Hearts in Vegas. Colleen Collins

      CHAPTER THREE

      THE RADIO PERSONALITY had just announced the four-o’clock news as Braxton parked his old Volvo S70 in front of his mom’s ranch-style home. He took a moment to look at the rock-gravel front yard, in the middle of which sat the desert willow his dad had planted on a long-ago Mother’s Day.

      Several years ago, after his mother informed Braxton he was no longer welcome in her home, his childhood home, he would sometimes drive by and look at that tree, envying it for having roots when his had been ripped out. More than once, he had parked down the street, trying to work up the nerve to go the front door and ring the bell. In his mind, his mom would answer, her hair fluffed in that short style she’d always worn. She’d stare at him, her eyes shining with joyful tears, and he’d say, Mom, please forgive me.

      He’d probably seen too many sappy movies growing up, but that was what he’d envisioned. But it didn’t matter, because he knew she couldn’t forgive him. Hell, he still struggled with forgiving himself.

      Then one night last August, after he’d helped the Las Vegas police, Drake and the arson investigator orchestrate the sting that put Yuri in jail, he drove straight here and knocked on the door. He knew his mother had already heard what happened, including how Braxton had severed all ties with Yuri’s organization.

      She’d opened the door, looking just as he’d imagined. Started crying, too. But before he could ask for forgiveness, she grabbed him in a hug and said, “Welcome home, son.”

      He was opening the front door when his cell rang. Recognizing Dmitri’s number on the caller ID, he answered. After exchanging a few pleasantries, the Russian got to the point.

      “That strip club you managed...it’s been shut down for liquor violations and failure to pay local taxes.”

      Braxton walked across the living room, decorated in the same Swedish modern furniture his parents had picked out more than twenty years ago, and tossed his jacket across the back of the couch.

      “Long time coming,” he murmured.

      He heard a faint ping from down the hall, the cue that his grandmother had started her electric wheelchair. He checked the red dice wall clock on the wall above the TV. A few minutes after four was close enough to five.

      He headed to the kitchen. After he moved in last August, he’d been surprised how cold and clinical that room had felt with its white walls, white appliances and stainless-steel refrigerator. Hadn’t been that way when he was a kid. Back then, the kitchen had been a mess most of the time, usually due to his recipe experimentations, and there had been family pictures everywhere.

      Since moving back in, he’d taken it upon himself to bring some energy back into the room. He painted the walls a cheery yellow, hung curtains decorated with sunflowers and put family photos everywhere, including a picture of his dad with his favorite comedian, Jerry Lewis, at Bally’s. The only time his dad had asked someone he’d just met to call him Benny.

      But more important, Braxton cooked here almost every night, often with his mom, the two of them filling the room with delicious smells, a few recipe bombs and a lot of laughter.

      He headed to Grams’s special cabinet and grabbed a martini shaker while listening to Dmitri.

      “Everyone I’ve talked to in the Russian community,” he continued, “said you, Braxton, not Yuri, were the reason behind Topaz’s success.”

      Braxton wasn’t sure how to respond to that, because the compliment was a double-edged sword. Yeah, he’d been a good manager, in fact a damned good one, but he’d gotten dirty along with the business.

      “Does this have something to do with what you wanted to discuss?” He nestled the phone against his shoulder and filled the shaker with ice.

      His grandmother, wearing a shiny cocoa-colored caftan and gold shoes, glided across the linoleum floor in her wheelchair, her puf of white hair glowing like a sunlit cloud under the lights. Seeing he was on the phone, she halted and pressed her finger to her ruby-red lips, indicating she’d be quiet.

      He winked at her, wondering how many other eighty-five-year-old women purchased half a dozen tubes of crimson lipstick after reading that “women of a certain age” should only ever wear more discreet shades. Grams, the makeup activist.

      “Yes, it does,” Dmitri answered. “I’m opening a club in Vegas later this year and wondered—”

      “I’m not interested.” It turned his stomach to even think of going back to such a job. In the six months since he’d stopped managing Topaz, he’d been inside a strip club only once, and that was for a buddy’s bachelor party.

      “I like you, Braxton,” Dmitri said quietly, “but this is the second time you’ve gotten angry before I’ve had a chance to explain. It reminds me of a story my mother used to tell me about a frog who kept jumping to conclusions. He puffed himself up so much each time with his self-justified reasons, eventually he burst.”

      Braxton held the phone away from his ear, giving himself a moment to cool down. He didn’t need some frog story to remind him he had a problem containing his temper when it came to Yuri.

      He glanced at his grandmother, her jade-green eyes shiny with concern. Over these past six months, they’d shared many long talks over martinis about his guilt over hurting his family. Then one night she suggested his guilt might fade when he stopped being angry at himself.

      He put the phone back to his ear. “Sorry, Dmitri. Please, go ahead.”

      “People have informed me that you have extensive knowledge in the field of security. What areas, may I ask?”

      So polite, so sophisticated. Even had a better English vocabulary than most Americans whose paths Brax crossed. Dmitri might have Russian roots, but he was nothing like Yuri. Time to give him some credit, discuss this project as he would any legitimate business deal.

      “Got my first job in hotel security at eighteen through my dad, who headed up security at Bally’s—” he grabbed a jar of olives from the fridge “—followed by several years of business security consulting and personal protection gigs...then you know about Topaz.” He set the jar on the small kitchen table, next to a bottle of vermouth.

      “Personal protection... You mean, as a bodyguard?”

      “Yes.” He retrieved two martini glasses and held them up for Grams to see. She smiled.

      “Ah, not only a man with brains, but brawn, too.” He paused. “I might want to use you as a bodyguard soon. But back to my business venture—I will need a qualified head of security, which would also include living expenses, a car and substantial stock options.”

      Brax paused in front of the fridge, remembering how years ago Yuri had promised all those things, too....

      “Uh, one moment, Dmitri.”

      He opened the freezer door and placed the glasses inside, willing the blast of chilled air to knock some sense into him. He couldn’t forget that life was good at Morgan-LeRoy Investigations. He had office space for his security consulting business and the best co-workers nepotism could buy, but damn, it would be a lie to say he didn’t miss having plush digs, a slick car and a stake in a potentially profitable business.

      He shut the freezer door and looked at a photograph on the fridge of his