“What did Ned do?”
Asher let out a bemused exhalation. “He did the damnedest thing. He held out his arm to me. He let me feed, right there where we stood. It was the most generous thing anyone had ever done for me. When I’d taken what I needed, he patted me on the head and told me to get in the truck with him. He said I looked like I could use a shower and a place to wait out the coming daylight.”
Naomi looked at him, silent and clearly moved. “Sounds like Ned was a very special person.”
“Yeah,” Asher said. “Best I’ve ever known.”
“You said you never stayed long in any one place. Where were you before that night?”
He shrugged. “Around.”
“Well, I guess it was awfully lucky for you that you found Ned. Then again, I’ve got a feeling he’d say he was the lucky one. Seems to me you both needed each other more than you realized.”
“Maybe,” he agreed, lost in the old memories, the parts of his life that he’d never shared with anyone before. And never wanted to share until now.
Naomi smiled. “I guess maybe you came around at just the right time for me too, Asher. If not for you stopping last night in the desert, I wouldn’t be standing here.” She smiled, her pretty lips tremulous. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I owe you my life. I don’t know how I’m ever going to repay that.”
Against every discipline that had been seared into him from the time he was a boy, Asher reached out, the desire to touch her too strong to deny. He cupped her fragile face in his broad palm. Stroked his thumb over the skin that was as soft and creamy as satin.
He growled a curse, a wordless warning to himself to not let whatever was building between them slip any further out of his control. “You stay alive, Naomi. That’s all the payback I need.”
He expected her to pull away from his touch, but she didn’t. She stood still, as frozen in place as he seemed to be. She turned her face further into his hand, her gaze darkening to the rich, warm color of whiskey.
No question, it was an invitation. One he didn’t know how he had the strength to refuse.
“It’s getting late,” he uttered, his voice deep and rough. He withdrew his hand, shoving it into the front pocket of his jeans. “Like I said, the bedroom is yours. I have animals outside that need to be taken care of, but you’ll be safe in here for a few minutes until I come back. I’ll see you in the morning.”
He didn’t wait to hear her reply.
He couldn’t. His sanity depended on putting immediate distance between her tempting mouth and body, and his threadbare will to resist her.
He stalked out the kitchen door on a hissed curse, his breath steaming in the chill desert night.
CHAPTER 12
Cain stared out the large UV-blocked window of his penthouse suite at Casino Moda, watching the sun rise over the coppery mountain range in the distance. A storm was rolling in, bringing dark, boiling clouds and fat droplets of rain that streaked down the smoky glass with rapidly increasing intensity.
It was rare to get this kind of torrential soaking, especially during the daytime, but when it came, he relished it. The change in the air. The gunmetal gray sky pressing low over the mountains in the distance while lightning cracked and thunder boomed. The power of it sent vibrations all the way into his bones.
In a world where he’d always felt so big and indomitable, he supposed storms like this gave him some perspective that there were a few things on this Earth that he couldn’t control.
Not that he wanted that reminder at the current moment.
Barefoot on the pale gray carpet and dressed in loose drawstring pants that hung low on his muscled physique, he stepped away from the glass and turned toward the desk in his study to glance at the open laptop screen again.
The face that stared back at him had been niggling him for the past twelve hours. He’d looked at the images from far away, had zoomed in to the point that he could make out every line on her face, but damn it.
He still wasn’t certain.
With a grunt of frustration, he dropped into the leather chair and began scrolling once more through the videos he’d compiled.
It had started a few months ago at one of Leo Slater’s small casinos downtown. The Gold Mine was one of Vegas’s most aged casinos and it looked it. The old-timers that frequented the tired establishment wouldn’t have had it any other way, though. Cain supposed there was a comfort in those wallpapered halls and worn red carpet, a familiarity that made its patrons feel at home in a way that the sleek, marbled gloss of Moda never could.
Never one to pass up the chance to close his fist around a buck no matter who it was coming from, Slater accommodated the blue-haired set, offering up nostalgic games served up by uniformed, old-fashioned dealers and hawking early bird specials like meatloaf with mashed potatoes or Yankee pot roast with all the fixings night after night. The Gold Mine would have been more aptly named a bronze mine when it came to profits, and it would never truly compete with Moda in terms of income.
On the other hand, it also wasn’t susceptible to the whims of the jet-set, who no doubt would eventually bail on Moda and crown a new hotspot, leaving all that chrome and lacquer to tarnish and dry up. Boom to bust was a way of life on the Strip, but part of Cain’s job as head of security for Slater Enterprises was to ensure the boss’s financial interests stayed flush as long as possible.
The Gold Mine was Leo Slater’s insurance policy against the fickle winds of fortune. So when the place had shown decreased profits in the slots and roulette pits every other quarter for the past year and half, Cain had taken notice.
At first glance, it hadn’t seemed all that strange. But as he dug further, working through the cash flow with their analysts, he’d seen a subtle but strange pattern of medium to large scores that were out of proportion to the rest of the year. When he’d reviewed the year’s prior books and found a similar, smaller pattern of losses on the machines, he only grew more suspicious.
All of which had led him to pull video surveillance on the days where unusually high payouts had occurred. There were dozens, and it had taken him days to go through them, even with his keen eye and heightened perception. Eventually, he’d sensed a pattern that couldn’t yet be confirmed, but that he felt in his gut.
The same person was responsible for at least half a dozen of the wins. Maybe more.
Granted, she looked totally different each time. Sometimes she was taller, sometimes short. One day she was plump, two weeks later, as trim as a gymnast. Young, old, gray-haired and then platinum blonde. He even suspected she’d come in once or twice disguised as a man.
The only thing that never changed was the fact that she was at least part Asian. There were literally millions of Asian people who came through the Gold Mine every year, so before he voiced his theory to Slater or the rest of his team and made a fool of himself, Cain wanted to be sure.
No one could disguise themselves that well without plastic surgery. Or without years of practice and execution.
But Cain had persisted, ordering the security teams at each casino to funnel video directly to him if there were any unusual scores. He’d even quietly checked with associates working for some of Slater’s competitors on the Strip. No one else was seeing the repeated, apparently targeted, hits on their houses.
Which meant this mystery woman either had a beef with the boss or didn’t have enough sense to realize the kind of trouble she was courting.
And from the looks of her—from the near surgical precision with which she disguised herself and the stealth with which she’d made off with easily a couple hundred thousand dollars over time—she wasn’t lacking in the brains department. Nor balls.
So, that put him back to the only plausible motive.
For some reason, she had it out for Leo Slater.
And that meant, smart or not, she wasn’t likely long for this world.
If Slater’d had his way the night before last, the woman would already be dead. She’d
almost gone undetected, garbed in a hoodie and loose sweats, looking like any one of the many skater boys and other assorted punks who walked around the Strip with pants halfway down their asses and unkempt hair hanging into their faces. But then she’d hit a winning number on the slots—almost as if she couldn’t help herself from trying another score. She’d evidently enlisted another gambler to collect her winnings for her, but by then it was already too late.
One of the pit bosses fingered her to some of Slater’s meatheads on the floor and the word came down from the executive office to teach the little cheat a lesson. Cain had been pissed as hell to learn the boss had turned the girl over to Gordo and his two cohorts without bringing Cain in on the decision.
If Slater had known about the bread crumb trail Cain was chasing, no doubt he’d have been the first person called to deal with the situation. After all, the chief qualification on Cain’s resume had been the sixteen years he’d spent as an assassin in the infamous Hunter program.
He’d expected his covert investigation of the mysterious thief to end abruptly the other night, but all he had was more questions. Especially after Gordo’s company vehicle had been recovered three miles off the desert road with no trace of the girl or any of the three men sent to kill her in cold blood.
And then, there she was again last night.
Back at Moda, garbed in yet another clever disguise. At least, for a little while.
Cain played back the surveillance video from the casino’s eye in the sky, fast-forwarding to the point where the crone with the humped shoulders made a beeline for the ladies’ room and never came out again.
He knew that wasn’t quite right. She had come out, but she’d ditched her prosthetics and costume and had apparently decided to hide in plain sight.
Cain didn’t have to look far to find her.
He ran the feed captured near the Monte Carlo Fortune Bonanza machine, and there she was.
Damn, she a knockout too.
Petite, shoulder-length black hair, and a gorgeous face that looked as innocent as it was enticing. He knew she wasn’t innocent, certainly not where Moda was concerned, but she hadn’t done anything wrong last night either. He’d watched the video over and over last night and this morning, finding no reason to suspect her of anything more questionable than arriving at the casino in stage makeup and a disguise.
As for the big jackpot, that million-and-some-change had gone home with the man seated next to her, a single twenty-something paraplegic who’d wept tears of elation for nearly twenty minutes as casino management walked him through the paperwork and tax forms that preceded the presentation of his big check.
And still, Cain couldn’t look away from his screen.
It didn’t help that he kept circling back to the fact that Moda had another unusual guest last night. None other than a fellow former Hunter.
Asher.
He paused and flipped through the rest of the night’s feed until he landed on the one captured from the other side of the casino, near the entrance. There was no disguising that massive bastard. He moved through the crowd with determined strides. A man on a mission.
No. Correction: A Hunter in search of his quarry.
What the fuck was that son of a bitch doing here? What was he looking for?
Cain let the video roll, keeping the focus trained on the Breed male and barely able to stifle his growl. He wasn’t the only Hunter with no love for Asher. Hell, the male had earned every last ounce of scorn that came his way.
As the surveillance footage continued, he saw the moment Asher locked on his target. Those dark blue eyes narrowed with laser focus, Asher had cut through the thick crowd on the casino floor, his long strides carrying him in the direction of . . . the ladies’ restroom.
Holy shit.
It was the woman. That’s who he was looking for.
He watched the feed for a couple of minutes, his veins pounding with certainty as Asher took up a position just outside the restrooms and waited.
Were they working together?
And if not, what the fuck did he want with Leo Slater’s persistent little thief?
Cain closed his laptop on an incredulous curse.
He didn’t know what Asher was up to, but he was damned well going to find out.
CHAPTER 13
The rain had started sometime before dawn. Naomi knew because she’d been awake most of the night. She had plenty of reason for tossing and turning until daybreak. Keyed up after the big hit on Moda. Concern for Michael and the wellbeing of the kids staying at the house. Dread over the fact that if Slater got wise to her, he could retaliate not only with his security team made up of homicidal human goons but a Breed male besides.
A trained assassin, according to Asher.
And then there was him. Asher.
Of all the thoughts that continued to plague her mind, it was being under the same roof with Asher that made sleep next to impossible.
It hadn’t helped that the bedding and the T-shirt she slept in all smelled like him. Every time she closed her eyes, her head filled with images of him. His angled, rugged face and deep cobalt eyes. His square jaw and broad, lushly shaped mouth. Now that she knew what that mouth felt like on hers, she was finding it hard to think of little else when she was near him. As comfortable as it had been talking with him in the kitchen last night, every time he met her gaze she felt certain he knew how badly she wanted to kiss him again.
Yeah, she was pretty sure he’d figured that out.
When she’d reached out to touch his hand and tell him she was sorry about Ned’s death, he couldn’t seem to get away from her fast enough.
And although he had taken her face in his hands after she’d all but thrown herself at him with that mostly innocent offer to pay him back for all he was doing for her, he had evidently thought better of kissing her a second time. The way he practically bolted from the house, it was a wonder he didn’t knock out the screen door as he went.
Naomi heaved a sigh and got out of bed. She didn’t know where he was, or where he’d been during the night. The house was quiet except for Sam, who was parked outside the bedroom door, sleeping in a lump on the faded runner. He lifted his head as she came out, showering her outstretched hand with licks and nuzzles.
“Good morning to you, too,” she murmured, padding quietly to the bathroom.
On the vanity was a packaged toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste, evidently placed there for her sometime between her shower last night and daybreak. After cleaning up a bit and running damp fingers through her hair, she stepped back out to the hallway.
Sam led her into the empty kitchen and over to his equally empty bowl. “Are you trying to get me in trouble, or do you really need some breakfast?”
He tilted his head at her, eyes pleading and basically irresistible.
“All right, then. Breakfast it is.” She retrieved his food and poured some into the bowl, then refreshed his water too.
She couldn’t help wondering how things were going back home, picturing the happy chaos of kids setting the table and helping with eggs and pancakes—one of Michael’s specialties. The urge to call and check in was nearly overwhelming. But they’d already risked enough with their texting last night. Once the casino check was in the bank, then she could think about resuming her life back in Vegas.
Which would mean leaving Asher to resume his without her.
Why that thought gave her a pang of regret, she surely did not want to know.
She pushed the feeling aside, and turned her focus toward more productive ideas. After foraging without success for coffee or a means to make some, she settled on tea that she found in one of the cabinets. With a steaming mug in her hands, she moved through the house, slowly taking it all in—the upholstered furniture and TV from another era, the framed photographs and whimsical knickknacks. The old sound system and the collection of music CDs, classic R&B sharing shelf space with country albums of all kinds spanning the last couple of decades. There were
book cases filled with paperback novels, their spines bent, pages yellowed. And one the floor near a worn recliner sat a basket of crossword puzzles and Sudoku, most of them solved with pencil in the shaky scrawl of an aged hand.
She saw snapshots of Ned and Ruth’s life in this house everywhere she looked.
What she didn’t see was evidence of Asher.
Fifteen years he’d lived with the old man who’d given him shelter in his home; almost another year of living here without Ned. Yet Asher still hadn’t settled in. He could leave tomorrow and there would be no signs that he’d ever been here at all.
Naomi sipped her tea and drifted into the back wing of the rambling house. This part was an addition, and down the hallway were a couple of spare bedrooms—both unfurnished, as if plans for a growing family or visits from Ned and Ruth’s friends and relatives had never materialized.
Farther down this same hall, she heard a muffled scraping sound coming from the room at the end. The rhythm of the movement was fluid, thoroughly focused.
She paused at the open doorway of what appeared to be a woodworking shop and simply watched Asher work for a moment.
His head was bent down, those silky chocolate-brown waves hanging over his forehead as he painstakingly sanded the edge of an elaborately carved wooden headboard. He was barefoot and bare-chested, wearing only a pair of loose, faded jeans.
She stood and stared, mesmerized by the tangle of dermaglyphs that traced all over his chest and torso, and down onto his muscled arms. The Breed skin markings were just a shade darker than the rest of him now, but she knew they were a barometer of his emotions. In the short time she’d known him, she had seen them change colors multiple times, usually in fury.
Finally, he glanced up. He scowled, which seemed to be his usual expression whenever she was around. “Is anything wrong?”
“No.” She shrugged, lifting her mug. “I hope you don’t mind that I made some tea.”