In Hot Pursuit (18 page)

“I thought chardonnay would work with dinner. Would you like a glass while we wait for room service?”

“Of course. Wine is my favorite food group.”

“Any news from Houston?”

She shared the information from Roddy. “If some of the funds have already been spent, then that's proof Rebecca used the money for her purchases here.”

“I agree, seems logical. But we don't have absolute proof,” Logan said, then handed her a glass of wine. “By the way, J.W. called while you were on the phone. She won't have any details on international flights until tomorrow. She's coming up for breakfast to lay out everything she's learned.”

The suite's doorbell sounded; dinner had arrived. After the waiter served the meal, Logan and Quinn sat at the dining table.

“The salmon looks delicious,” she murmured. And thus, the small talk began. They managed to get through an entire meal without a mention of Rebecca or the theft.

After refusing a second cup of coffee and another bite of Logan's chocolate cheesecake, Quinn stood, stuffed to the small stones in her diamond stud earrings. “Logan, would you like to take a walk? I need some serious exercise to melt off this meal.”

“Good idea. Shall we wander around the casino or the Strip?” Logan followed her to the door of her bedroom.

She grinned at him over her shoulder. “Casino. I'll just put on some jeans and get my purse.”

Fifteen minutes later, they slowly meandered around the Grand's slots area adjacent to the elevators. Almost every machine was in use. Quinn noticed the intense looking faces of the gamblers sporadically punching the SPIN button — nothing like a gambler with an optimistic attitude.

Anyway, it was ten o'clock on a Friday evening in Las Vegas and the Grand was hopping. People were jumping up and down at the craps tables and maintaining a stone face at the blackjack tables. She loved it. The noise, the lights, and the energy — intoxicating. Rebecca might feel the same way.

Quinn touched Logan's arm. “I can hear a video poker machine calling me. I'm going over there.” She pointed to a row of video poker machines along the wall. “I'll meet you back at the North Edge Bar in an hour or so.”

He squeezed her hand and turned towards the craps tables.

She fed a hundred dollar bill into the cash slot of a poker machine at the end of a row. The location provided a good view in three directions, perfect to catch sight of Rebecca in case she might stroll along.

Playing video poker was so much fun. With each spin, she bet the max and took her time selecting the cards to hold, studying the faces around her before hitting a hold button. Surprisingly, thanks to a full house and a straight, she was up seventy-five bucks after forty-five minutes, unusual for her typical lousy luck. What the hell. She cashed out.

She decided to find Logan rather than meet him at the bar. After strolling around the craps table for a couple of minutes, she finally spotted him talking to a skinny blonde with a cast-iron push-up bra.

Quinn hurried to him and whispered in his ear. “Guess what?”

He jerked. Guess he'd been concentrating on, uh, something at the table.

“What?” he said.

She noticed the blonde move to the other side. Good. “How's it going?”

“Great.” He picked up his chips and stowed them in a pocket of his jacket. “Would you like to celebrate my good fortune?”

“Okay.”

Five minutes later, they sat at a secluded table in the North Edge Bar with a glass of champagne.

“Here's to you, Quinn. You're my good luck charm.”

“Thank you.” What a sweet thing to say. “It's been a long time since I've been lucky at anything.”

“Why is that?” Logan said.

“I believe more in hard work than luck.” That was harsh. “Sorry. That didn't come out right.”

“You're a woman who works hard for what she has. Don't apologize for being dedicated.”

“I don't apologize for being me, ever.” What was wrong with her? Logan was just being nice. But she couldn't get the picture of him talking to that blonde out of her mind. How stupid was that? He could talk to any dumb blonde he wanted to. She'd only known him for three days. For some reason it seemed like a decade.

“You're a complicated woman, Quinn Wells.” He squeezed her hand and signaled to the waitress for more champagne. “This has been a tough week for you.” He grinned. “Try to lighten up.”

“You're right.” Quinn hardly knew this man and he could read her like a neurologist reading a brain scan. “One positive thing is Ruthie's wedding.” She fingered the stem of the champagne flute. “No doubt you've been to lots of society weddings in Houston.”

“I don't know about society, but yes, I've attended too many weddings over the years, mostly for my family.”

“Why too many?”

“Because the conversation eventually settles on me and why I'm not the groom. Gram is unrelenting.”

She raised her glass. “Here's to the South's most eligible bachelor.” She snuffed down a giggle while he sputtered.

“That's ridiculous.”

“You look like good groom material to me.”

“Very funny.” He sipped the champagne and seemed pensive. “Let's talk about you. Why haven't you remarried?”

“Let me think … I remember now. I'm a lousy picker. If I stay away from men then I won't make another mistake.”

“You'd never pick me?” His hand spread over his heart.

“Nope. Consider yourself safe from my girlish charms.”

After a third glass of champagne and not-so-subtle flirting, Logan and Quinn returned to the suite. She floated past him to the windows. Light from the Statue of Liberty at New York-New York streamed in the window, painting a pattern on the carpet. It was midnight and the street was just as busy as it had been hours earlier.

The scent of his cologne announced Logan behind her. After a moment, his body pressed against her back, masculine arms wrapped around her middle, his chin rested on her right shoulder. Hmm, what was he up to?

“I know we haven't known each other for very long.” His words snaked in her ear, long and smooth. “Surely you realize I'm attracted to you.”

“Right back at you.” The champagne said that, not Quinn. She closed her eyes and sank into the strength of his arms. It had been so long since she'd experienced anything approaching the comfort of being close to a man.

She turned to face him.

“Hey, you.” She rested her hands on his chest. The heat from his skin warmed her palms.

“Hey, yourself.” His eyes shifted from eyes to lips. The moment his lips touched hers, she knew she was in trouble, deep trouble.

Logan cupped the back of her head, held still for a moment, then ground his lips on hers. She could taste champagne. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. His lips moved to her ear and he whispered, “Let's get more comfortable.”

Within seconds, she found herself reclining on the sofa with Logan pressed tightly to her chest. His mouth again captured hers and she was off on a carnival ride. She enjoyed the scrape of his beard on her cheek, the taste of his tongue, and the sensations rocketing through her stomach. Logan's hand touched her breast. Her breath held for an instant then she pushed against his chest.

“Stop, stop. This is a mistake.” She wiggled out from under him and managed to scramble off the sofa without landing on the floor.

Quinn looked down at a surprised Logan.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm not ready for this … you, you surprised me.” She backed up a couple of steps and said, “I'm going to bed.” She gasped with a hand against her mouth before rushing to her bedroom.

Saturday, 7:15
A.M.

The morning dawned bright and lazy. Quinn pushed an eye open and looked at the bedside digital clock,
errhgg
, too early. She plopped back on the pillow. Her thoughts immediately focused on last night. Granted the details were fuzzy due to the champagne, yet she remembered pushing Logan away and running to the bedroom.

She did remember frolicking on the sofa with him like a teenager and then the fun becoming too intense. She pulled a pillow over her head. No doubt she'd embarrassed herself and Logan.

How should she handle this? Hmm … teenagers were good at blowing off negativity. That would be her approach, too. She threw off the pillow. There was no going back, so she rose, threw on a robe, and headed to the kitchen.

Thankfully, a carafe of coffee sat on the counter. Logan had once again beat her to brewing the morning coffee. She poured a cup and wandered to the living room, her pink bathrobe flapping around her knees.

“Good morning. You're up early.”

“I hope you slept well.” Logan sat in a club chair reading a newspaper.

Moving past him, she smiled, ruffled his hair, then stopped at the windows. Sipping her coffee, her thoughts focused on the last week. Seven days full of surprise, revelation, new friends, and tragedy — events from one end of the spectrum to the other.

Logan joined her at the window. “J.W. will be here in an hour. I'll have breakfast sent up.”

“I'm anxious to hear what she's learned.” She moved away from him and toward the bedroom. “Be back in a few minutes.”

Forty-five minutes later, Quinn paced the living room waiting for J.W. to arrive. She prayed they'd learn Rebecca's location — good news only. Since her divorce, Quinn hadn't endured negative drama such as she'd faced over the last week. Traffic court with her girls was a walk in the park compared to chasing Rebecca.

The doorbell rang and the private investigator entered the suite, along with room service. J.W. had dressed in black with a lime green T-shirt. Quinn liked her style and fondness for pastel colors.

“Good morning.” J.W. shook hands first with Quinn, then Logan. “I have much to tell you.”

“We're eager to hear what you've learned.” Logan motioned toward the dining room. “Let's have breakfast while we talk.”

The waiter set the table and placed the food in the middle. They each took a seat and loaded their plates.

J.W. spoke first. “I've learned quite a bit about Rebecca Holland. I think you'll find it quite interesting. But first, I have some bad news for you, Quinn.”

Her stomach dropped to the floor. The first thought was of Nana, then her daughters. “Bad news?” Logan reached for her hand on the table.

“There's not an easy way to tell you this. Scooter Taylor was found dead at a rest stop on Interstate 15 early this morning. The police believe it's a drug overdose, possibly heroin. The ME will verify the cause of death in a few days.”

Quinn froze, her lips formed an O, and she held Logan's hand in a death grip. This couldn't be true. After several moments, she composed herself. “Are the police sure it's Scooter? I simply can't imagine him being a drug user.”

“I agree, it sounds awfully farfetched based on what Quinn has told me about him,” Logan said.

“The ID was conclusive. LVPD authenticated his Texas driver's license. I'm sorry. It can't be easy hearing your boss was found dead along a highway.” J.W. half-smiled, half-grimaced.

“Do you know if his wife has been notified?” Logan said.

“The police have already talked to her. I believe she's flying out here to claim the body.”

“I'm so sorry for her,” Quinn whispered, wiping a tear off her cheek. She had a good measure of sympathy for Mrs. Taylor.

“This is the second death of an HCU vice president in a week,” Logan said. “Do you suppose they're related to the theft?”

Quinn disengaged Logan's hand. “If they aren't, it's sure a coincidence.”

“That was the bad news.” J.W.'s gaze moved from Logan to Quinn. “I don't have a lot of time so on to the other news. I've learned a bit about Rebecca Holland. She has a semi-interesting history.”

“Can't wait to hear it.” Quinn poured a glass of orange juice.

J.W. pulled a spiral notebook out of her backpack. She flipped through a few pages and began. “I was able to trace her history as far back as college. Rebecca graduated from Southern Methodist University in the late eighties and married soon after graduation.”

“That's not unusual,” Logan said.

J.W. nodded to him. “The groom was forty years her senior and dying of lung cancer. She inherited almost 2 million dollars.”

“No one contested that?” Quinn asked.

“He had no heirs.”

“Interesting. Anything else this dramatic?” Quinn said.

“Not really.” J.W. smiled. “She started working for nonprofits and ended up at HCU. No other marriages, no credit problems, no police record.”

“She sounds boring,” Quinn said. “By the way, have you accessed the passenger logs of international flight leaving from Las Vegas?”

“Rebecca left last night on a flight to Newark, then boarded a midnight flight to Rome,” J.W. said.

“Rome. Why in the world would she go there?” Quinn asked.

Logan looked at her with a trace of frustration. “Remember our discussion about hiding out in the open? Rome is full of tourists, plenty of Americans to blend in with. It's a good place to hide with all the luxuries.” He pushed his chair back from the table, looking like he was about to pounce on the closest bad guy. “I've heard the Italians are a bit more difficult for the American authorities to deal with than other European countries.”

Damn. Now Quinn had to go to Rome. She looked at Logan. “We need to get back to Houston ASAP.”

“Why so quickly?”

“Even I know the answer to that.” J.W. spoke first. “She's needs to go home to pick up her passport. It's a requirement for boarding international flights.” Her glee-filled eyes turned to Quinn. “Right?”

Quinn threw up her hands. “Fine. You caught me. I need to use a computer to check for flights.” She was getting ahead of herself. “But first, J.W., what else do you have for us?”