Her 24-Hour Protector(42)
And with that, she drove out of the garage, the automatic door sliding smoothly shut behind her. As Jenna headed down the driveway she registered in the back of her mind that Rebecca Lynn’s slate-gray BMW hadn’t been parked in its spot in the garage.
Daddy’s little trophy bitch was out.
She shoved ugly thoughts of violence toward Rebecca Lynn from her mind. The night was clear, the moon high and she was going back to the twenty-four hour buzz that was Las Vegas. Where she felt safe. Where she felt herself. Where the lights and the laughter and the frenetic pace spelled freedom.
And as she neared the metropolis, the dusky gold glow of Sin City shimmered like a beckoning halo in the hot desert night, and Jenna felt her spirits lift.
She didn’t notice the dark sedan that pulled out of the shadows and followed her into town.
Cassie’s birthday celebration was a glittering event that had attracted the A-list of young Vegas natives, along with special guests and family who had been flown in from around the country. The party was being hosted at the Desert Lion, Frank Epstein’s massive temple to excess, because Cassie’s uncle was a friend of the Epsteins, and Frank was generously returning a favor.
But no matter how she tried, Jenna could not put her heart into having fun. Her champagne martini sat untouched on the bar, and Napoleon, perched on the stool beside her, glowered at the crowds from the security of his little designer purse.
The fact Jenna was in Epstein’s opulent establishment didn’t help her mood. All she could think of was Lex, his questions about Frank and her dad. Which in turn lodged thoughts of Lex himself fast and firm in her mind. And now Jenna couldn’t shake the images of his body in the sun, or the memory of kissing him, his scent, the green sparkle in his eyes when he smiled. The way those eyes had looked so haunted when he’d heard about his mother from the Lucky Lady fortune-teller.
She wondered again about a possible connection between Sara Duncan and Mercedes Epstein. They’d have been roughly the same age when they’d both worked at the Frontline—Sara as a croupier, Mercedes as the leggy showgirl who’d won the hand and heart of the big Frontline boss himself. Jenna found herself scanning the crowds half expecting to see the sleek silver chignon of the elegant Vegas matriarch drifting by. That’s what Mercedes did—she floated. It was those long legs. She must have been truly stunning in her day as a dancer. Jenna wondered what Lex’s mother had looked like.
“Hey, hon, why so glum?” Cassie said as she came up to Jenna and Napoleon at the bar.
She sighed. “Just need to wind up I guess.”
“Well, drink that martini, and you’ll feel way more yourself.” Concern tinged Cassie’s bright hazel eyes. “Never known you not to sparkle at an event, Jenna. What’s going on?”
Jenna couldn’t even muster a grin. “I’m sorry, Cass. It’s just…this whole Candace thing not being solved. It has me…edgy.”
Cassie crooked up her brow quizzically. “So, it’s not going so well with Mr. Sexy FBI Agent, then?”
Too well.
“I really don’t want to talk about it.”
Cassie gave her a long and knowing look. “It backfired, didn’t it? He’s gotten to you.”
Jenna said nothing.
Cassie threw back her head and laughed. “The Jenna Jayne Rothchild has fallen for a federal agent investigating her family for homicide.”
“I fail to see the humor, Cass.”
Her friend’s smile sobered. “Come on, let’s try our hand at blackjack. I feel lucky tonight.”
Jenna slid onto a seat alongside her friend at the blackjack table and stacked a pile of chips on the green felt, but all she could think about was losing…her dad, the bedrock foundation of her life. Lex.
Jenna played her hand, flipped over her card. A bust. The dealer raked in her chips.
Frank Epstein pointed to the top left screen along a bank of monitors. “Take camera seven in closer. Zero in on the blackjack table.”
The technician zoomed into the pit.
“There, see that woman in green at the table? Closer.”
The image of the woman filled the screen. Frank’s pulse quickened. He stepped forward, attention riveted by the beautiful young siren in a low-cut shimmering emerald-green gown. Dark hair fell in thick waves down her bare back, and her lush lips were painted a ruby-red, the precise shade of her nails. A red ruby pendant hung at her throat. Even the mutt’s purse matched her outfit—emerald-green with little ruby-red accents.
Frank’s security head, Roman Markowitz, came up beside him. “It’s Jenna Rothchild,” he said in his characteristic sandpapery voice, a result of damaged vocal chords in his youth.