License to Thrill (2 page)
“Is there something you need?” she asked, making sure she sounded extra snippy and squinting disapprovingly at him through Maybelline’s bifocals.
“Yes, ma’am,” the paragon drawled in a smooth Texas accent.
In spite of his slightly blurry appearance, he was outrageously good-looking, right down to his straight white teeth. They had to be bonded. Nobody’s natural teeth looked that perfect. His suit—while slightly wrinkled—fit like a dream, accentuating his broad shoulders and narrow hips.
He smelled like the wickedly wonderful blend of expensive cologne and the faint but manly musk of perspiration. His beautiful black hair was clipped short, making one statement while the dark stubble on his jaw made another.
Charlee wanted to rip off the borrowed glasses and feast on him like Thanksgiving turkey. The desire scared her to the very marrow of her bones.
Something sparked in his deep brown bedroom eyes and she caught a glimmer of sudden heat when their gazes met—or maybe it was just that Maybelline’s glasses needed cleaning.
He sauntered toward her, oozing charisma from every pore.
Charlee forgot to breathe.
And then he committed the gravest sin of all, knocking her world helter-skelter.
The scoundrel smiled.
Mason Gentry gave the woman behind the desk his best public-relations grin. The grin—and the Gentry name—opened doors. Accustomed to getting what he wanted, Mason wanted one thing and one thing only.
To track down the floozy who’d lured his grandfather Nolan—along with a half-million dollars in family company funds—to sin city.
Mason’s primary aim? Locate Gramps, drag him home to Houston (hopefully with the money still intact), and get back to the investment deal he’d been in the process of bringing in before his older brother, Hunter, had taken over and sent him after their grandfather. He was still seething about the injustice. Why did Hunter earn the plum jobs while he got scut work?
Oh, yes. One other thing. Nolan’s unexpected and larcenous departure had forced Mason to postpone his engagement party.
He’d planned to ask his girlfriend of three years, Daphne Maxwell, to marry him this weekend in exactly the same fashion his father had proposed to his mother. Over veal parmigiana at Delveccio’s, with fifty of their closest friends joining the festivity.
At the thought of Daphne, Mason’s spirits lifted. For once in his life, he would have one up on his brother. He would be married to the perfect high-society wife.
Everyone in his family loved Daphne. She was refined, cultured, and sophisticated, with a myriad of business contacts and a pedigree she could trace back to the
Mayflower.
Daphne was everything he’d ever looked for in a wife. They had the same values, the same friends, and they wanted the same things from life. So what if there wasn’t much sexual chemistry. A good marriage consisted of so much more than fireworks.
Right?
“What do you want?” the woman demanded, squinting up at him from behind an ugly pair of glasses, her long black hair spilling haphazardly from an awkward bun secured to her head with a pencil.
Could she be the woman he was searching for?
He remembered the paper in his pocket. He’d found Maybelline Sikes’s name and this address scrawled on a notepad in Gramps’s bedroom. The nameplate on the desk said Maybelline Sikes, but she didn’t look like a Maybelline.
She looked like nothing but trouble with her determined little chin set and her smoldering emerald eyes flashing a challenge. Unlucky for her, Mason adored a challenge.
She wore an unflattering western-style shirt, faded jeans with a rip at the knee, and the most gawd-awful neon blue cowboy boots he had ever laid eyes upon. Not a shred of makeup graced her face. Granted, with her long, dark lashes and full raspberry-colored lips she didn’t need cosmetics to look good, but she did not fit the image of the busty, brash, blond femme fatale in stilettos and pearls he’d concocted in his head.
Nor had he expected her to be a private detective. Really, she was way too young for Gramps. But then again, gold diggers came in all shapes, ages, and professions.
“I’m waiting.” She arched an eyebrow and he noticed she clutched a pen so tight her knuckles were actually white. The lady was not nearly as composed as she appeared.
Mason draped one leg over the corner of her desk and leaned in close until they were almost nose-to-nose, his intent to intimidate.
“I want to know where my grandfather is,” he said, continuing to smile but narrowing his eyes so she would understand he meant business. “And I want to know now.”
She sank her top teeth into her bottom lip and unflinchingly returned his stare, but despite her bluster he could tell from the brief flicker of uneasiness flitting across her face she wanted to back away.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shouldn’t have noticed the long, smooth curve of her neck, but he found his gaze lingering on the pulse point jumping at her throat. She was nervous. Oh, yeah. But very adept at cloaking her uneasiness. He couldn’t help but admire her grace under pressure. He had reduced many an inefficient employee to tongue-tied stammers with his silent stares. But she wasn’t buying his bluster.
“Nolan Gentry. Where is he?”
She laid the pen down, steepled her fingertips, and blinked owlishly at him from behind those hideous glasses. “Let me get this straight. Do you want to hire me to find your missing grandfather?”
“He came here to meet you. Are you telling me you haven’t seen him?”
“I’m sorry, mister, I don’t even know who he is. Or who you are for that matter.”
“My name’s Mason Gentry. I’m an investment banker from Houston and I’ve come to retrieve my grandfather”
“What does that have to do with me?”
She met his eyes. Their glares slammed into each other.
Hot, hard, defiant.
She was a tough one all right, but he didn’t miss her telltale gulp and the determined way she clenched her jaw. No matter how composed she might appear, the woman was afraid of him.
“Aren’t you Maybelline Sikes?” He tapped the name-plate.
“No. I’m not. I’m her granddaughter.”
Instant relief rolled over him. His grandfather had hightailed himself across the desert to see the woman’s grandmother, not her. Why the knowledge lifted his spirits, he had no clue. What did it matter whether it was the granddaughter or the grandmother who was after Nolan’s fortune? The results were the same.
“So what’s your name?”
“Charlee Champagne.”
“Beg your pardon?” he asked, not sure he’d heard correctly.
“Charlee Champagne,” she repeated.
“Oh.”
For no particular reason the phrase
Good Time Charlee
popped into his mind’s eye along with a very provocative image of a tipsy Charlee boogieing with a lampshade on her head and wearing a very naughty black silk nightie. He could see the picture all too clearly. Perturbed, Mason shook his head to dispel the unwanted mental photograph.
Charlee sighed and then spoke as if she’d recited the details many times before. “My mother was a dancer at the Folies Bergère and had her name legally changed to Bubbles Champagne. She and my father were never married. What can I say? She was a bit frivolous. Any more questions?”
“Do you know where I can find Ms. Sikes?”
“She’s incommunicado.”
“Meaning?”
“She’s gone on her annual fishing retreat and she can’t be reached, but let me assure you she most certainly is not with your grandfather.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Maybelline hates men. Especially rich ones.”
“Who said my grandfather is rich?” Mason didn’t believe her for a second. No doubt she was covering for her grandmother.
Charlee waved a hand at his Rolex. “Like grandfather like grandson.”
“So, you’re claiming your grandmother can’t be reached?”
“No claiming to it. It’s the truth.”
“No cell phone?”
“She can’t stand ‘em. Says they give you brain cancer.”
“No beeper?”
“Nope. That’s the whole point of the trip. Uninterrupted peace and quiet.”
“I think you’re lying.”
Charlee shrugged. “Believe what you want.”
“It’s imperative I speak with Ms. Sikes,” Mason said in a controlled, measured manner. He was through fooling around with Miss I’m-Going-To-Be-No-Help-Whatsoever Champagne. He wanted his grandfather found. “If Ms. Sikes can’t be reached by electronic means then I will go to her fishing cabin. Give me directions.”
“No.”
“What?” His glare intensified. Sweat pooled around his collar. In his mad, twenty-four-hour sprint from Houston to Vegas, he hadn’t even bothered to change from his business suit and he was broiling like filet mignon at a backyard barbeque.
That’s what happened when you allowed single-minded focus to overcome common sense. Stubborn persistence was his biggest flaw and his greatest strength. His father often joked Mason was like an obstinate snapping turtle, never knowing when to turn loose.
“You heard me.” She raised her chin, daring him to call her bluff.
He stared openmouthed. He wasn’t accustomed to being refused anything. Testiness was his first instinct but something told him venting his frustration would be the wrong tactic to take. She’d most likely dig into her view. He could see she had a bit of snapping turtle in her too.
Forcing a smile, he slipped an amiable tone into his voice. “I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot. Why don’t we start over?”
“Okay.”
“My grandfather Nolan disappeared out of the blue with a substantial amount of money. We found a note in his room indicating he was on his way to meet your grandmother here in Vegas. We’re really concerned about him. He’s been behaving a bit out of character lately. I need to speak with your grandmother to find out if she has heard from him.”
“Sorry,” she said. “Maybelline left strict orders not to be disturbed. I can’t help you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“Take your pick.”
“So that’s the way it’s going to be.”
“Maybelline will be home in a couple of days. You can speak to her then. In the meantime, relax. Have fun. See Vegas. Enjoy a holiday.” Under her breath she muttered, “With that stick-up-your-butt attitude you certainly look as if you could use one.”
Like hell.
No way was he waiting a couple of days. In a couple of days Nolan and Maybelline could run through the half million at the craps table. Besides, in a couple more days Hunter would have the Birkweilder deal—
his
deal—sewn up, and would be busily collecting accolades from their father without giving Mason credit.
He gritted his teeth and fell back on his third line of offense. When authority and charm fail, there’s always money. He removed his wallet from his jacket pocket, unfolded the expensive leather case, and pulled out a crisp new Benjamin Franklin.
“How much is the information going to cost me?” He slapped a second hundred on the desk.
Charlee gasped. He could practically feel the anger emanating off of her.
What? Two C notes weren’t enough. Obviously, she was as greedy as her grandmother.
“Three hundred?” Mason added another bill to the stack.
“Are you trying to buy me off?”
“Let’s make it an even five.”
“Buddy, you can just keep peeling until your wallet is empty, because I’ll never tell you where Maybelline is. There isn’t enough money in the world.”
O
kay, he had handled the situation badly. He’d grossly misread Charlee Champagne and he’d acted like an unmitigated jackass. Mason wasn’t afraid to admit when he’d made a mistake. Unfortunately, not only had she refused to listen to his apology, she had unceremoniously tossed him and his money out of her office.
He’d blown his chance with her. Charlee would never help him now.
A short nap and a hot shower later, he prowled the suite he’d taken at the Bellagio in a thick white terry-cloth bathrobe and plowed his hands through his freshly washed hair.
He was back at square one. Gramps, along with his girlfriend Maybelline and the half-million dollars, was out roaming the streets and he had no idea where to start looking.
What if they had eloped?
Mason sank onto the bed. His father would have a conniption fit. At the thought of failing and letting his family down, he groaned, lay back against the mattress, and stared up at the painted ceiling depicting fifteenth-century Italian nudes.
“Thanks a lot, Gramps. I needed this like a hole in the head.”
A twinge of guilt flicked in his stomach. This wasn’t about him. This was about his grandfather and what had made Gramps unhappy enough to embezzle five hundred thousand dollars and tear off in the middle of the night without a word to anyone.
He was also a little hurt. He’d believed he and Nolan were pretty close. They were both second sons in the Gentry family and understood the meaning of taking a backseat to the favored eldest. They shot a round of golf together every Sunday afternoon. They played poker with Nolan’s cronies once a month. Why hadn’t Gramps confided in him?
Mason’s eyes traced the lines of the ceiling painting. A woman, her bare back exposed, lay on a gilded chaise lounge. He tracked the curve of her form, noticing the woman’s complexion matched the exact same spiced peaches color of Charlee’s skin.
What would Charlee look like naked?
Mesmerized by the concept, his imagination ran rampant as he envisioned pert firm breasts, a taut flat belly, and yards of her long coltish legs wrapped around his naked waist while still wearing her gruesome, but oddly compelling, neon blue cowgirl boots.
Startled, Mason bolted upright. Good God! He was almost an engaged man. Why in the hell was he fantasizing about another woman?
Why indeed?
A wave of embarrassment, followed by a virtual monsoon of guilt, flustered him.
“It’s just because she pissed you off,” Mason grumbled. “She’s a challenge and you find challenges stimulating. It’s nothing sexual.”
Oh, yeah?
“Stop thinking about her,” he commanded, annoyed with himself, and grabbed his cell phone.
