“You’ll kill yourself.”
“But I’ll keep my dignity.”
“You’re a stubborn fool.”
She sighed and looped a knot in the front of the shawl. “I know.”
Her refusal made the awkward trip last twice as long, but Thad’s tight grip kept her from twisting an ankle, and at least she held on to a shred of pride—or as much as her cockeyed breasts would allow.
With both their phones gone—hers abandoned in the limo’s back seat and his stuck in the asshole’s pocket—they had to rely on the kindness of strangers for a ride back to the city. Unfortunately, the strangers turned out to be a trio of drunken frat boys. Fortunately, Thad let them know right away that he was the one and only Thaddeus Walker Bowman Owens, so they let him drive. Unfortunately, he introduced her as a Chicago Stars cheerleader. It shocked her that she still remembered how to laugh. A pathetic laugh, for sure, but at least she wasn’t crying.
She borrowed one of the frat boys’ phones and called Henri. He was frantic. He’d been waiting for them in the hotel lobby when the real limo driver had shown up, and the doorman had informed him that she and Thad had already left. Henri had assumed they’d decided to get to the restaurant early to have a drink, but when he’d arrived and discovered they weren’t there, he’d grown increasingly worried. It took much of the rest of the trip to convince him she and Thad were unhurt. Physically, anyway.
*
“I can sense a middle linebacker twitching his left eye!” Thad exclaimed, as they took the elevator up to their suite sometime around four in the morning. “But I have no idea what our limo driver looked like. And do you know why?”
She knew exactly why because she’d already listened to his rant twice.
“Because I was too busy staring at your ass! That’s why!”
Their grilling by the Las Vegas police hadn’t gone well. The officer who’d interviewed them found it hard to believe that neither of them could describe the driver, and by the second hour of their stint at the police station, he’d stopped trying to hide his skepticism. “You didn’t see the driver when you approached the car? You didn’t speak to him before you got in?”
“Yes, but . . .” Olivia took over this round. “Thad and I were having a . . . a conversation, and neither of us was paying attention.”
Their interviewer had an egg-shaped head, dark-rimmed glasses, a brush mustache, and a mistrustful nature. “So let me get this straight. You think he was white, but maybe not. He wasn’t short, but he wasn’t tall. And his voice sounded maybe middle-aged but maybe younger.”
“He had a hat on,” Olivia said defensively, “and it was pulled low. I remember that.” She tugged the dirty flamenco shawl more tightly around her to conceal her unfettered breasts and briefly wondered how the frat boy would feel about the single silicone lift pad he’d find in his car when he sobered up.
“He was wearing a dark suit,” Thad added. “We told you that.”
“Are you even sure it was a man? Could it have been a woman?”
“Thad and I weren’t really having a conversation,” she said desperately. “It was more of an argument, and you know how that is.”
The officer—his name tag read L. Burris—looked up from his computer screen. “You’ve been getting a lot of publicity lately.” Olivia should have seen what was coming next, but she hadn’t. Burris pulled off his glasses. “Ms. Shore, this isn’t the first incident you’ve been involved in since this tour of yours started.”
“It’s not my tour. Marchand Timepieces is sponsoring—”
“That assault in New Orleans . . . They never found the man responsible.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back into it. “You’re aware, aren’t you, of the penalties involved in filing a false report?”
That had brought Thad right out of his chair. “If you’re implying that we made this up for publicity, you couldn’t be more wrong.”
“Sit down, Mr. Owens. I’m not implying anything. Just pointing out a few facts.” He brushed the corner of his mustache with his thumb. “You say you were kidnapped, but you have no description of the perpetrator. It’s possible he was after your watches—worth over twenty grand, as you pointed out—but all he got was your phone and wallet.”
“Explain that gun we handed over,” Thad countered. “Instead of doubting us, why don’t you see if any limo companies reported having one of their cars stolen?”
“We’re doing that right now.”
Not long after, Burris had left them alone, which was when Thad had launched into his initial “staring at your ass” rant.
The officer had kept them waiting nearly an hour, during which time they agreed it was highly unlikely Adam’s sisters would have had the resources to pull something like this off. “Then who?” Olivia said, thinking out loud.
Thad shook his head. “That’s the question.”
Officer Burris returned with the news that the Nevada Highway Patrol had found an abandoned limousine northwest of the city that had been stolen from a local transport service.
“We’ll look at security tapes from the hotel,” Burris said before he showed them out. “Unless they give us more information than you have, it’ll be hard to find this guy.”
“What about the gun?” Thad asked.
“We’ll put a trace on it. Don’t get your hopes up.”
Burris wasn’t happy that they were scheduled to leave for Chicago the next day, but Olivia couldn’t wait to leave Las Vegas behind.
*
It was nearly dawn when they got back to the hotel. Thad had finally stopped berating himself for not paying attention to the driver’s appearance, but as they got off the elevator on their floor, something else was bothering him. “Liv, promise me you won’t ever again mouth off to somebody who’s holding a gun on you.”
“I can’t help it. I hate being pushed around.”
“I get it. You’re a soprano.” He gazed down at her. “But let’s agree that men like him aren’t as enlightened about the artistic temperament as I am.”
She smiled. “One of the best things about you.”
He opened the door of their suite with the new key card they’d gotten at the desk. As she stepped inside, her flamenco shawl fell to her elbows, and she caught her image in the mirror across the room. Tangled hair, dirty face and arms, gown filthy from where she’d fallen. The thin silver chain must have broken when she’d fallen because her necklace and its silver star charm were gone.
“Liv, I don’t mean to be insensitive, but did something happen to your breasts tonight? They’re still sexy as hell, don’t get me wrong. But they seem to look a little—I don’t know—different than they looked at the start of the evening.”
She jerked the shawl back over her shoulders, but not before a quick glance showed that, without support, her breasts were spilling from the V of the gown, and they’d also lost some of the perk. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Forget I said anything.”