Werewolf in Las Vegas (4 page)

“I expected to be happier about it.” He surprised himself by saying that.

“You mean because of this business with your sister?”

“That doesn't help, but after all the drama of the poker game, the actual ownership of the bar turns out to be anticlimactic.”

“Maybe it hasn't sunk in, yet.”

“Maybe that's it.” He started toward the double front doors with their oval insets of etched glass. Giselle walked beside him, and he couldn't help noticing that they moved with a similar rhythm. She was tall, about five-eight without the two-inch heels on her boots. But he was taller by about six inches.

He'd always liked that ratio. Any woman who was shorter than five-eight seemed small to him, probably because his mother and Cynthia were also around five-eight. In any case, he liked having some height advantage when he dated someone.

Not that he was dating Giselle or ever would. He'd help her corral her brother, and that would be the end of that. She'd called him a throwback, and that wasn't so far off. He still believed in protecting those who were smaller and weaker than he was. The meant all children and most women. It definitely included Cynthia. He was still debating whether it included Giselle, especially after he saw the motorcycle. Any woman who blew into town and rented a black Harley might not need his protection.

As he strapped on the helmet and goggles she handed him, he admired the practiced way she tucked her hair under her helmet, adjusted her goggles, and climbed on the bike. Okay, he admired her ass, too. Was that a crime? Not in his world.

“What about you, though?” he asked as he swung up behind her. “Won't your brother suspect you're on a motorcycle, if that's what you always drive?”

“Bryce doesn't know I'm here.” She started the engine.

“Ah.” He'd assumed she would have warned him that she was on the way. Knowing she didn't telegraph her punches was valuable information and increased his respect for her. “Planning to sneak up on him, are you?”

“I guess you could say that. Ready?”

“Anytime you are.” Now was not the time to admit he'd never been on a motorcycle before. All his buddies had either owned one or had at least ridden on one, and somehow he'd missed the experience. Once the teenage years had passed, he'd lost the urge to try it. But it couldn't be that hard.

“You might want to hang on.”

“I'll be fine.”

“If you say so.” She zoomed into traffic and he damned near fell off.

Grabbing her around the waist, he straightened. Holy hell, but the woman could drive this sucker. He wouldn't say she took unnecessary chances, but she did some impressive maneuvering through traffic.

It was an exhilarating ride, but if he hadn't been holding on to her, he might have been left somewhere in the middle of the road. To be fair, she'd warned him, and he'd been too macho to listen. He might not want to make that mistake again.

After parking the bike, Giselle finger combed her hair as she walked with Luke through Excalibur's lobby toward the elevators. Her Were senses were on overload. She'd forgotten that regular casinos were extremely loud and exceedingly smelly. Humans loved their perfume and shaving lotion, and for some reason they loved it more in Vegas than anywhere else. She'd forgotten that.

The only time she'd visited, she and her friends had stayed at the Silver Crescent, so they'd been surrounded by other Weres, who used only light scents if they used any at all. The slot machine noise had been muted there, too. Now that she stood in front of the elevators at Excalibur, she remembered touring the Strip with her buddies. The noise and heavy perfume had driven them out of each casino after only a few minutes.

Now she was about to step into a crowded elevator, something she avoided even in San Francisco, although the humans didn't seem as fragrant there. Maybe the cool breezes blew it all away. Not so in Vegas. Taking a deep breath, she held it as she got on the elevator with Luke. Then she prayed for a fast elevator that didn't stop at every floor. Her prayers went unanswered.

Eventually she had to breathe or pass out, and when she sucked in a lungful of whatever all the humans had splashed on themselves or sprayed in their hair, she grew dizzy. She must have staggered, because a strong arm came around her shoulders and supported her against an equally strong body. Taking shallow breaths, she gazed at her feet and leaned against Luke.

That sensation almost made up for the smelly elevator. She'd bet good money that he had a top-notch workout room at the Silver Crescent and he paid regular visits to it. Because she hung out with werewolves, she was used to well-built males. Weres seldom allowed themselves to get soft.

But she couldn't help being a little fascinated by the muscle definition on this particular human. She didn't often have a chance to check out that kind of thing. Maybe she could consider it research.

Weres liked to imagine that they were physically superior to humans, and most times that was true. But Luke Dalton rivaled the physique of the male Weres she'd known. Not only that, he smelled good. In this swampland of artificial smells, Luke gave off a clean, refreshing scent with a subtle underlying note of male musk.

She blinked. Unless her nose was mistaken, and it never was, Luke was more than a little sexually aroused. She'd detected his interest from the moment they met, but it was far more pronounced now. How interesting. She should ignore that fact, because she had similar chemistry going on, although his human sense of smell wouldn't be able to detect it, especially with the olfactory disaster going on in this elevator.

When they finally reached their floor, Luke guided her out. Her legs wobbled, but he supported her by keeping his arm firmly around her shoulders. “You okay? You're almost the color of your shirt.”

How romantic. But then, she didn't want romantic. She wanted someone to help her with the business at hand, which was locating her brother and his sister. “Sorry. I get a little overwhelmed in crowded spaces.”

“That's okay. Take your time. If they're here, they won't get by us. Well, unless they take the fire stairs, and if they're willing to hike down that many floors, then I say let 'em.”

She nodded as she drew in relatively fresh air, at least compared to the elevator. The hallway wasn't so bad. The carpet was new and stank to high heaven, but she could deal with a single smell better than fifteen competing ones.

“I admit I'm not a fan of crowded elevators, myself.” He rubbed her upper arm with gentle strokes. “We probably should have skipped that one and taken the next. We don't even know if they're here.”

His touch, combined with his rich baritone, temporarily mesmerized her. In her vulnerable state, she had the strongest urge to turn in his arms and snuggle against his broad chest. She could verify for certain now his first instinct was to protect, a trait he shared with werewolves. She shouldn't be looking for reasons to like him, but she couldn't seem to help herself.

Obviously his protective instinct could get out of hand and lead to controlling behavior. That's when she remembered why they were standing in this hallway. Luke wanted to keep his little sister from getting involved with her big brother.

Exercising great willpower, she extracted herself from the support of his steady arm. “Thanks. I'm better now.”

“When we go back down, we'll wait until there's an empty elevator, or one with only a couple of people in it.”

“I'd appreciate that.” She allowed herself to look into those sexy blue eyes and smile at him. After all, that was the polite thing to do after he'd kept her from fainting in public.

“No worries. Of course, we may have your brother and my sister with us, but that won't be the same as an elevator crammed with strangers.”

“You think they'll just agree to leave with us?”

He shrugged. “Maybe not, but I can dream, can't I? And after we all ride down in the elevator together, we'll go somewhere quiet for a drink and talk everything out. Cynthia will agree she should finish school, and Landry will agree to do . . . whatever it is you want him to do.”

“He's eventually supposed to take over as the CEO of my family's business.” It was a close enough approximation of the truth.

“I'd think they'd rather have you do it.” He regarded her with open admiration. “You're smart and obviously capable.”

“Thank you.” She was delighted to hear that he didn't think all CEOs should be male. Maybe his attitudes weren't quite as retro as she'd assumed. “It's been discussed, but I don't want to. I'm actually happier as the CFO. I like keeping track of the money.”

“Excuse me for saying so, but your brother doesn't seem to want to do it, either.”

“I know it looks that way, but he'll get over this. It was a bunch of things at once, and he doesn't like to be railroaded.” She gazed at him. “Much like Cynthia.”

“And that's why they're not good for each other. Left to her own devices, Cynthia won't leave Vegas. She's bonded to the place. But I'm afraid they'll whip each other into a frenzy of resentment and book a flight to New York so she can get a job on Broadway.”

“That wouldn't be the end of the world, Luke.”

He just looked at her.

She didn't need much imagination to read his mind. If Cynthia ended up on the other side of the country, in a big city where he had no “people” to keep an eye on her, he'd worry himself to death. He had to get over that kind of thinking, but he'd been in charge of the family for only a few months. He had a lot to learn.

In sympathy with his angst, Giselle tossed him a lifeline. “I might be more worried about her jetting off to New York if she hadn't texted you a riddle. I doubt she's going anywhere at the moment.”

He sighed. “Ah, yes. The riddle. I guess we might as well go find out if you solved it or not.”

“Might as well.” After they figured out which way the rooms were numbered, they turned to the right and started off down the hall. They didn't speak, as if in silent agreement not to give themselves away as they approached the door.

Giselle didn't know Cynthia at all, but she had a fair idea of what motivated her. She wanted to guide her own destiny instead of being controlled by the expectations of others. That was exactly what Bryce wanted, too.

Giselle hoped they both had the good sense not to text what room they were in and then proceed to get it on while they waited for Luke to solve the riddle. An embarrassing scene wasn't going to help. Giselle knew that for sure, even though she didn't know yet what would help, or whose side Bryce was on.

Giselle slowed down as they approached the room. Luke pointed to the security latch propping the door slightly ajar. If Cynthia and Bryce had rented the room, they'd deliberately left it open.

When Luke held up his hand like an infantry patrol leader signaling a halt, Giselle had the urge to giggle. She never giggled. She wasn't the giggling type. But this was turning into a melodramatic cloak-and-dagger affair that she suddenly found hysterical.

She supposed all the drama was appropriate. They were in Vegas. In an arena somewhere below, knights jousted on horseback. Down the road at Treasure Island, two ships fired broadsides at each other, and across the street a gondola was gliding down a canal that looked astoundingly like one in Venice.

Luke put his ear to the crack in the door, and Giselle stood quietly listening. She heard nothing.

If her nose hadn't recently been assaulted by all the human-induced fumes in the elevator, she might have been able to tell whether a Were was on the other side of the door. But between her nose overload and whatever glue was off-gassing from the new carpet, she was fairly useless for nose patrol.

Stepping back from the door, Luke let out a breath. “I don't think we have to worry about being quiet. Nobody's in there.”

“There's one way to be sure.”

He glanced at her. “Maybe I should go in first, just in case.”

“Just in case what? That they're lying there naked and asleep? Or worse yet, naked and quietly smiling at us?”

Luke's expression became thunderous with disapproval. “I don't care if they're smiling, but they damned well better not be naked.”

“If Cynthia knew for certain that she'd get that reaction from you, she'd definitely be naked. You need to lighten up, Dalton.”

He rolled his eyes before stepping toward the door and knocking. “Cynthia? You in there?”

Silence.

“Okay, I'm going in.”

“I'll cover you.”

He turned back to her with a grin.

“Just kidding.” She returned his smile. “I've always wanted to say that, but I'm not armed.”

“Didn't think so.” Turning back to the door, he pushed it open, stepped inside, and was immediately soaked with water. “What the hell?”

Giselle clapped her hand over her mouth. It wouldn't do to laugh, especially when that stunt had Bryce written all over it. She remembered the first time he'd seen it done in a movie when he was twelve.

He'd spent months perfecting the technique of balancing a bucket of water over a doorway, tying a string to the knob, and carefully exiting the room. The first person through the door would get doused. He'd quit doing it when their folks threatened to permanently ground him, but obviously he hadn't forgotten how.

“Cynthia! That wasn't funny!” Bellowing and dripping, Luke stomped the rest of the way into the room. “You'd better
not
be here, damn it!”

Stepping over the damp carpet, Giselle glanced down at the hotel ice bucket upended on the floor. She knew Cynthia and Bryce had left. She'd watched her brother create this booby trap countless times, and the last part involved closing the door very carefully.

“Good thing there are towels in this room. At least I can dry off. I suppose I should feel lucky it was only water. Could've been tomato juice or maple syrup.” He continued to rave on as he walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light.

“Better not be hiding in the shower!” he called out. That was followed by the squeak of shower rings being pulled along the metal rod. Obviously he'd had to check.

Moving into the room, Giselle scanned it for any other booby traps. “Someone left an envelope on the bed.”

Luke came out of the bathroom, drying his wet hair with a towel. “Oh?” He draped the towel around his neck in a typical male gesture. “Maybe they left us a note.”

“Must be a really big note.”

His eyes widened as he spotted the large manila envelope lying precisely in the middle of the bed. “My name's on it, and that's her handwriting.” He finger-combed his wet hair. “After the bucket of water, I'm not sure whether to pick it up or not.”

“It looks harmless enough.” Giselle was dying of curiosity.

“It does. Oh, what the hell.” He grabbed the envelope, and when nothing happened, he blew out a breath. “Sometimes an envelope is just an envelope.” Prying open the flap, he pulled out a glossy studio shot of a little blond girl in a pink tutu. “Oh, shit.” There was a definite catch in his voice. “I should've guessed it would be something like this.”

“How old was she in that picture?”

“Three, maybe four.” He cleared his throat. “Her age is probably written on the back.” He flipped the picture over. Someone, probably his mother, had written Cynthia's name in a flowing script and underneath had added her age, three and a half. Below that, in a much bolder hand, someone had scribbled,
You're all wet, Luke Dalton.

Giselle pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.

Apparently Luke could tell she thought it was funny. “Oh, yeah, that's hysterical.”

Giselle met his gaze. “It's clever, pointed, and harmless. And it communicates that she still wants to engage you in a discussion of sorts. If she was determined to defy you and risk causing a permanent rift, she could have gone up to Reno and landed a job up there, or taken off for New York.”

“I guess.” He tucked the picture carefully back in the envelope as if to make sure he didn't damage it. “I wonder if she swiped any more of these.”

“Where would she swipe them from?”

“The family photo gallery in the penthouse of the Silver Crescent. She has a key.”

“Your family moved to the Crescent?”

“Yep. My father, mother, and Cynthia all lived in the penthouse. They wanted me to live there, too, but a twenty-three-year-old usually doesn't care to stay in a bedroom down the hall from his folks. We compromised, and I took an apartment one floor down. After Cynthia turned eighteen, she insisted on having the same arrangement I had.”

“Is the penthouse vacant now?”

“No, I live in it. My mom insisted that she wanted me to since she's now in France. It's a beautiful place, and it shouldn't stand empty. Anyway, my father dedicated an entire room to professionally framed pictures of all of us at various ages.” He held up the envelope. “She would have had to cut the backing off to get this out. I hope she didn't do that to the whole batch.”