Her shiny platinum hair bounced down her back to her waist. Her eyes, made lavender by the contacts she wore, sparkled under thick lashes, and her lips, full, pouty and glossy, enhanced by collagen, begged to be kissed. To say nothing of her breasts—right up there where they should be thanks to relentless chest presses and a small saline implant under each one, compliments of gentleman number three. If she’d had it this together ten years earlier, she might’ve tried modeling rather than this current vocation. But this look hadn’t come cheap or easy.
She and Nick had been in Las Vegas for three days and tomorrow would be their last day. He was on a real run in high-stakes poker, and every time he wanted to get back to the game he had treated her. One of the gifts was the new tennis bracelet she wore. As well, he gave her a nice crisp stack of Bens—hundred dollar bills—with instructions to entertain herself. He spent a great deal on her, and she used the money to stay fashionable and desirable, always tucking a little away for that rainy day just around the corner.
She’d had a very good time, though she hadn’t spent much of it with Nick. She had shopped, taken in a couple of movies in the screening room, worked out in the private gym, spent some time in the spa being massaged, manicured and pedicured, and she’d caught up on her reading in the cabana by the private pool. Jennifer was tanned, but it wasn’t from the sun. She wouldn’t subject her skin to that. She was spray-tanned. Once a week she would have a facial, massage and a spray tanning that would begin to fade after four days. When she went to the pool or the beach, she lay under an umbrella or cabana. Her skin, she was proud to note, was nearly flawless.
She was with Nick every night, of course. Or make that the wee hours, after many hours of poker. At fifty-four Nick was fit and energetic, sometimes demanding, often relentless when it came to getting what he wanted. And if he wanted her at 4:00 a.m., she was compelled to oblige. Thankfully, it was only on trips such as this that she was on such a schedule. In Florida they kept separate residences and Nick rarely spent the whole night with her.
Sometimes she wondered if Nick wasn’t just a little more than she could handle. He was certainly the most virile man she’d been with. Every time she began to consider ending this affair, whether because of Nick’s demands or his wife’s instability, he’d give her something amazing, reminding her that he was worth every hour of her time. His gift to her last year had been a condo on the beach, and she was weakened by her love for it. Even with her growing savings accounts, it was way out of her league.
However, life could be lonely. Working in a business that catered to Nick, and having a flexible schedule so she could be at his beck and call didn’t make the other women in the office particularly friendly. But then, she’d always been a loner. She knew what they said about her, but she was no slut. There had only been a scant few men in her life since she was a teen, and she never dated more than one man at a time. Never.
These were the thoughts that were running through Jennifer’s mind as she made her way through the crowds of people in the hotel on her way back to the room. The MGM was putting them up in a suite that was part of a private wing known as the Mansion. Very prestigious surroundings, complete with a crew of chefs, valets and real butlers. She’d been there several times with him—he considered her good luck—and true to form, he’d been winning, which made him fun and frisky. It was very easy to get used to living in high style like this, but she didn’t take it for granted. She knew how quickly such fortunes could shift—just as she’d had rough times with her mom, she’d had a few high times. They never lasted very long, but she remembered them fondly.
When she reached their suite she quietly opened the door and was instantly taken aback by shouting.
“I don’t ask your permission for anything! I’m here for poker, and if I’d wanted you and all your bitching here, I’d have brought you!”
That was Nick. She peeked in and made eye contact with “butler” number one, Lou. Lou was a mountain of a man. He stood in the foyer, his back to the sitting room, arms crossed over his chest.
“You can’t just bring your bimbo to Vegas and toss me to the sharks in Palm Beach while you’re here screwing around. They’ll eat me alive!”
Uh-oh. That would be Mrs. Nick.
“I’m here for poker! I can screw around in Florida!”
“Everyone knows you left me at home while you brought that whore to Vegas!”
Jennifer stiffened indignantly. She took exception. At the very least, the pot was speaking of the kettle.
“Why you worrying about what everyone else thinks? You got your big house, your big rings. You don’t play second fiddle. You got your masseuse.”
“Oh, you have such a dirty mind! Maurice is gay!” And with that there was a crash. She was throwing things. It was time to give her some space.
Jennifer backed quietly out of the room, gently pulling the door closed. She went downstairs to a quiet bar, sat at a corner booth and ordered a foamy margarita. She sipped it very slowly, killing time. She’d give Nick and his spouse time to work through this tiff. If she ended up with her own room and a first-class ticket back to Fort Lauderdale, it wouldn’t be the first time. It was no big deal.
“Hey, sweetheart.” She looked up into the deep brown eyes of a rather handsome and well-dressed man. “Buy you a drink?”
“Thank you, no. I’m waiting for someone. He’ll be along soon.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a mocking smile. “Blow him off,” he suggested.
She placed both her hands on the table, fingers splayed, roughly sixty thousand dollars’ worth of gems glittering on her fingers and wrist. “Oh, I don’t think so. I really don’t think so,” she said sweetly with her positively shattering smile. He was dismissed.
She knew better than to flirt or lead men on. For one thing, Nick wouldn’t stand for it. More than that, she’d seen plenty of women get themselves in serious trouble biting the hand that fed them. Not to mention the number she’d seen take a dive because they were stupid enough to fall hopelessly in love and believe everything they were told.
Jennifer had never been in love. At least, not since her sophomore year of high school. The combination of watching her mother suffer through frequent broken hearts and having her own trod upon by a stupid high school jock had taught her more than she wanted to know about that emotion. She thought it best to rise above it and live the good life. And her life was good.
The fight going on upstairs was upsetting, however. According to Nick, the honeymoon with Barbara was over and they’d gone their separate ways. Jennifer didn’t like conflict. She never fought. She was a pleaser. Nick was not similarly disposed; he had a bit of a temper. He was a little scary sometimes. He treated her with kid gloves, but even though she tried to tune him out, she’d heard the way he yelled at people on the phone, threatening them with dire consequences if they didn’t get something done to his satisfaction.
That was precisely why she minded her own business and tried not to listen.
She thought two hours away from the suite would be enough, so she gave it another thirty minutes. If the wife had won, she’d be intercepted by one of the guys, like Lou, and escorted discreetly to her own room or suite. If the wife had been successfully sent on her way, she would find Nick, or a note, instructing her to meet him there later. Frankly, she was betting on Nick.
She returned to the suite and quietly unlocked and opened the door, peeking into the foyer. Silence. She stepped inside and listened. Not a sound. Then she heard running water and a man’s muffled voice. She plastered that ready smile on her lips and moved toward the sitting room—and was stopped short. A battle had taken place there; a bloody battle. Furniture was tipped over, glass sparkled on the floor and there were actual splatters of blood on the white furniture and carpet.
“Just get rid of her,” she heard Nick say.
“Yeah, like where?” one of his guys asked.
“Who cares? Don’t worry about money, just do it up ri
ght. Don’t want to draw attention here. And clean up this place—I don’t want housekeeping in here asking a lot of questions.”
Immobilized by the shock of what she was hearing and seeing, Jennifer stood in the doorway, frozen. Then she saw Nick, shirtsleeves rolled up, splatters of what must have been his wife’s blood on his shirt, holding an ice pack to his eye. He walked from the bedroom to the bar. She heard the clink of ice cubes in a glass. He hadn’t seen her.
“You seen that bimbo?” Nick yelled into the other room.
“She stuck her head in the door just when Babs started pitching the crystal around the room.”
“Shit. Find her. We’re gonna have to do something about her, too.”
She stepped quietly into the coat closet just inside the foyer, out of sight but not out of earshot. She was just in time. Lou and the other “butler,” Jesse, came marching past to leave the suite. “We’re gonna need something big and easy to handle.”
“Golf bag, maybe.”
“Yeah. Or big suitcase on wheels. Y’know, they hold a lot.”
And they were gone.
In her entire life, as bad as it had been during some periods, she’d never imagined she’d encounter anything like this. But now, as she stood in the dark closet, a crack of light from the partially opened door streaking across her face, she knew she should have seen it coming. His temper was obvious, even if it hadn’t been turned on her. She sensed his businesses were shady, though she had no idea how. But what manner of man needs a couple of big bruisers hanging close at all times?
After a few moments she pushed the door open. She was going to flee, but she heard the shower running. Nick was fastidious. He’d want to wash up if he’d been mussed or stained with blood.
She knew she shouldn’t, but she just had to know. She passed through the chaos of the sitting room and crept toward the bedroom door. The sound of the shower gave her a sense of cover. She looked into the room and there, sprawled facedown on the bed, was Mrs. Nick. Her hand dangled lifelessly off the edge and her hair looked wet in the back. Blood?
God, he’d done it. They’d gotten into it and, whether deliberately or accidentally, in a fit of rage he’d killed her. And now Nick’s boys were going to get rid of her body. And then he was going to “do something” about her.
She heard something and craned her neck. He was singing in the shower! That’s when she knew she’d hit bottom. She had to run. She couldn’t take any chances. Any man who could sing in the shower while his wife lay dead a few feet away was no man to trifle with.
She left the suite, left the Mansion and went through the casino. She took a cab to the airport. She had no luggage. Only that little tiny Kate Spade bag, which fortunately had quite a lot of money in it. She didn’t know what to do, but she knew what not to do. She would not wait around the airport for a flight to Florida so she could be found there. She wouldn’t flee to her condo, the first place Nick would look.
But she bought a ticket to Florida on her credit card. Then she bought a pair of sunglasses and a scarf with cash. She covered her platinum hair and her lavender eyes and took another cab, this one to a suburb of Las Vegas. And there, nestled in a little neighborhood inn that did not feature gambling, she cooled her heels and waited for news of a murdered woman. There was a little strip mall and grocery store nearby, a drugstore, a coffee shop, a Goodwill store and army surplus. She only went out after dark, with her bright white-blond hair covered. She purchased a sweat suit and tennis shoes, some cotton underwear, hair dye and a ball cap. Later she picked up some men’s clothing at army surplus, hiding her luscious body in the deep folds.
And every day she picked up a newspaper, and every day she stayed glued to the television.
There was no news regarding Barbara Noble. Four days had passed and there was nothing. She called the MGM and asked for Mr. Nick Noble’s suite and was told he had checked out. She started to wonder if she had overreacted. Maybe he hadn’t meant to get rid of the body, but just get the wife out of town. Should she just fly back to Florida, tell him his temper had scared her, apologize for being a flake, get back to work, get on with life? But first, she called the Noble household in Palm Beach and asked for Barbara.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Noble is not in.”
“Can you tell me when it would be a good time to reach her?”
“Mrs. Noble is out of the country and I’m not sure when she plans to return.”
Out of the country? The next day there was a small item in the newspaper, but it wasn’t about Barbara. It was about Jennifer. The headline read Missing. Her picture was beneath. It was from a photo taken when she was sailing with Nick. Her long blond hair whipped in the wind and her sexy smile was confident and sure; for once the newspaper photo wasn’t grainy. The story read:
“Jennifer Chaise, age thirty, of Fort Lauderdale has been missing for five days. She traveled to Las Vegas with friends, who say she disappeared suddenly, without taking any of her belongings with her. Her travel companions report missing a great deal of money and jewelry, and Ms Chaise is believed to be either a witness to a robbery, a victim, or a suspect, and police would like to interview her.”
She dropped the paper into her lap in shock. Oh, my God, she thought. And then with a wry smile her thought was, nicely done, Nick. Accuse me of a crime and, when the police find me for you, drop the whole thing. But you’ll have me.
There was one more sentence. “A generous reward has been offered for information leading to the whereabouts of Ms. Chaise. If you have information, please call…”
She fell back on the bed and thought, Just when I thought I had everything all figured out. Just when I thought I knew what I was doing, knew what I wanted, knew what it would take to get it. Just when I was thinking about my early retirement.
She rolled over on her stomach. Boy, talk about miscalculations.
Two
The effect of seeing her picture in the paper caused Jennifer to decide she’d better go a little farther afield than a Las Vegas suburb, so she got on a bus. She wasn’t sure where it was bound, so she just rode for a half hour through a stretch of desert and got off in the first little town she came to. She walked for about twenty minutes and, after passing several decent places, found a motel that had clearly seen better days. It was a seedy-looking place between a junkyard and a railroad track; there were only twelve rooms. Nick Noble would never find it. And if he did find it, he would never expect Jennifer to be there.
She looked at the phone book in room number eight and saw that she was in Boulder City. Good enough, she thought. She’d never even heard of the place. Surely she wouldn’t draw much attention here. She could have stayed at one of the casinos off the Strip; the bus had passed several of them, but they were large and their parking lots crowded. Too many people around, increasing the odds of being recognized as the missing girl in the newspaper.
She looked at the map the phone book provided. Boulder City, a small town a mere twenty-five miles from Las Vegas, on the edge of Lake Mead on the way to Hoover Dam. This was the last place Nick would expect to find the classy, bejeweled Jennifer Chaise.
She stood in front of the mirror for a while, not recognizing the woman who stared back at her. Wardrobe by army surplus—very unlike the wardrobe she had left behind. Her face, washed clean of makeup, left her looking very plain and pale. Her expensive artificial tan was fast disappearing. The shock of finding herself on the run likely contributed to her wan look. She flushed the colored contact lenses down the toilet and her eyes went from that sexy lavender to an ordinary brown. Her vision, fortunately, was perfect. She clipped her long acrylic nails and felt briefly crippled.
She had attempted to dye her waist-length golden hair to brown, but had ended up with a rather sickly gray—absolute proof that she’d tried to color it with drugstore supplies. Scissors in hand, she meant to rectify the situation, but a tear gathered in her eye. She’d pampered that sexy mane for how many years? Nick adored her hair; he loved to crunc
h it up in his fists and bury his face in it. Well, that would never happen again. “And if it does happen,” she said aloud, “it would probably be just one last crunch before he crushes my skull.” But the hand with the scissors trembled. “Oh, suck it up,” she told the reflection. “We’ll save a fortune. And it’s only temporary—until we figure out what to do and where to go.” She stared into her own eyes and, realizing she was talking to a mirror image, said, “Oh, my God, it’s hereditary. We have our mother’s wackiness.”
And then she lopped it off, close to the scalp. She continued this drastic amputation, tears running down her cheeks, until all she was left with was a short, spiky cap of really strange-colored hair. It looked as if someone had colored her hair badly—and then cut it badly. How different could she be? And what could she do to become invisible and utterly unrecognizable?
She thought about it for a moment and then she shaved her head. After brief consideration, the eyebrows that she’d spent a fortune having professionally colored and waxed into a curvaceous arch also went. If she remembered correctly, her original brows were black, bushy, shapeless and met over the bridge of her nose.
Then, despite her determination to be stronger than her circumstances, she cried in a bed with a lumpy mattress and a thin sheet. What had she been thinking, getting involved with a man like Nick? With any of the rich older men she’d attracted? It had only served to isolate her from the world. Had she really thought she was so smart, so immune to having her heart broken? This was proof positive that you didn’t have to be in love to have your heart broken. She was in a crappy motel in a tiny desert town outside Las Vegas with nothing. With no one. Even worse, now she was in actual peril. Talk about a plan gone awry.