though. Her tracking tag showed it was stationary, probably in his room. Joining the growing crowd cheering on a lucky run at a craps table, she used the raucous, shifting party as cover while she tried to spot the buyer.
Her pulse stuttered when she met the hard, icy gaze of Bernard Isely. He was looking too closely, and not at her well-displayed cleavage. He preferred his women cheap, his vodka expensive, and those who betrayed him dead. He didn’t know it yet, but she would soon fall squarely into the last category.
She felt an unprecedented surge of insecurity. Would her wig and contacts be enough to protect her? Her intent was not to dress the same way twice during her stay here. Her well-calculated costuming would, she hoped, be enough to keep her alive throughout and after this assignment.
She dragged her thoughts away from the edge of panic and focused instead on her extensive training and reliable intel. A few weeks ago while she was following a different lead, she’d been told this low life had entered the States, but he should never have been here. Not in person. He usually sent someone else to do the face-to-face work.
But there was nothing usual about this particular business. His appearance shouldn’t have been a shock. She told herself it wasn’t a shock. Everyone who should know believed his father had commissioned the deadly virus up for sale this weekend. It might not fit his profile, but then this particular exchange wasn’t standard fare for the Isely crime family. The son might want to watch his father’s greatest coup go out into the criminal world at last. Maybe that was reason enough to take such a high risk.
Regardless, she understood it was his abrupt appearance right across from her that could rattle her. Rattled spies didn’t last long. Experience kept her reactions in tune with the excited crowd and her gaze averted from her enemy. Her heart might be in her throat, but there wouldn’t be any outward sign of her distress. She had too much practice to give him that advantage.
Immediately she considered her options. This was one of the most wanted and most evasive men of the criminal underworld. They’d almost caught him last month by accident, but somehow he’d slithered out of custody before the right authorities arrived.
The player rolled again and won again, and in the subsequent roar of celebration, Gin slipped back and away, putting the other revelers between her and Isely.
She tagged along on the fringe of a group of women cruising out toward the slot machines. If he was on to her, it would be obvious right away. Unfortunately, her worst-case scenario was confirmed when she spared a glance over her shoulder. It was too late to make a preemptive bold move, but it was still too soon to panic.
There was always a way out.
Well, almost always.
She needed the right crowd or the right loner, she thought, turning toward the low lights of the nearest bar. And she needed one or the other right now.
The crowd was light and most of the patrons were paired up or in small groups. Gin sought the solo acts. There was another blonde woman in a deep emerald dress, only a shade or so darker than Gin’s, who might do in a pinch. Gin had the long-lost school chum routine down to a science.
But her first choice would be a man. Men were typically less suspicious and far less likely to admit they couldn’t remember a hot chick from a prior rendezvous. She spotted a man in the corner sipping a cup of coffee and squinting into a book that was most likely a tutorial on blackjack. Too serious and sporting a wedding ring, she crossed him off her mental list.
Then she noticed the ideal candidate at the other end of the bar. She strolled right up to the only familiar face she could potentially define as a friend in this town and pressed a light kiss to Specialist Grant’s cheek. “Oh, the whims of fate,” she said in a flat Midwestern accent.
“More like the whims of my boss,” he replied, signaling the bartender.
“Have you been waiting long?”
“A couple of days. What’ll you have?”
“White wine,” she told the bartender. Taking the barstool next to Jason, she swiveled so her knees brushed against his thigh.
He glanced down and then gave her an interested half-grin. “You don’t have to bait me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He leaned closer. “I’m a sure thing, remember?”
She tipped her head back and laughed, playing along. “That’s good to know.” Studying him, she wondered how much he’d had to drink. Any alcohol beyond a few sips to set his profile meant he was here for pleasure rather than business. Grant, she suspected, wasn’t the sort to bend the rules on a mission. His brown eyes were a little unfocused, his pupils dilated. So maybe he wasn’t here on business. Still, even in the midst of tying one on, he was her best bet to get out of here.
Using the mirror behind the bar, she checked for Isely. He’d stepped just inside the doorway and was checking out the milling crowd. He didn’t come closer, but she could feel his gaze land on her back. If he didn’t know for sure, he’d suspected she was trouble. Well, Jason Grant could help her prove otherwise.
The bartender delivered her wine and she sipped, rubbing her palm across Jason’s knee. Isely had to believe she was involved with him, that they were simply a couple here to enjoy a long weekend.
“Need a hand?”
“Why, Mr. Grant, that sounds like a wonderful start. I think you’re just the lucky charm that would be helpful to me at the craps tables.”
He shook his head. “I—ah, don’t gamble,” he mumbled with a laugh that sounded almost drunken.
Alarms sounded in her head. A man who didn’t gamble didn’t do Vegas for pleasure. Something was wrong here. “Sweetheart, are you feeling well?”
“Fine.” He picked up her hand and stroked her palm with his thumb. “Your hand is...is so soft.”
And his was quite strong, but something was clearly wrong. Careful not to break cover, she scanned the room for whoever had drugged him. She needed to get him out of here before he was too loopy to walk.
He started to slump to the side, and she signaled for the bartender to settle the tab. Jason managed a signature and she caught the room number he’d listed along with the drink tally. Two beers wouldn’t have put him in this state.
“Why don’t we take a walk?” she suggested.
“I’d like that.”
“Good.” She looped his arm over her shoulder and with hers at his waist she steadied him as they maneuvered through the bar.
The gun she felt in the waistband at the small of his back implied he was on the clock and only solidified her theory that someone had decided he was a target for something. As they exited no one seemed to care, not even Isely, but she couldn’t be sure because it took all her concentration to keep Jason upright. His height of just over six feet and lean but muscular build were far more appealing when he was supporting both on his own power.
His hand slid down to cup her bottom and she jumped a little, surprised by his touch. She covered her reaction with a laugh. Maybe he was faking the drunk part. Was he taking advantage and hamming it up, or was there a real problem? It helped the cover, so she wouldn’t complain. She guided
