Colleen Collins - Hearts in Vegas

Hacking into a government database with such ease was mind-blowing. Either they had somebody on the inside or this younger guy was a computer genius. Good thing her driver’s license had a bogus street address, courtesy of Vanderbilt and the state of Nevada.

“Oleg has been monitoring that surveillance camera for several days,” he continued, looking pleased. “You see, I planted the Lady Melbourne brooch at Fortier’s because I hoped to attract a thief—make that a talented thief—who is knowledgeable about Georgian jewelry.”

This was a twist she wasn’t expecting, although she had a good idea where it was leading. “You want me to steal something for you.”

“Yes.”

“I would have thought you already had such contacts....”

“Ah, I did have an experienced jewel thief lined up. An accomplished gentleman, but he’s getting older and having health issues. Because I’ve been absent from your country for a while, I’ve unfortunately lost touch with other contacts.” He shrugged. “My excellent team has been working hard for several months.... Silly to kill a project because one person drops out. You see, we are like a pirate ship, staying on course despite turbulent seas, determined to find the buried treasure marked with an X on our map.”

“Seems risky to continue, though, if the person who dropped out is key to the plan.”

“But a key can be forged. I found you, didn’t I? As to risk...what beats in the heart of every thief is the thrill of uncertainty and peril. Without those, we lose our edge, our—” he rubbed his fingers together, as though touching a silky fabric “—finesse.”

His words resonated with her. She could still remember the rush after a successful pickpocket, a giddy high she had never gotten anywhere else in life. As an investigator, she sometimes felt that way after lifting an item, but it wasn’t the same. The risk was there, but it was nothing like the thrill of the illicit hunt.

She shifted slightly. “What do you want stolen?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Helena Diamond necklace....”

“Of course,” she murmured.

The Helena Diamond was a heart-cut diamond necklace secretly commissioned by Napoleon with the help of friends during his exile on the island of Saint Helena in memory of his long-lost love, Josephine. Legend claimed that within the Helena Diamond was the pattern of two perfectly symmetrical hearts, only visible to the eyes of destined lovers.

The necklace disappeared after Napoleon’s death, supposedly confiscated by his enemy, Prince Metternich, whose family hid the diamond after the fall of the Austrian Empire. Decades later, it resurfaced in the hands of a London diamond merchant who sold it for fifteen million dollars to an unnamed American businessman.

“That necklace is worth millions,” she said.

“Twenty to be exact. It will be on display next month at the Legendary Gems exhibit at the Palazzo. We have the electronic know-how, locksmiths and muscle to grant you safe passage in and out. Your knowledge of Georgian jewelry—essential, as you will be mingling with antique-jewelry collectors and dealers—and your sleight-of-hand skills will do the rest.”

Her stomach fell to somewhere around her feet. What he was describing confirmed to her that he’d also been behind the theft of the ancient coins that she was so eager to find. And more than that, he was reeling her into his next major heist.

For most of her five years as an insurance investigator at Vanderbilt, she’d worked garden-variety thefts. Mid-range jewelry and antiquities stolen from homes and small businesses.

This past year, though, Charlie had been pushing her to tackle tougher, big-ticket-item cases. A theft of jewels worth half a million from a Las Vegas entertainer’s home safe. A briefcase of valuable coins stolen from a taxi. She’d solved both after weeks of investigative work, but tracking this mysterious Russian’s shenanigans with the Lady Melbourne brooch and the ancient Greek coins was starting to feel as arduous as Napoleon’s invasion of Russia.

This case was darker, more complex and frankly scarier than any she had handled before.

Part of her wanted to tell Charlie this job was out of her league and to get her out of it. But if Vanderbilt took issue with her backing out of this case and reported her insubordination to the court, the court could withdraw the suspension of her sentence, and she’d serve the remainder in jail.

“What do I get out of this?” she asked.

“Upon my receipt of the necklace, two hundred thousand dollars cash. And because of your fondness for the Lady Melbourne brooch, that, as well.”

No jewel thief would work for such a measly percentage, but of course that wasn’t what this was about for Frances. She had what most investigators worked weeks, months, for—she had an in. An invitation to the inner sanctum of her subject’s world.

Charlie would be thrilled. Nailing a master thief would be a career coup. Vanderbilt would promote him and likely invite her to stay on after her probation ended. Or she could go into business for herself as a specialized antiquities investigator.

Which meant this case, if she succeeded, could skyrocket her career. But if she failed, cripple it. Maybe permanently.

Whatever the outcome, her life would be forever changed.

“I accept your offer,” she said quietly.

CHAPTER THREE

THE RADIO PERSONALITY had just announced the four-o’clock news as Braxton parked his old Volvo S70 in front of his mom’s ranch-style home. He took a moment to look at the rock-gravel front yard, in the middle of which sat the desert willow his dad had planted on a long-ago Mother’s Day.

Several years ago, after his mother informed Braxton he was no longer welcome in her home, his childhood home, he would sometimes drive by and look at that tree, envying it for having roots when his had been ripped out. More than once, he had parked down the street, trying to work up the nerve to go the front door and ring the bell. In his mind, his mom would answer, her hair fluffed in that short style she’d always worn. She’d stare at him, her eyes shining with joyful tears, and he’d say, Mom, please forgive me.

He’d probably seen too many sappy movies growing up, but that was what he’d envisioned. But it didn’t matter, because he knew she couldn’t forgive him. Hell, he still struggled with forgiving himself.

Then one night last August, after he’d helped the Las Vegas police, Drake and the arson investigator orchestrate the sting that put Yuri in jail, he drove straight here and knocked on the door. He knew his mother had already heard what happened, including how Braxton had severed all ties with Yuri’s organization.

She’d opened the door, looking just as he’d imagined. Started crying, too. But before he could ask for forgiveness, she grabbed him in a hug and said, “Welcome home, son.”

He was opening the front door when his cell rang. Recognizing Dmitri’s number on the caller ID, he answered. After exchanging a few pleasantries, the Russian got to the point.

“That strip club you managed...it’s been shut down for liquor violations and failure to pay local taxes.”

Braxton walked across the living room, decorated in the same Swedish modern furniture his parents had picked out more than twenty years ago, and tossed his jacket across the back of the couch.

“Long time coming,” he murmured.

He heard a faint ping from down the hall, the cue that his grandmother had started her electric wheelchair. He checked the red dice wall clock on the wall above the TV. A few minutes after four was close enough to five.

He headed to the kitchen. After he moved in last August, he’d been surprised how cold and clinical that room had felt with its white walls, white appliances and stainless-steel refrigerator. Hadn’t been that way when he was a kid. Back then, the kitchen had been a mess most of the time, usually due to his recipe experimentations, and there had been family pictures everywhere.