Werewolf in Las Vegas (7 page)

“Yes.” And the less she said about her previous visit, the better.

“My dad thought it was way too
blah
. All that soft lighting and greenery wasn't for him. Or maybe he just didn't like it because Harrison did.”

Giselle had loved the way it used to look and feel. The lobby had been an oasis of tropical plants and waterfalls, thick carpets and soothing birdsong. She remembered walking in from the hubbub outside and sighing in relief.

Now the place was filled with glittering surfaces, marble floors, and crystal chandeliers with lights so bright they hurt her eyes. The sound of flowing water had been replaced with rock music that bounced off the mirrored walls and made her want to cover her ears. Conversation and laughter seemed twice as loud because nothing absorbed the noise.

“You don't like it.”

She opened her mouth to say something diplomatic.

He put a hand on her arm and shook his head. “Don't bother. I didn't expect you to like it. You were the one who nearly fainted in a crowded elevator.”

“What I think of the lobby shouldn't matter, anyway.”

“That's true, but you got that look on your face as if you wanted to spare my feelings. You don't have to worry about that. I was younger when my dad remodeled the lobby, and I thought it was awesome. But lately it's been getting on my nerves. Too noisy and glaring.”

She laughed. “Luke Dalton, you're turning into an old fogy.”

“Could be, and that's not a good thing. The marketing people have conducted exit surveys, and most guests love the lobby. One woman said she felt as if she'd stepped inside a giant tiara.”

“Perfect description. I've never wanted one, giant or otherwise.”

“No? I thought most women loved tiaras.”

“Not me.” And she wasn't a woman, either, but that was beside the point. She knew female werewolves who liked those things, but she'd never yearned for one, not even when she was a little kid.

He studied her. “I guess that makes sense. You aren't wearing any jewelry, either. I hadn't noticed that before. Are you allergic?”

“No. I'm just not attracted to the idea of wearing it. One more thing to worry about.”

“That must be frustrating for any guy who wants to buy you a gift.”

She smiled at him. “Not if he has some imagination.”

“Mmm. Interesting challenge.” He gestured toward the revolving door that led to the sidewalk. “Shall we?” He followed her out.

As they started north toward the Bellagio, she was jostled by the crowd. Not much, but enough that she temporarily lost track of Luke. She figured he'd have no trouble finding her, considering her height and red hair, so she kept walking.

Besides, she didn't want to waste time looking for him when she'd caught the unmistakable scent of a Were nearby. With so many competing smells, she couldn't identify Bryce for certain, and he wouldn't be the only werewolf walking along the Strip.

Yet the breeze carried the scent back toward her, and she noticed a tall, broad-shouldered male ahead of her. His hair was black, not red, but if Owen was right and they'd disguised themselves, then it could be Bryce up there. She hurried, trying to catch up with him.

A strong hand closed around her upper arm. “I almost lost you,” Luke said. “Maybe we'd better—”

“Just a sec.” She kept her attention on the tall figure walking about twenty feet ahead of them. Definitely a werewolf. Besides the faint scent, she could tell by the way he moved.

With the breeze blowing in her direction, he wouldn't be able to scent her, which gave her the element of surprise. She slipped out of Luke's grip and grabbed his hand. “Come with me. I think I see Bryce.”

“Which one are we following?” Luke scanned the crowd and tried to ignore the warmth created by their interlaced fingers. Holding hands was a good idea in this mob, especially if they had to try to catch up with her brother. There shouldn't be anything personal about it, but holding hands with Giselle as they hurried down the sidewalk felt extremely personal. He liked holding hands with her way too much.

“It's that tall one up there with the longish black hair. See him?”

“Yeah, but what makes you think that's Bryce?”

“He's the same height, and Bryce has shoulders like that. If he's disguised, like Owen thinks, then the black hair could be a wig. Doesn't that look like a wig?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I'm no expert. Is there a woman with him?”

“I can't tell. Somebody's walking on his left, but from my vantage point, I can't see whether it's a woman or not. You're taller. What do you think?”

“Hard to say. I think it's a woman, but she has on a bulky coat. I don't recognize it, by the way, so if that's Cynthia, she's wearing someone else's clothes.”

“Or she bought some new things for her disguise.”

“I guess that's possible, too.” He wanted to believe that was her because he would love to end this ridiculous charade she had going. He gave Giselle's hand a squeeze. “Let's catch up with them. Stay behind me. I'll run interference.”

“Go.”

Years of playing high school and college football came in handy sometimes. He kept a tight grip on Giselle's hand, and she tucked in behind him as if she'd played the sport herself. When they reached the corner, he was close enough to tap the shoulder of the person walking on the tall guy's left. “Cynthia? Is that you?”

The person turned. He wasn't Cynthia and he obviously wasn't happy to be mistaken for a woman, either. He stopped and scowled at Luke. “You looking for a problem, buddy?”

“Sorry. Mistaken identity.”

The guy puffed out his chest. “I'm thinking you need your eyes checked, mister.”

“Forget it, Stanley.” The tall guy, who didn't look anything like Bryce Landry, jerked his head toward the MGM Grand. “We're gonna miss the poker tournament if we don't get a move on.”

“Yeah, okay.” Glaring once more at Luke, the shorter man turned and followed his friend across the intersection.

Giselle sighed heavily. “I'm so sorry. I thought there was a good chance it was them.”

“Hey, it was fun.” He grinned at her.

“It was?”

“Absolutely.” Tugging on her hand, he started across the street. Might as well go before they lost the
WALK
signal. “I got a little adrenaline rush thinking we might actually catch them. Didn't you?”

“Maybe.”

He glanced over at her. “Just maybe?”

Her apologetic expression changed and she smiled. “Actually, yes. I was trying to decide what I was going to say to Bryce as we shoved our way through the crowd, and my heart was going a mile a minute.”

“And what were you going to say to him?”

“Something simple, probably. Like, ‘Let's talk.'
I—whoops. That was a phone just now. Might have been mine.”

“Then let's stop a minute and get over to the side so you can check.”

Pulling her phone from her coat pocket, she clicked on her message. “It's a text from Bryce.”

“And?”

“‘Gotcha, Sis.'” She looked at Luke. “He was watching all that! I wasn't wrong that he was nearby. I just picked the wrong candidate out of the crowd!”

Luke turned and scanned the area. “Okay, if they're following us around, I need to get Owen involved.”

“What good would that do if they're in disguise?”

He blew out a breath. “I don't know. I just . . .”

“Hey, you said you were having fun a minute ago.”

“That was when I thought
we
were following
them
. It's not quite as much fun imagining them following us.”

“Because you like to be in control of the situation?”

“Yes.” He continued to search the people going by. Cynthia might be in disguise, but she was his sister. He'd know her if he saw her face, even if she was wearing a wig, different clothes, and wild makeup. But the sidewalk was crowded. They could be anywhere.

“Well, we're not in control,” Giselle said, “but we can choose our next move. I suggest we continue on to the Bellagio, watch the fountain show, and see what happens.”

“Might as well.” He took her hand as they made their way to the front of the Bellagio and found a spot by the railing. At that point he couldn't come up with a good excuse for holding on to her, so he let go. He missed that connection instantly.

“Perfect spot.” She smiled at him.

He was beginning to look for ways to make her smile because he enjoyed seeing her do it. That probably wasn't a good sign that he was ignoring his attraction to her. “At least I don't have to worry about getting wet this time,” he said. “I doubt Cynthia could jimmy the fountain so it sprays on me.”

“I doubt Cynthia would want to face vandalism charges for jimmying the fountain at the Bellagio.”

“I wish I knew how long they intend to keep this up.” Then something occurred to him. As long as they chased around after Cynthia, he had an excuse to be with Giselle. Once this exercise was over, Giselle would leave. He realized he wasn't looking forward to that.

“I suspect she's hoping to wear you down. I—” She abandoned whatever she'd been about to say as the music swelled. “Oh, look. It's starting.”

He'd seen the current show dozens of times, both from this vantage point, where he could hear the music, and from the windows of the penthouse, where he could only watch the plumes of water arching into the air. From forty floors up, the effect wasn't as spectacular as it was standing here, surrounded by music from top-grade speakers.

Luke always enjoyed the experience, but never more than now, when he was able to watch Giselle's reaction to it. She held on to the railing as if needing to anchor herself to reality. Her expression was rapt, almost childlike, as she watched the dancing water.

The music vibrated around and through them, arousing Luke in a way it hadn't before. The bass seemed to resonate with greater force, and the violins sang along his nerve endings, teasing him with desires he had no business having. In his imagination, he and Giselle were the only two people here.

Inappropriate though it might be, he pictured them making love in time to the music and the cascading water. Eventually the crotch of his jeans pinched, reminding him that they were not alone, and he'd better imagine something else. He'd be wise to imagine Giselle getting on a plane in a few days, because she would definitely be doing that. She was the CFO of Landry Enterprises and her life was in San Francisco.

Then another thought hit him. The bad news was that Giselle would be going back to San Francisco. But maybe the good news was that Giselle would be going back to San Francisco. What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas.

No, he was thinking crazy. Sure, he'd caught her looking at him during dinner in a way that might mean she was interested in him. But for all he knew, she had a steady guy back home.

If she was in a similar situation to his, and she was attracted to him at all . . . but he didn't know the answer to those things. Still, the idea had taken up residence in his brain and he doubted it would go away anytime soon.

He glanced over at her and let the idea simmer a bit. She had a hotel room at Illusions, but while they were dealing with her brother and his sister, they really ought to stick together. Close together. Then he could find out the answer to some of his burning questions about her.

The more he thought about inviting her to spend the rest of her stay at the penthouse, the more he saw it as the perfect solution. They needed a command central, and the penthouse made the most sense. Having him at one end of the Strip and her at the other would be impractical.

The music swelled to a crescendo and the water shot into the sky with breathtaking force. The drama of the final moment was reflected in Giselle's expression of awe. She'd been swept away. Luke longed to see that same dazzled look in her eyes in a far more intimate setting.

As if she felt his gaze on her, she looked at him. If he was any good at reading the message in a woman's eyes—and he was—then her thoughts might not be so different from his. But he would make no assumptions about that. He'd keep watching her and try to pick up on her cues.

He gestured toward the fountain. “Great show, huh?”

“Wonderful.” Her breathing was quick and shallow, which meant that she'd been excited by the show, or excited by other thoughts that ran along the same lines as his. Maybe both.

“I think it was especially good tonight.” Now
that
was a boneheaded comment. The show was computerized, and unless the program didn't work right, it would be the same exact presentation every time. He glanced up at the sky. “Perfect night for it.”

“I agree.” She had that cute little smile going on again, the one that told him she thought he was goofy. But she didn't seem to mind goofy. But then she looked away, and the smile disappeared.

So maybe she did have someone else and had just reminded herself of that. He took a deep breath. “Well, nothing's happened in connection with Cynthia, so maybe we should think about—”

“Excuse me.” A heavily tattooed woman with multiple earrings and a nose ring approached him. “Are you Luke Dalton?”

He wasn't sure whether to admit it or not. The woman seemed a little scary. And she wasn't Cynthia. His sister might be in disguise, but she'd never be able to make herself look like this without spending hours in the hands of a Hollywood makeup team. Cynthia hadn't had hours to devote to such a project.

“It's nothing bad,” the woman said. “I'm not going to serve you with a subpoena or anything. But you fit the description I was given, and I was told you'd be here with a redhead, watching the Bellagio fountain do its thing.” She pulled a manila envelope out of her large tote.

Luke recognized his sister's handwriting on the outside of the envelope. “When did you get that?”

“I'm not supposed to say. I'm just supposed to give it to you and leave.” She smiled. “I wouldn't refuse a tip, though.”

Luke dug out his wallet and located a hundred-dollar bill tucked behind the twenties. “If you'll tell me when and how you got the envelope, and what the woman was wearing at the time, you can have this.”

Her eyes widened. “Uh . . . no. As much as I could use that, I promised her I wouldn't tell you. You should let her dance, though. It's not like she's going to strip. I can see why you'd object to that, but what she wants—to dance with the Moonbeams—that's classy.”

Luke was very aware of Giselle standing next to him listening to every word. “She told you about that?” he asked.

“Sure. We shared a moment. My family didn't want me to get the tattoos and the piercings, but it's my life, you know?” She glanced at Giselle. “You get what I'm saying, right? Once you're an adult, you get to decide.”

“I agree,” Giselle said.

“I thought you would.” The woman moved a little closer to Giselle. “You look like a take-charge kind of lady. We can't let other people push us around. Like present company, for example.”

Luke sighed.

“I completely agree,” Giselle said, suppressing her smile. She could see Luke was suffering through this conversation.

“Here.” Luke shoved the hundred-dollar bill at the woman. “Take it with my blessings. Now give me the envelope.”

“You bet.” She handed it over.

“Thank you. Now, if you'll excuse us, we need to get—”

“Wait. I have something else for you.” She reached into her tote, pulled out a pink squirt gun, and shot him in the face. “Bye, now!” She hurried away.

As water ran down Luke's face and into the open neck of his shirt, he didn't look at Giselle. “Don't you dare laugh.”

“I won't.” But her voice quavered as though she wanted to. “I have a tissue in my pocket, if that would help.”

“Thanks. I'd appreciate it.”

The white tissue fluttered in front of him like a flag of truce. “Can I hold the envelope for you?”

“Sure.” He handed it over and accepted her tissue so he could mop his face. “I don't know where Cynthia found that squirt gun, but it packs a punch.”

“Luke, I have a confession.”

“Oh?” Balling the tissue in his fist, he glanced around for a trash can. One happened to be nearby, so he lobbed the wet tissue into it. Two points. “About what?”

“My brother. As a kid, he was fascinated with practical jokes. The bucket of water trick is something he spent hours getting right. And he knows his squirt guns, too. He considers the superpumper ones too obvious. So he'll take a normal-sized one and fool with it until it delivers a blast of water that'll drown you on the first shot.”

Luke stared at her in disbelief. “And your brother is how old?”

“Thirty. And you know what? I never connected that significant birthday with him shucking his responsibilities and coming to Vegas. But that might be part of it. Maybe this is a last fling before he has to settle down.”

“Bully for him.” Luke was in no mood to hear about some guy's birthday angst. When he'd turned thirty, he'd been watching his dad's health deteriorate. He'd prayed that the hardworking man he idolized would live to enjoy a ripe old age. His prayers had gone unanswered.

“I honestly thought he'd outgrown the practical joke stage, and for the most part I think he has. But he seems to have appointed himself Cynthia's champion, so he's come out of retirement to help her harass you.”