MIRA
March 2010
On Sale: February 23, 2010
Featuring: Jessy Sparhawk; Dillon Wolf
368 pages ISBN: 0778327582 EAN: 9780778327585 Mass Market Paperback Add to Wish List
Tension was high around the table, but then, there were
thousands of dollars strewn out across the board,
represented by colorful plastic chips.
Because this
was Vegas, where men and women could rise like meteors to
the top of the world, then plummet to the bottom just as
quickly.
Jessy Sparhawk could feel the pressure,
could feel the eyes of the other gamblers on
her.
Some people were playing big
money.
Others—idiots like herself—were taking a
desperate, edgy, ridiculous chance, playing to beat the
odds. To defy the gods of Vegas, who always proclaimed that
the house won.
Oh, yes, she was an idiot. Why in
God's name had she taken the last of her savings to the
craps table? She worked in Vegas, she had grown up out here.
She'd seen the down-and-outers. She'd seen the poor, the
pathetic, the alcoholics, the junkies, all trying for a big
win when they knew the law of averages.
"Ten, baby,
roll a hard ten" a man called from the end of the table. He
wasn't one of the down-and-outers. He was a regular all over
town. She had seen him over at the Big Easy, and he had a
deep Southern accent, but one with a Texas twang. His name
was Coot Calhoun. All right, so his real name probably
wasn't Coot, but that was how he was known. Nice
man. He'd inherited one of the biggest oil fields in Texas.
She liked him. He had a wife named Minnie—though Jessy was
doubtful about that name, too—who he genuinely
loved, and he tipped well because he was generous, not
because he was expecting any favors.
"I'm trying,
Coot, I'm trying," she assured him, praying for a hard ten
not for Coot's sake but for Tim's.
She was here,
gambling at the Vegas Sun, because she wasn't allowed to
gamble in the casino where she worked, which usually didn't
bother her, since she wasn't a gambler. The Sun was owned by
a billionaire who had been in the casino trade a long time.
Her own Big Easy was owned by Emil Landon. A rich man, yes.
A very rich man. But he hadn't been at the casino game long.
Even though she wasn't a gambler, she knew the games. She'd
been a dealer, a hostess, a waitress, a bartender, a singer,
a dancer—even an acrobat for a brief period of time. She
knew Vegas in and out, backward and forward, and she had
learned long, long ago, not to gamble, because the house
always won.
"Baby, baby, baby, bee-you-ti-ful
baby, do it. Hard ten," another man called. He was
young. Drunk. Probably had too much money on the board, and
definitely had too much alcohol in his system.
She
was aware of so many people watching her. It had been kind
of fun at first, but now she felt the tension. Even Darrell
Frye, one of the Sun's pit bosses, was watching her with a
measuring stare, as if afraid she was on one of those long
rolls that totally outweighed the odds.
"Ten, ten,
ten," a nearby woman repeated fervently. She was haggard
looking, thin, and her dress had been stylish twenty years
ago, back when she had been pretty. Now her features bore
the weight of time, but she offered Jessy a smile, and Jessy
smiled back.
"Get on with it," someone else insisted.
"Just roll."
She did. To her horror, the dice bounced
off the table.
"Hey, it's all right, just a game,"
said a deep, smooth, masculine voice.
She looked up.
The man who had spoken was several people away to her left,
and she had noticed him earlier. He was the kind of man it
was hard not to notice. He wasn't typically handsome, and
certainly not a pretty boy, but he had what she could only
call presence. Tall, with broad shoulders, he managed to be
simultaneously casual and elegant, and rugged on top of
that.
She flashed him a smile. He wasn't drunk; he
had been sipping the same drink since she had started
watching the table. She was five-ten and wearing heels, but
he towered over her by several inches. His eyes were so dark
that to call them brown would be an injustice. His hair,
too, was almost ebony, and the striking cut of his
cheekbones made her think there had to be Native American
blood in his background, and maybe not far back. He was
simply striking, dressed in a white pin-striped shirt open
at the neck, a nicely fitted jacket and black jeans. He
hadn't been risking big money, but he had played as if he
knew something about the game, and he'd been playing the
same money since she first noticed him. And he seemed to be
watching for more than just the roll of the dice.
He
lifted his glass to her and looked over at the dealer as he
tossed out two hundred-dollar chips. "Hard ten for me and
for the roller," he said.
"You don't need to—" she
began.
"Jessy, just roll, sweetie," Coot called to
her, then turned to the croupier as he picked up two chips
himself. "My money is on the little lady. Throw this on the
hard ten, one for me, one for her, please."
His
hundreds went down.
More chips were thrown down on
the hard ten, plenty of them for her, and she knew that she
was blushing. "Thanks," she murmured, looking at the man who
had started it all. The pressure was really on now. A
so-called "hard" bet paid really well.
But there was
a lot of money to be lost if she failed.
Her handsome
benefactor said, "Don't worry. It's going to be a hard ten.
And if it's not, it's all right. I never put down what I
can't afford to lose."
She wished she could say the
same thing. But at this point, she was desperate. If she
didn't come up with the money, she couldn't pay to keep
Timothy in the home. She could see Mr. Hoskins' face now, as
he calmly told her, "I'm sorry, Miss Sparhawk, but there's
nothing we can do. I've been as patient as I can, but if I
don't have that three thousand dollars by tomorrow morning,
you'll have to find another facility."
She hated
Hoskins. He was a thin-lipped, nose-in-the-air jerk, but he
only ran the Hawthorne Home; he wasn't the one who spent
time with Tim. And Tim loved Jimmy Britin, the orderly, and
Liz Freeze, his nurse. And Dr. Joe, who was a wonderful man,
who worked at the home in order to be able to afford to
donate his time at several local shelters.
A hard
ten. If she rolled a hard ten, two fives, she made not just
her own hundred-dollar bet, but…ten times that hundred.
Plenty of money to keep Timothy where he needed to
be.
She swallowed hard and rolled the
dice.
"Hard ten, hard ten!" It became a
chant.
She had never seen dice roll for so long on a
craps table. A four and a three… and groans went around the
table, because a seven meant that she would crap out. But
the dice were still rolling….
A five and a
three.
A five and a two.
A five and…
A
five. A hard ten.
The screaming and shouting was
deafening. Hands clapping, high fives all around. She wasn't
sure who picked her up and swung her around, but she didn't
protest that any more than she protested the hugs and
backslaps that came her way, or even Coot's enthusiastic
kiss on her cheek. She was simply too stunned.
The
one man who didn't grab her or go insane was the tall,
dark-haired stranger. He just watched her, pleased, and yet
somehow grave.
Jessy couldn't believe the number of
chips coming her way.
"I'm cashing in," she told the
dealer.
He gave her an odd look. "You're still
rolling," he reminded her. "If you leave, these folks will
lynch me. Don't pass the roll. Go until you crap
out."
She glanced to the side, looking for the
dark-haired stranger.
He was gone; of course. He
wasn't rolling. Still, she missed him. And she had the
oddest feeling that things weren't going to go right, now
that he was gone. And she was right, because it wasn't long
until she crapped out. Still, as she collected her chips,
which were still worth far more than the three thousand
dollars she needed, everyone regaled her as if she were a
celebrity. She thanked them, then turned, eager to escape as
quickly as possible.
That was when the huge man
plowed into her.
Huge. Bodyguard huge. He was bald
and built like a wall of solid rock. His eyes were hazel and
streaked with red.
"Hey!" Coot yelled
indignantly.
It didn't stop the man, who hit her so
hard that he knocked her flat onto the craps table, then
fell on top of her.
She was pinned, and when she
tried to budge his weight, she couldn't. She started to ask
the onlookers for assistance, but her words were cut short
by someone's shrill, hysterical scream.
And then she
felt the blood trickling down on her as she struggled under
the man's weight.
His dead
weight…
His glazed and frozen eyes stared at
her, and then his mouth moved.
He spoke one
word.
"Indigo."
And then his lips stopped
moving and something, some light, went out in his
eyes.
She tried to twist out from beneath him, and
that was when she saw the knife sticking out of his back,
saw the blood, and began to scream herself.
Dillon
Wolf heard the screams just seconds after he had stepped
into the special "high-roller" section of the casino. He
spun around, returning at a breakneck speed, and arrived
back at the craps table just as casino security descended on
it. He saw the beautiful redhead he'd staked earlier,
desperately trying to push the weight of the huge man off
her, and he saw the man's face almost as
quickly.
Tanner Green. Hell.
He'd spent most
of the night keeping track of who was coming and going,
trying to get a handle on who was frequenting the new
casino, and the last damn thing he'd imagined was Green
turning up dead. The man was a pro. Had been a pro.
Not only that, before rejoining the world,he'd worked as a
mercenary; there was no way in hell he should have been
taken by surprise by anyone. But a knife in the back? That
pretty much screamed surprise.
The fact that
the police would want the body left in situ didn't
prevent him from diving in to help the redhead free herself
as quickly as possible.
"Hey, hey!" one of the
security officers said, hurrying forward, but he ignored the
man.
"Thank you," the redhead whispered as he shifted
her free of the corpse and she managed to get back on her
feet. For a moment, though, her eyes were on his. Huge. A
deep, radiant blue, like a cloudless sky. Those eyes had
first met his just a few minutes earlier as she rolled the
dice. Now he also noticed that she smelled good, not to
mention that she felt good against him.
As
soon as he saw that she was steady, he delved into his
pocket for his ID, presenting it to the security
officer.
"Dillon Wolf, licensed P.I.," he said. "Have
the police been called?"
"The 911 has gone in,
they'll be here momentarily," the security officer said. Two
of the men accompanying him had already begun to form an
invisible ring around the craps table; two more were
hurrying over to bar the door.
"Oh God, I have to get
out of here. I have to get out of here!" a woman cried
hysterically.
"Calm down," Dillon said, his voice
taking on a deep authoritative pitch. He had long ago
learned that people didn't obey high voices in an emergency;
they only became more hysterical.
The redhead was
silent, but he saw that she was shivering. Something in her
eyes told him that she knew she was going to be there for a
long time, the center of a murder investigation. She was
stunning, absolutely stunning, and something about her
intrigued him. Las Vegas was full of gorgeous women, of
course—showgirls, waitresses, actresses, singers—but she
seemed different somehow.
When he'd first noticed
her, those eyes of hers had been… haunted. Not as if she was
afraid of losing a dream, certainly not as if she was afraid
of simply losing…money, but as if she was terrified of
losing something far more precious. As if the roll of the
dice could cost her her very soul.
He gave himself a
mental shake. He had other things to think about here. Not
only was there a dead man lying on the craps table, but that
dead man was Tanner Green.
A man came striding onto
the scene. A big guy with an attitude. Jerry Cheever, Las
Vegas homicide. Dillon was pretty sure that Cheever resented
him, but Cheever knew the lay of the land. He might despise
Dillon on every level, but he'd been told by his bosses that
Dillon was to be granted free rein. Cheever liked his
paycheck and his position, so he obeyed, but he also liked
to take credit for things that went well, and he knew Dillon
had a talent for seeing an investigation through, and he
wasn't above taking advantage of that
fact.
Especially because he simply wasn't the
sharpest knife in the drawer.
"No one move!" Cheever
bellowed. "And I mean no one!"
He took note
of the blood seeping into the green felt tabletop and
soaking the multicolored chips.
"Wolf," he said
curtly, acknowledging Dillon's presence. His eyes settled on
the redhead as he asked Dillon, "What happened?"
"I
wasn't here. I ran over when I heard the screaming," Dillon
said.
Jerry Cheever turned to the
redhead.
"What happened?" he demanded
curtly.
"I was leaving the table. This man came over
and… and fell on me," she said.
"Do you know him?"
Cheever demanded.
"I've never seen him before," she
said.
"You're sure?" Cheever
pressed.
"Absolutely sure," she said with confidence.
She was still trembling slightly. Not surprising, Dillon
thought, given that she was wearing the dead man's
blood.
"Are you hurt?" he asked her
quietly.
She shook her head.
Cheever took in
the corpse. "Christ! It's Tanner Green." He glared at Dillon
again. "Aren't you two working for—"
"Yes," Dillon
said curtly.
"But you weren't
together?"
"No."
"Lieutenant Cheever, the M.E.
is here," a newly arrived police officer informed
him.
"Give him room. No one gets out those doors, do
you hear?" Cheever said.
A murmur arose from the
crowd, but Cheever wasn't disturbed."Give your payouts,
close your tables," he commanded the casino employees, then
turned to his fellow officers. "I want men posted at all the
doors. No one leaves here without presenting ID and a valid
local address, and not until they've been questioned. Are we
understood?"