shifts and presses her lips to mine, then puts an inch of space between our mouths. “Thank you.”
I roll her to her back and move over her. “You want to thank me, I can think of a few ways.”
She finally gives me the smile I’ve been waiting for, the first one I’ve seen in hours, and something inside me settles. Her happiness, I realize, is enough to keep me content, but keeping her that way may be a lot of work.
I make love to her this time, and that’s what it is—love, not sex. I’m not ready to admit that to her or myself, but deep inside I know that’s what this is.
She senses the difference, too. I can read it in those expressive brown eyes of hers. And if I have my guess, I’d say it scares the crap out of her, just like it does me. We don’t talk, not a word. We just give and take until we’re both exhausted and satisfied.
After she falls asleep, I reach for my phone on the nightstand and tap out a text to Reno. I tell him to have someone look into the name Ashlynn gave me.
I know he’ll do a thorough job, leaving no stone unturned until he tracks down this guy. Everett John Malachi of Las Vegas, Nevada.
I get an affirmative answer and set the phone aside, curling around this woman that’s becoming everything to me.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ashlynn—
The phone on the desk rings, so I answer it. “Rusty’s Customs. Can I help you?”
“Hey, it’s Bill up at the counter. Is Rusty in there?”
“Yes. Just a minute.” I hold the receiver out. “It’s for you.”
He takes it from my hand, resting a hip on the desk. “Yeah?” He listens a moment, his smile disappears, and his gaze drills into mine. “He say what he wanted?”
I frown, wondering at his reaction, hoping it’s not an irate customer.
“Send him back.” He stands and quietly hangs the receiver in the cradle. He plants both palms on the desk and stares at me. “You know a guy by the name of Canfield? Warren Canfield?”
“Should I?”
“You tell me; he’s asking to see me about the yellow Porsche out front.”
I frown. “Maybe he thinks it’s for sale?”
He straightens as the man walks up to the counter in the waiting area. He’s visible through the window. We both turn to stare. He’s an overweight man in his fifties, I’d guess, with gray hair and a mustache. He doesn’t look like some connected mafia guy, but suddenly that’s the thought that sends a jolt of fear skittering down my spine. I feel the blood drain from my face, and I grip the edge of the desk.
Rusty swivels his head to look at me. He must see my reaction. “You know him?”
I shake my head.
“Then why are you gripping the desk like you’re ready to jump and bolt out the back door?”
I just shake my head again and remain mute.
Rusty glances at the man. “He’s got retired cop written all over him. You in trouble, Hot Rod?”
“Maybe.”
His sharp eyes cut to mine. “Let me do the talking.”
I nod.
He moves to the door and opens it. “Mr. Canfield, please come in.”
The man steps inside, his brusque stride slowing when he sees me.
“Are you Ashlynn Fox?” He looks like he already knows I am.
Rusty, God love him, steps between us, his arms crossed. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m sorry.” He extends a business card to Rusty. “Warren Canfield.”
Rusty holds it up, reading it. “Private Investigator, Las Vegas, Nevada.” He doesn’t look back at me; instead he moves a step forward, backing Canfield up. “What brings you to Georgia, Warren?”
He reaches in his suit jacket pocket and holds up a piece of copy paper with a picture of me. I recognize it immediately as one from the Casino’s website.
He turns and looks at the picture, reading the copy. “The girl that can make your every dream a reality. Luxury Concierge, Ashlynn Fox.” His eyes cut to me, although he has to peer around Rusty to do it. “That’s you, correct?”
It’s obviously me, and there’s no sense in denying it. I’m just terrified of who hired him. My gaze darts to the window overlooking the waiting area. Are the Rialto Brothers here?
“Who you workin’ for?” Rusty growls.
“Axle Crow. He hired me to try to find an employee of his who has gone missing. The trail leads to Miss Fox as being one of the last people in Mr. Crow’s penthouse that night.”
He makes it sound torrid, and