Hearts in Vegas. Colleen Collins

he crossed into the lot, trying to read her body language, but she stood so stiffly, that was impossible. Moving closer, he tried to catch a hint of her reaction to his surprise appearance and saw, well, surprise.

      At least she didn’t appear to be pissed off. Things were looking up.

      She carried a paperback-size clutch purse, which she held tightly against her chest. Her gaze narrowed as he approached, those sparkling amethyst eyes clouded by suspicion.

      Things weren’t looking so up.

      He stopped, held open his hands apologetically. “I, uh, accidentally dropped my phone in your car.”

      She tilted her head, flashing an is that so? look.

      “So, I, uh...” His throat suddenly felt parched, as if he’d been sucking dirt.

      “So you checked your phone-locator GPS program and realized with great surprise that you’d accidentally dropped it in my car.”

      Man, she was sharp.

      “Something like that.”

      She made a noise that said more than most people could in a paragraph, mostly that she knew he’d dropped it on purpose to track her, so stop the bull.

      Really sharp.

      When up against that kind of smarts, it was time to stop peddling a story and offer the truth.

      “You’re right.” He smiled.

      She didn’t smile back.

      At least she’s still standing here, not getting into her car.

      “Okay, I admit it,” he said, adopting a good-natured tone, “I dropped my phone in your car so I could find you. Which I was wrong to do,” he added quickly, “and I’m sorry.”

      She released a torrent of breath he could hear ten feet away.

      “I don’t like your stalking me.”

      “I’m not stalk—”

      “Tracking my location with a GPS device, without my consent, is a crime in Nevada.”

      “Dumb move to track you, but I didn’t want you to get away.” That sounded bad. “I mean...”

      A horn honked.

      She looked over and waved at a light blue Porsche 911 that drove down the street. Glass was too tinted to see the driver’s features, but from the size and lack of hair, Braxton guessed it to be a male. A rather well-to-do male based on his choice of vehicle.

      As if he cared.

      Okay, he did.

      He looked back at Frances, who still stood in the same spot, clutching her clutch, staring at him.

      Handle this with aplomb. Don’t show you’re jealous over Porsche Guy.

      “Who was that?” he asked, trying to sound politely interested.

      “What’s it to you?”

      He caught an intrigued look in her eyes, or maybe he was hoping for a positive sign that she’d stopped thinking he’d committed any felony class D actions.

      “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

      “He’s an associate.”

      She’d dropped her edginess, which he took as a sign that she was open to talking more. “Dmitri?”

      She hesitated. “No.”

      “How many associates do you have?”

      An almost-smile curved her lips. “How many women do you talk this way to?”

      “Only the ones I like. A lot.”

      He gave his head a shake, realizing vagueness wasn’t going to help his cause.

      “You,” he clarified. “Only you.”

      She swept a strand of hair off her forehead, the shadows leaving her eyes as she relaxed, and this time that almost-smile made it to her lips.

      And in that instant, he felt a mysterious kinship with her, a connection that defied words. He just felt it. Sensed the depth of her emotions in those eyes...her wistfulness, dreams, disappointments. And with a yearning that almost hurt, he wanted nothing more than to make this woman happy and satisfied.

      To earn her love.

      She blinked and the spell was broken.