Hearts in Vegas (Harlequin Superromance) (17 page)

They exchanged a few more words before Dorothy waved and headed back to the crosswalk.

Her dad got into the driver’s seat.

“Warm enough?” he asked, adjusting the heat settings.

“Yes, car’s nice and toasty,” Frances answered. “Thanks.”

“Dorothy seems very nice. Appreciate her son loaning you his coat.” He fiddled with the radio, jumping from station to station. “You like him?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound so sure.”

“Some things happened today. Tonight. We can talk about it on the way home.”

“Sure thing, baby girl. This station okay with you?”

He’d landed on some kind of new age music with airy flutes and chanting. “Isn’t there a basketball game on?”

“Yeah, this stuff is getting on my nerves, too.” He played with the dial again.

“So...you told her about your thermals?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah...after I expressed concern that her son was coatless, she said I was one to talk. So I explained I was wearing a T-shirt
and
my thermals under this sweatshirt.”

Frances wondered if that was the comment that had made Dorothy smile. Her dad might be a man of mystery when it came to his magic, but in his everyday life he was a straight-up, no-nonsense guy.

“Here we go.” He found the sports station and turned up the volume.

“Thompson on the drive...nails a three!” the announcer exclaimed against a background of music and cheers.

“Lakers versus Golden State Warriors,” her dad said, pulling out into traffic. “Should be a dynamite game.”

They drove for a few moments, listening to the rapid patter of the announcer, the yells of the crowd in the background. They drove past throngs of people on the sidewalks along the Strip, and the flaming volcano in front of the Mirage hotel and casino.

When they stopped at a red light, her dad turned down the volume and said, “I liked something Dorothy said.”

“And that was?”

“When I thanked her for helping you, she said, ‘That’s what we’re here for. Our kids.’”

An odd mix of emotions came over Frances...a momentary longing for her childhood, which had been a world where her family had shared an unshakable bond. She missed how it had been with all of them together, but at some point in the past three years she’d accepted it was gone forever.

Of course, there was still a wonderful closeness with her dad, but she didn’t want him living for her. He was barely sixty-four...had twenty, thirty more years to live...decades to discover new things, fulfill untended dreams.

That was when she realized that as much as he’d been living for her, she had been living for him, too.

And at some point, one of them would fly away.

* * *

L
ATER
AT
DINNER
, Braxton took his seat next to Grams. Dorothy, wearing a powder-blue bib apron decorated with the words
I’m Not Aging, I’m Marinating,
walked into the dining room carrying a platter with prime-rib roast and potatoes.

Val closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Releasing the breath, she murmured, “Mama D., that smells divine. I can smell the garlic...and thyme...”

“Rosemary, too,” Dorothy said, setting the platter on the table. Straightening, she looked at Val’s top. “Is that a vintage maternity top?”

“Yes. From the forties, I think.” Val smoothed her hand down the tomato-soup-red fabric. “It reminded me of something Lucille Ball would’ve worn in those early
I Love Lucy
shows.”

“Just like my ’87 BMW, my entire wardrobe is also vintage.” Richmond adjusted his polka-dot bow tie, which he’d paired with a button-down denim shirt. “Probably worth more today than when I bought it.” He picked up a long, sharp knife. “I’m ready to do the honors, Dorothy. Is Maxine sequestered?”

“We can only hope.” Braxton laughed. “Still haven’t figured out how she made her great escape.”

A smattering of chuckles as everyone remembered how Maxine, Gram’s maniacal Siamese cat, had escaped her crate right before they sat down to Thanksgiving dinner and “took down” the turkey. When Dorothy discovered the star of the meal on the kitchen floor and Maxine feasting on a leg, she’d screamed. It had taken Richmond, Drake and Braxton nearly ten minutes to shoo away the cat, who hissed and bared her fangs at them, determined to keep her quarry.

“She’s in her crate,” Grams said, adjusting the sleeve of her fuchsia caftan, “with treats. I locked my bedroom door, so even if she gets out, she’s stuck in there.”

“Richmond, are you ready to live with Maxine?” Drake asked, spooning creamed corn onto his wife’s plate.

The older man looked up from carving the roast. “In ancient times, cats were worshipped like gods. They have not forgotten that...and neither shall I.”

“See why I love the man?” Grams turned her attention to Braxton. “Darling, mind getting that lovely silver canister over there on the bar cart?” She twiddled her fingers in the general direction, the diamond heirloom ring sparkling under the small crystal chandelier. “It’s full of ice and gin. Just needs a shake.”

As he headed to the cart, Braxton saw Val exchange a look with Drake.

“Now?” she whispered.

His brother, whose wolf-gray eyes, prickly hair and brutish ways often intimidated people, suddenly looked like a shy kid who’d just been called on to give a book report.

“Everyone,” he said, wrapping his arm around the back of Val’s chair, “I’d like to share some news.”

Braxton, heading back to his chair, stopped.

Drake, blinking back emotion, looked into his wife’s eyes. “We’ve been keeping this news to ourselves for a while.... Selfish, I guess, but we wanted some time to enjoy our secret.... We’re having a boy.”

In the middle of the joyful exclamations from the rest of the family, Val cupped her hand to Drake’s cheek. “Tell them the rest,” she said gently.

Smiling sheepishly, Drake looked around the table. “But this next part we only decided last night. We’re going to name him Ben,” he said, his voice breaking, “for Benedict.”

“Ben,” Dorothy whispered, holding her hand over her heart.

Braxton had never understood when people said they’d experienced something so intense that “time stood still.” He’d accept time feeling as though it had slowed down or sped up, but standing still? What was that supposed to mean?

At that instant, he knew.

As time stood still and silent, Braxton saw the smile of their father drift across his brother’s face.

Then everyone began clapping and talking all at once. Scents of roasted meat and yeasty bread refilled the room. Braxton could once again feel the chilled canister in his grip.

“Congratulations, my darlings!” Grams said, dabbing the corner of her eye with a tissue.

Richmond resumed slicing the roast with the precision of a neurosurgeon while Val chatted to Grams about the new baby’s room. Dorothy, holding Drake’s hand, retold the story of when she and Benny learned they were having twins.

And Braxton shook the martini canister, the ice and liquid sloshing and rattling, grinning so hard his face hurt.

Finally, everyone settled down to eat, and for the next half hour the room filled with the clicks and scrapes of utensils, spurts of conversation and laughter.

Drake, waving off an offer for more roast, asked his brother, “How’d that first workout session with Li’l Bit go?”

“He got a little dizzy after a few biceps curls, but it passed. And he wasn’t happy not being able to wear his flip-flops at the gym, but otherwise, fine.”

Grams laughed, a happy sound like tinkling bells. “My, he does love wearing those thongs. I bet he has a dozen pairs.”

“Plus a brand-new pair of Turbo cross-training shoes that set me back a hundred bucks,” added Braxton, “and that’s
with
the family discount.”

Grams reached over and touched his arm. “Li’l Bit called me earlier, said he’s texted you a few times about coming over tonight to teach you some dance moves, but hasn’t heard back from you. I told him he didn’t need an invitation, he’s family, and to just come over.”

He’s family
.
Here we go again.
“Grams,” he said, trying to sound more benevolent than he felt, “Li’l Bit is a great guy, but he’s not—”

“Brax,” Val called out, “I know what can help you get some hot dance movies. Rent
Saturday Night Fever.
John Travolta does a hip-thrust action that could cook a chicken without an oven
while
lyin’ down on the dance floor!”

He loved his sister-in-law, but sometimes he wished she’d keep some thoughts to herself.

“Can’t I just stroll down the catwalk in tight jeans, no shirt and a smile on my face? Do I really have to do dance moves, too?”

“I agree,” Richmond said, nodding sagely. “Half-dressed should be sufficient.”

Everyone else grew quiet, preoccupied with eating their food. But they didn’t fool Braxton for a moment. They’d latched on to that John Travolta idea, and God only knew what it’d evolve into.

He pulled out his phone and texted a message.

Dance lessons-COME OVER NOW

He started to put his phone away when a ping sounded.

MY BROTHER, I AM THERE

He made a mental note to later tell Li’l Bit they didn’t need to text in big letters from here on out.

“Hey,” Drake said, “what’s the latest with your mystery blonde?”

“She’s still a blonde,” Braxton muttered, putting away the phone.

It’d been nice being distracted with the family dinner, talking about the baby, even the damned dance moves. But Frances? It hurt just to think about her.

He wasn’t ready to talk about what happened earlier at Bally’s because he still didn’t understand it. Oh, he knew how he’d
reacted
—what Frances would probably call
expressive
—but he didn’t comprehend why she’d agreed to spend time with him, then conspired to run away.

When he’d lived the
vida loca
life, women had been like a revolving door, and he’d been the same for them. Somebody took off? There was always another number to call, another party to go to.

But he was different now—tried to live with dignity, tried to be honest with himself and others. Which made it feel all the worse to be on the receiving end of someone else’s deceit.

“I think Lauren Bacall and Sam Spade had a spat,” Drake said. He took a pull on his beer.

“I think you should keep your thoughts to yourself,” Dorothy muttered.

“I agree,” Braxton said, shooting a mind-your-own-business look back at Drake.

“Well, I’m too old to keep my thoughts to myself,” Grams said. “Anyway, what’s so wrong with our asking about the blonde? She’s hardly a secret, plus she sounds lovely. Li’l Bit said her name’s Frances, has hair like a lion and loves
The Big Lebowski.
”

“Braxton,” his mom said, handing him the martini shaker, “would you mind making up another batch?”

“Happy to,” he said, silently thanking her for an excuse to leave the room. He needed a moment alone to settle his thoughts, calm his heart. Yeah, his big ol’ former-bad-boy heart. Who woulda thought it would crack?

“The Big Lebowski?”
Drake snorted a laugh. “Lauren Bacall loves that stoner flick?”

“She’s a fan of the Coen brothers’
movies,
” Braxton corrected, heading to the kitchen, “not
stoner flicks.
”

“Defending your lady’s taste, Braxy Boy?” Drake laughed, followed by “Ouch!” He looked at Val, who demurely took a bite of her creamed corn.

Braxton didn’t respond as he left the room, but in his mind that word
defending
released a torrent of thoughts.

Even as a kid, he had wanted to be a defender, a protector, like James Bond or Batman. Maybe that stemmed from his dad, who said he chose to be a cop and work in security because he wanted to “be the guy who ran toward danger, not away from it.”
Or his mom, who volunteered to be a human-rights advocate for his dad’s casino union because she wanted to “help the employees articulate their needs for better working conditions.”

Funny how she’d always disapproved of his dad’s, brother’s and his investigative and security careers, all defenders in a certain sense, when she had the same instinct, too.

Braxton filled the shaker with ice, gin and a splash of vermouth. After securing the lid, he shook the canister, looking out the far kitchen window at the moon hanging in the dark sky, so bright and alone.

Made him think of Frances.

It dawned on him that the part-time bodyguard gig was a far better job offer than a Security Director position because he got the role he really wanted. To be her defender, the man she turned to first, the guy who never let her down.

Despite everything, he still wanted to play that role in Frances’s life.

But was it too late?

* * *

B
RAXTON
WALKED
BACK
into the dining room with the martini shaker and stopped.

His mother must have said there were to be no more questions about Frances because they all stared back at him with “we’re not talking about
her
” looks in their eyes.

Well, he was going to change that because now
he
was ready.

“I want to apologize for being uptight about your questions. Of course you’re curious about Frances. So am I, to tell the truth. But I don’t need to get...”

“Meaner than a chicken,” Val offered.

Another chicken comment. Was that a pregnancy thing or did he inspire that image for some reason? He hoped the former because his ego couldn’t withstand the latter, especially now that he hoped for a do-over with Frances.

“And I want to apologize,” Drake said, his voice low and somber, “for being a shithead.”

“Which time?” Braxton asked.

“My brother, the comic,” Drake muttered. “For making that ‘defending your lady’s taste in movies’ crack. Sorry.”

“Apology accepted. On the condition you watch a Coen brothers movie sometime.”

“Bro, don’t do this to me.”

“Didn’t say it has to be
The Big Lebowski.
”