скачать книгу бесплатно
“My mother was an English teacher. She had a thing for literature.” The dexterous giant who created drinks with a speedy sleight of hand winked and moved down the bar to fill the cocktail waitress’s drink order, clearing away abandoned glasses as he went. The literary giant was too busy to press for information right now. So Rebecca pulled the straw between her lips and swiveled around to seek out other prospects.
Most of the tables were filled with gamblers celebrating their jackpots or drowning their losses. Some were doing their best to impress a date, others were hoping to find one. The lone waitress, in a short, showboat-style costume that matched Dawn’s, was running like crazy to fill orders and clear tables. “Two drafts and two rum and colas, Tom.”
Rebecca traded a sympathetic smile with the other woman as she brushed a droopy feather off her forehead and leaned against the brass railing to catch her breath for a moment. But the instant she rested her full weight on her left arm, the waitress winced and pulled back, drawing Rebecca’s attention to the dark violet and purple marks on her wrist.
The bartender had noticed them, too. “You sure you’re okay to work tonight, Melissa? I can ask Mr. Wolfe to call in someone else.”
“No. Don’t do that.” But, realizing she may have answered too quickly, the waitress tucked her long, golden hair back into its French twist and smiled. “You know I need the tip money.”
“I’ll stake you for it,” Tom offered. “Go home and rest that arm.”
“I am not taking charity from you. Now load up my drinks.” She gritted her teeth as she lifted the tray in her left hand. “But thanks.”
Melissa was too busy to do Rebecca much good, either. And she didn’t think any of the customers could give her the kind of information she needed. Maybe the bar would be a bust tonight. Was it too soon to go snooping through the offices and private rooms upstairs? Of course, it was. But Rebecca had been hoping to find some piece of evidence on this first visit to the Riverboat. At least a clue that would point her in the direction of something useful.
“Mr. Cartwright?”
Rebecca froze with a sip halfway up her straw as the bartender called to someone in the archway behind her. There was that name again. No. The fates wouldn’t be that cruel. C’mon, Dad. You’re supposed to be watching out for me here.
She slowly turned. Ginger ale pooled back in her glass as she breathed again. Not Seth Cartwright.
Though the stocky build of the man buttoning his cream-colored jacket reminded her of the burly detective, the similarities ended there. This man had enough gray on his head to give his blond hair a silver sheen. His suit and tie and easy smile were a definite contrast to the streetwise style and smart-mouth attitude of his namesake at KCPD. This distinguished fellow must be the “fix-it-up” guy Dawn had said was in charge of something at the casino. He was definitely an acquaintance she needed to make.
So when he sidled onto the stool beside her, and his knee brushed against hers, Rebecca returned his glance with a smile. “Hi.”
The older man eyed the cup of chips and tokens sitting on the bar beside her drink. “Looks like you’re having a good night.”
“You know what they say—first time’s lucky.”
“That they do.” He traced his finger around the rim of the cup. He picked up a blue and white chip, flipping it with a magician’s dexterity between his fingers before placing it back on top of the pile. “What’s your game? Slots? Roulette? Craps?”
This guy was definitely a player she wanted to meet. “I like card games.”
“A little strategy to balance the luck, eh?” He tapped the token on top of her pile. “You know, you can trade these in for a ticket. It’s easier—and safer—than carrying around tokens or chips or cash. I can show you how to exchange them.”
The blackjack dealer had already told her how. “I’d appreciate that.”
“I’m Austin, by the way.” Unlike Teddy Wolfe, this man offered her a traditional handshake. “I’m the architect responsible for redesigning this place.”
“I’m Rebecca.” The bar was looking up, after all. She’d think of this potential source as Austin, and let the whole Cartwright coincidence slide. “The Riverboat is lovely. I feel like I’ve gone back in time with these surroundings.”
“Authentic as the retro look is, everything behind the historic facade is completely high-tech. I did all the research and design elements myself.” Perfect. A man who bragged about his accomplishments was a man who liked to talk. About a lot of things. Maybe she could even get him to show her the blueprints for this place. Rebecca had hit paydirt.
“So, you know the Riverboat inside and out?”
“Probably better than anybody.”
“Mr. Cartwright.” The bartender demanded Austin’s attention again.
“You’d better take care of business,” she suggested.
Pressing for information right now would only arouse suspicion. She’d follow up with Austin later. Maybe ask him to show her around. He could take her into the bowels of the boat, into the parts that would have been in place at the time of her father’s death. She imagined she could learn more from that tour than from the places she suspected Teddy Wolfe wanted to show her.
“What’s up, Tom?” the older man asked.
“Can you speak to Mr. Wolfe about getting another waitress for this shift? When one of them calls in sick like tonight…At least bring someone in off the gaming floor. Melissa’s running ragged.”
“Is she complaining?” Austin asked.
“Of course not. You know her.”
Rebecca turned the direction he pointed and saw the waitress schooling her patience with a smile at a table with three college-aged men who were flirting with her. While Tom and Austin discussed options across the bar, Rebecca noted how Melissa flexed her fingers on her sore arm before collecting their empty beer bottles. She was mentally girding herself to take the extra weight. Once she had the bottles and the order, she turned back toward the bar.
But, with a suggestive quip, one of the men reached for her, tugging her off balance. Melissa yelped in pain and the tray went flying.
Rebecca was on her feet before the last beer bottle hit the floor and shattered.
The man who’d caused the accident was instantly apologetic, but Melissa waved him off when he tried to help. “No. It’s fine. Really. Don’t get up. Please.”
Rebecca picked up two intact bottles and righted them on the tray before squatting down beside the blond waitress. “Here. Let me.”
Melissa paused in her frantic retrieval of the broken brown glass. “This isn’t your job.” Her blue eyes were moist and wide with unshed tears as she met Rebecca’s gaze. She dropped a shard onto the tray and cradled her left arm against her chest. “I can do it. I have to.”
Son of a bitch.
Lifted up to the subdued light of the bar’s chandeliers, the pattern of bruises on Melissa’s swollen wrist became evident. Five of them. With the span of long, strong fingers. The imprint of a man’s hand.
Rebecca swallowed the bile in her throat and reached for the next shard of glass. “I’m helping,” she insisted, resisting the urge to ask who’d hurt her. Was it Tom? Was that why he was so protective and anxious to get her off the floor? Was it a customer? Boyfriend? Husband?
She’d written pieces on domestic violence before. She knew the numbers to call, the words to say. But her dad…She owed him so much. Could she help Melissa without betraying a plan that had been months in the making?
“I’m helping,” she repeated, positioning herself between Melissa and Tom when the bartender hurried over with a towel to mop up the splatters of beer.
Maybe making a friend tonight, making this friend, was just as important as finding her father’s killer. Maybe there was more than one story here on the Riverboat, more than one reason why Rebecca needed to become a part of this world and discover all the secrets hidden here. Maybe she could help the living as well as the dead.
The perfect opportunity lay scattered at her feet.
“Hey—Melissa, is it?” The waitress nodded, blinking away the tears she refused to shed. “I’m assuming you guys have a first aid kit here. Why don’t you go wrap your wrist for some extra support, and I’ll cover for you for a few minutes. Just tell me which tables are waiting on drinks and I’ll deliver them. I can clear away the empties, too.”
When Tom seconded the idea, Rebecca wondered if he was sincere in his concern—or eager to cover the evidence of his assault.
Melissa shrugged, clearly reluctant to showcase her injury, despite the practicality of the suggestion. “I couldn’t let you do that.”
Rebecca grinned, including them both in her offer. “I want to.” She beat big Tom to helping Melissa to her feet and carried the tray to the bar. “I’ve been looking for a second job to help make ends meet.”
Austin was waiting for them at the waitress’s station. “Melissa, are you all right?” He shifted on his feet, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. “What happened?”
“Just an accident.”
He nodded, than darted a glance at Rebecca. “Thank you.”
Rebecca picked up on his uneasiness. Good Lord, was Gramps the man responsible for her injury? He was certainly fit enough to do some damage. “No problem. I worked my way through college waiting—” that’s when she noticed a handful of her chips and tokens had disappeared from her cup “—tables.” Perplexed by the discovery, she couldn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief. Austin was guilty of something, if not abuse. “If you could use another waitress, I’d love to have the job.”
Melissa was the first to respond to the proposition. “I don’t know. Really, I’ll be okay. We’ve been shorthanded before. Right, Tom?”
The big bartender glared a response. But Melissa glanced away from the message he tried to convey. Whether concern had been rebuffed or a threat satisfied, Rebecca couldn’t tell. Tom dumped the mess into the trash and grumbled, “It’s not my call.”
“I say give her a chance.” By comparison, Austin was downright enthusiastic about getting Rebecca on the payroll. “I’d be happy to run it by Mr. Wolfe. If Tom thinks you can handle it, you’d have my full recommendation. You could take care of the paperwork later.”
Rebecca went along with his friendly support, pretending she didn’t hear the click of metal tokens and plastic disks knocking together in his jacket pocket. She assumed he’d have some ready excuse if she did call him on the theft. Add one more suspect to her list. Austin the Nameless One had secrets to hide. Maybe it stopped with kleptomania. Maybe it meant there were other, darker, mysteries he could reveal to her.
“Melissa, you come with me.” Now the older man was eager to leave. “I’ll bandage that arm for you. You?” He winked at Rebecca. “Grab an apron and start clearing those tables.”
“You got it.”
Everyone she’d met thus far had been polite and accepting, if not outright friendly.
Everyone she’d met thus far was hiding something as well. Her reporter’s nose was telling her as much.
She was in the right place. She was in. She was going to succeed where KCPD had failed.
Her father would be proud.
Rebecca adjusted the black apron around her waist and moved to the next table to gather glasses and take their order. She’d already discovered the bar’s outside entrance, and used the opportunity of clearing the deck tables to scout out where public access ended and private balconies and service corridors began. She’d met other staff, and had identified some of the Riverboat’s repeat and long-term customers.
Other than wishing she’d worn more comfortable shoes, she didn’t have to worry about anything else tonight. She’d be back tomorrow. She could ask her questions and begin her search then. Chat with Teddy Wolfe. Meet Daniel Kelleher. Take Austin Cartwright up on a tour. Befriend Melissa and find a way to help her.
No one would suspect a thing.
Nothing could go wrong.
But her smug smile was short-lived.
She sensed the hostile gaze boring holes into her back. More intense, more direct than anything she’d felt before. A beat of time passed before a blunt voice from her past grated against her ears.
“What the hell are you doing in my casino?”
“YOUR CASINO?” Tawny gold eyes shot sparks at him as Seth Cartwright strode through the maze of tables.
Rebecca Page. Intrepid reporter. Dogged investigator. Wouldn’t say uncle even if it meant saving her own skin.
Caught. Snooping where the woman damn well knew she shouldn’t be.
He walked right up to her until he was close enough to absorb her scent and to communicate in a whisper.
“It’s a free country, so you’re welcome to throw away your money in whatever way you please.” Sarcasm came far too easily to Seth these days. He’d been at this job long enough that he’d learned to ignore any flicker of guilt or regret when the verbal arrows unleashed themselves. “But when you stop playing and you start chatting up the employees and customers, it’s time for you to go.”
Her chin tilted up. Seth expected no less from a woman who relied on guts as much as a wickedly precise intuition when it came to tracking down a news story. Her tongue was in fine form tonight, as well. “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Detective.”
“Don’t call me that. Not anymore.”
He said the words he loathed to hear and watched the transformation cross her face. Shock. Confusion. “You’re not a cop anymore?”
When the serves-you-right smirk reached those painted lips, he reached for her. “I got a better job.”
“Hey.” The would-be waitress dodged his grasp and turned on the attitude. She pulled her tray in front of her like a shield and tipped her nose up with that Amazon arrogance he was all too familiar with. “Then you can’t arrest me.”
As though besting him by a few inches had ever made him retreat.
“Is there a reason why I should? I just want you to leave.” He wrapped one hand around her arm, pried the tray from her resistant grasp and started walking.
“You want—?” She tugged against his grip. “You have no right—”
“I’m Chief of Security around here. I have every right.”
“Chief of—? No way.”
“Way.” He tugged back and she stumbled beside him, bumping into his shoulder, freezing for an instant in mute surprise before regaining her balance and pushing away. She felt like any other woman, with delicate breasts that poked against his arm and back, and hair dark and soft as mink that caught in his collar and brushed his neck. But Rebecca Page wasn’t like any other woman. She was trouble on stilts. He didn’t need the kind of curiosity and attention she thrived on to walk into the middle of his investigation.
He’d worked too damn hard for eight long months to get to where he was at Wolfe International. He’d trashed his reputation on the force, lost the loyalty of his friends and gained the trust of his enemies. He’d lied, bent a few rules, broken a few bones. He’d learned the difference between being tough and being dead. No nosy reporter—woman or otherwise—was going to waltz her way onto the Riverboat and blow his operation.
“C’mon.” He slowed his pace and altered his grip to keep her on her feet and keep her moving. “I thought you’d gotten a clue last fall when you were harassing my mother about the Baby Jane Doe murder case. I don’t like report—”
“Shh!” She darted in front of him and pressed her fingers over his mouth, stopping up his words. Stopping him. What the hell? An apologetic frown creased the smooth skin on her forehead. “Don’t say another word,” she whispered. “I don’t know what you think is going on here. I was only pitching in to help Melissa. But I’ll go. Just let me get my purse.”
Huh? Capitulation? Seth’s gaze narrowed. Had to be a tactic. But a quick study of her fervent expression revealed no clear objective. Or motive. “Whatever.”
He tossed the tray on the bar and, without releasing her, picked up her little black bag.
“That’s mine.”
Evading her grasping fingers and annoyed huff, Seth twisted it open and spotted the keys, comb, lipstick—and cell phone-size recorder inside. Just as he’d thought. He had Little Miss Innocent’s number. Seth lifted his gaze to her gold-brown eyes. Was that a plea he read there? Or defiance?
Didn’t matter. He was in control of this situation. He snapped the purse shut and pushed it into her hands. “Pitching in to help yourself to what?” But that wide mouth was pressed into a fine, thin line. No problem. He could remove the tape outside, away from these witnesses, and get his own answers. “Time to go byebye.”
He reclaimed his grip on her elbow and turned her toward the doorway and the main lobby. This time she didn’t protest.
But Sawyer threw his arms up behind the bar. “Hey, you’re stealing my only waitress.”
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
Seth kept moving. “No, she won’t.”
The click of her killer heels muffled when they reached the lobby carpeting. He never had understood how a woman could walk in those things, and suspected that hurrying at his side was a difficult task, even with those long legs. But she didn’t argue his hold on her arm or his path toward the front door.
He hadn’t believed it when he’d first spotted her on the monitor in his security office. He’d pegged Rebecca Page as a woman who liked to stay in control of things—not an easy thing for a gambler to do. Still, he hadn’t taken any chances and had radioed Ace Longbow, the pit boss on the floor tonight, to keep an eye on her. As long as she was playing, she could stay. Seth would steer clear of her and keep his suspicions in check.
But then Ace had taken a break to handle some personal business, and by the time the big Indian had reported back in, he’d lost track of Rebecca. Seth had scrolled through nearly every camera angle on his monitors before he found her at the Cotton Blossom.
