Sins That Haunt (26 page)

“I'd wipe the blood off my face,” the other goon told him. “Someone might call the cops.”

“Yeah.” She mimicked his sneer. “Then you'll have to explain how a woman made you cry.”

His friend got between the two of them just in time to stop a meaty hand from grabbing her. She let out a slow breath. It was hard work pretending you weren't scared for your life.

They entered the second tower and rode the elevator to the top floor. The doors opened to a waiting teenager. His hair was dyed pink, an odd color to go with the heavy metal getup and the lip piercing. She wasn't sure if his sneer was meant for them or every adult he encountered, but her escorts returned his cheery disposition with a scary one of their own. The ballsy kid just flipped them off, the teacup poodle in his arm yipping as if in agreement as they entered the elevator. Smart dog . . . smart kid. Tomás took out a key card and opened the door to one of the suites. Inside, he disappeared down the hallway.

“Sit,” the other told her, pointing to living quarters. “Go and enjoy the view.”

The two-story cityscape was breathtaking, but she wasn't here to be social. “Where's my sister?” She folded her arms, ready to dig in her heels if she had to. She knew there was a chance they didn't have Cecilia, but it was a chance that needed to be taken. Hell, they'd known about her.

A loud slap echoed from one of the rooms, catching their attention.

“Sit,” he repeated, without the if-you-know-what's-good-for-you.

So no one else could sit beside her, she took a seat in the armchair while he went to block the front door.

These suites were for big spenders or anyone who liked using bills to stoke their fires. Decorated in shades of browns, golds, and creamy whites, the opulent room screamed money. And while she was never against someone taking advantage of what they had, over-the-top spending on a room that wasn't going to occupy much of your time because the hotels
really
encouraged you to be out and spending money, made no sense. But this was Vegas, and for some ungodly reason a lot of people thought it was okay to go a little crazy when they visited this town. This was no place for Cecilia.

Santos emerged from one of the back rooms; a bedroom, she supposed. He was grinning and looking very happy to see her. She wasn't sure how to play it. Should she be coy or show him exactly how much she wanted to tear her own skin off?

“Ms. Lewis, or should I say Ms. Joyce?”

Shit
. She guessed if he'd wanted to kill her, he wouldn't have brought her to his hotel room. Here was hoping her guess wasn't wrong. It was time to bluff. He knew her name, but maybe that was all he knew. “Both will do. Lewis was my father's name, Joyce my mother's and the one she gave me. You can understand why I wouldn't want to alert the police to my legal name.”

He shrugged, taking a chair opposite her. “They have a way of finding things out.”

“When they go
looking
, yes. I try not to give them a reason to go looking. I believe you and I have had this conversation.” She wanted to know if he had Cecilia, but if she rushed it before knowing exactly why he'd brought her here, she could be sticking her foot so deep into her mouth she'd never get it out.

“So JJ really was your father?”

“Was, yes. And we really did work together.”

He leaned back and strummed his fingers over the armrest. “But you're not an accountant, are you?”

The real question was, did he know about Noah and Damon or just her? One she could talk her way out of, the other . . . she didn't want to consider. “No, I'm a civil attorney.” She needed something she didn't have: time to think this through. That was the new Shannon. If she was going to survive this, she had no choice but to use a little of the old Shannon.

“Why lie to me about that?”

Did that question mean he wasn't on to them? “I had no choice. I lied to the Keyeses. You just became an extension of that lie.” She was going to assume Shelley What's-her-face had tricked her into leaving the house. That meant Shelley knew Santos. But the woman had talked to West. Had to have, or else how could she have known that Cecilia was missing? And thinking back, they hadn't told West that Noah was an agent.

“I don't like being lied to.” His face had taken on a menacing quality that told her to tread carefully.

“I can say the same. You don't have my sister.” They'd tricked her.

“No, but we can talk about her later. For now, let's keep this about you.” It wasn't a request.

“The Keyeses are like single-minded mice,” she explained. “Put money at the end of a maze and they'll track it. I didn't want to be their bait. But he'd already told them we'd reconnected and where I lived. So we made a deal. No one was to know
anything
else about me. Then he went and got himself murdered and screwed everything up.”

“And the accounting firm?”

“They're my accountants. It was easy to get them to cover my story. In Vegas I meet a lot of people who
really
need a good tax accountant. I bring them a lot of business.”

“What of the business you brought me?”

Here it was. Did he know?

“I do have connections. But I met Noah and Damon in a casino a few months before JJ contacted me. By then I'd hooked them up with my accountant. They like to spend money, only unlike me they tend to win at the tables. They seemed to enjoy taking risks so when JJ asked for my help, I thought of them.” She held her breath, waiting for his reaction. When he didn't answer, only stared at her, she added. “I didn't mean to lie to you. I just saw no point in explaining everything. In the end you were getting what you wanted and the Keyeses had no way of tracking me down afterward. Win-win.”

“And yet I cannot help but wonder why you've been so hard to track down. Why are you hiding?” he asked, playing with the ring on his middle finger.

How much of the truth did she tell him? What if Hyatt had been under this man's orders? Perhaps her theory had been wrong. It hadn't been this Shelley person who told Santos but Hyatt. The cartel had sent lawyers to his rescue. Surely he'd have told them why? But how, then, did he know Cecilia was missing? If Santos wasn't making the connection between her and the reason Hyatt was arrested, Shannon wasn't about to point it out. “Somebody ransacked my office.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Why would someone do that? Your financial problems—do they involve nefarious money lenders?”

She could run with that if he'd had nothing to do with it. She gave him a noncommittal shrug.

He tipped his head sideways. “Exactly how much do you owe?”

“Enough that I may have to sell my share of the law firm,” she said, trying to look contrite.

For a while he said nothing, simply assessed her with cold, unforgiving eyes. When he finally spoke it wasn't what she'd expected.

“Can I get you a drink?”

Did he believe her or not? “No, thank you. I make it a point never to drink during the week.” She needed to be on her game but was amazed at how easily she could lie. It really was like riding a bicycle.

“Tomás,” he shouted over his shoulder.

Tomás came out of the same room Santos had, now sporting a cut lip as well as a bandage over his nose. She hadn't done that. Why had Santos struck him? Because of her? Interesting.

He shot her a death stare before turning his attention to his boss.

“Scotch,” Santos said. No please, no thank you, just Scotch.

She had to bite her tongue from snapping out a drink order herself. She didn't want to come off as a smartass in front of Santos.

When Tomás left like a good little lap dog Santos leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “My cousin doesn't like you.”

She lifted one shoulder. “Oh, well.” Was she out of the woods or not?

“But I do.”

From the frying pan . . . but at least it sounded like he believed her. Was he that desperate to get into her pants? What the hell was wrong with him? Sure he made her want to gag, but that was because he was repellent. Dress him anyway you liked, he was still a drug dealer. But he reeked of money, illegal or otherwise, and all kinds of skanky women would toss their panties at him. Why couldn't he go find one of them?

“And I think the least you could do is have dinner with me.”

Considering he'd be in jail soon... “Sure. Call me and we can arrange something later in the week.” She stood, hoping to use this as a way to leave.

“Tonight would be better. I find myself suddenly . . . free.”

There was something behind that statement. “Unless you're taking me to McDonald's, I'm not dressed for anything fancy.” She was going to frame these Lulu's when this was over. “How about tomorrow?”

“Tonight. I insist. Sit,” he said, taking the drink Tomás brought him and nodding over his shoulder for him to leave. The flunky disappeared back into the bedroom.

She sat back down. He didn't want her to have dinner here, did he? Just how long would he keep her? “What do you have in mind?”

Tomás returned with a large box and, with another of his famous sneers, handed it to her. His oversized body blocked Santos's view of her, and she stuck out her tongue. It was childish, but watching him turn red was worth it.

“What's this?” she asked when the buffoon finally moved out of the way.

“Open it.”

Her heartbeat kicked up a notch and she forced her face to stay neutral as she opened the box. As expected, he'd bought her clothes, the tag reading Dior, the dust bag holding the shoes the same. This wasn't good. Men didn't buy women expensive gifts without expecting something in return. And from the lascivious grin on his face, Miguel Santos was expecting something in return.

Not a chance in hell was he getting it. “This is very nice, but wouldn't it be better if we do this tomorrow night? I left my purse in the car. I don't even have a hairbrush.”

“You'll find everything you need in the second bedroom upstairs. Andre will escort you.”

The one guarding the door approached, stopping to stand by her chair. Okay, so she'd have to find a way to get away from him at the restaurant.

“I've ordered dinner.”

Her heart sank. She was screwed.

“You have one hour to get ready. That should be plenty of time. You're already beautiful.”

“We're eating here?” she said. “There are so many amazing restaurants in Vegas. I know a lot of the maître d's.”

“I'm not sharing you,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

Gritting her teeth, she stood and followed Andre to the second floor and into one of the bedrooms. This, like the living room, also had floor-to-ceiling windows. When she was alone she tossed the box onto the bed and sat, scrubbing her hands over her face. Was Santos the type who took no for an answer? And when was this bust going down? He'd given her an hour. She would take that hour, giving Noah more time to make the arrest.

She discovered Santos wasn't kidding. Everything a woman needed—makeup, brushes, even a fresh razor—was laid out on the granite countertop in the bathroom. He'd planned this. So how long had he known who she was? And how did Shelley fit into all of this, if she did? JJ must have had more than the Keyeses working for him. She couldn't remember a Shelley, but that might not be her real name. And who really had her sister if not Santos?

The black dress was exquisite, but she usually liked Dior because of the tasteful necklines. This had no such thing. The center plunged nearly down to her navel, where it was met with a flared skirt, above the knee in front, midcalf behind. It was 1960s with a twist. She figured it would be easy for a man who spent a lot of time with women to guess dress sizes, but shoes? How had he noticed that? Thankfully, the dress had built-in bra cups. He'd supplied stockings as well, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd worn a pair and left them in the box.

She applied fresh makeup, sans the obvious red lipstick, then twisted her hair into a French knot, securing it with a pretty silver clip. Stepping out of the bathroom, something glittering caught her eye. On closer inspection she realized it was an earring and picked it up. A diamond stud. A real diamond stud. Santos didn't have pierced ears so it must belong to one of his girlfriends. He'd said his evening had opened up.
Huh
. She went to look at herself in the full-length mirror. She had to admit the dress was divine, as were the shoes, but had they been meant for someone else? She'd be offended if she gave a flying rat's ass.

This getting dressed up for a romantic meal should have been for Noah. She rubbed the sudden ache in her chest. She was getting too attached to him. She'd counted on having her heart broken, but this—how would she survive this? That was if she survived the evening with Santos.

Even if they could work through the two different cities, she couldn't be what Noah needed. She wasn't Maggie. She wasn't Mrs. P. Hell, she wasn't even Rhonda, a woman who'd sacrificed everything to take care of a drunk father. And Noah deserved better.

Noah wanted small town, and didn't small town mean nice or sweet? She was neither of those. She didn't bake cakes and take in neglected kids, love them like they were her own and ask for nothing in return. She was a hard-ass attorney who busted balls in court. She fixed people's lives the only way she knew how. Even though the scale would never balance or tip in her favor, she had to keep trying. How was she to do that in Tweedsmuir? She couldn't. And without that proverbial scale she was just trailer park Shannon, never good enough to play with the preacher's daughter. Never good enough to date the golden boy. Only good at lying.