damage. “No problem. I worked my way through college waiting—” that’s when she noticed a handful of her chips and tokens had disappeared from her cup “—tables.” Perplexed by the discovery, she couldn’t quite breathe a sigh of relief. Austin was guilty of something, if not abuse. “If you could use another waitress, I’d love to have the job.”
Melissa was the first to respond to the proposition. “I don’t know. Really, I’ll be okay. We’ve been shorthanded before. Right, Tom?”
The big bartender glared a response. But Melissa glanced away from the message he tried to convey. Whether concern had been rebuffed or a threat satisfied, Rebecca couldn’t tell. Tom dumped the mess into the trash and grumbled, “It’s not my call.”
“I say give her a chance.” By comparison, Austin was downright enthusiastic about getting Rebecca on the payroll. “I’d be happy to run it by Mr. Wolfe. If Tom thinks you can handle it, you’d have my full recommendation. You could take care of the paperwork later.”
Rebecca went along with his friendly support, pretending she didn’t hear the click of metal tokens and plastic disks knocking together in his jacket pocket. She assumed he’d have some ready excuse if she did call him on the theft. Add one more suspect to her list. Austin the Nameless One had secrets to hide. Maybe it stopped with kleptomania. Maybe it meant there were other, darker, mysteries he could reveal to her.
“Melissa, you come with me.” Now the older man was eager to leave. “I’ll bandage that arm for you. You?” He winked at Rebecca. “Grab an apron and start clearing those tables.”
“You got it.”
Everyone she’d met thus far had been polite and accepting, if not outright friendly.
Everyone she’d met thus far was hiding something as well. Her reporter’s nose was telling her as much.
She was in the right place. She was in. She was going to succeed where KCPD had failed.
Her father would be proud.
Rebecca adjusted the black apron around her waist and moved to the next table to gather glasses and take their order. She’d already discovered the bar’s outside entrance, and used the opportunity of clearing the deck tables to scout out where public access ended and private balconies and service corridors began. She’d met other staff, and had identified some of the Riverboat’s repeat and long-term customers.
Other than wishing she’d worn more comfortable shoes, she didn’t have to worry about anything else tonight. She’d be back tomorrow. She could ask her questions and begin her search then. Chat with Teddy Wolfe. Meet Daniel Kelleher. Take Austin Cartwright up on a tour. Befriend Melissa and find a way to help her.
No one would suspect a thing.
Nothing could go wrong.
But her smug smile was short-lived.
She sensed the hostile gaze boring holes into her back. More intense, more direct than anything she’d felt before. A beat of time passed before a blunt voice from her past grated against her ears.
“What the hell are you doing in my casino?”
“YOUR CASINO?” Tawny gold eyes shot sparks at him as Seth Cartwright strode through the maze of tables.
Rebecca Page. Intrepid reporter. Dogged investigator. Wouldn’t say uncle even if it meant saving her own skin.
Caught. Snooping where the woman damn well knew she shouldn’t be.
He walked right up to her until he was close enough to absorb her scent and to communicate in a whisper.
“It’s a free country, so you’re welcome to throw away your money in whatever way you please.” Sarcasm came far too easily to Seth these days. He’d been at this job long enough that he’d learned to ignore any flicker of guilt or regret when the verbal arrows unleashed themselves. “But when you stop playing and you start chatting up the employees and customers, it’s time for you to go.”
Her chin tilted up. Seth expected no less from a woman who relied on guts as much as a wickedly precise intuition when it came to tracking down a news story. Her tongue was in fine form tonight, as well. “It’s a pleasure to see you, too, Detective.”
“Don’t call me that. Not anymore.”
He said the words he loathed to hear and watched the transformation cross her face. Shock. Confusion. “You’re not a cop anymore?”
When the serves-you-right smirk reached those painted lips, he reached for her. “I got a better job.”
“Hey.” The would-be waitress dodged his grasp and turned on the attitude. She pulled her tray in front of her like a shield and tipped her nose up with that Amazon arrogance he was all too familiar with. “Then you can’t arrest me.”
As though besting him by a few inches had ever made him retreat.
“Is there a reason why I should? I just want you to leave.” He wrapped one hand around her arm, pried the tray from her resistant grasp and started walking.
“You want—?” She tugged against his grip. “You have no right—”
“I’m Chief of Security around here. I have every right.”
“Chief of—? No way.”
“Way.” He tugged back and she stumbled beside him, bumping into his shoulder, freezing for an instant in mute surprise before regaining her balance and pushing away. She felt like any other woman, with delicate breasts that poked against his arm and back, and hair dark and soft as mink that caught in his collar and brushed his neck. But Rebecca Page wasn’t like any other woman. She was trouble on stilts. He didn’t need the kind of curiosity and attention she thrived on to walk into the middle of his investigation.
He’d worked too damn hard for eight long months to get to where he was at Wolfe International. He’d trashed his reputation on the force, lost the loyalty of his friends and gained the trust of his enemies. He’d lied, bent a few rules, broken a few bones. He’d learned the difference between being tough and being dead. No nosy reporter—woman or otherwise—was going to waltz her way onto the Riverboat and blow his operation.
“C’mon.” He slowed his pace and altered his grip to keep her on her feet and keep her moving. “I thought you’d gotten a clue last fall when you were harassing my mother about the Baby Jane Doe murder case. I don’t like report—”
“Shh!” She darted in front of him and pressed her fingers over his mouth, stopping up his words. Stopping him. What the hell? An apologetic frown creased the smooth skin on her forehead. “Don’t say another word,” she whispered. “I don’t know what you think is going on here. I was only pitching in to help Melissa. But I’ll go. Just let me get my purse.”
Huh? Capitulation? Seth’s gaze narrowed. Had to be a tactic. But a quick study of her fervent expression revealed no clear objective. Or motive. “Whatever.”
He tossed the tray on the bar and, without releasing her, picked up her little black bag.
“That’s mine.”
Evading
