides. It had nothing to do with being tied to Cash Barron’s bed and everything to do with the man himself. And she needed to murder her girlish fantasies immediately or she’d never survive this debacle intact. She chanced a look in his direction. His expression remained resolute but was that a twinkle of mischief in his eyes?
“Let’s go.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you. My car is in the parking lot.”
“I’ll have security drive it home for you.”
“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”
“You’re riding with me. We’ll go by your apartment, you can pack, then we’ll head to my place.”
“What part of no do you not understand? I have responsibilities. I—” She felt her eyes widen. “I have someone waiting at home for me.”
“Who?”
“Um... Harley.”
“Who’s that?”
Cash’s gaze narrowed, and did he sound suspicious or was it something else? Something...intriguing. Like jealousy? Ha. Roxie was just a means to an end. Jealous was not a word she would ever associate with Cash. “He’s my...roommate.” Well, technically speaking, that was true. Harley lived with her. “And I sort of have to take care of him.”
Cash leaned closer and peered at her, his gaze sharp and assessing. “What’s that mean—you have to take care of him?”
Roxie forced herself to meet his gaze despite the jitters skipping through her. “He’s...um...immature. He can’t really look after himself.”
“Uh-huh.”
He totally was not convinced. But there was no way she could leave Harley home alone. “I’m telling the truth, Mr. Barron.”
“Uh-huh. C’mon. Let’s go meet this guy and see what he has to say about all this.”
He latched on to her hand and tugged her along after him. Roxie was suddenly reminded of what walking with Harley was like. She tried to plant her feet, but the leather soles of her boots skidded over the smooth flooring. She attempted to jerk her hand free, but Cash simply tightened his grip and kept walking. She finally gave up and trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride.
When they reached the entrance, there was a dark gray Range Rover waiting, and a man in a black suit, starched white shirt and black tie held the passenger-side door open. He tucked his chin as he extended a hand palm-up and said, “Ma’am, we’ll need your keys.”
“No, you don’t. I’m driving myself home.”
The security guard quickly turned his attention to Cash, looking for guidance.
“Give him your keys, Red.”
“Gah! No. Get it through your thick head, Mr. Barron. Just because I agreed to help you does not mean you can tell me what to do.”
Cash stalked around the vehicle toward her and she stepped back, right into the bulk of the security guard—who didn’t give an inch. “Give the nice man your car keys, Roxanne, and get into the Rover.”
He glared daggers at her and his mouth was a tight line. This guy definitely meant business. She’d been an idiot to call him. Still, if she ever wanted control of her life back, she needed him. Darn it. She huffed out a breath, dug in her purse and pulled out her key chain.
* * *
Cash watched as Roxanne meticulously removed a key from the jumble of metal consisting of more keys, a flashlight, at least ten plastic loyalty tags for various restaurants and stores, and other dangly things like weird jewelry. She passed the key to the guard, then that mess of a key chain disappeared back into the bag hitched over her shoulder.
“Get in the car, Roxanne.”
She stuck out her tongue but settled into the front seat. He closed the door and gestured for security to remain there so she couldn’t escape. Once he was behind the wheel, he glanced at her.
“Buckle up, buttercup.”
Her upper lip curled into a kittenish snarl and he almost laughed. Roxanne Rowland was turning into something totally unexpected. Deep down, Cash wondered if he was getting played. The woman dressed in comfortable clothes and wearing no makeup with a sprinkling of freckles was not the woman he’d watched on the security monitors in Vegas.
The trip from the south end of the metro to the northwest side was made in silence. If she was surprised when they turned into her apartment complex, she didn’t show it. He couldn’t wait to meet this imaginary roommate. Bridger had checked with the complex’s management. Roxanne had a one-bedroom studio and was the only one listed on the lease. If she’d sneaked in a boyfriend, she was in violation.
He parked in a slot near her ground-floor apartment and watched her. She appeared irritated rather than nervous. “Getting out?”
“I was waiting for you to open my door, but you obviously aren’t a gentleman.” With that, she popped her door open and started to get out—only she was snagged by the seat belt.
Pressing his lips together to keep from laughing, Cash hit the release button to free her. Was she really this klutzy, or was it all an act meant to disarm him? Act or not, she was doing just that.
Stomping up the walkway to her apartment, she inserted her key, pushed the door open and stepped to the side. Cash had about five seconds to prepare for the hairy monster launching in his direction. He braced himself, one foot forward, shoulders lowered, and found his arms full of furry energy intent on slobbering all over his face. He muscled the gigantic dog to the ground and glared at Roxanne. She was doubled over, laughing.
“Thanks for the warning. I’m assuming this is Harley?”
She inhaled deeply and bit her lips for a long moment while she regained her composure. “Yes.”
“I’ll make arrangements to have him boarded.” He recognized his tactical error a second too late. Both woman and dog turned on him.
“Harley is not going to some smelly old kennel! He goes where I go!” The dog barked, an echoing woof that rattled windows.
“Oh? What did you do with him while you were in Vegas?” He had her there.
Her face scrunched up into an adorably perplexed expression. “Um... Leo.”
“And who is Leo?”
“I’m Leo and girlfriend, you did not tell me you had a date with a fine, fine man like this one.”
Cash looked up at the man leaning over the balcony above them before returning his attention to Roxanne. “So let Leo take care of him.”
“Uh-uh. Not happening. I have company comin’ and I won’t have time to be traipsing back and forth to let that creature out every time he thinks he needs to sniff the bushes.”
Roxanne turned those golden eyes on him. “Harley suffers from separation anxiety. You’re the one who is so insistent I move in with you.”
“Whoa! You’ve really been holdin’ out on me, Miss Roxie-anne.” If Leo leaned any farther over the railing, the man would fall into the very bushes Harley now sniffed.
As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, the big mutt lumbered over, sat right in front of Cash and put a massive paw on his thigh. The dog whuffed, a sound too similar to Roxanne’s echoing sigh. He resisted throwing up his arms in surrender.
“Fine, but that thing better be housebroken.”
Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, Roxanne leveled what he supposed was an insulted glare on him. “Good.” She turned away and muttered under her breath, “Oh, yeah? I bet you aren’t housebroken, Chase Barron.”
For the next hour, Cash sat on the couch with the massive furball. The dog sprawled next to him, huge head on his thigh. Roxanne puttered around, packing suitcases and grocery bags full of dog food, toys, brushes and other pet paraphernalia. He was far too amused by her, discovering he was smiling at odd times.
“Okay, I’m ready.”
Cash checked her over. Roxanne had tucked her hair up into a messy ponytail and stood in the midst of a pile of stuff. He stared at her, then stared pointedly at the boxes and suitcases around her feet. “Should I call a moving van? We can load up your furniture, too.”
“Ha-ha. Not funny. I’m trying to be nice in a difficult situation.”
He eyed all the gear. “Nice?”
“Yes. I figured you wouldn’t want to be running back and forth between your place and mi—”
Cash’s cell rang, cutting her off. He shoved the dog away and stood, phone to his ear. He listened to Bridger without giving away the gist of their conversation, his gaze glued on Roxanne.
“Otto Baer is a whale, according to Tucker. He’s never stayed at any of the Barron casinos before the incident with the Rowlands.”
He considered that information. A whale, also referred to as a high roller, bet large amounts of money. Casinos offered them lavish “comps,” such as free private jet transfers, limousine access and use of the casinos’ best suites, to lure them onto the gambling floors.
“What was the deal?” Cash asked the question with careful words.
“That’s what’s really weird, coz. Tuck checked with Chase and with their concierge. They didn’t even know the guy was there.”
