They moved as though they were afraid Joey could lash out. Like he might just crack their heads together.

  My plan, such as it was, involved me somehow establishing myself here in the club. To do that, the best way would be to get myself a job here. Daddy taught me to mix cocktails. I had a couple of jobs in Boston waiting tables. I’ve worked in kitchens, too. All that is in my employability skill set. The wait staff and bar staff here look fantastically sexy in their snappy uniforms. That would mean being seen all over the club. And running into the big ox all the time.

  I want to be able to keep under the radar somehow. A start in the kitchens could be my best bet. I don’t have real kitchen skills. From waitressing, I know how a commercial kitchen works, though. Maybe I can bus and wash dishes to get a foot in the door.

  I need to get cozy with one of the waiters or waitresses. Get myself an introduction to the chef.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Before I make my entrance in the Bar Guerita, I slow my pace to a solid stride. A prowl. A few faces turn my way as I step in, slow and relaxed with a practiced, easy smile. I look quickly at everyone in the room. Outwardly, I’m giving calming signals. Inside, I’m calculating as I assess the situation.

  Broken glass litters the floor, and the air is thick with tension. A couple of patrons stand toe to toe, expressions that mix anger and fear.

  But there’s no rush, I can see that I’m here in time. I’ll get between Kyle Donnegan and Leo Casey. It’s probably what they both want, anyway. Growls have been made, teeth shown. Chests have been thrust. An overturned table, some broken glass, a mess on the rug. A few bottles and a couple of chairs knocked over. Nothing serious. The bar staff will clean that up in minutes. But they will wait until I diffuse the situation.

  The two big men glower at each other. Hunched, with snarls on their lips, they look about ready to reach into their coats. I’ve a strict club policy of, ‘no weapons, no exceptions,’ but I don’t put metal detectors and wand searches on the doorway. That would feel too much visiting court, and that’s not something I want my members and guests reminded of. Besides, people behave better when they’re on their honor than when someone’s waving a stick. Usually.

  Sometimes in a ruckus, it’s best to throw your arm around the two fellas’ shoulders and cool them down. Firm but friendly. These two, my instinct tells me they need to be braced up, so I give them a hard look and a stern voice. Not a loud shock, but a low rumble like a bowling ball. The sound of anger held back. Like a schoolteacher who just rolled in on a thundercloud.

  I tell them both they’ll pay for all the damage.

  “What, I have to pay for half of Donnegan’s mess?” Casey whined, and I let go a slow, silent breath of relief. I’ve hit the right tone.

  “No,” I tell them both, low and firm, “not half. You’ll both pay for all of it.”

  “What, you’re looking to profit from this mess?” Casey was fighting back a laugh.

  “Profit?” I bite on my own bitter laugh. “This room’s not going to clean itself up. So while you’re about it…”

  Leo Casey has caught on. “I know, Joey. And we’ll buy drinks for everyone in the bar.” The standard Havana Cigar Club punishment for misdeeds. “Lucky thing the bar was quiet.”

  “It was quiet until you two started using Champagne and tequila bottles for percussion. Now, move away and sit on the side of the room where it’s dry so the overworked staff can pick up after you, like the overgrown boarding school kids you seem determined to be. You can glare at one another from separate tables if you have to, but better you kiss and make up, alright? We don’t want anyone suspended or struck off the list.”

  Kyle is scowling, but he’s reaching for his wallet. I’ve no idea what it was that fired off the two men’s tempers; maybe no more than the urge to roar and lock horns. Whatever happened, I’ll make them both tell me. One at a time.

  You don’t get to wet the wallpaper in my club without giving me chapter and verse on what made you flip. What turned your demeanor from tailored and civilized gangster into a mad donkey in a suit. But later. It will keep.

  Now, of course, I’m looking for Daisy. As soon as I look up, I see her at the doorway to the members’ areas, and slipping out of the door. Seeing her ass is no hardship, but that girl has an alarming knack for fading as soon as I need to talk to her. I should get her out of my club, before she starts setting things on fire.

  Now, of course, she’s nowhere to be seen.

  Before I can find her, my personal phone rings again. The second time tonight, and another unknown number. Casey and Leo are pacified for now and the staff are already cleaning up, so I slip back through the concealed door into the staff corridor.

  After the call from Mike at the Atacama Plaza, my instinct is to flip my phone straight to voicemail. A middle finger in the face of whatever the fuck else the world wants to tell me. But I know, the more you do to delay bad news, the uglier and more rank it gets. Greet it head on with a smile, then at least you’re showing it your teeth.

  “Joey Calhoun,” I say.

  “This is Detective Ransom, Las Vegas homicide.” The voice is a weary rasp. “I need to speak with you.”

  “Should I be sitting down? What do you want, Detective?”

  “I need to speak with you in person.”

  “If you must. I’ll be here at my club all night. Ask for me when you get here.”

  The voice on the other end tightens. “I’m at the entrance now, Mr. Calhoun. Gregory, the security guard who speaks, apparently, tells me there is no club here, and he’s never heard of you.”

  “I’ll make a note to double his bonus for the week. Put him on.”

  I tell Gregory to send the detective up in the staff elevator, and have him brought to the staff smoking room. “Have Seb bring him.”

  Seb is Gregory’s companion on the door. And the detective’s assessment was correct. He won’t get a single word out of Seb. My instinct is to be slow and easy. Have the cop shut in the smoking room and let him stew there. Go and see him in my own sweet time. I know he’s going to treat me as a suspect. He could have talked on the phone.

  Anyway, cops treat everybody as a suspect, just like a conman treats everyone as a mark.

  Couches, tables and chairs in the smoking room are worn, but they’re all comfortable enough and they’re quality. They came out of the members’ rooms in the last club refurb. The lights and the walls are too bright and it could use a lick of paint. But nobody comes in here. For the times staff want to relax in a shift, there’s a TV room with games and drinks, but people are more likely found in the gym.

  Everybody who works at my club has to be super nice to all the members and all their guests, all the time, meaning the punching balls and bags get a lot of wear. Everybody except Seb, that is. He hardly says a word to anyone.

  Without a word, Seb shows the detective into the room, and he leaves with only the faintest nod in my direction. After the introductions, I gesture for the detective to sit. He tells me that smoking is illegal indoors in commercial premises. I tell him that we have license dispensation, due to our being a cigar club since before the current city ordinance.

  I wonder why he’s jerking me around. Nobody I know of committed homicide with a cigarette here lately.

  Sitting back while I wait for Ransom to start his interrogation, I speculate about the cost of his tailored suit and his Italian shoes. He asks me some routine questions about my movements and whereabouts over the last twenty-four hours. Then he tries me on whether Declan ‘had any enemies.’ I tell him that Declan was in business in Las Vegas. So, go figure.

  Then the interview seems to be over, and I’m still wondering what point he had coming here. It’s only when I’m showing him back to the elevator that he springs what I guess is his Columbo moment.

  While we wait for the elevator car, Ransom asks, “What does the word ‘Fobbit’ mean to you?”

  My blood chills. I say, “Not much. What does it mean to you?”

  He just looks at me.

  As the elevator doors slide shut on Ransom, I hear a sound. Daisy, hurrying away, at the far end of the corridor.

  Of course, I tell myself not to go after her. So, I hesitate but then, of course, I do. I chase her like an idiot schoolboy, sniffing after a movie star. And, of course, even though my nose is taunted with a trail of the scent of her, she’s long gone before I can find her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The heat and clatter in the kitchens are a relentless assault, jarring my senses. It’s only an hour into my first shift and I’m finding it hard to cope. I won’t let it break me, though.

  Sweat trickles down my back as I scrub the dishes with a fierceness that’s almost personal. My fingers are pruny and red from the hot water, but I ignore the rawness and discomfort. I need to prove myself here – not just to Domingo, the imposing Cuban chef who watches my every move, but also to myself. To rise above the echoes of demons from my past in Boston. Demon fears and vengeance that chased me here and that still haunt me.

  "Rápido, Daisy!" Domingo barks, snapping me out of my thoughts. He gestures impatiently at a pot simmering on the stove, the aroma of garlic and spices wafting through the air. “Keep the pot stirred. And check the spice.”

  "Yes, Chef.” I drop the dishcloth and rush to follow his command. I taste the sauce and I add some red and black pepper. It’s fantastic, but I don’t dare make a comment to Domingo.

  He grunts, his tone giving away nothing. But I see a subtle nod of approval. My chest swells with pride.

  As the hours and the work wear on, the temperature in the kitchen only seems to rise. I have to restrain myself from wiping the sweat from my brow every few seconds, except when I’m over a pot. But I am adapting to the heat, growing used to it, even enjoying the dance of fire and flavor that is Domingo’s kitchen.

  "Niña," Domingo gestures to the piles of dishes and the dishwasher. “The cutlery, crockery, and glassware. It needs to go to the bars and dining rooms. You know the way through the back corridors? Ask one of the wait staff if you need directions.”

  My heart skips a beat, anxiety rising like a serpent in my chest. Venturing beyond the seclusion of the kitchen means risking exposure, drawing unwanted attention from the club's patrons – and worse, from Joey himself.

  I ask Domingo, “What needs to go where?”

  His face darkens as he senses me stalling. “Take the trolley to each of the bars and the two main dining rooms.” He’s impatient, but he takes a breath and explains, “The bar staff and wait staff will take what they need from the trolley and show you where there are dirty things to bring back.”

  I force a smile as I grip the trolley's handle.

  "Be swift and discreet, niña," he tells me, and I nod.

  “Yes, chef."

  As I navigate the dimly lit staff corridors, the intoxicating scent of Cuban spices recedes behind me, replaced by the heavy perfume of cigar smoke and musky undertones of desire. My pulse races with each step, anticipation and trepidation intertwining into a heady brew that leaves my skin tingling, my breaths shallow.

  Stay invisible, Daisy, I tell myself, moving as quickly as I can and willing my presence to go unnoticed as I make my way through the labyrinth of passageways.

  The muted thump of bass from the club's various sound systems reverberate through the walls, seductive rhythms resonating with me, sparking hazy thoughts and fantasies. Of Joey. The man who haunted my dreams last night. Thoughts of him, his dark, piercing eyes and his powerful frame, taunt my waking hours.

  Focus, I tell myself, shaking off the dangerous wisps of longing.

  I push open a concealed door. Raucous laughter jangles in my ears, and I slip by the onslaught of colors and sensations. The club is a world of shadows and secrets. Every surface gleams with a sheen of sin, and I can't deny a perverse thrill from being in contact with it.

  The wheels squeak softly in protest as I shove the trolley down the narrow staff corridors. The cutlery, crockery, and glassware seems to grow heavier with each step, but I grit my teeth and move on. I know it’s only my anxiety that’s making this so hard.

  "Excuse me," I say quietly as I pass a waitress in a tight, sexy black club uniform dress. She gives me a curious glance before stepping aside. Her eyes linger on me for a moment too long. I straighten and put my chest out, forcing myself not to shrink from her gaze.

  At each of the four bars and the two main dining rooms, I’m greeted by the uniformed staff with a mixture of relief and impatience. One by one, I get to each of them and I manage to remain unseen, or at least unnoticed by the club's patrons. Wearing kitchen whites seems to give me a kind of invisibility. My heart races. Adrenaline charges through me like liquid fire.

  As I turn the final corner to make my way back to the kitchen, I catch a glimpse of him. Joey. In the shadows, he stands too near the kitchen door. His powerful frame is silhouetted in the low lights of the corridors. Even from a distance, his presence is unbearably magnetic. He ignites a mix of desire and fear within me.

  Whenever I see him, I think about him in ways that I shouldn’t. About the scents of him. His size and his weight. And about how his body would feel.

  Why does he affect me this way? I shake my head, trying to dispel the conflicting feelings that threaten to consume me. Focus, Daisy. You have a job to do.

  "Hey," a husky voice says, startling me. It's Sam. "You're new here, right?"

  "Uh, yeah," I reply hesitantly, my fingers gripping the edge of the trolley tightly.

  "Watch out for yourself," he warns, leaning in with a twinkle I don’t like. "This place… it can eat you alive." I don’t love the look he’s giving my kitchen whites. Then he's gone.

  A swirling brew of music and too-loud chatter blows through the concealed door he opened to let himself into the Hemingway Keys Bar, then drifts shut behind him as he’s swallowed up in the throng of bodies.

  A sigh of relief drags out of me as I reach the sanctuary of the kitchen and shove the door open. And there he is. Joey Calhoun, standing tall as a stop sign and as dark as a storm cloud. His eyes send a shock through me, lighting a fire deep in my core that I can’t control.

  ”Who hired you?" His voice is low and dangerous. It sends shivers down my spine and sets my heart racing as I struggle for composure.

  The thump of a knife striking the cutting board startles me, and Domingo steps between Joey and me, his dark eyes flashing with indignation.

  Joey’s eyes harden. “How come you hired her without talking to me?”

  Domingo says, “Since when was that ever an issue? You want to sit in every time I interview all of my kitchen staff now?”

  Joey’s neck reddens.

  Domingo’s voice lowers. “Mr. Calhoun, I don't remember you questioning my staffing choices before. If I say Daisy is good to work here, then she's good to work."

  Joey’s eyes tighten, locking onto Domingo. "I run this club, Domingo. I have the final say on who we employ. If there's something you're not telling me about her—"

  "Joey," Domingo interrupts, his voice firm but respectful. "I hired Daisy because she's a hard worker, she learns quickly, and I need a kitchen porter. I didn't think I needed your approval for that."

  My heart pounds. Tension thickens the air. A pulse in my thigh, and my gut threatens to make me gasp. I’m stirred with a pang of badness that Domingo stands up to Joey for me, and it’s worse because my body is rooting for Joey.

  “Really,” Joey says, his voice dripping with skepticism. “This one,” he cuts his eyes at me, then back to Domingo, “a kitchen porter.” He flips his attention back to me, and I feel my cheeks flush under his piercing stare.

  Joey steps closer to me. His nearness sends shivers down my spine, and I struggle to hold back a wave of desire, pushing like a bulging dam, threatening to break out of me. It's foolish and wrong, I know. I cannot be drawn to him in this way – and knowing that I am only makes it so much worse.

  Finally, Joey’s eyes narrow to lethal slits. He snorts, then he turns to Domingo with an indulgent smile. A smile he might show a schoolboy if he was letting him take enough rope to tie and hang himself. His look tells the chef, On your head be it, and he looks at me before he turns to leave.

  As he shoves the door open, he calls back over his shoulder, “Find me when your shift is over, Daisy. I want to see you before you leave.”

  The swipe of Joey’s gaze sears like a brand on my skin. The roll of his ass as the door swings behind him makes me hotter than a southern night. I’m lightheaded and disoriented. Relief washes over me like a cool wave as I reach back to steady myself against the steel shelf behind me.

  When I finish the cleaning up and washing down, I’m the last to leave the kitchen. As I finally peel the damp apron from my body, my skin tingles with relief. Even the heat of the kitchen is finally dying away. I can't help but feel a mixed sense of relief and accomplishment. Domingo's approval gave me a thrill I hadn't anticipated.

  Still, Joey’s demand, and the thought of spending time alone with him outside the safety of the kitchen, has my stomach tied in knots. A man. A man like him. I wonder how old he is. Too old for me to be thinking about him in the ways that I am.

  Grabbing my little jacket, I slip along the staff corridor, headed for the elevator at the end of the hallway. Heart pounding in my chest, I make a snap decision. If I can make it to the elevator without being seen, I can avoid the drink with Joey and get home to rest. My nerves are frayed, and I need a moment to gather my thoughts and regroup.

  I hurry on tiptoe toward the elevator. My pulse races in my ears. My fingertip shoves the call button. My feet twitch as I watch the red indicator arrow above the elevator doors. The car is moving up, though it doesn’t tell me where to or where from. My shoulders tense and I roll them, trying to flex out the tightness from the shift.