Chapter 10

 

 

 

 

STEVE STEERED the van down the Vegas strip that glowed with so much neon, one could almost believe it was daytime. Throngs of people streamed over the sidewalks.

He hated letting Gracie believe he was inept, but it was safer than admitting he had royally screwed up and nearly called for the takedown of the wrong man because the bride was young and the groom wouldn't remove his dark glasses. He cursed his blunder, but was grateful for the chance to see how difficult it could be to recognize Lundy if he did show up.

He phoned his partner, his apprehension over calling at such a late hour disappearing when she answered on the first ring.

"I must've been sending you vibes," she said. "I just got off the phone with our informant. Everything is still a go."

He exhaled in relief. "Any more details? A day or time?"

"No, just 'soon' is all she'll say. Hang in there."

"I had a false alarm today. Identifying Lundy might be harder than I thought. Will you check to see if there are any photos more current than the ones we have?"

"You still owe me photos of the employees."

"Check your in-box. Oh, and Karen—would you mind doing a criminal records search on a Gracie Sergeant." He spelled the name. "Female, late twenties maybe."

"Do you have a middle name or initial?"

The monogram on her purse—he closed his eyes. "A."

"Any identifying marks other than violet-colored eyes?"

He'd asked for that. "A green four-leaf clover tattooed on her upper right shoulder."

"Really."

He bit down on his tongue.

"You think this woman has a rap sheet?"

"Not really… just wondering why she's so secretive."

"Oh. Is she immune to the Steve Berringer charm?"

He frowned. "I mean she posts to the wedding chapel’s social media account, but she doesn’t have any accounts of her own. That seems odd for someone her age.”

"Sure, I’ll check. If she's in the system, I'll have the report tomorrow. Anything else?"

"Are you at your computer?"

"Always."

He swallowed. "I need her home address."

Silence hummed over the line, then, "O-kaay."

He heard computer keys tapping in the background.

"Here it is." She read aloud the address. "Hmm—not the best part of town."

He was thinking the same thing, and hated the protective feelings rousing in his chest. "Thanks, Karen. Take care of yourself."

She laughed. "Excuse me? Was that a pleasantry you just dispensed? Wow, this woman must be under your skin."

He frowned. "I'm hanging up." He disconnected the call and drove toward Gracie's neighborhood. His stomach was growling, so he picked up a pizza along the way. He didn't know what kind of reception he might get, or even for sure why he was going, but he knew his chances improved if he arrived bearing gifts.

He found her apartment building and parked around the corner. After a few seconds' hesitation, he locked his weapon in the glove compartment. When he reached her building, he followed another resident through the security door into the lobby—the place was a real Fort Knox. He found her apartment number by searching for initials on a wall of mailboxes.

He climbed two sets of stairs, telling himself with every step he was probably making a mistake. But something indefinable compelled him forward. He located the correct door, took a deep breath, and knocked.

 

 

* * *

 

 

AT THE KNOCK on her door, Gracie pivoted her head, then uncurled from the comfy velvet couch with a resigned sigh. It was probably Mrs. Wingate from down the hall, unable to sleep and wanting to chat under the pretense of borrowing something obscure.

She glanced through the peephole, and her heart skipped a beat. Steve? How did he know where she lived and what was he doing here holding a pizza? She looked down at her clothes—holey exercise pants and faded T-shirt. Her makeup was long gone. Her apartment was clean, but not exactly tidy. Then she chastised herself—if the man was going to show up unannounced, what did he expect? Besides, he might not want to come in—maybe he was just bringing her dinner.

And even if he did want to come in, she didn't have to let him.

She opened the door the few inches the safety chain would allow and peered out.

He straightened. "Hello."

"Hello. What are you doing here?"

He held up the pizza box. "I noticed you didn't have time to eat tonight—I thought you might be hungry."

She pursed her lips. "How did you know where I live?"

His smile was sheepish. "I Googled your name and found the address.”

"That’s a little creepy."

"Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you." Then he looked contrite. "I came to apologize for my mistake with the blind man, and since I couldn't find an olive branch, I was hoping an olive pizza would do."

Gracie bit into her lip. "I like olives."

He brightened. "Great."

"Set it on the floor and I'll get it when you leave."

His face fell. "Oh. Okay, sure." He crouched and placed the pizza on the floor in front of her door, then stood and pulled his keys from his jeans pocket, his expression quiet and unreadable. "Gracie, I... like you. And I'm sorry I did something to make your job harder. I truly am. Good night."

Gracie heard his words, but was captivated by his hands—more specifically, his keys. He had a four-leaf-clover key ring. She swallowed—that had to mean something, didn't it? A sign of some kind? As he walked away, she closed the door and unhooked the chain, then opened it again.

"Steve?"

He turned around.

She gave a little shrug. "I'm hungry, but I don't think I can eat an entire pizza by myself."

A smile curved his sexy mouth.

Gracie's neighbor Billy, a slim, bespectacled college student, walked by. "Hi, Gracie."

"Hi, Billy." She pointed to Steve. "This man's name is Steve Mulcahy—he's a co-worker of mine and I'm letting him in to share a pizza. If anything bad happens to me, he did it."

Billy held up his phone in front of Steve's face and snapped a photo. "I got your picture, dude, so no funny stuff."

Gracie grinned. "Thanks, Billy."

"No problem, Gracie."

Steve retrieved the pizza with a little laugh. "I guess I'd better be on my best behavior."

Gracie's pulse raced as she held open the door. "I guess so." He walked in and she closed the door behind him. "Welcome to my home."

He looked around and she tried to see her apartment as he might—low, ambient lighting, eclectic, retro furniture with feminine touches. Her sitting area was compact, the kitchen hidden from view by a rice-paper screen. A café table and two chairs sat tucked into a corner, although the stack of magazines on one chair was a telltale sign she usually ate alone.

"Nice place," he said, and sounded as if he meant it.

She smiled and moved toward the kitchen to get plates and utensils. "It's small, but I like it."

"I expected it to be crammed with Elvis memorabilia."

"I have a good Elvis music collection." She gestured to the wall. "And an autographed photo I bought at a swap meet."

He lifted the lid on the pizza box and leaned closer to the picture. "How do you know it's real?"

She shrugged. "How do we know anything is real? I operate on gut instinct."

He’d been transferring pizza slices to their plates, but stopped so abruptly, she was afraid she'd said something wrong. Then he smiled. "I guess you're right."

A warm, tingly sensation spread through her chest—she had a feeling something was happening here. "My couch is more comfortable than my table and chairs—want to sit there and eat?"

"Sure."

"How about some music?"

"Vinyl, huh?" he said, giving an impressed nod at her LP collection. "Surprise me."

She put a stack of albums on the phonograph. They settled down with a chaste amount of space between them and dug in to the pizza. Gracie moaned in appreciation when the salty olives and spicy sauce burst over her tongue. "This is awesome—thank you."

"Thank you for not slamming the door in my face."

She studied him while she chewed, his powerful profile cast in low shadows. He seemed so relaxed and confident, as if he could fit in anywhere—no doubt the product of being a military brat. "You're a mystery," she blurted.

His dark eyebrows went up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know what to make of you."

In that instant, something changed in his expression. His eyes darkened, his mouth softened. "I could say the same thing, but like you said, sometimes, you just have to go on gut instinct."

She swallowed hard. "What... what is your gut instinct telling you right now?"

His gaze locked with hers. "To kiss you."

She moistened her lips and met him halfway, reveling in the salty taste of his mouth on hers. He parted her lips with his tongue and delved deeper, slanting his mouth over hers. His moan of desire reverberated in her mouth and seemed to reach down inside her soul. Impossibly, she was already half in love with this man—the connection was too fast, too natural to be wrong.

Then he ended the kiss abruptly. “I… should leave.” He pushed to his feet and headed toward the door.

Gracie was still trying to recover from the kiss. “O… kay.” She covered her mouth with her hand, then stood and followed him to the door.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said. “But I have to.”

She crossed her arms to quiet her breathing. “Karen, again?”

“I’m sorry, Gracie. Good night.”

She watched him stride away, then closed the door, her mind and body reeling. “What just happened?” she murmured.