Werewolf in Las Vegas (5 page)

“How many had to do with dance?”

“A lot. She took lessons until she left for college.”

Giselle wondered if he realized that this was more than a hobby for his sister. She'd been dancing since she was three, and now that her father wasn't around to disapprove, she had only to get past her big brother to have the career she'd dreamed of her whole life.

“That's going to bother me, wondering about those pictures.” He looked over at Giselle. “Would you mind if we went over to the penthouse to check?”

“Fine with me. Unless we get another riddle, we don't know what to do next, anyway.”

“I know what to do next—eat. I'm starving. How about you?”

Now that he'd mentioned food, she realized she was hungry. “Sure, that sounds good.”

“Excellent. I'll call Mr. Thatcher and have him bring us something from the main kitchen.” He pulled out his phone again.

“Who's Mr. Thatcher?”

“Our very English butler. He's been with the family for years. What would you like for dinner?”

“I'm not picky. Anything.”

“But you're from 'Frisco. Lots of vegetarians up there. Are you a vegetarian?”

“No.”

“Vegan?”

“Nope. I'm a carnivore. I promise you.”

“You're doing it again with the little smile. Did I say something funny?”

“Not everyone from San Francisco is a vegetarian, you know.”

“Guess not. You're okay with steak, then?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you like it rare, medium, or well?”

“Definitely rare.”

“Good. Me, too.” He placed his call to Mr. Thatcher and ordered two steak dinners with all the trimmings, a bottle of red wine, and two pieces of chocolate cake for dessert.

It was a meal fit for a Were, and Giselle could hardly wait. Plus she wanted to see how the Silver Crescent had changed since she was last there. She and her friends must have been guests right before the Crescent became involved in the Cartwright/Dalton legal battle.

“Okay.” He disconnected the call. “We're out of here. Wait. Hold on a minute. Let me leave a tip for the maid.” He dug in his back pocket for his wallet.

“But the carpet will dry and the room was barely used at all.”

“Doesn't matter. They count on these tips, and if this room is easy to clean, the next one might be a total disaster. It's a tough job. They earn their money.”

“You're right. They do.” She liked the fact that he thought about the maids and thanked them. She was starting to like too many things about Luke Dalton, and that wasn't a good idea. No matter how much he appealed to her, he was still very much a human.

“I'm grateful for the private elevator,” Giselle said as they rode up to the Silver Crescent's penthouse. “And the wood paneling is gorgeous.”

“You can thank Harrison Cartwright. I don't know if he had a private elevator when the building first went up, but he installed all new elevators throughout the building before he finally turned it over to my dad. If he went to that kind of expense, he must have thought he'd get to keep it, after all.”

“Are all the elevators this nice?”

“Not quite. This one has genuine hardwood. The others are laminate.”

“I know you don't think much of Harrison Cartwright, but he had good taste.”

“Can't argue with that. Wait'll you see the view from the penthouse.” The thought came to Luke that he'd never brought a woman up here.

Well, that would be because he hadn't become involved with anyone since his dad died. Duh. Too damned busy. But he certainly
intended
to bring women up here at some point in time, when his life settled down and his sister stopped giving him fits.

With his mother's blessing, he'd renovated the master bedroom and bath so it no longer resembled his parents' bedroom. He was happy with the way it looked, although he wouldn't be showing it off to Giselle.

But how ironic that the first woman he invited here was one he had no intention of sleeping with. The only people who had seen the final result had been Cynthia and Owen. His sister had liked it okay but thought it needed more color. She'd compared the suite to a hospital room, which wasn't the effect he was going for.

Then Owen had seen it the day he'd supervised an update of the penthouse security system. Owen, a guy of few words, had said it was “nice
.
” That didn't tell Luke a damn thing. Owen wasn't exactly Martha Stewart, but Luke would have liked a little more commentary.

When it came to color, he was no expert, so he'd stuck with white. Even that had been trickier than he'd thought. Who knew there were so many shades of it? But he'd found one he liked called “linen,” and then he'd matched everything to that.

The suite resembled his image of heaven, with the pillows and quilts reminding him of fluffy clouds. He'd found some pictures of Greek temples, also white, and put those on the walls, which were also white. It all blended in beautifully. But it might be too monochromatic. He just wasn't sure.

They stepped off the elevator, and he used a card key to open the black enamel, silver-edged double doors into the foyer. Then he moved back and let Giselle go in ahead of him. He did like the way she moved.

He wondered if she'd taken dancing lessons as a kid and maybe dreamed of making it a career. That would explain her defense of Cynthia. Maybe he'd ask her sometime.

They walked through the elegant foyer with its chrome tables and quarter-moon mirrors on either side. Fresh flower arrangements provided by his staff perfumed the air.

He left the envelope containing Cynthia's picture in the foyer. He'd deal with it later. Right now he was interested in Giselle's reaction to the penthouse. This was his home now, and he realized that he wanted her to like it. Why he even cared about her opinion was a question for another time.

He'd kept the living room decorated exactly as it had been when his parents had lived there. Muted lighting revealed soft leather sectionals in butter yellow. Pillows in every color of the rainbow were scattered around. Maybe that's what Cynthia had meant. He needed some of those little square pillows in his bedroom.

The open floor plan included a linen-draped dining table on the left side of the room. Not long ago he'd taken out the two leaves to create a cozier setup. He didn't intend to hold the kind of large-scale dinner parties his parents had enjoyed.

The kitchen was through an arched opening to the right, and the bedrooms were also to the right down a long hallway. Most first-time visitors missed those details.

Usually they were captured by the floor-to-ceiling windows that provided an unobstructed view of the Strip. His father had said the panoramic vista was worth all the effort of winning that lawsuit. Luke didn't agree, considering it had shortened his dad's life, but the view was spectacular, especially now that the sun had set.

The windows lined the west and north walls. Unless he was there to deal with the shades, a maid came in and raised them on the west windows just before sunset, so that even as you walked into the room you could watch the sun go down. He and Giselle had missed that show, but it didn't matter. Looking north was a nonstop extravaganza.

In the foreground jutted the skyscrapers of Manhattan, with the Statue of Liberty and the Coney Island Cyclone roller coaster looping through the buildings. Beyond that, the distinctive Eiffel Tower spire glittered against the night sky. Across the way, streams of water jetted upward from the dancing fountain fronting the Bellagio.

Giselle walked toward the window. “That's quite a view, Dalton.”

He came up to stand beside her. “My father never got tired of looking at it. Here, let me take your coat.” He helped her out of it before removing his still slightly damp denim jacket. He laid them both over the back of the sectional.

“I'd forgotten how over-the-top Vegas is.”

“That's what fantasy is all about—going over-the-top.” He studied her profile. She had a high forehead and an aristocratic nose, both of which made her look intelligent and a little snooty.

Her mouth, though, was extremely lush. He could imagine that mouth sucking on a chocolate-covered strawberry. He stared at the lights of the Strip and reminded himself to focus on the mission—getting Bryce Landry out of town and Cynthia straightened out.

“It's mesmerizing, isn't it?” Giselle said.

“It can be. My dad used to love standing here and reveling in the fact that Harrison Cartwright was now denied this view.”

“But Harrison built Illusions, which provides a mirror image from the north end of the Strip.”

Something clicked when she said that. He looked over at her. “You've been on the top floor of Illusions, then?”

Her startled glance told him she hadn't meant to say that. “Uh, yeah. Briefly.”

“It's a very exclusive casino and hotel. Booked up months ahead, I hear. Getting into Illusions is tougher than getting into Fort Knox.”

“I've heard that.” She returned her attention to the view.

“I didn't think to ask where you were staying while you're here. I'm guessing you're at Illusions.”

She kept her gaze on the sparkling lights and the constant flow of traffic forty floors below them, but her cheeks had become rosy. “The Cartwrights are family friends.”

He'd bet she hadn't intended for him to know that. Earlier he'd asked how she'd learned about his problems with Cynthia. Now he knew. “You and Vaughn Cartwright had a little conversation before you came over to the Moon to see me, didn't you?”

She turned to him, putting her back to the view. She looked beautiful standing there surrounded by the lights, and he wondered if he was dealing with a modern version of Mata Hari. If so, she wasn't a very good spy. They'd been together a couple of hours and she'd already revealed her connection to the enemy.

“Don't leap to the wrong conclusions, Luke.”

“Like what? I—” His phone pinged. “Could be from Cynthia.” Taking his phone from his pocket, he clicked on the message. He stared at the screen for a moment. “Busted.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned the phone so she could see the picture embedded in the message. “They must have hidden a motion-activated camera in that room.”

Giselle gazed at the image and sighed. “And now my brother knows I'm here and that I came unannounced. I'd better text him.” Taking out her phone, she typed a brief message. “Maybe this is just as well. I told him I really wanted to talk with him and I hoped we could get together soon. If he's up for that, it might open the door for you and Cynthia to have a heart-to-heart, too.”

“I'd like that.” Except he didn't know what he planned to say yet. The more time he spent with Giselle, the more his perceptions seemed to shift. He was no longer exactly sure where he stood on the subject of Cynthia's future. Before he talked to her, he ought to figure that out.

Giselle tucked her phone away. “So where were we?”

He had to think about that. Surrounded by the gemlike colors of the casino lights, she was a vision. He'd been trying to ignore his attraction from the moment she'd walked into his office. Then he remembered they'd been talking about her connection to Vaughn Cartwright. Okay, that would help cool his libido.

He cleared his throat. “You were telling me about your friendship with the Cartwright family.”

“I'm here to bring my brother home. That's my only agenda.”

“I believe you.” Partly because he wanted to. He plain liked her. She was smart, confident, and didn't pull her punches. Plus she'd come all the way to Vegas in an effort to talk some sense into her brother, and he certainly related to that.

“Whatever feud the Daltons and the Cartwrights have going on has nothing to do with me.” She met his gaze. “I connected with Vaughn only because our families are acquainted, and so I e-mailed him to see if he had any idea what was going on with my brother.”

“Is Vaughn a friend of his?”

“I don't think they've ever met. But I can tell you that Vaughn's not happy that my brother's hanging out with your sister. As I said, my family knows his family, and Bryce joining forces with a Dalton is seen as consorting with the enemy.”

“So why are you here with me? Isn't that the same thing?”

“No. Vaughn understands that I need to do whatever it takes to get my brother back home. If Bryce had hooked up with any woman other than Cynthia, Vaughn would be helping me track them down. But he can't come to the rescue when a Dalton's involved.”

Luke sighed. “I'll accept that. And speaking of Cynthia, I need to check the photo gallery and see if she's swiped any other pictures.”

“Do you mind if I tag along?”

He'd assumed that she would go. “Why wouldn't you?”

“Because these are your family photos. It's personal.”

“That's considerate of you.” He was impressed with her respect for his privacy.

“If you're worried that I'm going to report everything to Vaughn when this is all over, I can tell you right now I wouldn't do that. I'm sorry the family lost Howlin' at the Moon. It means a lot to them, but—”

“It also means a lot to me.”

“I can see that.”

He was still waiting for the sense of jubilation he'd expected to feel. Maybe once this business with Cynthia was over, he'd be ready to celebrate. “Come on. Let's go see what my little sister has done to the family pictures.” He gestured toward the hallway that branched off from the living area. “First doorway on your right.”

He followed her into the gallery, which had been set up by a professional curator. A wooden bench ran down the center of the room, but that was the only furniture. The walls in the windowless room were covered with framed photographs of various sizes, some color and some black-and-white.

Each had a museum-style label underneath giving the date and occasion. He and Cynthia had their own walls, and the other two contained family groupings, pictures of his parents when they were kids, and pictures of them as a couple. Track lighting highlighted the photos without producing any reflection on the glass. His father had spent a fortune on this gallery.

Luke checked Cynthia's wall and swore softly to himself. He'd never counted how many pictures there'd been of her, but he guessed there had been at least fifty in various sizes. Close to a third of them were now only empty frames. “She took all her recital pictures.”

Giselle walked over to Cynthia's wall. “She went through a lot of trouble. Why not take the whole thing, frame and all?”

“Too awkward. Whatever she plans to do with those pictures, she wants to be able to transport them easily. The frames would make that tough.”

“Guess so.” Giselle wandered around the room studying the display. “Sort of ruins the family photo album concept, doesn't it?”

“The albums still exist. They're in a vault. But the minute my dad saw this windowless room, he came up with the idea of turning it into a family gallery.” He couldn't imagine how upset Cynthia must be to have done this. In a way, taking pictures from here was better than pulling them out of the somewhat fragile family albums in the vault. He suddenly realized he'd grossly underestimated her passion for dancing.

“I love this one of you wearing your Mickey Mouse ears.”

He glanced over to where Giselle stood surveying all the pictures of him, a smile on that lush mouth. No wonder. He looked dorky in those ears. “Yeah, well, that was my Mickey phase. I wore that hat everywhere, including to church.” She'd been right about the personal nature of this room.

“Well, now that I know what she's taken,” he said, “we can go back out and enjoy the view, if you want.”

“I'm enjoying this one.” She pointed to a picture of him in a football uniform. “What position did you play?”

“Quarterback.”

“Were you any good?”

He shrugged. “I guess. We took state my senior year.”

“Then I'll bet you went to college on a football scholarship.”

“You'd win that bet, but I'd rather not dwell on—”

“Just trying to get a bead on you, Dalton. Bachelor's? Master's?”

“MBA.”

“I see. Football star and graduate student. Did your father dedicate another room for framed diplomas and trophies and such?”

Luke laughed and shook his head. The lady was certainly persistent. “Yes, but we're not going in there. It's plain embarrassing. Let's head back to the living room and wait for dinner to arrive.”