A bell rings and the elevator doors slide apart at last. The shiny car feels like home.

  A big, firm hand clamps on my wrist. I whip around. Joey is behind me, his dark eyes moody and unreadable.

  I offer a weak smile. It’s not even worth trying to pretend that I forgot. You don’t forget an instruction from a man like Joey.

  “I’m tired,” I try to protest. “It’s been a long day.”

  He tells me, “Come with me. I’ll make you a drink.”

  I pull my arm, but his grip on my wrist doesn’t loosen. I tell him, “I’ve got an early start.”

  His eyes harden. “The kitchen shift doesn’t start until five p.m.”

  “It also doesn’t pay enough to cover my bills. I have another job.”

  “The Miramar,” he tells me, his voice dangerously low.

  His lips curve into a triumphant smile as he releases my wrist. He guides me back along the corridor. His hand is firm on the small of my back. The heat of his touch seeps through the fabric of my clothes and pours shivers down my spine. I can't help but wonder what it would feel like to have his hands more directly on me. The thought sends a wash of heat through my body.

  Joey steers me into the glimmer of the empty Miramar bar. He leads me to a table, then goes to the bar to fix us both a mojito.

  Joey tells me, “Why are you working in the kitchens, Daisy? I’m sure there are plenty of ways you could be making more money.”

  “What are you, my career adviser? What are you suggesting?”

  He sits across the table from me and raises his glass. “Only that I saw you holding your own between an urbane mobster and a highly educated senator. I think you have talents way beyond the kitchen sink.”

  I can’t read his expression. Or, at least, I can’t trust what I think I’m seeing. He looks like he’s settling down for a meal, and I’m going to be the steak.

  I take a sip of the cool cocktail.

  "Thanks," I reply, sarcasm edging my voice. "I may have learned a thing or two along the way."

  “You came here from Boston, right?” he says. “But why? You didn’t just come on a whim. You ‘re not here to play the tables. What made you come to Vegas, Daisy?”

  He looks and sounds like my stern guardian. How does he know that about me?

  I narrow my eyes at him, trying to gauge his intentions. My heart beats faster. Is he making fun of me or is he actually impressed with what I can do? Regardless, it's not like I want him to see that side of me.

  “Look, I’m just here to work. Can’t you just let me be? Do you have to be all over me like a big ox…”

  The air is thick with quiet for a moment. I should not have let him get to me. And I should have stopped sooner.

  He chuckles. Out of relief, I laugh.

  “Ox,” his eyes spark as his head shakes.

  There’s a thin moment where we’re just two people, laughing. It’s special.

  But when it fades, the air between us has changed. We're leaning closer than I realized. Our bodies almost touch. The warmth radiating off his muscular frame sends shivers down my spine. His scent, a mix of leather and cologne, fills my senses, leaving me dizzy with desire.

  I get up. He gets up at the same time. Now we’re way too close.

  Joey leans in, his breath hot on my ear. "You surprise me, Daisy," he whispers, his lips grazing my skin, sending a jolt through my body. My mind screams for me to pull away, yet something deep inside urges me to respond.

  Captivated by the intensity in his dark eyes, I can’t resist. Almost without me deciding, I grab his face. Our lips collide. The kiss shocks me, because it’s gentle. Soft and tender.

  Then the sweetness soon melts, rolls, and turns. It’s ripped apart by an urgent hunger. A need.

  I grab his ass. It’s like two live boulders. His hands slide into my hair, gripping tight, pulling me close. My hands roam over his chest, feeling the powerful muscles beneath his shirt. Our mouths lock together, and our tongues explore each other, taste every hidden corner. My knees weaken as the heat between us rises to a searing inferno, threatening to consume us both.

  My hips push and roll, scraping my sex, making wanton friction against his hot, hardening swell.

  His hands slide down my back. Grip and squeeze my ass. We lock together, and our bodies roll. Molding. Tight. My chest crushes against his.

  We pull tighter. Press closer. I pull him to me, rocking my hips, feeling the surge of a release where his pelvis pushes into mine.

  The closeness has dissolved into passion, a scorching fire of need. Did he intend this? Did he trap me into it? I don’t think so. I don’t think either of us anticipated it. Because it feels so wrong. So wrong I could die for it.

  "Joey," I moan softly, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. He responds by pulling me even closer, his hand sliding down to cup the curve at the bottom of my ass.

  Our bodies fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. His arousal pulls and thickens against my widening wetness. A primal beat stirs deep within me.

  The madness of desire escalates fast. I know I have to stop this. My mind races with thoughts of him pushing me onto the bar counter, tearing off my clothes, and taking me right here. The very thought makes me breathless. My fear of losing control threatens to break through the haze of lust. But what I want… what I need…

  I have to make this stop. Haul myself out of Joey's embrace whatever it takes. My chest heaves. I gasp for air, overwhelmed by the intensity of the kiss and the emotions that surge in my veins. All the wrongness and the reality of it splashes down upon me. I need to lift myself out of the flames of passion.

  But Joey does it. Damn him. He pulls back. “Daisy…”

  "Joey, I—I can't," I stammer. I hate the quiver in my voice. Panic explodes in me. Without a word, I turn on my heel and run. I dash out of the bar. My heart pounds. Hard. Making it hard to breathe. It feels like it could hammer its way out of my chest.

  Blindly I run back down the corridors for the elevator. The only thought in my mind is to get away. All my plans are smashed and wrecked. Just by letting go when it all felt too good, I’ve let everything collapse.

  As I stab the elevator button, I’m barely hanging on through a wash of bad thoughts. Everything is connected. It was all going, right and now I’ve let it all crash. Just so I could feel a the strength of a man. Just so I could feel important for an instant, so I could matter to a man. A man who is…

  No!

  I can’t let my mind go there.

  It’s so bad, all I can think about now is that I have to get away. And I am never going to come back.

  As the elevator doors slide shut, I see him. Standing in the doorway of the dimly lit bar, Joey Calhoun watches me go. His face is dark with sullen anger and a trace of astonishment.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Echoes in the kitchen hammer my ears. In a dazzling glare of activity, everything is moving, everything is loud. Except around Domingo. Garlic and vibrant spices drift heavy in the air. My massive and highly flammable Cuban chef, Domingo, hovers over a steaming pot. His eyes droop as he concentrates. He’s temperamental about his dishes, and I know better than to interrupt him. Beneath his white chef’s tunic, his broad shoulders flex. He leans forward as he stirs, taking in the aromas before he dips in the tasting spoon.

  He sips, then he pauses.

  "Joey," he snarls without looking up, "we need to talk about Daisy."

  Now what? I thought he would have gotten over our spat from yesterday. I’m not going to interfere in his staffing of the kitchen. If he wants to hire a volatile minx who’s liable to set everything in the place on fire, who am I to try and stop him? I lean against the stainless-steel counter, my arms crossed over my chest. "What about her?"

  Domingo replies, finally meeting my gaze. “I need her. We're short-handed, and she was doing such a great job. It's affecting the staff.” Finally he looks up, “Especially me."

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. The truth is, I can't stop thinking about Daisy either. But with Declan's murder weighing on me, I've been trying to push the recollections of her sultry voice and her tricksy smile away to the back of my mind. I have bigger fish to fry, and I can't let myself be distracted. Even by desires that burn hot and fierce within me.

  I shrug. “So what? You want her, keep her. I think you’re crazy, but she’s a bitching piece of ass. If that’s what stirs your pot, keep her. Why are you and I still arguing about it?”

  ”She’s not here. I can’t get a hold of her.”

  “No shit, Domingo. You hired a firecracker and she didn’t show up for her second shift? Well, I should have been sitting down when you told me that. Hold the front page.”

  His voice lowers. That’s never good. “I need her.”

  “Then send someone to get her. Or get someone from an agency," I tell him curtly. "We'll manage."

  “I know you made her stay behind last night. What did you do? What happened?”

  “Domingo, we’re grown-ups, okay? I’m not going to have this conversation with you. If you need help with your kitchen roster, tell me.” His scowl deepens. “Otherwise, you get on with your job, and I’ll keep the business running. Okay?”

  He glowers at me for a long moment. I hope I never have a real problem with Domingo. ”Alright," he concedes.

  Disappointment etches his face, and I know that won’t be the end of it.

  When I find Sam, he’s in the Buena Vista lounge keeping an eye on a game of Razzle with dice. The players are all old and capable enough to take care of themselves. I warn him not to let it get out of hand. “No more than another half an hour, Sam. Then call Gregory to send up Seb.”

  “Sure, boss.” Sam sounds weary.

  I ask him,”You okay here for an hour or two? Couple of things I need to see to.”

  “No worry, boss.”

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  “Yes, boss.” As I turn, I catch a reflection. His index and middle fingers rub his forehead.

  As well as a change of air, I need to get some advice. After I make a short call to my good friend Enzo DiNavarro, I leave the club and head for Enzo's mansion. My Aston Martin feels great with the top down, and the night air is pleasantly warm on my skin. I can’t settle my mind, though. The heat brings yet another unwanted thought of Daisy. I stab the gas pedal with my foot. My grip tightens on the steering wheel and my knuckles whiten.

  The phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and see Detective Ransom's name on the screen. I don't bother answering. Without thinking, I send the call to voicemail. Anything he wants to say can wait. Right now, I need Enzo's guidance more than anything else.

  When Enzo's sprawling estate comes into view, I stop at the gate to be announced and let in, then I pull up the long driveway. The white portico of the mansion looms before me, a testament to Enzo’s power and his influence in this city.

  When the heavy wooden doors swing open, Enzo DiNavarro has come to greet me himself, rather than let his butler get the door. His smile is warm and welcoming. After a sound and solid hug, he ushers me in with an arm across my shoulder.

  He takes me all the way through the huge house, to the high, vaulted library, right in the back.

  The room is filled with the scent of aged leather and rich mahogany, the musty smell of the old books that line the walls. Two thick stuffed leather chairs are arranged in the bay, by the tall, quartered windows. Enzo leads me to the plush armchairs. Two balloon glasses of Cognac are set out with a crystal decanter on a table.

  We raise the glasses and sip together. For all his power and influence, and the weight of his responsibilities, Enzo always seems as pleased to see me as I am to see him.

  He’s a busy man, though. I’m grateful for him taking time to sit with me.

  “This is a bad time for you, Joey,” his eyes glisten.

  “You heard about Declan.”

  “I heard, Joey. Bad business.”

  “I don’t know who would have wanted to do that.”

  “Everybody has enemies.”

  “True. I would think Declan had fewer than most.”

  Enzo may be the most influential man in Vegas among the families and the business they call ‘the life.’ He’s believed to be more or less retired now, so he’s often called on to help mediate in disputes, or to offer counsel and guidance. Nothing happens in Vegas, nobody makes a move of any significance, without Enzo’s blessing.

  For me, it’s beyond fortunate to have him as a close friend. Enzo has always treated me like the son he never had, and he has said as much. I often wonder how Philipe and Berni feel about it, as the sons he did have, but it’s well-known that he has been even more disappointed in them than he was in their mother.

  He agrees with me that Declan’s killing seems surprising and out of the blue. “Yes, I would think so, too. But some other people have been hurt lately. Similar stories.”

  “People I know?”

  Enzo’s head shakes. “Accountants mainly. Bookkeepers.”

  I’m taken aback. “Odd targets.”

  He nods. “It’s got people thinking.”

  “What’s your guess, Enzo?”

  “I don’t know if I have one. They all seem to be people connected with clubs, so you should be careful.”

  “But pretty much everybody who’s connected is connected to clubs one way or another.”

  He nods again. “True enough.”

  So, they have all been ‘connected’ people. “But,” I say, “Declan was hardly ‘in the life.’ If anything, I’d say he was less connected than I am.”

  “Like I said, Joey, you should take care.”

  “Enzo, do you know anything?”

  “I know how close you were with Declan. I know how you must be hurting right now. Believe me, if there was anything I could tell you, I would tell you.”

  I ask him, “If it was one of the families, I should know, right?”

  Enzo shrugs, “Declan was your friend. What difference does it make? You have to do what you have to do.”

  “Sure,” I say, “but if I’m throwing a grenade, it would be good to know how far to get away before it goes off. Like, if I’m dropping it into a fuel dump, I could maybe take that into account.”

  Enzo nods. “I don’t hear much. I don’t think it’s one of the families, though. What do you hear?”

  I tell him, “Nothing. Except the homicide cop asked if I knew anything about Fobbit.”

  Enzo is clearly surprised. He practically spits the name as he repeats it. “Fobbit.” It’s practically a curse word. He says, “He choked himself, though. Couldn’t face doing time in state prison.”

  “That’s right.” I say, “It makes no sense.”

  Fobbit. Could there really be a connection? It seems strange that these deaths would happen now, years after the fact. But, then again, maybe it's all connected. Or just a coincidence.

  “Maybe it is a series of revenge killings," I suggest, my mind racing with the possibilities.

  "Perhaps," Enzo agrees. "But whatever it is, you must use your own judgment and do what you need to do about Declan's murder, Joey. Trust your instincts; they've served you well in the past."

  "Thank you, Enzo," I say, feeling a renewed determination rising within me. "I appreciate your insight."

  "Of course, my boy," he replies, his paternal affection clear in his eyes. "Now, go do what you have to do. Take care of business.” He reaches out to put his big, wizened hand on mine. The skin may be old, but his grip is still strong and steady.

  I feel like I got what he needed from Enzo. He didn’t tell me to lay off the matter. If it had been a mob hit, Enzo would have let me know, so I’m confident whoever killed my friend Declan, there’s no reason for me not to go after them.

  As I get up to leave, I wonder whether to ask Enzo about Daisy, but I decide against it. Putting her on Enzo’s radar might not be doing her any favors. And here I am, second-guessing myself over her. I need to get that blow-in out from under my skin.

  He walks me back to the door, and we embrace again before I leave. We shake hands and he slaps me on the shoulder. I tell him, “Your advice is always invaluable. I’m grateful.”

  “Of course, my boy," he replies, his voice full of affection. "Stay safe out there. Remember to trust your instincts."

  Talk of instinct raises the smoke trace of Daisy’s body in the back of my mind as I slide into the Aston Martin. Her piercing green eyes, her delicate curves; she seems to haunt my every waking moment. I know I should be focusing on uncovering the truth behind Declan's murder, but I can't shake the feeling that Daisy needs me.

  As I start the car, my phone buzzes with an incoming call – Detective Ransom again. I hit the ignore button without a second thought; whatever he has to say, he can tell my voicemail.

  Then I call Domingo and ask if he has an address for Daisy. While I’m out, I can at least call round and check on her.

  When I pull up outside Daisy's apartment building, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I might encounter. I’m bracing for a blizzard of pointless explanations and excuses, a long wail of reasons why it’s not her fault and, in all probability, how it’s mine.

  I knock on her door – no answer. A few moments later, the door beside hers swings open, revealing a very attractive neighbor wearing barely enough to cover her voluptuous form. She looks me up and down, her gaze lingering, and a predatory smile spreads across her face.

  "Looking for Daisy?" she purrs, her voice silkier than the fabric of her robe. "I'm afraid she's not here."

  "Who are you?" I ask, trying to keep my eyes on her face despite the tantalizing alternative view she offers.

  "Roxanna," she replies, taking a step closer. "But you can call me Rox. If you're waiting for Daisy, why don't you come inside and wait with me?"