Werewolf in Las Vegas (6 page)

“If you insist.” She paused on the way out. “Is that your mom when she was still performing?” She gestured to a studio shot of his mother dressed in bright red sequins and feathers. Her headdress was nearly as tall as she was.

“That was a publicity shot she had taken right before she met my dad. She'd considered going to Hollywood and trying her luck out there.”

“But instead she married your father.”

“She did, and never regretted it. He was the love of her life.”

“Cynthia looks a lot like her.”

“I know, and people tell her that. I think it's part of the problem.” He sighed. “Enough family history.” He gestured toward the doorway. “After you.”

With one more glance at his mother's picture, Giselle left the gallery and walked out to the living room. Once there, she turned to him. “What would you have done if the poker game had gone the other way and you'd lost this?” She spread her arms to encompass the elegant living space with its stunning view.

“I don't know.” He'd played that scenario over in his head many times in the days leading up to the game. “I'd like to think I would have recovered and forgiven myself for being so reckless. But I don't know if I would have. I'm grateful that it didn't turn out that way.”

“But you allowed yourself to take that risk, knowing that it could turn into a defeat for you.”

He nodded. “No matter what happened, I wouldn't have to spend my days looking at a Cartwright-owned property and thinking about the feud that probably killed my dad. His doctors told him to stop obsessing over Harrison Cartwright because it was bad for his heart. But he'd been betrayed by his best friend, and he never got over it. Every time I looked at that bar, I was reminded of that. So I set up the poker game.”

She gazed at the richly patterned carpet at her feet. Finally she looked up. “That's all Cynthia wants, Luke. To have that kind of control over her destiny.”

He met her gaze and couldn't help smiling. “You're good, Giselle. I didn't even see that one coming. Nice try, but the two situations are completely different.”

“I don't agree.”

“Cynthia's a semester away from graduation. Her brain is fine-tuned right now, in the groove. She'll never be more ready to finish that degree than she is now. If she puts it off for a few years, I'm afraid she'll struggle like crazy to get back up to speed academically.”

“Or she might come back more focused than ever and blow away the younger students.”

“Dancing is like any other sport. It's great when you're young and athletic, but it's not a career for a lifetime.”

“So what? I'm not very familiar with this field, but it seems to me she could teach, or choreograph productions, or—”

“Okay, sure.” He gazed out at the kaleidoscope that was Vegas. “But I think she'd be bored to tears living the life my mother had.”

Giselle stood there without saying anything for several seconds. Finally she spoke. “Okay, I get it.”

He looked at her in surprise. “What do you get, exactly?”

“You see your sister trying to follow in your mom's footsteps without realizing she's nothing like your mom, even though she looks like her. You think she's liable to end up being miserable from the lack of mental stimulation.”

“Yes, exactly! So how do I—” The doorbell chimed. “We can talk about it later. Dinner's here.” But elation filled him. Giselle finally understood why he was so determined to get Cynthia back on track. Although he'd met her only a couple hours earlier, he no longer felt alone in his quest.

A portly gentleman with all the bearing of an English butler rolled a double-tiered cart through the living area and over to the linen-covered dining table by the west window. Giselle breathed in the aroma of grilled steak, roasted veggies, and . . . werewolf?

For one electric moment, her gaze met that of the formally dressed man in his sixties. No doubt about it—the butler was a werewolf. She was dying to know the story behind this bizarre situation but figured she wouldn't be getting it soon.

“Greetings, Mr. Thatcher!” Luke seemed really happy to see him. “I'd like you to meet Giselle Landry from San Francisco. Giselle, Mr. Thatcher has been serving our family for . . . is it almost twenty years now?” He glanced at the butler.

“Almost, sir.” He bowed in Giselle's direction. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Landry.”

“Same here, Mr. Thatcher.” The butler hadn't reacted to her last name, and yet if he was Were, he would know the Landry pack was one of the most powerful in the Bay Area. He'd probably spent twenty years learning to keep his expression neutral and his mouth shut. She wondered how he fit into the Cartwright/Dalton history. “Are you originally from London?”

“Hertfordshire, madam.”

“You've brought us some heavenly smelling food.”

“I daresay you'll enjoy it.” He started unloading the contents of the cart onto the table. “Our chef is the best in the state.”

“And he's not happy because I order pizza half the time,” Luke said.

“He makes you a very good pizza, sir.” Mr. Thatcher finished arranging everything on the table and took a lighter out of his pocket. “But he was pleased to get this order tonight.” He lit the white tapers sitting in heavy silver candlesticks.

Luke winked at Giselle. “Guess I'll have to make him happy more often. I'd hate to lose the guy because he was sick of making pizza.”

“After this meal, sir, you'll give up on pizza for good.” With the kind of flourish that he'd probably perfected after years of service, Mr. Thatcher whisked the silver domes away, revealing two carefully arranged plates, each bearing a filet, grilled asparagus, and an artfully spooned serving of mashed root vegetables. A basket of bread, two pieces of chocolate mousse cake, and two glasses of ruby-colored wine completed the meal.

Giselle stifled a moan of pleasure. She hadn't realized how hungry she was. It was all she could do not to yank out a chair and sit down so they could get started.

“Will there be anything else, sir?” Mr. Thatcher stood poised beside the cart, prepared to roll it out the door.

Luke glanced at her. “Giselle? Anything more you need to go with the meal?”

“Not a thing.” Except she'd love to know why a Were had served it to them, but she couldn't very well ask
that.
“This is a feast.”

“Then I guess we're all set, Mr. Thatcher. Thank you.”

“Have a great evening, sir. Just call when you're finished and want me to clear.” With another slight bow, he rolled the cart into the foyer and let himself out.

“He's fabulous,” Giselle said after he'd left. “So he's been with your family for almost twenty years?”

“Guess so. I've lost track of it, but I'm sure my dad knew. Twenty years ago he was finally doing well enough to start hiring live-in servants. According to my dad, Harrison Cartwright recommended Mr. Thatcher for the job.”

“Now, that's fascinating.” She had to say something to keep her jaw from dropping in amazement. Had Harrison Cartwright installed a spy in Angus Dalton's household?

That made no sense, because twenty years ago Harrison and Angus had been the best of friends. Yet she could think of no other explanation. Normally werewolf live-in servants preferred to work for Weres. Working for humans didn't give them enough privacy when they wanted to shift and get some wolf-style exercise.

She wondered if Mr. Thatcher had made do with trips to Howlin' at the Moon and its underground forest. Now that would be closed to him, too. “Does he have a first name?”

Luke laughed and moved over to the table. “It's Melvin. But I honestly didn't know that until I started signing his paychecks in January. He's always been Mr. Thatcher. Incredibly proper, but incredibly loyal. I was afraid my mother would ask him to go to France with her, but she didn't, thank God. Ready to eat?”

“You know it.” Deciding to think about the werewolf/butler/spy thing later, she sat down and sighed in appreciation. “This really is terrific, Luke.
I hope I won't embarrass myself by attacking this food.”

“Please do.” He picked up his wineglass. “But first let's toast.”

“What are we toasting?”

“I haven't figured that out. My family is big into toasting, though, so it's a habit with me.” His blue gaze warmed as he smiled at her. “I suppose a toast between the two of us could get complicated.”

“It could. Your toast might be something I can't agree with.”

“Then . . . here's to success.”

She chuckled. “That's ambiguous enough, I guess. To success.” She touched her glass to his and drank. The wine was pleasantly dry, the perfect complement to a steak dinner. “Nice.”

“Glad it suits you. I just thought of another toast.”

“Okay.”

“To a cooperative effort as we work through our problems.”

“I'll drink to that.” She touched her glass to his again and then took another sip. She met his gaze and felt a tug of sexual awareness. Not good. “I keep thinking about that picture of you with the Mickey Mouse ears.” She wasn't really, but maybe if she could, it would squash her growing interest in him.

He rolled his eyes. “Please don't.”

“If you really hate it that much, you could take it down, couldn't you?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

His expression softened. “Because my mom and dad loved that picture.”

“Oh.” And every time he looked at it, he remembered that. Her heart squeezed.

He cleared his throat. “Hey, let's not let this get cold. Dig in.”

“You bet.” With a quick smile, she picked up her fork and steak knife. But he'd touched her with that comment about the picture. She'd have to watch herself. She didn't believe in getting involved with any human male, and certainly not one whose name was anathema to Weres.

Luke had just made his first cut into his steak when his phone chimed.

Giselle kept eating, but she had a bad feeling about that chime and the future of her amazing meal.

Laying his knife and fork back on the plate, Luke took his phone out and checked the screen. “Text from Cynthia.”

“And?”

“Looks like another damned riddle.” He glanced from his phone to his plate.

“We can eat quickly while we figure it out.” Giselle knew she wouldn't enjoy the meal as thoroughly because now they'd be focused on Cynthia's next step, but she was determined to eat it. She took a bite of steak, chewed quickly, and swallowed. It was incredible, as she'd expected it would be. “Lay the riddle on me, Dalton. Let's see what we've got.”

“I'll read it to you in a minute. First let me look at this other text from Owen.”

“I'm going to keep eating, and it's just a suggestion, but I would do the same if I were you.”

“Yeah, you're right.” He scooped up a forkful of mashed root vegetables. “I'll check his message in a minute. I'm praying he's located her and we can give up this wild-goose chase.”

“What's he supposed to do if he finds her? I hope you didn't tell him to hold her prisoner.”

“No.” He looked up quickly from his plate. “Despite what you think, I realize this should be handled diplomatically. Owen's not supposed to let her know he's around. If he sees her, he reports that to me.”

“Good. And then what?”

“I have to hope she'll stay in one place long enough for me to get there and talk with her.”

She chewed and swallowed. “Do you know what you're going to say to her?”

“I'm working on it. Do you know what you plan to say to Bryce?” Luke tackled more of his food.

“Pretty much. First I'm going to find out if he truly doesn't want to take over from our dad. If he doesn't, then I have to hope he'll come back anyway. We miss him. That'll be my main message, that we all love him and miss him.” She hoped Luke would start with telling Cynthia he loved her. But she wouldn't offer that advice unless he asked.

After swallowing another bite, Luke read Owen's text and groaned. “He's lost their trail. He's beginning to think they might have disguised themselves.”

“I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact Bryce knows I'm with you.”

“How would that change things?”

“I'm not sure. He hasn't texted me back yet, so I don't know how he's reacting.” She took a quick gulp of her wine and went back to cutting into her steak. “At first I was afraid he wouldn't like that I flew down here without telling him.”

“That would be my guess.”

“But my brother is complicated. If he's tired of his rebellion routine, he might be grateful that I've come for him. That way he can say he came back because I was so pitiful.” She popped a piece of steak into her mouth.

Luke smiled at that. “I'd love a demonstration of you looking pitiful. It's hard to imagine.”

The steak was so tender that she could chew and swallow it in no time. “Watch this.” She gave him her best sad, soulful look, the one where she looked like the big-eyed characters in a Japanese anime cartoon.

“Hey, that's pretty good. You should definitely use that on him. In fact, you should probably teach me. It might work on Cynthia.” His grin had a boyish quality to it.

She was charmed by that grin. Too bad. She couldn't let herself be charmed. “I doubt it. She's not going to believe you're pitiful at this stage in the game.”

“Probably not. But maybe if you talk your brother into going back to San Francisco, I'll have a better chance of convincing Cynthia to finish her degree.”

“Maybe.” She thought it would depend entirely on how much empathy he showed for his sister's dreams. Giselle also realized the more empathy he showed, the more appealing he would become to
her.

She vowed to be on guard for that. “Of course, Bryce might not be getting tired of his Las Vegas adventure. He might be furious that I showed up and even more determined to help Cynthia run us ragged. That's the other possibility.”

“Well, unless Owen figures out their disguise, I guess we keep solving the riddles and see where it takes us. Maybe if we solve all their riddles, they'll agree to a meeting.”

She saw the frustration in his eyes. “I can tell you don't like this.”

“No, but I'm willing to go along with the game. It seems as if she really needs me to do that.”

“I think she does.” Giselle hoped that Cynthia's campaign worked to change his mind. Maybe becoming a showgirl wasn't the best choice for his sister or maybe it was the perfect choice. All she knew for sure was that Cynthia should be the one to decide.

Giselle also thought that bringing about a truce between Cynthia and Luke might open the door to a conversation with Bryce. A part of her wanted to twist his ears off for being so contrary, but after seeing the way Cynthia was struggling with Luke's expectations, she had a lot more sympathy for Bryce's position.

Maybe he didn't want to be an alpha. If so, he shouldn't be forced into the role. She didn't want it, either, but maybe there was a decent alternative—although she couldn't think of one right off the bat. None of her cousins were alpha material.

She'd been so engrossed in her thoughts that she hadn't noticed that she'd finished her meal. She glanced over at Luke's plate, and his was nearly empty, too.

He glanced up. “What do you think about the riddle?”

“You haven't given it to me yet.”

“I haven't? Oh, sorry.” He put down his fork and picked up his phone. “I may even know what this one refers to, but let's see what you say.
Water has rhythm and so do I. Watch it dance and watch it fly. Love is reaching for the sky.”
His voice roughened on the last sentence. He cleared his throat.

Giselle's chest tightened. This young woman positively ached with her desire to dance. And Luke knew it, too. Otherwise he wouldn't have choked up on that last sentence. She gazed at him and wondered if he'd relent, right there at the dinner table.

If he was considering that, he didn't let on. “It's the Bellagio, right? The fountains out front?”

“I think so.”

He pushed his plate aside. “We might as well get going, then. There are other fountains in Vegas. Could she mean somewhere else?”

“I doubt it.” She picked up her wineglass and then put it back down. “Guess I'd better not have any more wine if I'm driving.”

“We could walk. It's not that far.”

“Then let's walk. The exercise might do us good.” It would do her good, at least. When he'd become emotional while reading the riddle, she'd wanted to put her arms around him, although that would have been dangerous and she wouldn't have risked it. But now she wanted to shake him until his teeth rattled, and that wouldn't solve anything, either.

They put on jackets and headed out. Luke wore leather instead of the blue denim, which he'd hung up because it was still damp. They took the private elevator down, but this time they walked out through the lobby. Coming in, they'd gone straight from the parking garage to the elevator, so Giselle had missed seeing how the hotel had changed since her first visit.

Apparently she was getting tired, because she spoke when she should have kept her mouth shut. “It's changed.”

He glanced at her. “You were here? Oh, wait. Of course you were. Family friends of the Cartwrights would get rooms when no one else could.”