Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins

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      “For a while, I didn’t see that yellow Porsche of his,” Sally continued, glancing at a young couple entering the bar, “but lately it’s been parked in that same spot near Topaz’s front entrance.”

      “What time?”

      “Sometimes when I first get to work, around seven. More often when I close.”

      “About three a.m.?”

      She nodded. “Sometimes four.”

      “Ever see a black four-door Mercedes?”

      She thought for a moment. “Yeah, in the past week. Don’t remember seeing it before that.” The couple sat at the far end of the bar. “Gotta go. Customers.”

      Taking another swig, he weighed this new piece of information. He’d been tracking Yuri’s black Mercedes for a little over a month now, whenever he had some down time. Had videotaped several hours of Yuri’s comings and goings, hoping to capture clues of any illegal projects in the works, but so far, nothing pointed to anything. Had some footage of Yuri unloading tables at a warehouse, but he owned the tables and the warehouse, so nothing strange there.

      Based on past experience, he wondered if Yuri might be planning a heist. He was good at those, just like the one he had set up years ago that had cost Drake his career, his reputation and a fiancée who’d grown skittish. Couldn’t blame her. Hard to lean on someone who’s standing in quicksand.

      If he thought about it too long, he could still get pissed that his brother had played a role in that heist. Of course, Brax had said that he’d had no choice, that Yuri had threatened his life. Afterward, he had promised, over and over, he would have nothing more to do with the Russian.

      They obviously placed different values on their promises.

      Drake rolled the bottle between his palms, wishing Brax’s deceit was the only problem weighing on him. When he had dropped by his mom’s house this afternoon, he and his grandmother had talked about his dad, which led to stories of the family, which led to the family heirloom ring—a constellation of diamonds representing family marriages going back a hundred and fifty years. The ring was gone, and Grams missed it more than she liked to admit.

      Drake blamed himself. It had been only a few weeks ago that Grams had finally told him the whole story of what had happened in 2009 when Drake’s gambling debts had gotten him into trouble with a loan shark. Until then, he’d thought his dad had pulled money from a trust to help pay off the obligation—he’d had no idea the ring had been collateral.

      In 2009, he had been a secret gambler, burying himself in debts. Desperate, he had borrowed money from Yuri. By the time the Russian had tacked on his extortionist interest rates, Drake’s debt was hitting fifty grand. His father—who’d never said how he learned about Drake’s troubles, although Drake guessed that Brax had told him—had insisted on helping. Said he could pay Yuri twenty grand, and a family friend could loan Drake the rest. His only condition was that he and Drake would keep Yuri’s name between them. Your mother’s heart has already been broken by Braxton’s dealings with that Russian.

      Since then, Drake had paid off the thirty grand to his dad’s friend. He’d made payments to his dad, too, who’d secretly had his wife deposit every penny into a savings account in Drake’s name. A few weeks ago, when Drake made the final payment to his mom, he’d been shocked when she handed over the savings account. His dad had asked his mom to do this, in memory of Benny, upon Drake’s final payment. By honoring his debt, he’d earned it.

      But his satisfaction had soured after Grams confided that she, his mom and his dad had given the ring to pay that twenty grand.

      As soon as Drake had found out, he had gone to Yuri with the intention of buying back the family ring. The Russian had refused to take his money. Said Drake owed him even more in interest.

      It shamed Drake that he’d caused his family to lose a cherished piece of their history. He would get the ring from Yuri, no matter what it took. That score had to be settled.

      Picking up his smartphone, he tapped the alarm app and set it for two a.m., which would give him time to get to Topaz by three. If Brax’s Porsche was there, he would go inside. But if he found Yuri’s Benz at Topaz, he would wait and follow the Russian to wherever he went next. Sooner or later, he’d find some dirt on Yuri. With leverage, he could bargain for the ring.

      The scrape of stool legs against the floor interrupted his thoughts.

      In the mirror behind the bar, he observed a young woman taking the seat next to him. Even in this dim lighting, her hair gleamed like metal. Dye job or a wig. She wore so much eye makeup he couldn’t tell if her eyes were brown, black or gray.

      His gaze dropped to her top, two triangles of material that sheathed round, pert breasts. A flicker of heat leaped in his chest as he caught the outline of taut nipples, one straining a triangle decorated with white stars on blue, the other overworking a triangle with red-and-white stripes.

      She looked like a Fourth of July celebration about to pop.

      “Like my top?” she asked in a southern drawl.

      With Sally, he’d been rusty at interpreting female signals, but he picked up this woman’s more clearly than if she’d banged a gong in his ear. Just the kind of wake-up call to get outside of his funk, get back to the present.

      “It goes with my skirt,” she continued as though it was a two-way conversation.

      He knew better than to look, but it was like telling Bambi to stay out of the forest. The skirt was thigh high and red. Below it, shapely legs in fishnet stockings ended in a pair of black stiletto heels with some kind of symbol on the side.

      “It’s a fleur-de-lis,” she explained, pointing down at her shoe with a frosty-pink fingernail, “for my boys, the Saints.”

      Took him a moment. “The New Orleans Saints?”

      “Who dat!” She grinned so wide, he saw she had a slightly crooked front tooth, which almost gave her a sweet, naive quality.

      The operative word being almost. Sweet, naive types didn’t wear fishnet stockings, stiletto heels and small, tight triangles into dive bars.

      Clunk.

      He looked stupidly at his phone lying on the floor.

      “I’ll get it,” she said cheerfully.

      “No—”

      But she’d already scooted off her stool, a mass of red, fleshy curves and stars and stripes...and it was all he could to sit there and stare.

      She straightened slowly, a funny look on her face.

      He held out his hand for the phone.

      But she didn’t return it. Instead, she shifted closer, so close he could see that her eyes were brown. A rich, warm color, like melting caramel. He inhaled a slow breath, caught her scent. Fresh and soapy, as though she’d just stepped out of a shower. Surprising. These girls usually poured on the perfume.

      “I’m getting a pulsation,” she whispered.

      Took him a moment to realize it was an incoming СКАЧАТЬ