She had a third margarita. Might have gone for a fourth if her car hadn’t been in the parking lot. While the trade-off—a possible night in a jail cell for DUI—would in some ways be worth the numb and almost peaceful oblivion she was finding, she couldn’t let herself lose even a day on the hunt for Autumn. It would just make the trail that much longer. Provide that much more opportunity for the rains to pour down and wash away Autumn’s tracks. Because come they would. They always did.
“You sure you’re okay to drive?” Carl asked her just before midnight as he walked her to the door.
Most of the crowd had disappeared, although there were still a couple of twenty-something guys shooting pool, a few friends sitting at the bar, and a table or two occupied in the corners of the room. All these people were younger than the real Francesca Witting.
“Positive. Three’s my limit.”
“So, you think the margaritas might be good enough to bring you back for seconds?”
Was the next night too soon? “Is that an invitation?”
“Well…” He shrugged again, though not with any lack of confidence. “I’d probably have taken my chances on a dinner date, but it’s a little tough for a guy in my position to date much, since I work almost every night of the week.”
She tried hard—harder than she’d known she could—to overcome her immediate defensiveness. “I’m sorry,” she told him, wishing she could feel the sentiment. “I don’t date.”
“Not at all?”
“No.” Unequivocally.
He studied her for several seconds. “Well, then,” he started slowly. “Are friends out of the question, too?”
“Um, I don’t think I’ll be in town long,” she said.
“So, you aren’t coming back?”
Yes! She had to. “I’m not leaving yet.”
“How about tomorrow, then?”
The invitation played right into her hands. Francesca nodded.
His grin made her wonder if she’d made a big mistake. But she had to be back tomorrow night. And every night after that until she found her sister. Or got another lead that took her to the next waiting place.
The street corner by day.
Guido’s by night.
Life could be worse.
The woman was beautiful. Tall. Slender. Wavy blond hair. And compassionate. It was that last quality that captivated Luke. Sure, he liked his women gorgeous, but in this town of tinsel and illusion, what attracted him most was real softness. Inside softness.
Las Vegas was filled with beautiful women. They could be found—and had—anywhere, anytime, at any age, for anything a guy wanted.
“Let’s take a picnic out to the desert,” Melissa Thomas suggested when Luke picked her up early Saturday evening.
He’d met the social worker while coaching basketball at the local crisis center and quickly found that she was unlike any woman he knew. Ambitious, driven, and motivated completely by her compassion for the underprivileged children she worked twelve-hour days serving.
“Sounds great,” he told her, rounding the car to open her door. He’d missed his jump again that morning, and a sojourn with nature sounded almost as good as the time alone with Melissa. “I’ve got a blanket in the trunk and we can run by the deli for the rest of it.”
“Including a bottle of Italian wine?”
It was a taste he’d introduced her to, compliments of the tutelage he’d received growing up at the knee of Amadeo. A little-known sparkling wine from the region of Campania, rather than the more famous wines from Tuscany and Napoli. The deli wouldn’t have his favorite, but there’d be a decent choice.
“You got it.” Luke took her hand as he backed his Jaguar out of her driveway. She was giving him an evening of freedom, an evening away from bustling restaurants with waiters and managers whose friendliness was professional. Impersonal. Away from glittering people and traffic and city noise. There was very little he wouldn’t give her in return.
Melissa had been married once. In college. All Luke knew about it was that her young husband had been unfaithful and the marriage had ended abruptly. She’d been living alone for almost ten years. Owned a small home in one of Las Vegas’s gated communities.
Luke had been dating her for six months. They didn’t see each other all that often. They both worked a lot. And he had his ever-increasing responsibilities at home—responsibilities about which Melissa knew nothing. Still, they’d fallen into a state of being comfortably exclusive.
He checked his cell phone while she was at the deli counter making her choices, relaxing when there were no calls. The Allens, old friends of his parents who lived in the same gated community as Luke and his mother, had invited Carol over for dinner and a movie. They’d been planning to pick her up fifteen minutes ago, but there was always the chance she’d refused to go with them. Which often meant the onset of an episode that required Luke’s attention. The Allens could handle it, of course. But Luke didn’t like to accept their help for his own leisure purposes. He needed to be able to call upon them when he was at work and just couldn’t get home.
“All set.” Melissa joined him, carrying several containers. Pocketing his phone, Luke took them from her and got in line to pay.
“Work?” she asked with a disappointed frown. Carol, work—it was all one and the same as far as Melissa knew.
“Nope,” he told her with an easy smile. He was looking forward to the hours ahead.
“Well, thank goodness.” Luke loved the way she cuddled up to his side, both her arms wrapped around one of his. “Not that I ever like it when we have to cut a date short, but it would be particularly hard tonight.”
He grinned down at her. “Why’s that?” Was she feeling the same anticipation—and need—that he was? They hadn’t made love in a couple of weeks, and while ordinarily he’d take that in stride, since he’d started seeing Melissa, he had sex on his mind a lot.
She was an incredible lover. Wild without being too wild, tender, wanton. She made the most incredible noises when she came. And she was funny. Luke had never associated sex with laughter before. Would’ve thought the one would detract from the other. It didn’t.
“Because I have something I want to talk to you about.”
Huh? “Okay, good,” Luke said, briefly wondering what he’d missed. He felt her arms wrapped around his middle, her palms under his T-shirt, against the bare skin of his belly. Funny how such a casual touch could be so erotic.
Yes, he was looking forward to the evening. And to her.
He was a lucky man.
Sheila Miller was going to get lucky tonight. A waitress friend of hers in the high-stakes room at the Bonaparte had assured her that Arnold Jackson would be off at nine.
“Could you take Spring Mountain Road, please?” She tried to ease back on the authoritative tone that came so naturally and had lost her more than one relationship as she addressed the cabbie. “There’s less traffic there this time of night.”
The man, who apparently had little mastery of the English language, nodded wordlessly. She hoped he’d understood her.
On the freeway, with cars traveling much faster than the speed limit, they were in the slowest lane. Sheila wanted to scream. To take over. She sat forward, peeling her bare back from the vinyl upholstery in the back seat of the ten-year-old sedan. And chewed on the end of her tongue to keep it silent.
It wasn’t the guy’s fault that she was nervous, had to