Hearts in Vegas. Colleen Collins

hot blonde walks into the detective agency, needs to talk to a P.I. He falls for her story and her, and that’s when his real troubles start. It’s in every clichéd private-eye film.”

      “F’true,” Val said, her eyes lighting up, “I recently saw Chinatown, and just like you said, the trouble started when a blonde walks into private eye Jake Gittes’s office.”

      “I dunno,” Drake said. “You’ve been a monk so long, maybe you need a little blonde trouble.”

      “Monk.” Braxton snorted. “Now you’re stepping over the line, bro.”

      “Yeah?” Drake countered. “Well, since I’m already there, gotta ask...still watching Donald Duck cartoons?”

      “I don’t need this.” Brax picked up his phone and stood. “I’m heading home to tell Grams that as much as I appreciate her—and your—concern to find me a date, I’d prefer not being auctioned off to the highest bidder.”

      He started walking to the door.

      “Good luck saying no to Grams, bro.”

      “I never claimed to be a wise man,” he said over his shoulder. “Just a savvy, determined monk.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      CLOSE TO THREE, Frances cruised her rented Mercedes sports car past the Passage-of-Love drive-through wedding chapel, its tunnel bright with gaudy lights and gold-painted cherubs. In the lot next to it was a run-down duplex, where a scrawny girl in cutoff shorts and a T-shirt sat hunched on the porch steps, solemnly watching a couple ride a motorcycle into the chapel. To Frances, those two buildings summed up downtown Las Vegas—glitz, business and tough times.

      At the end of the block, she pulled into Fortier’s lot and parked. After patting the inside pocket of her jacket to confirm the presence of the replica brooch, she exited the car.

      The winds were picking up, but brooding clouds still hovered, as though unsure whether to take action or not. February forecasts were like crapshoots in Sin City—if the weather report called for fair skies, it might snow.

      Heading toward the silver-tinted jewelry-store windows, she spied Enzo Fortier’s Bentley, one of the inheritances from his late father, Alain Fortier. Enzo’s siblings were angry their father had given the bulk of his estate, including the Bentley and jewelry store, to his youngest son, Enzo. The ongoing family drama, with its litigation, accusations of extortion, fraud and theft, had left Enzo distracted and vulnerable to criminals.

      That was what she and Charlie believed, anyway. The person who stole the Lady Melbourne brooch had taken advantage of Enzo’s distraction to fence the pin. Not that Enzo was innocent—he had to know he was receiving stolen goods, but was probably too frightened to say no.

      Whatever the situation, Charlie had tapped her for this case because she knew about Georgian jewelry. Being a woman didn’t hurt, either, he’d said, because Enzo had a roving eye.

      So one reason Charlie had picked her for this case was because she was pretty enough to attract Enzo’s attention.

      Not much of a compliment, really, as it was her artifice, not her, that would attract him. Not to say she wasn’t proud of her skill applying silicone gel and concealer. Sometimes she even wondered if she could market this talent, help other people struggling with facial scars.

      And then sometimes, usually late at night when she’d run out of distractions, she wondered if any man could ever accept...touch...kiss the imperfection that lay beneath.

      Stepping inside the jewelry store, she smiled pleasantly at the middle-aged security guard stuffed into a blue uniform accessorized with a shiny gold A-1 Security badge and gun holster.

      She noted the surveillance camera in the ceiling to her right, which recorded her five-nine height—five-seven without the heels—as she strolled past the height ruler tacked on the inside of the entrance door.

      A skinny middle-aged man in an Armani suit approached her. Despite his dazzlingly white smile, apprehension clung to him like a fog.

      “Welcome. May I help you? I am the owner, Enzo Fortier,” he said in a thick French accent, bowing slightly.

      “Elise Crayton.” On undercover cases, she always offered a name that couldn’t easily be spelled. She absently adjusted one of her earrings, drawing his gaze to it.

      “Exquisite,” he said approvingly. “Antique, yes?”

      “Georgian,” she said casually, dropping her hand. “My favorite style.”

      “Oh, yes,” he said, his face lighting up, “I just happen to have several Georgian pieces available.” With a flourish, he gestured toward the back of the room. “This way, madame.” He paused. “Or is it mademoiselle?”

      “Mademoiselle,” she murmured, letting her gaze lock with his for the briefest of moments, giving the illusion she just might be interested in him, too.

      Nothing was more powerful, or more real, in life than the illusions people put forth. She guessed people didn’t have the time, or inclination, to dig deeper, so they accepted whatever was presented on the surface.

      Maybe because she was a magician’s daughter, she understood that the best illusions were the result of weeks, often months, of practice, so she tried never to be overconfident in her own first impressions of others.

      Moments later, she sat on a cushioned bench, eyeing a sparkling earring set and the Lady Melbourne brooch in the glass display case. As far as she knew, only the brooch had been taken from the museum. Later, she’d describe the earrings to Charlie, see if they could dredge up information about whether those had been stolen, too.

      “What a lovely pin,” she said. “May I see it?”

      “Absolument.”

      As he retrieved the brooch from the case, she pretended to fix her hair while scanning the layout of the surveillance cameras. The closest one, in the ceiling almost directly overhead, captured a tight view of the two of them and this case. Another camera, positioned farther back in the ceiling to her left, recorded a long-range view of the back area of the store.

      Fortier gingerly laid the piece of jewelry on a black velvet tray.

      “Fourteen-karat yellow-gold pin stem,” he said. “The center diamond is two carats, and the petals are covered with...one hundred and twenty diamonds.”

      Actually, there were one hundred and fifty diamonds, which was probably why he hesitated. He either hadn’t done his homework or he’d forgotten whatever information the thief had provided.

      He also hadn’t mentioned that each stone had been mine-cut, one of the last hand-cut diamonds before the age of machinery took over. Although sometimes lumpy in shape, mine-cut diamonds reflected their natural shape, making each truly unique. A significant point to collectors.

      “May I see the backing of the brooch?” She slid off an earring. “I’d like to compare it to the backing on this....”

      As she handed him the earring, it dropped with a soft fomp onto the black velvet.

      “Oh, pardon!”

      He stood, his features pinched with worry. As he carefully lifted the earring, she leaned forward, angling her right shoulder toward the nearest camera. Her right hand slid into her left jacket pocket as the left plucked the Lady Melbourne brooch. The switch was complete within a few seconds.

      Enzo, still examining the earring, murmured, “I do not see any damage.”

      She had purposefully let it fall on the velvet tray so it would land safely. Nevertheless, she frowned with concern.

      “Thank goodness,” she murmured. “So clumsy of me.”

      “No, mademoiselle,” he said, returning it to her, “it is I who should have been more watchful. If you see a problem,