each push of the button. She still wasn’t sure how she kept racking up credits, but she knew now that when the genie said “yes!” three times in a row, that was a good thing.
Bells rang around her. A recorded voice periodically called out “Wheel of Fortune!” not too far away. She was pretty sure she kept hearing Alex Trebek call out his famous “Let’s play Jeopardy.” Another slot machine based on a TV show?
“Cocktails?” asked a waitress whose breasts were falling out of the purple piece of fabric that was supposed to be a top. It was the fourth time she’d been around.
Instead of politely declining as she had previously, Francesca requested a bottle of water and was relieved when the scantily clad woman responded cheerfully as though the request was quite normal.
Wondering how much the water would cost in a place that had marble casements for its slot machines, Francesca pushed the button again and jumped back, heart pounding, as a siren went off and a light on top of the machine started to flash.
Great. Her first time gambling, first time in a casino, and she’d screwed up the machine.
Could you go to jail for that?
Of course not, she immediately answered herself, fighting back her automatic sense of gloom and doom. But you didn’t have to be in Las Vegas for more than a couple of hours to know that the city took its security seriously.
In the two seconds it took her to consider slipping away, a distinguished-looking man, wearing a three-piece navy suit with a navy-and-white-striped tie that had to be real silk, was by her side, blocking her escape.
“Congratulations!” he said, sticking a card into the machine after which the alarming noise immediately ceased. “Eighteen thousand coins. Not a bad win!”
Eighteen thousand coins? How much was that in nickel land?
“Someone will be here shortly to take care of this for you.”
His voice was pleasant, reassuring, though his smile was as empty as her heart.
“Take care of it?” she asked, wishing now that she’d stopped back at the motel to change out of the tight skirt and skimpy top and knee-high black leather boots she’d worn that day as an attempt to blend into her corner.
“Any win above a thousand coins is paid by an attendant,” he explained.
Francesca was still trying to figure out how much money eighteen thousand nickels really was.
She kept coming up with nine hundred dollars. But that couldn’t be right. She’d only been playing nickels.
“I’m Luke Everson,” the man said, his smile a bit more genuine. “I’m the head of security here. If you have any problems, don’t hesitate to let us know.”
“Problems?” Had she just won nine hundred dollars?
“You looked scared to death when that machine went off.”
“It was a siren.” And the genie hadn’t even said “yes” once.
“I take it you haven’t done this much before.”
He’s not much older than I am. He’d seemed so much older at first. “Uh, no, this is a first.”
“Is it your first time at the Bonaparte, as well?” The conversation was routine, uninvolved, as though she were one of a million of the same cloned human being.
She nodded.
“Well then, I’m glad we’ve given you such a warm welcome. I hope you’ll be back to visit us often.”
There was nothing personal about the invitation. Nothing personal about his manner. Despite his blond good looks, the man somehow managed to exude absolutely nothing. Did he have that much control, or was he just as empty inside as she was?
Either way, his reticence put her more at ease than she’d been in a month.
“Thanks,” she said. Relaxing against the high back of her stool, she glanced up at him. “Did I just win nine hundred dollars?”
“Yes,” he said, grinning down at her in a way that left her confused. He was empty. So was she. This wasn’t supposed to have happened. “And I have to tell you,” he added, “you’ve got to be the least excited winner I’ve ever seen. Doesn’t make for great PR, you know?”
She might have apologized if people hadn’t descended on them. The waitress with her water—turned out it was free—and the attendant with her money. Before she noticed, Luke Everson, head of security, was gone.
And she’d won nine hundred dollars. As she headed out into the brightly lit night with her money she wondered if the stack of bills in her shoulder bag meant her luck was changing. Did this mean she’d find Autumn tomorrow?
Or had she just wasted what little luck was coming her way?
If so, she wanted to give the money back.
All those steps to climb. Autumn Stevens started up the six flights of concrete steps Sunday night, viewing the task as good exercise. She had to. If she allowed even one second of negative thought, she’d never make it up them at all.
And she had to get up there. Her bathroom was in the apartment on the sixth floor and she had to puke. Praying she’d make it in time, dying at the thought of having to clean up her own barf again, especially through six flights of open stairs, she tried to calm her stomach as she lifted one foot and then the other.
As always, calming thoughts rested on her big sister. Francesca was her knight in shining armor, never mind that she wasn’t a man. She was strong. Resilient. She could do anything. Or at least, that was how Autumn had viewed her when she was younger.
Hadn’t Francesca proved her knighthood by getting away from the bastard who’d fathered Autumn—and then proceeded to beat the crap out of all three of the women in his care?
Bile rose to her throat and Autumn quickly switched focus. Last she’d heard, Francesca was in Italy. Antonio had told her. Back when she’d thought him dear and sweet. When she’d felt certain there’d never been a kinder man. Or one more in love.
With the same woman Autumn adored above all others. Her big sister.
God, she missed Cesca. It had been the worst part of leaving the hellhole she’d grown up in—missing her sister’s occasional visits.
If she wasn’t such a chickenshit she’d ask Antonio if he knew of a way to contact her, if she was allowed to do so. Life looked pretty damned hopeless at the moment, but Cesca would know what to do.
Autumn reached the fifth flight. Had to stop for a second to swallow. Rub her stomach. Calm herself. As soon as she got upstairs, she’d be alone, in her own space, with no need to keep up appearances or tell half truths. No need to lie.
She started up the last flight with the contents of her stomach still in place. There was no point in calling Cesca; Autumn wouldn’t tell her anything.
She couldn’t.
Not
