Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (13 page)

Why was her Benz rented, but the others registered to Konfety?

He looked up Konfety in the Nevada business database. Couldn’t find it. Ran it through a translator program and learned that
konfety
was Russian for
candy.

By then it was time to head inside, so he turned off his phone and exited the Volvo, taking a short detour past the Benz. Tidy leather interior. No books, addressed envelopes, nothing lying around to give a clue about her life. Seeing a small white receipt lying on the floor, he pulled out his smartphone and snapped a picture of it through the window.

“I apologize for the interruption,” Dima said now, putting away his phone. “Shall we continue our discussion?”

A few moments later, they sat next to each other at the table.

Sitting this close, Braxton felt suffocated by the Russian’s cologne, a leathery, fruity stench that could probably cure meat. He remembered Yuri and his pals wearing strong scents, too. For some reason, all the Russian men Braxton had met seemed to equate their masculinity with the ability to give others nosebleeds.

“I’d like to hire you to be a part-time bodyguard,” Dima said. “I’m thinking ten to twelve hours a week, which leaves you plenty of time to conduct investigations on Yuri.”

Why hadn’t he mentioned this before? Plus, Braxton had never liked the term
bodyguard
because it made the profession sound like a bunch of knuckle-dragging goons. He preferred calling it
protection agent
or
executive protection,
but screw it. Call it
banana peel
for all he cared. They weren’t talking about the real title he wanted—Security Director.

But rather than run off at the mouth, he kept it shut, forced himself to listen. He wasn’t happy with this turn of events, but since he’d made the effort to come here, he might as well hear Dima out.

“Primarily, I would like you to provide an escort through the parking lot after work, as well as accompany her to any large events she might be attending—you two can discuss her schedule—and possibly a client meeting or two in the Russian community.” Dmitri rubbed a spot on the table. “I’d also like you to gather intelligence about this person.”

Here’s the spy part. “What kind of information are you looking for?”

“What’s said in conversations, identities of people visited, addresses of stopovers...” He gestured with his hand, which showed off his platinum Patek Philippe watch. Had to cost forty grand, at least.

“It’s been a while since I accepted an executive-protection case,” he said.

“But your reputation continues, Braxton. Your past clients speak highly of you.”

He hadn’t given Dima any references for his past protection work, but a quick Google search would find several newspaper stories.

“You mentioned my overhearing what’s said in conversations,” Braxton said, “but I speak very little Russian....”

“Does not matter.”

“So this person’s American.”

Dima nodded.

Which made Braxton wonder... Nah, couldn’t be Babe. Dima knew about The Dayden Group and had probably used them to run a background check on her. She’d obviously passed the test, because he’d hired her, so no reason to sic a spy on her.

“Is this a family member?” Braxton asked.

“No. A...vice president.”

“Possible theft? Industrial sabotage?” When someone that high up was under scrutiny, there was usually something juicy going on.

Dima waved off any suggestion of impropriety. “I simply want confirmation this executive has no issues that could undermine a major project.”

Braxton nodded, wondering what could undermine a Russian candy company. Stealing a recipe for Anna Karina’s Creamy Fudge?

“I figure three thousand cash, paid weekly, for your services and expenses is fair.”

“More than fair.”

“Excellent. There’s an envelope with your first week’s pay at the front desk.
From Russia with Love,
yes?” he quipped, playing on the James Bond title.

Braxton smiled and meant it for the most part, too. He just needed to be patient—never one of his sterling traits—about the other job.

The door clicked open, and Dima turned. “Oleg, excellent timing!”

A lanky guy wearing a wrinkled, checkered shirt and jeans sauntered in. His wavy black hair needed a cut.

Braxton’s gaze shifted to the woman behind Oleg, and his mouth went dry.

There she was...Babe, the blonde vision that had haunted his waking and sleeping hours ever since their last encounter in Chez Manny’s parking lot.

She’d traded in her Hillary Clinton pantsuit look for some kind of lounge pants, a thermal shirt and sneakers. And that sleek, tight bun had unraveled into a mass of honey-blond hair that gave her a bit of a Wild-Woman-from-Borneo look. He didn’t recall her ever wearing a lot of makeup before, but today it appeared she’d skipped it altogether.

Didn’t matter. She was one of those women who didn’t need to slather on the stuff to turn heads. Plus there was something about her—call it her Lauren Bacall mystique—that added layers of secrecy and depth, making her a puzzle he was dying to solve.

He shifted his gaze to Oleg, back to her, an uneasy realization dawning. Was his lovely, smoky, inscrutable Bacall actually a computer geek like her wrinkled-shirt buddy or, worse, his
girlfriend?

“Braxton,” Dima said, “this is Oleg Ivanovich, my computer wizard. He and his lovely wife, Raisa, recently moved to Las Vegas so he could be part of my team.”

She was married. To Oleg Ivanovich.

His heart sank like the
Titanic.

“And this is my vice president of sales, Frances, who is dressed like this—” he gestured to her clothes as though Braxton might not know what
dressed like this
meant “—because she’s moving into her new office today.”

Her name is Frances, not Raisa
.

He felt a nudge of relief, followed by a jolt.

She’s the vice president I’ll be spying on
.

He should’ve left earlier. So what if he got to hang close to her? He’d be deceiving the one person he wanted to impress. To think he’d spent months showing his family and friends that he was no longer a duplicitous jerk, and he’d just agreed to be one again.

But if he didn’t take this part-time gig, Dima would hire somebody else to spy on her. No way Braxton could let some other guy play snoop, looking for dirt on her to report to Dima. Unless he discovered she was some kind of criminal, he didn’t need to report squat to Dima.

He was staying.

Oleg wandered about the room, never straying far from Dima, though, like a satellite circling its planet. Dima draped his arm possessively around Frances’s shoulders.

“She is my star employee,” he said to Braxton, looking proud.

If you’re so proud of her, why are you surveilling her?

“Congratulations on your new position,” Braxton said, figuring if she was moving into her new office today, she’d just come on board.

“Thank you.”

That voice again...smokier, sultrier than he remembered. Didn’t matter what she said, she could read out loud the fine print on the back of his credit-card bills and he’d listen.

“Braxton,” Dima said to her, “will be your part-time bodyguard.”

A pucker of disapproval played on her lips.

Oh, great. He’d done something wrong
again,
although he didn’t know what. Was she still nursing a grudge over his dumb Frau Farbissina comment from days ago? Okay, to be fair, that and the Hillary-bun-and-pantsuit remarks weren’t exactly a gift basket of compliments, but still...at some point, she needed to let go, show a little forgiveness, right?

Just then, the receptionist walked into the room, diverting everyone’s attention, although the look she slid Braxton indicated she was mostly interested in his. She slinked across the room as though working a catwalk before handing a white plastic card to Dima.

“Your access card,” he said to Frances, showing it to her, “although the building is only locked from midnight to five in the morning. Please check that your name is spelled correctly.”

“It’s missing an
e,
” she said. “Should be
J-e-f-f-e-r-i-e-s.
”

So that was her name.
Frances
Jefferies
.

Dima said something in Russian to the girl, who shot him a sullen look before snatching back the card and leaving the room. He made a shooing motion to Oleg, who left, too, closing the door behind him with a solid click.

Meanwhile, two words kept flashing in his mind like a Vegas neon sign.

Morgan-Jefferies.

Oooh, boy, not good. He’d blame it on his mother’s hyphenation fantasy. He was attracted to Frances, but this boy was keeping his head on straight, his feet on terra firma. He didn’t have a clue about her history or the emotional baggage she carted around. Hell, she could be divorced with five kids for all he knew.

Or maybe she was Dima’s American girlfriend, the
real
reason he wanted her spied on, but wouldn’t say, as there was the small issue of a Russian wife and four kids back in Yekaterinburg...a buried piece of history Braxton caught in a subsequent reading of that diligence report.

Report, yeah, that was what he needed. He’d run his own background check on Frances Jefferies. Treat his heart like a spacecraft on a launch pad and protect it with rigorous, practical research before allowing it to blast off.

“Braxton will be here when you leave work today,” Dima was explaining to her, “to escort you to your car. This industrial park is no place for a woman to walk alone at night.”

Those sparkling amethyst eyes turned to him. “Thank you, Braxton.”

“Sure,” he murmured, the only word his addled brain could latch on to after hearing her say his name for the first name.
Braxton.
He never knew it could sound so good, so imbued with meaning and promise....

Focus! Ask what time she wants you back here, where you should pick her up.

“Sure?” he asked.

Her face remained immobile, although he swore her eyebrows moved together a fraction of an inch. “Yes, I’m sure.”

He nodded, trying to look like a man who would not only put his life on the line for her, but also knew how to not repeat monosyllabic words that made no sense.

A boom, like the roar of rocket booster, shattered the silence.

“Thunder!” Dima laughed. “If it is not loud, a peasant forgets to cross himself!”

Frances’s eyes widened as she watched the rain lash the window.

Braxton looked at her hands, which she’d raised at the crashing sound. It struck him as odd how they hovered midair, the tips of her slender fingers almost touching, yet not, as though denying each other the comfort of being held. He imagined what it would be like to fill that empty space, to be her solace, to know the unbearable ache of her caress.

Terra firma.

As though sensing his attention, she looked at him, her hands floating back down to her sides. Her lips parted and she took in a quick breath, her breasts rising with the effort, and when she exhaled, he swore he could hear it from across the room, like a low, needy whisper.

And then she smiled.

That simple act seemed to send his soul skyrocketing and he felt all reason leave him.

Somehow, though, his feet remained rooted to the floor in Dima’s office, but his eyes were riveted on the one person who both sent him flying and kept him grounded.

Frances Jefferies.

CHAPTER SEVEN

F
RANCES
WAS
SMILING
on the outside, but she was seething on the inside.

She watched Dmitri stroll across the room, gesturing grandly as he went on and on about Braxton’s “exceptional talents,” “impressive record,” “glowing references.” He pretended to be speaking to both Frances and Braxton, but the show was really for her. Hard-sell advertising, in her book, was just another illusion.

Even from across the room, she could see that far-off, goofy look in Braxton’s eyes as he looked at her.

Maybe on Thursday he’d found her attractive, but she’d been put together then. Nice suit, tamed hair, makeup. Today she looked like she cleaned aquarium tanks for a living. No makeup, except her gel-concealer combo. Slouchy pants that were really just baggy. She’d like to pretend she was having a bad-hair day, but it had turned into an atrocious one.

She flashed on a pickpocketing scam called the “sexy distraction.” A hot-looking girl or guy distracts the mark so the pickpocket can steal a wallet or piece of jewelry. Was Braxton a sexy distraction so she’d let down her guard? Why?

Dmitri finally stopped extolling Saint Braxton’s virtues. “Any questions, Frances?”

If Dmitri were being really honest, he’d ask,
Do you accept Braxton as your bodyguard now?
But then, the people in this room weren’t exactly known for their honesty.

This was her chance to get rid of the guy. Part of her felt badly doing this—his crushed-out-teenager antics had made her feel attractive, desirable—but this was about business and the success of her case.

“I still have my concerns about him,” she said, avoiding Braxton’s gaze, “such as his expressiveness, but you already know that. Another issue is his car. It’s, well...a rust bucket. Run-down. Bald tires. Peeling paint. I have concerns about its reliability. What if I were stuck somewhere and needed to rely on
that
for safe transportation?”

Dmitri actually looked a bit interested with that one. Good. Time to hit him with another idea she’d been mulling over.

“I just had a thought,” she said, hesitating a moment as though weighing its value. “I happen to know a bodyguard, one of the best in Vegas, actually, who’s skilled in state-of-the-art equipment
and
drives a sturdy new vehicle. He’s between jobs right now and would be honored to work as a part-time bodyguard for you.”

Charlie would
love
this idea. Her “experienced bodyguard” was a fellow investigator at Vanderbilt whom she knew had done some protection work, so he could convincingly play the part. It’d be great to have a buddy working this case with her, even a part-time one. Someone who knew the players, could brainstorm the case, was with her
inside
the enemy camp, not planted in some random warehouse office.

“You’re leasing a car for the other investigation, right?” Dmitri asked Braxton.

“Yes.”

“Then use it when you’re guarding her, too.” He turned back to Frances. “This friend of yours is Russian?”

“No.”

“Braxton worked many years with others from the Russian community—does your bodyguard know my culture as well as he does?”

“But I’m not Russian, either, so why would that matter?”

“There will be times when you are meeting with a Russian customer, my dear,” Dmitri said, ambling toward the table, his hands locked behind his back. “A bodyguard knowledgeable in Russian etiquette can save you the embarrassment of appearing rude or uncivilized....”

He paused at the chair over which she’d folded her jacket and looked at it.

“For example, Russians view it as bad manners to toss a coat over a chair. Goes back to our long winters.... Snow dripping off a coat can quickly become a small river on the floor. Braxton understands these things, and he can help you not look like an unsophisticated boor to my compatriots.”

He turned his back to her and started chatting amiably with Braxton about a Russian restaurant in Las Vegas he’d recently eaten at.

She stood there, stinging from Dmitri’s jab.
Unsophisticated boor.
What a jerk.

“When the receptionist leaves around noon each day,” Dmitri was saying to Braxton, “she locks up our office, so I suggest you wait for Frances at the main building doors....”

Almost sounded as if Dmitri didn’t want Braxton coming inside the Russian Confections office. Maybe they weren’t as tight as she’d assumed.

“All right!” Dmitri clapped his hands together. “Time for my two American employees to get to know each other. It is close to noon, yes? I suggest you ‘do lunch,’ as you Americans love to say. While eating and drinking, give each other your contact information and schedules.” He waved them out of the room. “Now go. I must meet with Oleg.”

As Braxton grabbed his coat, she walked into the reception area, which was hazy with cigarette smoke. The receptionist, puffing away, shot her a resentful look that turned into a wide red-lipped smile when Braxton appeared, his trench coat folded over his arm.

“Braxton,” she called out, “I have for you.” She waved a white envelope in the air as if it were a surrender flag.

“Thanks, Ulyana,” he said, walking over.

Frances wondered when the two of them had gotten on a first-name basis.

The receptionist leaned forward, giving him the Grand Canyon view down her neckline, as she pointed a long, red-painted fingernail at something scrawled on the envelope. “My phone number,” she said, trilling the
r
like a purr.

Subtle as a tank.

“I’ll be in the hallway,” Frances muttered, wondering if Braxton really bought into that slinky Natasha Fatale act.

Frances opened the door a little harder than she’d intended. It flew open, smacking her big toe.

“Ow!”

She blinked back sudden tears at the stabbing pain. Damned sneakers. She’d worn them today because they were water resistant, but their “durable” canvas was about as protective as wax paper.

A hand gripped her arm.

“You all right?” Braxton asked, concern etching his face.

She strangled back a painful snort.

“Door hit your foot?”

She nodded. “Big toe,” she managed to rasp.

“You like help?” the receptionist called out, sounding about as concerned as a fast-food server asking if she’d like fries with that.

“Let me get you to a chair,” Braxton said.

Frances shook her head vehemently. No way was she staying in this smoke-clogged room under the scrutiny of Uly the Benevolent.

“I can walk,” she murmured. Toe still hurt, but it was better than that first excruciating flash of death-ray pain.

“We should take a look, make sure it’s not broken—”

“No.” She hobbled a step toward the open doorway.

“Frances—”

“Need to leave,” she said between clenched teeth, taking another halting step.

He slid his arm around her back, bracing the side of his body against hers. “Lean on me.”

She felt silly, but leaning against him helped her hobble better, at least.

“How’s the pain?” he asked gently, his breath warm against her right cheek.

She ducked her head, fuzzily wondering when she’d slipped her arm around him. Her fingertips grazed the silky weave of his shirt, sensing his taut muscles underneath.

“Less.”

The image of her and Braxton, their arms wrapped around each other, maneuvering their way out the door as one was undoubtedly stoking a certain chain-smoking Russian’s green-eyed, homicidal fury.

“Shoe feeling tight?” Braxton asked.

“Not really.”

“Because if your toe’s swelling, that’s a sign you might have fractured it.”

They were in the hallway now, and she released an unconscious sigh as the cooler air soothed her heated skin. She started to pull away, but he tightened his hold, causing her to tilt forward.

For a moment, her world rocked in place as they accidentally cuddled. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, only feel. The strength of his body against hers, his masculine scent riding the woody, jasmine aroma of his aftershave, shot to some primal part of her brain, triggering a warmth she hadn’t felt in a long, long time....

“Close door!” an angry female voice yelled. “Heat go out!”

“I need to shut the door,” he murmured huskily, but didn’t move. Just stood there, those gray eyes taking her in. “Are you okay to stand?”

Took her a moment to interpret his question. She vaguely realized her toe still ached, but not as badly as before.

“Of course.” She shuddered from the chilly corridor and released a breath—her senses still reeling after that close encounter.

“It’s cold out here,” he said, pulling his coat off his arm and opening it for her.

“No...”

Too late. He wrapped his trench coat around her shoulders, enveloping her in its warmth. She looked past his shoulder at the receptionist, smoke seeping from her lips as she flipped Frances the finger.

“Be right back,” he said, oblivious to the girl-on-girl smackdown brewing.

Frances nodded, forcing a small smile. As if this undercover job didn’t have enough challenges. Now she had to deal with a psychotically jealous Russian girl who viewed her as competition.

Which would never have happened if she’d stayed focused on the case, but no, she’d let herself get caught up in a moment of... She gave herself a mental shake, not wanting to think about it, not wanting to feel, not wanting...

Sex.
Was that it?

Her libido had been dormant for so long, she’d sometimes wondered if it had taken a permanent hiatus. It hadn’t really bothered her, though, because she’d been pouring energy into so many other things—Vanderbilt, restitutions to the court, her dad and Teller, paying bills, upkeep on the condo.

Not that she hadn’t dated. Three years ago, there’d been the high-school biology teacher, Alex. A great guy, but she wasn’t into bicycling and camping, and he wasn’t into watching Coen brothers films and magic shows. Eventually they admitted they were too different and parted amicably. A year after that there’d been Justin, the homicide detective, but that “relationship” ended after two dates when his ex-wife started stalking them.

The Russian Confections door clicked shut.

Braxton carried one of the folding chairs from the waiting area and set it against the far wall, then returned to Frances.

“C’mon,” he said gently, taking her by the elbow, “let’s look at that toe.”

“This is silly—”

“Even sillier not to check it.”

He led her to the chair, his arm circling her waist, as though her toe were the most important thing in the world. Was this the sexy distraction at work? If so, he was damned good at it.

She could play along. The closer they were, the more she could learn about Dmitri, Oleg, that other investigation Braxton was working for the Russian.

She sat down and he knelt at her feet, bending over her foot, the overhead fluorescent lights casting streaks of blue in his dark hair. She’d never been one to notice men’s hair, besides the color or if the guy wore it short or long, but she found herself intrigued by the edgy style of Braxton’s—neatly trimmed on the sides, combed forward off the crown into a peak. Self-consciously, she touched her own hair, embarrassed at its willfulness today.

She shifted her gaze to his hands, observed his long, tan fingers methodically loosening the shoelace. And when he gently slipped the sneaker off her foot—her white, thin, pale foot—she wished she’d gotten a pedicure, at least painted her toenails.

“Toe doesn’t look swollen,” he said quietly, cradling her foot, “and the skin around it isn’t discolored. How’s the pain?”

“Much better,” she murmured, unsettled by the warmth of his touch.

Hands always told a story. Even when someone was lying or playing a role, unless they were a professional actor, their hands gave them away. His caress spoke of his tenderness, attention to detail, a reverence for others’ suffering.... Maybe she was reading too much into that last one, but that was what she guessed.

He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I think we can safely say you didn’t break your toe.”

Looking into his eyes, she held back, not wanting to fall into their soft, gray depths. Playing along with this sexy distraction was asking for trouble. She needed to hold on to the role-playing, the goals of the case...even as a thin shell around her heart cracked a little.

She leaned over and picked up her shoe, ignoring his offer to help. After tying the laces, she stood and headed down the hallway toward the main building doors, hearing the slap of his steps behind her.

“Frances?”

“Hmm?

“Want to do lunch?”

“Sorry,” she said over her shoulder, “don’t have time. Moving into my new office and all....” Didn’t feel right lying, even if it was the one Dmitri set up, but she had to protect her case.

“Need help?”

“No. I’m just...unpacking boxes, figuring out where I want to put stuff. Anyway, Dmitri asked me to share my schedule with you, so...”

* * *

F
OR
THE
NEXT
few minutes, Braxton walked alongside Frances, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor, listening to her itemize her schedule. She didn’t look at him once, just kept walking, looking straight ahead, explaining how she’d be going straight home tonight after work, so there was no need for his bodyguard services later tonight, obviously, and that tomorrow...

He tried to latch on to the words, but listening to her voice was like listening to music. Hers was like jazz. Slow and sultry. Sometimes he caught the faint growl of a jungle cat in it, which went with that mussed, tawny mane of hair.

“And on Thursday,” she continued, “I’ll be hosting my father’s weekly bridge card game at our place....”

She lived with her dad? Small world—he lived with his mom. Probably for different reasons, though, as she obviously made good money and could afford her own place.

“On Friday night, I’ll be cleaning the condo.”

Friday. The auction.

He slowed, pulled out his cell phone to see if Li’l Bit had responded to his text, asking if 530 meant five-thirty at Bally’s fitness center. There was a one-word answer.