Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas

But lately, he’d been keeping the noise down in the mornings so Drake and Val, who lived in the back apartment, could get some rest. His brother had recently been working some late-night surveillances, and Val, in the last trimester of her pregnancy, had been having trouble sleeping. Instead of blasting the office, Brax plugged in his earbuds and bobbed his head to the beat of “Moves Like Jagger.”

A text message from his grandmother popped up on his smartphone.

We forgot to talk last night about the Magic Dream Date Auction on Valentine’s Day!

Last night over martinis, they’d talked about everything but the auction—Dmitri’s job offer; Braxton’s dilemma over possibly leaving Morgan-LeRoy Investigations; Grams’s crazy cat Maxine’s bladder infection; and Gram’s boyfriend, Richmond, whom she called her boy toy, although he was only six years younger.

But they’d forgotten to discuss the auction. Or maybe, subconsciously, he hadn’t wanted to burst her bubble. Grams loved volunteering at Keep ’Em Rolling and made it a point to stay in contact with people who had received wheelchairs from the organization. Several times he’d driven her to people’s homes so she could visit them in person. He wanted to support her.

It was just...he wasn’t up for playing stud boy, especially on Valentine’s Day at an auction catering to lonely hearts waving fistfuls of money as he sashayed down a runway in tight jeans and no shirt.

Somebody shoot me now.

Couldn’t avoid the topic much longer, though. The auction was next Friday, February 14.

“Hello?”

He looked up, yanked the buds from his ears.

A woman, late twenties, stood in front of his desk. American accent, so he doubted she was Dima’s associate; he’d mentioned something about having only a few Russian friends in the area. She wore a sophisticated gray pantsuit, lipstick the color of raspberry gelato and a bun knotted at the base of her neck. He glanced out the front window and saw a shiny lemon-yellow Mercedes Benz parked next to his Volvo.

Irked him that he drove that piece of junk.

Irked him more that she drove a Mercedes.

Pantsuit. Bun. Benz.

Oh, yeah, he got her number. Probably read The Economist cover to cover, or pretended to, wore sensible pumps and followed Hillary Clinton on Twitter. Her idea of a good time was to shop at Ikea, followed by brunch, where she ordered lettuce with a side of lemon.

“Are you Braxton Morgan?” she asked.

“Are you looking for a security consultant?”

Her eyes rounded in puzzlement. “No.”

“Then why are you asking for Braxton?”

She stared at him for a long moment, as though he were a bauble she was thinking about acquiring.

That was when he noticed the color of her eyes. A light purple, like amethyst. Yet so clear, he could see into them, catch glints of gold in their depths. And something more, too. A wistfulness that didn’t match the resolute lines of that pantsuit, the slick knot of that bun.

But it was more than what he saw. He felt her. A restlessness that swept over him like winds off the Mojave, as warm as they were unsettling. At the same time he sensed her vulnerability, which clashed with her business-power packaging, but fit right in with her flowery scent.

Distant yet close. Seductive yet standoffish.

He didn’t think he’d ever met a woman who gave off more conflicting signals.

“Because,” she finally said, “I have something for him.”

He forgot what he’d asked her. Or why he was here, the day of the week, the current president of the United States. Oh, right, he’d asked why she wanted to see Braxton. Whoever that was.

A corner of her mouth lifted slightly, as though amused by his caginess. Although he preferred to think it was inspired by his overwhelming manliness. Anyway, it was a nice mouth. Soft, curvy lips. Their color so light and ripe, he could almost taste their raspberry sweetness.

He realized he was smiling back.

“So,” she said, her voice turning husky, “do you know where I can find Braxton?”

Oh, now she’d done it.

He’d always been a sucker for women’s smoky, raspy voices, and she’d just given it to him twofold. She was a young Lauren Bacall. Cool, unflappable, smooth. And he was Sam Spade, private eye, ready and willing to help the damsel in distress.

Ka-boom.

He straightened, laughing as he realized what he’d just fallen for.

“Oh, you’re good,” he said, giving his head a shake. “The hot blonde strolling in here, bringing trouble into my life. That pantsuit fooled me at first. Who’s your stylist? Hillary Clinton? That uptight schoolmarm bun, whoa, we’re talking foxy...like Frau Farbissina in the Austin Powers movies. But I have a thing for blondes, which they probably told you. And that husky, smoky voice. Wow. Tie me up and make me write bad checks all night long, baby.”

He laughed. She didn’t.

“So,” he said, turning down the dial on his frivolity, “who put you up to this? Drake?”

A sly half smile played on her lips. “Right, it was Drake. He told me Braxton would be sitting at this desk at nine.”

“Yeah, I open up most mornings.”

She placed a manila envelope on the desk. “Then this is for you, Braxton Morgan. Have a nice day.”

Neatly printed on the envelope were the words To Braxton Morgan, personal and confidential and Dmitri Romanov in the top left corner. The papers from Dmitri. And the check. Smoky-husky was his associate?

When he looked up, the blonde was walking away. No goodbye. Just a silky-smooth exit, like a trail of smoke from Lauren Bacall’s cigarette.

Was that how the clichéd private-eye story ended? After the hot blonde walked into the detective agency and exchanged a few words with the P.I., who of course fell hard for her, she walked back out? Just like that?

Not in this movie.

Braxton grabbed his phone and headed after her.

* * *

HEADING TO HER CAR in the Morgan-LeRoy Investigations lot, Frances shivered as a chilly breeze flittered past. Two hours ago, the skies had been deceptively blue and the sun so bright she’d tossed her sunglasses into her purse. Now clouds were moving in, obliterating the sun, casting the world in a surreal, hazy light.

Footsteps slapped behind her.

“Hey, Babe!”

She looked around. The only other person nearby was a guy in a cap with earflaps and pom-poms ambling down the sidewalk, so “Babe” had to mean her.

She turned back to Braxton, who was walking briskly toward her. Hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket or coat, so he had to feel the cold, but he seemed oblivious to it. Flashed her a smile and waved as though out for a stroll on a balmy spring day.

He was tall, a little over six feet, she guessed. That tucked-in fitted shirt emphasized his V shape—from the width of his shoulders down to his toned chest that tapered to a flat, lean waist. Although he wore his trousers stylishly loose, the material seemed to skim his muscled thighs as he walked.

A sensual awareness prickled over her skin.

Back in the Morgan-LeRoy office, she’d found him to be cute in a goofy kind of way, but he’d also been sitting down, so she didn’t get an overall impression. Plus she’d been juggling other thoughts—trying to get a fix if this was Braxton, as she wanted to hand over the envelope to the right person, thinking about her brunch meeting today with her boss.

Her thoughts scattered as Braxton stopped in front of her. He blew out a breath and grinned—an infectious, sheepish smile that filled his whole face. Standing this close, inches apart really, she got the full force of his gray eyes, really more of a light gray-blue that reminded her of early-morning skies.

“I said some dumb stuff back there.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry.”