they have out-of-town guests or want to see a show,” she added.
“All these people are tourists?” he asked, as she slowed to avoid a crowd of pedestrians starting to cross the street in front of the glittering gold towers of Mandalay Bay.
“Oh, yeah. And snowbirds.”
At the stoplight on Trop—short for Tropicana, she had a chance to study his profile. Long, slender nose. Thick but finely shaped brows a few shades darker than his hair. Lower lip was fuller than the top and sexy as hell, she realized.
Sitting up a bit straighter, she asked, “So, if you find the right job, do you plan to stay here permanently?”
The shoulder closest to her lifted and fell. “I guess.”
She frowned. He didn’t appear to have much ambition. But the cost of living here was reasonable, if one didn’t have a gambling problem. “Do you gamble?”
His chin turned slowly, and the look he gave her made a shiver pass down her spine. “Do you?”
His response told her to back off, but as her sisters knew, Grace never let a little thing like privacy keep her from poking her nose into other people’s lives. “Now and then. When I have out-of-state visitors to entertain,” she said, returning her attention to the road. “Fortunately, my father taught me how to play. Most people don’t do it right. Which, of course, is what casinos count on.”
When he didn’t respond, Grace kept up the chatter. Silence shared with Nikolai Sarna was not comfortable. “I’ll warn you ahead of time, though, if you ask people that question, you probably won’t get an honest answer. Gamblers have a tendency to fudge. My father used to say that gambling is like drinking. If you can’t stop, then you shouldn’t start.”
As she slowed to turn at the next intersection, she caught the look of bemusement on his face as he tilted his head to gaze up at the replica of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe I could take him up to the observation level sometime. It’s got a great view. And it’s romantic.
The thought made her cut the corner a bit too sharply, drawing glares from several sightseers poised to cross the street. No romance. Nix. Nada. None. Especially with a perfect stranger.
“What do you do if someone in your family is spending too much time at the tables?” he asked, leaning forward to peer at the vast white complex that made up Caesars Palace.
Something about his question struck her as odd.Maybe it was his use of the phrase “at the tables,” which Grace recognized as gaming lingo. He was a player, she decided. “We try to be aware if someone in the family is losing too much. Then we talk to him or her.”
“Most families go their own ways and don’t mess with each other’s lives,” he said.
Did that observation apply to his own experience? Her mother said he’d been adopted by a gaujo family when he was a little boy. Grace didn’t understand how that could have happened, but the thought made her sad. “Right. Well, that’s the difference between Western thinking and Rom thinking. You may not be your brother’s keeper, but you should be his support system, his conscience when he needs it, his collective memory.”
He made a sound that seemed to embody all the skepticism Grace had heard from her sisters for years. They accused her of placing altruistic values on a way of life she only knew from fables and lore.
She turned the steering wheel harder than necessary and punched the gas to zip across traffic into the back entrance of the casino parking lot.
“Family means everything to the Romani,” she said, tired of constantly defending herself and her heritage. “And because of what my ancestors suffered and what my parents and grandparents went through, I have an advantage. I don’t expect the government to do anything to improve my life. If I want to make things better for my family, I have to do it myself.”
She pulled into the parking space Charles had provided her in his underground lot. In the desert, shade was a
“All these people are tourists?” he asked, as she slowed to avoid a crowd of pedestrians starting to cross the street in front of the glittering gold towers of Mandalay Bay.
“Oh, yeah. And snowbirds.”
At the stoplight on Trop—short for Tropicana, she had a chance to study his profile. Long, slender nose. Thick but finely shaped brows a few shades darker than his hair. Lower lip was fuller than the top and sexy as hell, she realized.
Sitting up a bit straighter, she asked, “So, if you find the right job, do you plan to stay here permanently?”
The shoulder closest to her lifted and fell. “I guess.”
She frowned. He didn’t appear to have much ambition. But the cost of living here was reasonable, if one didn’t have a gambling problem. “Do you gamble?”
His chin turned slowly, and the look he gave her made a shiver pass down her spine. “Do you?”
His response told her to back off, but as her sisters knew, Grace never let a little thing like privacy keep her from poking her nose into other people’s lives. “Now and then. When I have out-of-state visitors to entertain,” she said, returning her attention to the road. “Fortunately, my father taught me how to play. Most people don’t do it right. Which, of course, is what casinos count on.”
When he didn’t respond, Grace kept up the chatter. Silence shared with Nikolai Sarna was not comfortable. “I’ll warn you ahead of time, though, if you ask people that question, you probably won’t get an honest answer. Gamblers have a tendency to fudge. My father used to say that gambling is like drinking. If you can’t stop, then you shouldn’t start.”
As she slowed to turn at the next intersection, she caught the look of bemusement on his face as he tilted his head to gaze up at the replica of the Eiffel Tower. Maybe I could take him up to the observation level sometime. It’s got a great view. And it’s romantic.
The thought made her cut the corner a bit too sharply, drawing glares from several sightseers poised to cross the street. No romance. Nix. Nada. None. Especially with a perfect stranger.
“What do you do if someone in your family is spending too much time at the tables?” he asked, leaning forward to peer at the vast white complex that made up Caesars Palace.
Something about his question struck her as odd.Maybe it was his use of the phrase “at the tables,” which Grace recognized as gaming lingo. He was a player, she decided. “We try to be aware if someone in the family is losing too much. Then we talk to him or her.”
“Most families go their own ways and don’t mess with each other’s lives,” he said.
Did that observation apply to his own experience? Her mother said he’d been adopted by a gaujo family when he was a little boy. Grace didn’t understand how that could have happened, but the thought made her sad. “Right. Well, that’s the difference between Western thinking and Rom thinking. You may not be your brother’s keeper, but you should be his support system, his conscience when he needs it, his collective memory.”
He made a sound that seemed to embody all the skepticism Grace had heard from her sisters for years. They accused her of placing altruistic values on a way of life she only knew from fables and lore.
She turned the steering wheel harder than necessary and punched the gas to zip across traffic into the back entrance of the casino parking lot.
“Family means everything to the Romani,” she said, tired of constantly defending herself and her heritage. “And because of what my ancestors suffered and what my parents and grandparents went through, I have an advantage. I don’t expect the government to do anything to improve my life. If I want to make things better for my family, I have to do it myself.”
She pulled into the parking space Charles had provided her in his underground lot. In the desert, shade was a
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