Werewolf in Las Vegas (11 page)

“Let me set your mind at ease, Mr. Thatcher. I have no intention of getting involved with Luke. I'm here as an intermediary between him and his sister. As for my brother, I spoke with him today. He and Cynthia are good friends, but that's it. He's the one who asked me if I'd continue to advocate for Cynthia's dancing ambitions, so here I am.” She spread her arms. “The resident advocate.”

Amusement glinted in his eyes. “I'm grateful to you for that. I'm most distressed when Luke and Cynthia are at odds.”

“No one likes to see their children fight.”

“Precisely.”

“I can't guarantee results on that score, but you can stop worrying that either of them will end up mating with a Were.”

“I'm not sure that
worry
is the correct word,” he said. “I've come to respect many things about humans.”

That's when she realized she might have jumped to conclusions about him. “How do you stand on the Were-human issue, Mr. Thatcher?”

“That discussion would take far too long, madam. It's time I left you to get settled in.”

“But we'll talk again?”

“I'm counting on it.”

“Friends?”

“More than that. Allies.”

“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher.” She didn't know how this drama would play out, but having Mr. Thatcher as an ally was a bonus she hadn't expected.

Luke had convinced himself that he didn't mind straightening out personnel issues when he was handy. Dalton Industries had a personnel manager with regular office hours, but the staff at the Silver Crescent had become used to his dad being available for any unexpected after-hours problems. Luke had done his best to uphold that tradition.

As he stood in the hotel kitchen, where tempers steamed along with the giant kettles of food, he wondered if he should follow his instincts and delegate late-night staff disagreements to someone else. Just because his father had been something of a micromanager didn't mean he had to keep that up. He'd copied Angus's style because it had seemed like the easiest way to make the transition, and maybe it was time for some things to change.

His father hadn't been dealing with Cynthia in full rebellion mode. She'd been a daddy's girl who'd gone along with his wishes. And his father had been lucky enough to have a wife who'd adored him and smoothed his path whenever possible.

Luke wasn't in that position. Beginning tomorrow, he'd make some alterations to the chain of command. Someone else would be called in for disputes like this instead of him. For now, though, he was it.

A simple mistake had turned into World War III, with two waiters squaring off in the kitchen, fists raised and insults flying. Luke had moved between them. Fortunately, they both decided not to hit the CEO.

Luke hadn't been positive they would come to that conclusion, and he was relieved when they backed off, muttering about the unfairness of it all. He'd rather not go upstairs with a shiner. Sorting through the problem took more time than he wanted to give it and only solidified his decision to put someone else in charge of after-hours staff issues.

He'd find a person with conflict-management skills because he couldn't afford to have his waiters brawling in the kitchen. They could make a hell of a mess in there.

After sending both waiters home, he walked to the elevator and used his card key to access the button for the penthouse. As the wood-paneled elevator rose, so did his spirits. He took off his jacket and hooked it over his shoulder.

He was grateful to Giselle for agreeing to hang out with him in the penthouse while he waited for Cynthia's next move. He'd hate to think of the squirrel cage his mind would become without her steadying influence. Yes, she called him on his behavior sometimes, and he didn't always appreciate that, but she was helping him see Cynthia in a different light. Apparently he needed to.

He found Giselle in the kitchen looking through cupboards.

She turned, obviously hearing him come in. “Do you suppose there's any tea here?”

“I'm sure there is.” He walked over to the drawer where his mother had kept her stash and opened it. Colorful tins of loose tea and boxes of tea bags filled the drawer. “Take your pick.”

“Awesome. Thanks.”

“There's one of those electric kettles in a cupboard, too.” He opened a few cabinets and located it. “My mother loves tea. Or she used to. I can't say if she still does.”

“Well, I do, so this is great.” She glanced at him. “Want a cup?”

“No, thanks. I'm strictly a coffee guy. Think I'll make some.” As they moved around the kitchen together, he had the oddest feeling of domesticity. It seemed perfectly natural for them to be fixing their respective beverages together, as if they'd done it hundreds of times before.

“How did the issue in the kitchen turn out?”

He almost laughed. The question sounded a lot like, “How was your day?” But he decided not to make a point of their cozy little setup. He kind of liked this feeling and didn't want to ruin it.

“It's handled for now,” he said. “I need to hire somebody to take care of these after-hours problems. My dad used to say he was right here so he might as well deal with it, but he enjoyed wading into those issues. I don't.”

“Don't blame you.” While the water heated in the electric teakettle, she contemplated the drawerful of tea choices. “I like tea, but even I don't have a supply like this.”

“My dad was always coming home with something new for her to try. He got a kick out of surprising her with some exotic new blend. After he died, she stopped drinking it. I hope she's started again. I hate to think she's given up everything that reminds her of him.”

“Maybe I'll try this.” She picked up a tin of loose tea. Then she paused. “Am I stirring up sad memories for you?”

He turned on the coffeemaker and looked at her standing beside the tea drawer. His mother used to stand there debating just like that. “Nope. I'm happy that someone appreciates the selection the way she used to.” He snapped his fingers as he remembered what else was in the cupboard. “You'll need a teapot and a tea strainer of some kind.”

“I will, but are you
sure
I'm not trampling in your memory garden by doing this?”

“If anything, you're pulling up the weeds. This stuff needs to be used.” He opened a cupboard above the counter, where several teapots were lined up. Most had elaborately painted designs of flowers or landscapes.

But he took down his mother's favorite, a bright yellow one that held about two cups' worth. “This might not be the prettiest of the bunch, but she loved it because of the strainer inside.” He handed it to Giselle.

She took it from him carefully, almost reverently. “Thank you.”

“The cupboard next to that has all kinds of mugs and teacups. Help yourself.” If anyone had told him he'd be having a great time helping a woman make tea in what used to be his mother's kitchen, he would have laughed. Sharing a bottle of champagne in the bedroom was more his style.

But at the moment, he wouldn't change a thing. In spite of his worry about Cynthia, he felt relaxed and happy for the first time in . . . well, since December twenty-fifth, to be exact.

“Did Mr. Thatcher put you in the beach room?”

“He did.” She finished measuring the tea into the pot, snapped the lid back on the tin, and returned it to the drawer. “It's very pretty.”

“It used to be Cynthia's, but when she moved out, my mom redecorated.”

Giselle poured hot water into the pot. “What did it look like before? Or do I even have to ask?”

“Probably not.”

“Dance themed?” She glanced at the clock on the stove, no doubt to time her tea.

“Yep. Posters of famous dancers, collages of programs and ticket stubs from shows she'd seen. The color scheme was dramatic—red, black, and silver.” He smiled, remembering how she'd had to fight for those colors. No wonder she'd thought his white bedroom was boring.

Giselle leaned against the counter. “Meanwhile, what were you up to?”

He shrugged. “The usual. I got a degree in business, came home, and started helping my dad. Not very interesting.”

“No missteps? No rebellious behavior?”

“I wouldn't say that. I had my share of wild nights with my buddies. Made some insensitive mistakes with the women I dated.” He lobbed a question in her direction to see if she'd give him a decent answer. “How about you?”

“Not very fascinating, I'm afraid. I majored in finance so I could eventually become the CFO of the family business.” She smiled. “I've had a few wild nights with my buddies, too.”

“And then you found Mr. Right?”

She blinked. “What makes you say that?”

“Maybe I was imagining it, but a few times I thought you looked at me as if you might be sort of interested. Then you seemed to catch yourself, as if you couldn't go there. I assumed there's someone back home.”

“Oh.” She met his gaze, but she didn't confirm or deny.

He couldn't push for the information, either. She'd agreed to this arrangement with the understanding there would be none of that. “Never mind,” he said. “Shouldn't have brought it up.”

“No, you shouldn't have.”

“I'm sorry.” He let out a breath. They needed a change of venue, and the small kitchen table and chairs seemed too cozy. “Let's take our tea and coffee into the living room and talk about something else. I like having you here, and I don't want to mess that up.”

“Neither do I,” she said gently. “I'm enjoying being here.”

“You are? Really? You're not just tolerating the situation, and me, for your brother's sake?”

“No, I'm not. Now that I know you a little better, I understand why you feel so protective toward your sister. I'm not condoning the overprotective part, but I really do see how this whole situation developed.” She checked the time again and picked up the teapot.

“Thanks, I think.”

“Besides that, you've shown remarkable good humor with the water tricks. I've seen firsthand how ticked off someone can get over those pranks, and you're letting it roll off your back. That's great.” She finished pouring her tea.

“That sounded like an actual compliment.”

“It was.”

“On that positive note, I'll pour myself a cup of coffee and we can toast our developing friendship.”

She laughed. “Sure, we can do that. Let's move to the living room. I'm hoping you'll open that other envelope. If Cynthia went to that much trouble, we need to look at what's inside.”

“You're right.” And he would open it, now that she was here. The psychic punch would be easier to handle with Giselle around.

•   •   •

As they went into the living room, Giselle thought Luke seemed to be buying her apparent lack of interest in him, and she was grateful for that. He thought she had somebody back home, and she was willing to let him make that assumption, too. Just so he didn't guess the truth, that she was more drawn to him with every second that passed.

Sure, he was a gorgeous man. She'd noticed that right off the bat. But she'd thought his overprotective behavior toward his sister would keep her from being the least bit attracted to this off-limits human male. Now, however, she had a clearer picture of why he was that way.

He hadn't said that his parents had been so absorbed in each other that they hadn't always known what their kids were up to. Yet she had the strong feeling that might have been the case. Even if it hadn't been, a psychic connection with his sister made him superconscious of when she might be in danger. Maybe the link wasn't as strong now that they were both adults, but he'd maintained the habit of watchfulness.

He did that not because he was a controlling jerk, which she'd first supposed, but because he'd considered it his job ever since he'd fished her out of the swimming pool and saved her life. He might doubt that anyone else cared as much as he did. That was touching, although he had to realize that she now cared about herself, which meant he could ease up on his constant watchfulness.

She thought he might be getting there. His struggle to evolve had captured her, too. He was beginning to see that if he didn't, he'd lose his relationship with his sister, and she was the most important person in the world to him. Judging from her concerted effort to make him accept her new plan, the feeling was mutual.

So now, as Giselle lowered herself to the plump cushions of the sectional, being careful not to spill her mug of tea, she looked across at the guy sitting a few feet away and saw a loving, caring man. When he'd walked into the kitchen earlier, her heart had leaped with pleasure to see him. He'd looked a little mussed, a little tired. She fought the urge to go over and wrap her arms around him.

He set his mug on the coffee table and picked up the envelope lying there. “So you want to see what's in here?”

“I do.”

He nudged open the flap. “Considering what song the gondolier sang to us, I have a good idea which picture this is. She probably intended for me to see it before we went on that ride. A preview of what was to come.” He pulled it out. “Yep.”

“What is it?”

He handed her the eight-by-ten. “That's what she wore for her ‘I Hope You Dance' solo when she was a freshman in high school.”

Giselle gazed at the golden-haired young woman who was almost too beautiful to be real. She was dressed in a knee-length ballet gown that complemented her slender, just-beginning-to-bloom figure.

“There's something else in here.” He pulled out what looked like a program. “Oh, man. She took this out of her collection of souvenirs. I can't believe she risked giving it to some stranger.” He unfolded the program.

Giselle gazed at him and wondered if he even remembered she was in the room. He seemed transported to another place, another time.

“She had everyone in her dance class autograph this, and the teacher, of course,” he said. “And then . . .” He paused and took a shaky breath. “She asked my parents and me to sign it. She said she couldn't have danced the solo without our support.” He stared at the program for a moment longer, and then laid it on the coffee table. His hand trembled slightly when he did that. “Excuse me. I'll be back in a minute.”

Giselle sat cradling her tea mug and wondering what to do. Obviously, he was overcome by emotion and didn't want her to see that. If she were smart, she'd stay right where she was until he composed himself and returned to the living room.

Obviously, she wasn't all that smart. She set down her tea and stood. She'd been the one who'd urged him to open that envelope. He shouldn't have to deal with the consequences by himself.

He'd gone through a door that she assumed led to his bedroom. The room was dim, but she saw him, his hands braced against a low dresser. Although he made no sound, his shoulders quivered.

Walking over to him, she placed her hand on his back.

He jerked as if she'd laid a hot iron there. His choked response was definite. “No.”

“Luke.”

“Go.”

“I want to help.”

He turned, and the glow from the lights of Vegas revealed the tears glistening on his cheeks. “They told me I needed to cry,” he said in a thick voice. “I couldn't. Until now.”