One More Night(32)

It all made sense—wonderful, blissful, gorgeous, sexy sense—that he’d somehow concocted a way to get down on one knee in the VIP poker room. She couldn’t wait to say yes.

“Is he there now?” she asked Dominic.

“Yes. Ready for you,” he said. They rounded the corner and entered the private room. He gripped her arm harder and dug his fingers in. The edges of her watch scraped roughly against her wrist. She tried to pull her arm away, but his hand was now a steel vise, and he wouldn’t let go.

“Excuse me,” she said, trying to wriggle out of his grip as they walked past an oval table and rich brown chairs, with opulent mirrors strategically angled to hide hands. “That’s a bit too rough. Can you let up?”

“Not a chance in hell,” he said, and his voice was no longer honey. It was malice.

Like a painful injection, all her excitement was erased, replaced by ice-cold fear coursing through her body as he clasped his hand over mouth, and shoved her hard through a doorway.

Then locked the door.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Saturday, 1:34 p.m., Las Vegas

The $100 table with the dealer with cropped black hair and one diamond earring.

He read the text from her one more time, studying the message as if it would reveal a clue as to where she could possibly be.

But there were only five $100 tables and he’d circled them fifty times each, looking for her. She was nowhere to be seen. He desperately wanted to believe he’d simply missed her.

He returned to the table she was supposed to be at. The dealer nodded at him this time as he dealt to four players. It was an I-see-you-look, an I’m-memorizing-your-face look. Clay nodded back, and paced more, his eyes roaming the casino, scanning the tables, checking out the nooks and crannies, the bars, the lounge chairs. He paced like a caged lion. He was sure he’d have security swarming him any second because he looked suspicious as hell. Checking his watch. Checking his phone. Running his hand roughly through his hair. Dialing, over and over.

He spun around in another circle, hunting for signs for the nearest ladies room. Hell, maybe she was taking a piss. A long fucking piss. He marched over to the sign, and waited twenty seconds until a woman with dark hair, kind eyes and laugh lines made a beeline for the restroom.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for my–” he paused for a split second, the words catching in his throat because he was about to say wife when he stopped himself. “–my date, and I was supposed to meet her ten minutes ago. Would you mind asking if there’s a Julia in the bathroom? Redhead, wearing black shorts and heels.”

“Sure,” the woman said, but she gave him a look as if he were crazy to ask, pathetic maybe. A pathetic guy who’d been stood up. Maybe he was. Hell, he sounded like a desperate man who’d been ditched by a woman. But he knew that wasn’t the case.

He waited and called her again. Five rings then voicemail. Maybe she’d turned it on vibrate during the game. Maybe she’d even turned down the volume, figuring that was proper poker behavior or something.

But then, where was she? He held out hope that nature had called. That maybe she’d taken a long restroom trip.

A minute later, the dark-haired woman with laugh lines emerged, patted him on the arm, and shook her head ruefully. “Sorry, hon. No one was in there. I hope you find your lady. And if she’s run out on you, you come find me and I’ll be happy to be your date,” she said, then winked at him and headed off.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and shook his head at her proposition.

He could case the joint for all the ladies rooms, but instead he marched right back to the table with the diamond-earringed dealer. After he laid the last card down, Clay cleared his throat, and said, “Excuse me.”

The dealer looked at him, his face impassive. “Yes?”

“Was there a redhead here a few minutes ago?” he asked then gave a quick description of Julia.

The dealer nodded.

“Any idea when she left? Where she went?”

“Played a few hands. Took off a few minutes ago,” he said, his voice even, unreadable. Clay suspected dealers in Vegas were trained to reveal nothing—not while dealing, not while playing, and not when asked questions by patrons. Maybe even especially when asked by patrons.

“Did she happen to say where she was going?” he pressed.

“C’mon, man,” said one of the guys at the table. “She’s not here. Leave him alone so we can play.”

Clay shot him a dirty look; a young, fratty guy who he wanted to punch for no rightful reason except that he was pissed, and worried, and starting to panic. He walked away from the table, looking for clues anywhere. He wanted the simple answer. The I-got-stuck-in-the-elevator answer. But as the minutes ticked by, those easy answers felt less likely. Unease deepened in his chest, spreading quickly like laundry soap overflowing from a washing machine.