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“If I understand you correctly, you want money
not
to locate her.”

Henry made a shooting gesture with his index finger. “Got it in one. You put the money in my bank account, I leave her be, and she leaves you be.”

“What makes you so sure you can find her?”

“It’s what I do.”
And goddamn well, too.
“Plus, I have a source—a pipeline, you could say, that’ll take me right to her. More of a chute . . . yeah.” He slid one hand off the other in swift gliding motion and grinned. “Like I said, two days tops.”

“And this ‘pipeline’ of yours, where is it?”

Henry gave him a vacant stare. “I wasn’t born yesterday either.” He stood on his too-short legs and squared his thick shoulders. Christ, why was he always looking up at these bastards? He hated that, hated how it poked at the gut-ball of anger rooted low in his stomach.

The confidence in Henry’s voice came easily, and it looked as if Quinlan picked up on it. He took a few paces away, stopped, and left his back to Henry. Henry damn near heard the whir of cogs and wheels in his brain. He had him. Henry Castor was about to become a rich man. Yeah.

Without another word, Q went to his desk and pushed a button near its base; a drawer opened where Henry hadn’t seen a drawer.

He took out a whack of cash and a cell phone. He handed both to Henry. “Expenses. And an untraceable cell. Keep me informed as to your progress, and call me immediately when you find the girl.”

“You want me to find her?”
What the hell . . .

“I want you to find her and bring her to me.”

Henry snorted, laughed. “Like I’m working for you?”

“You are now.”

“Not exactly what I had in mind.” He might be holding a nice wad of cash in his hand, but he didn’t have to count it to know it was nowhere near Bingo.

“Nor I, but unfortunately your avarice and my natural tendency for self-preservation necessitate our unholy alliance.” He stood over Henry, as tall and rangy as Henry was short and thick. He didn’t blink. “I repeat, find the girl, Henry, bring her to me—and you get a four million dollar payday.” He looked at the money Henry held in his hand, probably a few grand. “Consider that a signing bonus.”

“Four mill—” Henry didn’t know whether he was pissed at himself for underestimating the value of his information or so fuckin’ excited his tongue had tangled. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket and slapped the cash he was holding against his thigh. “You want I should finish her?”

“By that I take it to mean, would I like you to kill her?”

Henry winked. “Hell, when I find her . . . I’m there, she’s there—makes sense, Q.”

“Do not call me Q.” Quinlan’s black eyes got blacker. “And, no, I do not want you to kill her. What I want you to do is restrain your dumb-animal instincts and do your work quietly and methodically. When you find her, bring her to me. In the course of your investigation under no circumstance will you attract attention to yourself
or me.
Do we understand one another?”

Henry eyed him, simmering about that dumb-animal remark. “I get it. You want to do the job yourself, make sure there’s no loose ends—that exactitude thing.”

“What I do and why I do it is of no concern of yours.” He paused. “Do we have an agreement?”

Henry shrugged. Hell, Q could fuck her to death, use her for target practice, or slice and dice her for a goddamn salad, Henry didn’t give a shit. It was only a woman. And with four mil in his jeans, he’d be far enough away, her screaming wouldn’t keep him awake nights. “You just cut yourself a deal.” He held out a hand. “I like you, Quinlan, I like the way you think. Yeah.”

“Unfortunately for you, Henry, I can’t say the same.” Ignoring Henry’s outstretched hand, he gestured toward the door. “Get out of my house.”

Henry’s rented Navigator sat waiting for him at the bottom of the five broad steps leading to the doors of Q’s house—goddamn castle more like it. He got in the SUV, lit a cigarette, and leaned his head against the headrest, too pumped to drive. Four million bucks for finding one dumb bitch. Damned if his heart wasn’t near to beating itself right out of his chest thinking about it.

He put the key in the ignition and started the car. Three minutes later he’d cleared Quinlan Braid’s gates and they’d closed behind him.

Henry’s thoughts went immediately to the job at hand.
Piece of cake.

A few days ago, him wanting to be on firm ground before meeting Q, he’d made a couple of calls, confirmed his pipeline was still living in Las Vegas with her kid, so he knew exactly where to start. All he needed was her address, then it was one, two, three. Go to the pipeline, squeeze out the information on the misplaced shipment, and . . .

Shut down the pipeline
—
permanently.

He nodded to himself. Yeah. It wasn’t often that good business and getting even made such a perfect couple. Henry was proud of himself. He’d spent weeks going over the old crap in Victor’s safe—all that reading and figuring had near killed him. For a while there, he thought maybe he’d wasted his bullets on Victor, that his getting back at him for being pushed aside wasn’t going to be as sweet as he’d hoped. Then he’d found Quinlan Braid’s name and a piece of information as good today as it was twenty-odd years ago. And he was the only one who had it.

He frowned suddenly, and his throat tightened.

From here on in, Braid would probably have him followed—or try to. While Henry figured he’d have no trouble making, or shaking, a tail, he didn’t want some tag hired by that freeze-dried prick Q finding out a Vegas bitch was his connection. That happened—and they found the shipment—Henry’d be dead two seconds later. Not going to happen. He’d cover his butt and he’d cover it good. Nobody was taking advantage of Henry Castor—ever again. Yeah.

In the end Q would pay or Q would die. Henry chuckled to himself. Hell, there was always plan B. Q didn’t know why that girl-shipment never went out on time, didn’t know that Victor dithered like an old woman when he found out exactly what he had locked in his basement. Victor built his life on secrets and lies, his and other people’s. His stock in trade, he called it. The sharp-brained bastard never shared the goods unless there was something in it for him—and he was ruthless in procuring it.

None of which mattered now. First things had to be first and first was Henry nailing down his pipeline—and that girl.

He drove along the lush, tree-lined street, careful to drive slow to not attract attention. But his mind was racing.

What was that ad line again?
What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.
Lucky for Henry, that when their sequin-and-feather days were over, so did old-time showgirls like Phyllis Worth—his direct connection to four million dollars.

And an added bonus—getting the chance for payback against that Vegas bitch. Yeah.

Chapter 3

This was her third hotel room in less than a week. She was running out of favors, and she was no closer to figuring out what to do than she was when she flew out of her apartment.

God, it was hot out there. August in Las Vegas, the closest the sinless would ever get to hell fire.

Phyllis Worth’s heart thumped in her chest like a rabbit on crack—had since she’d crossed The Strip ten minutes before. Being out in the open made her feel like target practice, had every nerve in her body quivering. She had to settle down, formulate some kind of plan.

She tossed her suitcase and makeup bag on the hotel bed and walked to the window. Outside, the man-made cities of planet Vegas bustled and glowed; some sprawling, others thrusting upward toward the sun they attempted to rival: Wynn—fifty stories high, all of it gleaming bronze, thumping its massive chest and saying to the sun, “Right back atcha.” Then New York, New York, Paris, and the shadowed canals of Venice. Phylly loved them all. Las Vegas was her kind of town. Her home.

A home she might have to leave because of one teeny-tiny mistake she’d made when she was a dumb kid.

Okay, flat-out stupid kid, and in her twenties at the time, not much of a kid either. If you added scared out of her mind and greedy, maybe the words
teeny-tiny
didn’t exactly fit the event that changed her life. Impulsive, ignorant, and vain more like it. And if that weren’t enough, she’d gone on to compound it.

She went to the minibar and got herself a cold can of Coke, rubbed it over her forehead.

“Think, Phyllis, think.”

Yeah, right
. . .

Damn it, she hadn’t been able to think with any kind of logic—never her strong point at the best of times—since she’d heard from Elena, Victor Allan’s housekeeper, telling her that Victor was dead. That vile Victor was maggot meat, didn’t bother her in the least. He might have lived high, had all the money in the world—at least back then— but he was still the worst of low-life scum, one of the many of his type that passed in and out of her life from the time she spotted her first erect penis; a flag she’d too often mistaken for love, with the usual miserable results. No, she hadn’t cared about Victor dying for a second. Hell, it had been years since she’d laid eyes on either him or Henry Castor, that sicko-thug partner of his—but when Elena told her Henry had emptied Victor’s safe, it could mean only one thing; he’d taken over Victor’s business.

That
got her attention.

That
and a strange phone call to her boss, Rusty Black, a few days ago—a bogus credit check—had set her packing.

Henry would come after the journal.

Damn Victor anyway, and that obsessive-compulsive urge of his to keep records—of every friggin’ thing in his life. But then what the hell would you expect of a blackmailer and extortionist? Information was the blood he lived on.

She should know; she was one.

Okay, maybe she hadn’t used the information in the journal—and she certainly hadn’t made a career of bilking people, but when things were tough, she’d used the journal itself against Victor. Of course, he’d paid. It was her having that journal that kept Victor off her and April’s case.
Without it. . .

But all that was years ago. Her heart lurched in her chest. While Victor was okay about paying her for her silence, even occasionally begging her to come back to him, Henry’s approach would be more lethal. That asshole hated her, pure and simple.

Henry Castor was mean as dirt. Vicious and incredibly stupid—a bone-deep nasty, who was unpredictable, vengeful, and violent. She’d considered handing the journal over, but it was too risky. He’d think if she knew what was in it, she’d be dangerous—or a competitor, which was even worse. Besides, Henry had wanted her dead years ago, ever since the April thing—Victor told her that—and she didn’t figure his intentions had changed. He’d had it in for her since she’d kneed him in the groin, hard enough to shove his balls up and under his eyelids, when he’d come after her during one of her money pickups at Victor’s. It had been her third visit and her last. Eight grand in total from her life of crime and not a penny of it was worth it. Funny how it was all tied up with the only good thing she’d ever done. The April thing . . .

When her thoughts stalled on that memory, she shook her head, shut her eyes tight, and forced it to recede.

Henry wouldn’t care about that, not after all this time. No way. After the first year, Victor hadn’t even cared. At first he’d been crazy mad, but after a year or so, it was like he’d forgotten the whole damn thing. One time he’d even said she’d probably saved his ass. No, Henry was after the journal; she was sure of it. With revenge as an appetizer.

The phone rang and—thank God—ended her irrational attempt at being rational.

She picked up the phone and set the unopened pop can on the bedside table. “Hello?”

“Phylly? You okay?”

“I’m good. Thanks to you.” She sat on the edge of the bed, rifled her bag for her cigarettes. “I really appreciate the comp, Marcie. I know the town’s busy.”

“The town’s always busy, and I’m glad to help. You’ll be okay in that suite for two days, then you’ll have to move to the Mirage. Annie says she can take you for another two.” God, she hoped to hell she’d figure something out before it came to that, but it sure was good to have friends in front-desk places. She lit the cigarette. “Hey, as a lifestyle, this isn’t bad, you know. A great hotel, room service—a minibar. And all for free. I know people who’d kill for this.” She tried to smile, tried to believe her own words, drew in some nicotine instead. Actually, she hated being holed up like this; she liked people, bright lights, action. But given her current situation, she couldn’t risk being seen until she figured a few things out. And a disguise was useless; at six feet tall, she stood out like an oak in the Sahara. She took another drag.

“I hate to rain on your parade, girl, but you’re in a non- smoker.”

“Shit. Sorry.”

“Hold on a sec.” Muffled, unintelligible sounds came down the line, and when Marcie came back she sounded rushed. “Don’t forget, while you’re here, you’re Mrs. Rhonda Lott. She’s the comp who canceled. Got that?”

“Got it.” Easy, she’d known a Rhonda once, smart, kind, and super organized. Everything she wasn’t.

“And don’t overdo the smoking thing, okay?”

Overdo? She’d been smoking like a hell-fiend for days. “I won’t.” She inhaled deep. Marcie, who’d conveniently not recorded Rhonda’s canceled reservation, had ensconced Phylly in one of the best suites in Caesars. Her years in Vegas had given her some good friends—friends she didn’t want to leave. “And thanks again. I owe you.”

“And I’ll collect. But I gotta go. There’s about a million Chinese tourists about to assault the reception desk. Call if you need anything.” She paused. “Or if you need to talk, Phylly. I’m here.”

Phylly knew she was fishing, and that she was doing it with the best of intentions, but talking about Henry Castor would be like sharing a toxic needle. And no way did she want anyone else in his sights. “Thanks, I’ll remember that.” Phyllis hung up the phone, and stripping off and dropping her clothes as she went, headed for the shower. She tossed her cigarette in the toilet bowl, flushed it, and watched her Lucky Strike swirl into oblivion.