Werewolf in Las Vegas (3 page)

“Throwing a woman out of my office.”

Her feminist instincts wouldn't let that pass. “Have you ever thrown a man out of your office?”

“Once or twice. But—”

“Then if I offend you, feel free to throw me out. I'd consider it a matter of principle and would be upset if you didn't.”

He stared at her as if she were speaking in tongues.

She groaned. “Lord help me, I'm dealing with a throwback. I should have realized it when you started describing the whole dancing routine. You truly believe that men were created to lead and women were created to follow, don't you?”

His poker face disappeared. “No, damn it! I was just trying to explain how a guy of thirty could easily influence a young woman of—”

“Have you seen the research on maturation, Dalton? Females mature
much
faster than males. I'd say a twenty-two-year-old female is operating about even with a thirty-year-old male, if not slightly ahead of him.”

Abandoning his stoic expression completely, he leaned across the desk and pointed a finger at her. “Screw your research. I know my sister, and she's not all that worldly. She may be a semester away from graduating magna cum laude, but she doesn't know squat about—”

“Magna cum laude?” Giselle realized she might have to take this potential matchup more seriously. Bryce loved brainy females. “From where?” She hoped it was some no-name college with a total enrollment of five hundred.

“Yale. But that's beside the point.”

“Actually, it's not beside the point at all.” Giselle became more worried by the second. “She must be very goal-oriented.”

“Trust me, she is. Her goal used to be graduating with honors from Yale so she could make our father proud. Now that he's gone, she doesn't want to go back. She says that was his dream for her, and even attending classes there now would be too sad and painful.”

“Poor kid.”

“That's what I thought, too! I was ready to cut her some slack. I figured if she gave it a few months, she could manage to go back for the fall semester. She was so close! But she said no, she wasn't going back at all.”

“She could change her mind.”

He shook his head. “I doubt it.”

Giselle made a calculated guess. “You're thwarting her new goal, aren't you? And that's why she's disappeared.”

He looked as if he'd been Tasered. “My God.” His voice dropped to a whisper as he stared at a point beyond her left shoulder. “That's it.” Slowly his gaze returned to lock with hers. “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “Good guess.”

“Brilliant guess. You don't even know her, and you've hit upon the most important part of her personality. What are you, a shrink?”

“Accountant.”

His eyebrows lifted. “No kidding? You don't look like—”

“Spare me. Accountants aren't all skinny nerds. And they're definitely not all male.” Hacking her way through this guy's jungle of stereotypes would take some effort, but he had resources and it was clear his sister could pose a real threat to the future serenity of the Landry pack.

She was also in desperate need of more information about said sister. “Out of curiosity, what are you denying Cynthia that she wants so desperately?”

He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Okay, some background. Here's this kid—smart as a whip, straight-A student, and my dad doted on her.” He picked up a pen and laced it through his fingers. “She got into Yale, and he busted his buttons over that. Told all his cronies she'd be president someday.” He worked the pen through his fingers as he talked.

Giselle wondered if he even knew he was toying with the pen, but he had amazing dexterity as he wove it endlessly through his fingers. She found that sexy as all get-out. She brought her attention back to the subject, his brainiac sister.

“Turns out she doesn't want to be president. Or a molecular biologist, or a corporate lawyer, or an astrophysicist.” He tossed the pen on the desk. “She wants to be a showgirl. She wants me to give her a job dancing at the Silver Crescent.”

“And she's no good.” Giselle pictured a bookworm who secretly longed to be onstage wearing glamorous outfits but had no natural rhythm or coordination. If that were the case, then Cynthia wouldn't be Bryce's type after all. He liked a female with brains, but he wanted her to be poised and confident, too. Maybe Cynthia wasn't the threat Giselle had feared. Perhaps Bryce only felt sorry for her.

“Oh, no, she's a great dancer. But I thought it was a hobby, something she did for exercise.”

“So what's the problem? Is she too fat? Too unattractive? Too short?”

“She's beautiful.” Luke grabbed his phone off the desk and clicked it a couple of times with his thumb before turning it to face Giselle. “That's her.”

Giselle looked at the smiling blonde on the screen and saw her worst nightmare. All that and outstanding grades from an Ivy League school? Bryce probably thought he'd hit the jackpot.

“You haven't mentioned your mother. Is she alive?”

“She lives in France.” He said it as if France might as well be Mars.

So Luke had no support or guidance from that quarter. He was fighting this battle alone, and that touched her. She'd just seen how Vaughn had been emotionally rocked by the unexpected loss of his dad, but at least he had backing from his mother and his mate.

Luke didn't have that, and yet his sense of responsibility toward his immediate family seemed as strong as any Were's would be. When Cynthia had chosen to disappear, Luke's protective instincts had been thwarted. Giselle understood his visceral response to the situation. It was werewolf-like in its intensity.

Giselle contemplated the situation. Cynthia wanted to be a showgirl, and from the looks of her, she could handle that job just fine. Her older brother, however, couldn't. By objecting to her plan, he'd sent her into rebellion mode. Cynthia and Bryce could easily have bonded over the subject of dealing with unbending family expectations.

Giselle couldn't decide where to start to untangle this mess. “It's obvious that you don't want your Ivy League–educated sister to become a Vegas showgirl.” He had no right to meddle in her life to that extent, but Giselle decided not to mention that. She didn't think Luke would take it well when he was so upset.

“Damn straight. One of the last things my dad said to me was,
Watch out for my little girl.
If I put her in the chorus line at the Silver Crescent, he'd be spinning in his grave.”

Dear God. A deathbed promise, no less, one that Luke was taking to heart. It made him even more appealing to her. She was certainly vulnerable to pressure from her folks.

Luke was convinced he was doing the right thing. She had a fair amount of sympathy for his position, despite his somewhat patriarchal mindset. The poor man had no idea that letting his sister try the showgirl option would have been the safer bet than forcing her into this rebellion. Because he'd denied his little sister, she'd hooked up with a werewolf.

Luke couldn't deny that Giselle impressed him with how quickly she'd hit on the main issue with Cynthia. Although he had plenty of eyeballs to keep track of Cynthia's whereabouts, they were all guys. They thought like guys.

Now he realized he could use a woman's perspective. And as he'd said earlier, he and Giselle wanted the same thing. Or almost the same thing. They both wanted to separate Cynthia from Landry and get his ass back to 'Frisco.

After that, Luke still had to derail Cynthia on this showgirl thing. Because Giselle had figured out the problem right away, she might have some ideas for changing Cynthia's mind. Giselle had pegged her as a goal-oriented person. All he had to do was subtly direct Cynthia toward a more suitable goal.

His cell phone pinged, signaling a text. He picked it up, checked the screen, and glanced over at Giselle. “We might have some news.”

“That would be great.”

He read quickly. “According to my guys, Cynthia's Corvette and Landry's rented SUV are parked side by side in a public lot near the Strip. Either they've rented a different vehicle or they're on foot. My guys are checking the rental agencies.”

“The rental agencies will give them that kind of information? I thought that was against the law.”

He looked up from his phone. She really was a straight arrow. He'd have to keep that in mind. “Technically, that's true.”

“But they'll bend the rules for Luke Dalton?”

He shrugged. “Depends on who's working the desk. My dad knew a lot of people in this town, and he made sure they understood that I'd be stepping into his shoes someday. I didn't expect to have to take over this soon, but they're treating me the way they would have treated him, and I appreciate that.”

“How old was your dad when he died?” Her tone was gentler than it had been a few minutes ago when she'd chewed him out for his views on men, women, and dancing the tango.

“Fifty-six.” His chest tightened. His dad had loved contemplating the grandchildren he'd have someday. Luke had figured he had plenty of time to give him some.

“Not very old.”

“Nope. It was his heart. I lay a lot of the responsibility for his condition at Harrison Cartwright's feet.”

“He also died young.”

“Yeah, but he's the one who created the problem. If he'd turned the deed over right away instead of making my father get lawyers involved, they might both be alive today.”

“Have you asked her why she wants to be a showgirl?”

“No.” But as he looked into Giselle's green eyes, he realized that would have been a good move. Yeah, he really could use the female perspective as he worked through this problem. “I just assumed it's because our mother was a dancer and Cynthia always thought that was cool. So what? It's still a terrible idea.”

“Your mom was a dancer?”

He nodded. “My father saw her performing at the Sahara thirty-two years ago, and that was it for him. He never looked at another woman. She never looked at another man, either. They were crazy about each other.”

Giselle's expression softened. “Is it any wonder your sister wants to be a showgirl after hearing a romantic story like that? If she wants a guy like your dad, she's not going to find him working in a microbiology lab.”

“You think that's her motivation? To find the man of her dreams?” Luke hadn't thought of that. Cynthia probably wouldn't want to hook up with a nerdy scientist or lawyer. She'd want a charismatic gambler like her dad had been. Unfortunately, Bryce Landry fit that profile.

“I have no idea if she's hoping to re-create what your parents had. As smart as she is, that's probably only a small part of her thinking. But you would know for sure if you asked her.”

“Which brings us back to the
so what
part of this discussion. No matter what her motivation is, being a showgirl is still a lousy idea. She could attract a psycho stalker just as easily as Prince Charming. Easier, actually.”

“But she wants to work in your casino, which means she's putting herself under the protection of you and your staff. That's extremely smart, don't you think?”

“I've thought of that, and I swear it makes me break out in a cold sweat. What if she's counting on the Silver Crescent being a safe environment and then one night it's not?”

“You say that because you're paranoid.”

“Damn right I'm paranoid. Vegas has its share of strange people. If you had a sister, would you want her putting herself on display for any weirdo who happened to be in the audience?”

She gave him a smug little smile. “I'd want her to do whatever made her happy.”

“Oh, bull. You're here to drag your brother back home, whether he likes it or not. Why is that? Maybe he's perfectly happy where he is. I wouldn't doubt it, now that he's met my sister. In fact, I'd bet he is happy, or he'd be coming home of his own accord.”

She lowered her lashes and her cheeks grew rosy.

Damn, she was sexy. He really would have to watch himself around this woman. He'd already caught himself admiring the cut of her emerald-green T-shirt, which gave him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. Her designer jeans fit her well, too, and he was pretty sure she was wearing leather boots. She'd come in carrying a fringed leather jacket, which she'd laid across her lap when she'd taken a seat.

She had the kind of style he admired, and that was dangerous. More than that, she challenged him to question his assumptions. Irritating as that could be at times, he kind of liked it, too. Cynthia used to debate issues with him when she'd come home on vacation, and he'd enjoyed the mental exercise.

But now wasn't the time to become interested in a woman, especially not this one. He couldn't afford to be distracted. Too much was at stake, and besides, she had insights he needed. He didn't want to miss those insights because he was caught up in her as a person.

She met his gaze with a reluctant sigh. “You have a point. My brother's not living up to the role I envisioned for him, either. But I promise you that if I have a chance to ask him why he's acting this way, I will ask. I don't know how we can judge someone's behavior without finding out their reasons.”

“Bravo, Dr. Phil.”

“Bite me, Dalton.”

He laughed. “Don't tempt me.” But she already had, and she wasn't even trying. If she put effort into the task, he would be in big trouble.

His cell phone pinged again, and he picked it up to read the text. “Apparently, they didn't rent anything. Owen's reminding me that Cynthia has friends in town who might loan her a car.”

“Who's Owen?”

“Owen Banks, master of intrigue, head of security. He lives for this kind of stuff, and I hardly ever give him enough of it.” Another ping. “Well, there you go. He's done a rundown of Cynthia's friends, and all of them are still in possession of their cars.”

“He knows all her friends? Are you telling me she's been under this kind of surveillance all her life?”

He glanced up, surprised at her horrified tone of voice. “Yeah, probably. My dad was very protective. Why?”

“Because . . . if I were Cynthia—and thank God I'm not—I would deliberately disappear, too! The poor girl's not allowed to breathe without being monitored by her father's henchmen, who are now your henchmen.”

He bristled. “I think
henchmen
is a little harsh, don't you? These are security people. My family has a lot of money. That draws criminal attention, especially in Vegas. We've always been at risk for things like kidnapping and ransom. Understandably, we want to avoid that.”

“I hope you're not lumping my brother into that
criminal element
category.” Her green eyes snapped with indignation. “She went with him of her own free will. And he would never—”

“Easy, Giselle. Easy.” The fire in her eyes was compelling. “I never meant to imply that your brother was a criminal. I had my people do a preliminary background check on him a couple of weeks ago, and I'm not worried that he's after Dalton money.”

“I see.” She narrowed her eyes, obviously not happy that he'd had her brother investigated.

“You don't have to look like that. I didn't pry into your family secrets. In fact, I didn't pry into your family at all. I just made sure he didn't have a police record or mountains of debt. It's the sort of thing my father would have checked. You can't blame me for that.”

“I suppose not.”

“So he's not a fortune hunter, but he's still a bad influence on her.”

Her indignation returned. “You don't know that! I refuse to let you make my brother out as the villain in this scenario. He just happened to be around when she felt like giving you grief.”

“So, he could have talked her out of doing it!” Luke felt his control slipping.

“Why? I wouldn't have! She's twenty-two, and you're trying to engineer her future.”

“I am not.” He felt a headache coming on. “I'm trying to keep her from making some really bad choices.”

“What's the difference?”

“There's a
huge
difference! She has hundreds of choices left, all kinds of options open to her, and money to finance them.”

“Except the one choice she wants.”

“It's a horrible choice!” A light on his phone blinked. “Hang on a minute. She's sent me a text.”

“Cynthia?”

“No, Madonna.” He heard the sarcasm in his voice and sighed. “Sorry. Yes, Cynthia. When she's happy with me, she calls, but when she's mad at me, she texts.”

“Probably because she knows you don't like it.”

“Could be.” He read the message through twice and swore under his breath.

“What does she say?”

“God knows. Makes no sense to me. Here, I'll read it to you:
She who pulls the sword from the stone claims a power all her own.
Then she has a four-digit number.” He glanced up at Giselle. “What the hell is that all about?”

“She's sending you a riddle.”

“A
riddle
?”

“Sounds like it to me. She's inviting you to solve it.”

“Why?” He was completely at sea.

Giselle took a deep breath. “Well, I'd only be guessing.”

“Please, guess away. Cynthia's never sent me a riddle in her entire life.”

“First of all, I think it's encouraging that she's communicating with you.”

“You call this communicating? I call it trying to screw with me.”

Giselle smiled. “Maybe that, too. But at least she reached out, and . . . I know something about this riddle business.”

“That makes one of us.” He had a sudden suspicion. “Why do you know?”

For the first time since she'd come into his office, she looked uncomfortable. “Bryce and I used to play riddle games all the time when we were kids.”

“Aha!” He pointed a finger at her. “And you were so sure he wasn't influencing her. Now suddenly she's sending me riddles, which she's never done before. Where do you suppose she got that clever idea, hmm?”

“From him. It's exactly the sort of thing Bryce would do. But maybe he's convinced her that she needs to keep in touch with you and this is a way that appeals to her. You said she's smart.”

“Oh, she's smart, all right.”

“So is my brother. But what if he's trying to help straighten this out between you two? Wouldn't that be a good thing?”

“Not if I have no effing clue what she's talking about! This isn't communicating. It's taunting.”

“But if we solve the riddle, we might be getting somewhere.”

“All right.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Go ahead, Ms. Riddle Expert. Solve it.” He waited for her to admit she had no clue, either.

Instead she brightened. “She's talking about Excalibur. That's what the sword-in-the-stone reference is about. What if the number is a room there? What if the two of them have checked in and that's where they are?”

Luke shoved out of his chair, refusing to admit how surprised he was by the ease with which she had cracked his sister's code. “I don't like the sound of that. I don't like it at all. I know what goes on in hotel rooms.”

“Luke, she's twenty-two. She's been away at college. Surely you don't think she's still a—”

“I don't want to discuss it. But I am going over to Excalibur to see who's in that room. Are you coming with me?”

“Sure.” She stood and put on her leather jacket. “We'll go on my motorcycle.”

That brought him up short. “Your what?”

“I rented a Harley to get around while I'm here. It's what I'm used to back home, and it's parked in Howlin' at the Moon's patrolled lot. Or did you want to walk?”

“No. Takes too long. The valet can bring my car around.”

“We'll get there faster on my Harley. The rental company insisted on giving me an extra helmet. They seemed to think I'd have a passenger sooner or later while I was here.”

Luke hesitated. He wasn't in the habit of surrendering control of his transportation.

“Cynthia won't expect you to be riding around on the back of a motorcycle.”

He had to admit he liked the way she thought. “Okay, yeah. That's a good point. She's not the only one who can play games.” He grabbed a denim jacket from the coat tree by the door and followed Giselle out of the office.

As they walked together through the noisy bar toward the front door, Luke stopped to fill Chuck in on the proceedings. Chuck agreed to monitor the bar situation while Luke was gone.

He turned back to Giselle and discovered that she was inspecting the decor with obvious interest. “Ever been in here?”

“Years ago with some friends. You must be happy about owning such a Vegas landmark.”