License to Thrill (6 page)

“I don’t believe you have a gun. Show me.”

“You think I’m gonna whip it out in public?”

Defiantly, Nolan crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Elvis sighed. “Okay, let’s try this another way. If you want to see the Oscar files, then you’re going to have to come with me.”

Nolan’s gut squeezed. How did Elvis know about the stolen files? “What?”

“Yep. Believe me when I say I can make or break you, pal. Now move.”

Nolan shook his head. Nothing made any sense. He had to be dreaming. Otherwise, all proof pointed to the fact that he and Maybelline were being kidnapped by the King of Rock and Roll.

CHAPTER 4

W
here to now?”

Charlee slid a glance over at Mason, amazed he’d asked her opinion.

He sat ramrod-straight, his seat belt snugly fastened around his trim waist, his eyes locked on the unruly Vegas Strip traffic. After his lady and gentleman crack about the way she climbed into her car, she’d pegged him as a control freak who preferred his women submissive and relegated to a pedestal.

She grinned to herself, amused at how uptight he was. She’d bet anything he rolled his toothpaste tube up from the bottom instead of squeezing it in the middle like she did. No, wait. He was probably so regimented he used a toothpaste dispenser and carefully measured out each drop. She’d wager a month’s pay that he labeled his possessions, hated for the food on his plate to touch, and always counted his change to make sure he’d gotten back the correct amount.

Good thing they wouldn’t be together long. She would drive him crazy with the way she stuffed underwear in the same drawer with socks, ate standing over the kitchen sink, and tossed her change in the bottom of her purse without ever looking at it.

“You’re asking my opinion?”

“You are the private investigator.”

“Somehow I got the impression you have a hard time letting other people take charge.”

His smile was forced. “Not when the other person has more information. Vegas is your home turf. You’re more than welcome to step up to the plate.”

“Thank you. I will. We’re going to see someone who might have an idea where our grandparents are,” she said.

“Oh?” Mason leaned closer and she caught a whiff of his sandalwood soap. She wondered if he tasted as clean as he smelled. “Who?”

Charlee’s mistrustful nature had her biting her bottom lip and hesitating before revealing any more information than absolutely necessary. After all, what did she know about the guy other than the fact he dazzled her like dynamite and kicked-ass at tae kwon do?

In and of itself, that fact was suspicious. How many spoiled, rich pretty boys possessed the discipline for advanced martial arts?

Once she thought about it, Charlee realized everything had been hunky-dory in her life until he’d shown up. Now Maybelline was missing, her place had been ransacked, and someone had shot at them.

What if he had lied about his identity? He could be anyone. A hit man or an undercover cop or even, heaven forbid, an IRS agent. Plenty of people would gladly line up to take pot shots at IRS agents.

“Charlee?” he prodded, more irritating than a pebble in her boot. “Who are we going to see?”

Don’t tell him a damned thing.

She pretended to concentrate on navigating the Corvette around a slow-moving eighteen-wheeler, but he didn’t buy her stall tactics.

“If the matter concerns my grandfather, I have a right to know.”

As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t disagree. After all, she had no real reason to believe Mason was anything other than what he claimed. Charlee reluctantly relented.

“We’re going to see my father.”

“From the tightness in your voice I’m guessing you two don’t get along so well.”

“You might say that.” Charlee gripped the steering wheel far tighter than necessary. “Let’s just hope my old man isn’t involved in what’s going on between our grandparents.”

“Care to elaborate?”

Charlee took a deep breath. “No.”

To her surprise, he nodded and said, “Fair enough.”

Mason certainly didn’t seem like the sort of guy to let things pass easily and Charlee shot him a pensive glance. Maybe something in her body language warned him off.

Whenever Elwood popped into her brain, she couldn’t help tensing up. She understood even without the help of a Freudian psychologist that the roots of her prejudice against wealthy, long-legged, matinee-idol-smiling, beard-stubble-sporting men started with her father.

Mason’s decision not to pressure her had a tongueloosening effect. Charlee had no idea what possessed her but she found herself saying, “Don’t get me wrong. I love my father. I mean he
is
my father after all, but a stand-up guy he ain’t.”

“We all have family issues.”

Charlee laughed. “Yeah. Well, some of us have issues and then some of us have
issues.”

“Rotten childhood?”

“Rotten isn’t the word for it.”

Why was she yammering like an Oprah guest? She wasn’t a poor-me-I-never-got-over-being-mistreated-by-my-parent type. And she most certainly wasn’t a whiner.

She pressed the tip of her tongue against the roof of her mouth to keep from speaking, but then Mason reached over, flicked off the radio, and casually let his fingers trail over the back of her hand. She didn’t know if he’d touched her on purpose or not, but a hint of sympathy was all it took. How truly pathetic was she? Words erupted from her in a mindless purge of verbiage.

“Once upon a time, my father, Elwood Sikes, was the best Elvis impersonator in Vegas.” Charlee left the Strip and downshifted as she slowed for a yield sign. “This wasn’t long after the real Elvis died and Elwood’s career blazed hot, hot, hot.”

“Hmmm.”

“Oh, he was a charming bastard. Had tons of women flocking after him, which was the main reason my mother didn’t marry him even though she was pregnant with me. She might have been a naive Louisiana Cajun in over her head in sin city, but she wasn’t dumb.”

Charlee waved a hand. Had she ever told her story to anyone? She couldn’t remember. She wanted to shut up, to keep her private life private, but spewing out her anger felt so good, she just kept blabbing.

“Anyway, my father fell for his own publicity hype. He believed the money he raked in would last forever. He bought a pink Cadillac and a fancy house with an Olympic-sized swimming pool and he wore diamond rings on every finger. The typical cliché. I’m told he bought me tons of toys but I don’t remember.”

“It must have been a very exciting time for him,” Mason said.

“Too exciting. He started gambling. Caught the fever and lost every penny. After that he became real friendly with the whiskey bottle and they canned him from the Elvis gig for showing up drunk. Everything was repossessed. He lost it all. The money, the house, the women. He simply couldn’t deal with the failure. He’s spent the rest of his life trying to get it back by chasing get-rich-quick schemes and getting thrown in jail on a semiregular basis.” Charlee sighed. “And I’ve spent a small mint bailing him out.”

Mason ticked his tongue in sympathy.

“He littered my childhood with a string of broken promises. One time he swore he’d take me to McDonald’s for my fifth birthday. My mother dressed me up in a pink satin dress and black patent leather Mary Janes. I can still remember the dress had a white sash with blue flowers. I waited and I waited and I waited, but Elwood never came.”

“Must have been pretty difficult for you.”

Charlee shook her head in denial. “Hell, I was used to him standing me up. But his reappearing acts were even worse. He’d show up, usually drunk, with some big-haired, big-chested bimbo who he expected me to call Mama on his arm and a wad of ill-gotten cash in his pocket.”

“I can’t even imagine.”

“Worst thing, after my mother died, Elwood just dumped me on Maybelline. Not that I regret being raised by my grandmother,” she added swiftly. “It’s just I’d always hoped…” she trailed off.

A fire-engine siren shrieked nearby. Thank God for the interruption, otherwise she might have told him every sordid detail of her painful past.

“Better pull over,” Mason advised. “I think they’re coming this way.”

She looked in the rearview mirror at the same time the fire truck rounded the corner. Startled, she jerked to a stop at the curb and realized her hands were shaking. Not from the unexpected arrival of the emergency vehicle but from the sheer volume of her verbal diarrhea. She could not have shocked herself more if she’d stripped off her shirt and flashed him her boobies.

The car idled softly, accentuating the quietness between them.

“Are you okay?” Mason asked, his voice heavy with concern. He touched her again and there was no mistaking the intent this time—firmer, lingering, his thumb gently rubbing her knuckles.

Charlee jerked her hand away and looked into his face. She stared at his wide, generous mouth and found herself wondering if he was a good kisser. Startled, she focused her gaze on the road.

An odd twinge twisted through her. A strange mix of anxiety, gratitude, and uncertainty.

What in the hell was going on here?

You’re just worried about Maybelline. Remember, you’re highly susceptible to brown-eyed, handsome men. Nail your guard back up, pronto.

A second fire truck zoomed by and then a third.

Struggling to appear nonchalant, Charlee tugged her hand out from under Mason’s and slowly pulled the Corvette back into traffic. She smelled smoke in the air and the odor thickened the closer they came to the rundown apartment complex where her father lived.

By the time they turned onto her father’s block, Charlee’s heart hammered hard even before she spotted the flames licking brightly against the night sky. Dread weighed her down at the sight of firemen scurrying across the lawn with fire hoses and axes.

Apartment residents stood to one side staring owleyed as their homes flashed in a crescendo of sparks. Gawkers stopped to rubberneck.

From the corner of her eye, Charlee spied a white, four-door Chevy Malibu easing slowly down the street. She parked in the lot of a nearby dry cleaners and, without even thinking about Mason, climbed out of the car and beelined over to the small apartment complex.

Please let Elwood be okay,
she prayed.

She tried to approach one of the firemen, but he brusquely waved her off. A ruddy-faced police officer with a Boston accent came over to escort her across the street with the other bystanders.

“This way, miss.”

“My father,” she said. “He lives in apartment 16c.”

“Everyone’s been evacuated. There’ve been no casualties. If your father is here, he’ll be in the crowd. Now step aside.”

“What happened?” Charlee fisted her hands. “I have a right to know.”

“Step aside,” the policeman repeated with a stern frown.

The smoke, the fire, the heat, the noise, and the chaos overwhelmed her.

Dammit, Elwood, where are you?

She wanted to argue with the cop, to demand he tell her something more, but she couldn’t find her tongue. She simply stared at the dramatic flames scampering across the roof of the apartment building and she felt all the courage drain from her body.

“Excuse me, officer,” Mason interrupted. He moved closer to the man, lowered his head, and spoke so low Charlee couldn’t hear what he said.

What magic he wrought, she did not know, but a few minutes later he walked over and took her elbow. “Let’s go back to the car.”

“Why? I want to know what’s happening.”

“Just do as I say.”

“Listen here, Gentry…” Charlee balked, grateful to have someone to take her anxiety out on.

“Now is not the time to straddle your high horse. I’ve got unfortunate news.”

“What?” Her contrariness vanished. She gripped Mason’s forearm and imagined the worst.

“The fire originated in your father’s apartment.”

Charlee blinked. “Is he…hurt?”

Mason shook his head. “The apartment was empty when the firemen arrived.”

“Thank God.”

“They believe the fire was arson.”

“Arson?”

“I hate to tell you, but the police suspect your father intentionally started the blaze.”

Charlee sank into the chair in her office and forced herself not to bite her fingernails. She balled her hands into fists and dropped them into her lap. She absolutely refused to jump to conclusions about Elwood. Just because his apartment caught fire didn’t mean he was up to his old tricks.

Believe that and there’s a bridge in Brooklyn someone is dying to sell you.

Sighing, she flicked on Maybelline’s computer and leaned back in the chair as she waited for the hard drive to boot up.

After leaving the scene of the fire, Mason had insisted on going back to her grandmother’s trailer to help her clean up the mess and repair the broken bedroom windowpane. She’d been touched by his offer and then angry with herself for going all soft and gushy inside just because some guy did a decent thing.

Plus, she couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hard, lean back—all sinewy and masculine—had felt beneath her when she’d knocked him to the floor and saved him from the gunman’s bullet. Even now, hours later, the memory of his body caused the moisture to evaporate from her mouth and her pulse to speed up.

She wasn’t falling for his charms. No how. No way. She understood that old song and dance. Guys were oh-so-delightful at first, at least until they landed you in their beds. After they got what they wanted, it was so long, Charlee, been nice knowing you, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

It was closing in on two
A.M.
but she was too wired to sleep. After dropping Mason off at the Bellagio, she schlepped down to the office to hunt through Maybelline’s files in search of clues.

But instead of probing the database on the hard drive, she found herself logging onto the Internet. She never consciously decided to Google him, but the next thing she knew, there she was, typing Mason’s name into the search engine.

And up popped a string of references.