Hearts in Vegas. Colleen Collins

Just a silky-smooth exit, like a trail of smoke from Lauren Bacall’s cigarette.

      Was that how the clichéd private-eye story ended? After the hot blonde walked into the detective agency and exchanged a few words with the P.I., who of course fell hard for her, she walked back out? Just like that?

      Not in this movie.

      Braxton grabbed his phone and headed after her.

      * * *

      HEADING TO HER CAR in the Morgan-LeRoy Investigations lot, Frances shivered as a chilly breeze flittered past. Two hours ago, the skies had been deceptively blue and the sun so bright she’d tossed her sunglasses into her purse. Now clouds were moving in, obliterating the sun, casting the world in a surreal, hazy light.

      Footsteps slapped behind her.

      “Hey, Babe!”

      She looked around. The only other person nearby was a guy in a cap with earflaps and pom-poms ambling down the sidewalk, so “Babe” had to mean her.

      She turned back to Braxton, who was walking briskly toward her. Hadn’t bothered to put on a jacket or coat, so he had to feel the cold, but he seemed oblivious to it. Flashed her a smile and waved as though out for a stroll on a balmy spring day.

      He was tall, a little over six feet, she guessed. That tucked-in fitted shirt emphasized his V shape—from the width of his shoulders down to his toned chest that tapered to a flat, lean waist. Although he wore his trousers stylishly loose, the material seemed to skim his muscled thighs as he walked.

      A sensual awareness prickled over her skin.

      Back in the Morgan-LeRoy office, she’d found him to be cute in a goofy kind of way, but he’d also been sitting down, so she didn’t get an overall impression. Plus she’d been juggling other thoughts—trying to get a fix if this was Braxton, as she wanted to hand over the envelope to the right person, thinking about her brunch meeting today with her boss.

      Her thoughts scattered as Braxton stopped in front of her. He blew out a breath and grinned—an infectious, sheepish smile that filled his whole face. Standing this close, inches apart really, she got the full force of his gray eyes, really more of a light gray-blue that reminded her of early-morning skies.

      “I said some dumb stuff back there.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry.”

      His flustered boyishness—like a teenage boy worried about what to say to the girl—took her by surprise. Where’d the cocky, in-your-face guy go? The one who blurted that line about tying him up and making him write bad checks all night?

      Sudden heat crawled up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. Shouldn’t have thought about that.

      “Must say,” she said casually, willing the heat to subside as she looked over at an old pickup, its suspension squeaking, lumber along Graces Avenue, “I’ve never been compared to Frau Farbissina before.”

      “I thought someone was punking me—didn’t know you were really here on business.”

      As she turned to face him, a gust of wind blew his soapy, masculine scent toward her. She held back a shiver, not from the cold this time.

      “Don’t worry about it.” She meant it. Whatever had been going on back there in the office didn’t make sense, but it was a small issue in a world of big ones.

      “I don’t deserve to get off the hook so easily,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low rumble she felt all the way down to her toes.

      “No, you don’t,” she agreed, trying not to smile.

      They’d only met a few minutes ago, but she felt the rhythm, the current between them, as though they’d done this dozens of times. Playing, teasing each other. Doubted any woman could resist his charm.

      Braxton had what her mom would have called “matinee-idol good looks.” Illegally handsome and exuberantly male. Plus he exuded an unlabored, playful sexiness that if left unbridled could gallop into full-on killer charisma. She imagined he had to hold the reins tight, practice some self-imposed restraint, try to wheel it out on special occasions only.

      She glanced at the old Volvo, the only other car in the small lot. Had to be his. Why did a charismatic, good-looking guy with a sharp sense of style drive a rusting, bald-tired car?

      “Piece of junk,” he muttered, following her line of vision.

      Everything within her froze.

      She stared at a patch of peeling paint on the hood, a rusted dent on its side. Braxton couldn’t see her imperfections, but if he did, would they be standing here, playing mental footsie?

      She doubted it.

      After all, he looked like the perfect male—classic good looks, sculpted bod, designer clothes. Maybe it wasn’t fair to assume he’d seek the same perfection in life—be it a woman, car, house, whatever—but considering how he looked down on that poor Volvo, maybe he would.

      “You should fix up your car,” she said quietly, “then you’ll like it better.”

      Pulling the key fob from her pocket, she headed to her Benz. Breezes whipped past, chilling whatever warmth she’d felt.

      “Hey, did I say something wrong?” he said, following her.

      Her heels clicked across the asphalt. She punched a button and the door locks on the Benz clicked open.

      “I’ll get it,” he said, bounding ahead.

      He looked so gallant opening the driver’s door for her, those sparkling gray eyes seeking her approval, but she didn’t want to play this game anymore because it was destined for a happy-never-more ending. He was the matinee-idol prince and she was the frog princess.

      And no way that prince would ever want to kiss this frog princess.

      Deliberately avoiding his gaze, she started to get into the car when their bodies bumped and she stumbled.

      He grabbed her by the elbow, steadying her.

      “Sorry,” he murmured.

      She could feel his eyes wanting to connect with hers, but she couldn’t go there again. They’d experienced a few frivolous moments, and now it was time to get back to reality.

      “I have a meeting,” she said evenly, lowering herself into the driver’s seat.

      “What’s your na—”

      The rest of his question was cut off as she closed the door with a sharp clack.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Frances took a seat at the table, immaculately set with linen, crystal and a bottle of champagne—Taittinger, no less—chilling in an ice-filled silver bucket. The lights were moody low, the classical music softly romantic.

      Her boss, Charlie Eden, was dapper in a charcoal Ralph Lauren suit that complemented his silvering hair. He looked at her with shining, attentive eyes from across the table.

      She and Charlie had sometimes ordered cocktails during these meetings, but champagne on ice? This was a first. Made her uncomfortable. Did he think this was some kind of date?

      She flashed on several women at the Vanderbilt Insurance office who’d run over their own grandmothers to be in Frances’s shoes right now. In the company kitchen, they’d whisper breathlessly about his Porsche 911 and how its custom paint job matched its baby-blue cockpit, his Tuscan-style home on a golf course, his European vacations.

      What they liked was his money, of course, not his withering looks when displeased or his condescending tone when addressing someone he viewed as an imbecile, which seemed to be half of the earth’s population. It amazed her how some people, like Charlie’s office groupies, viewed the almighty dollar as if it were the most important attribute in a potential mate, rather than traits like kindness and devotion.