prominent forehead, and his green eyes appeared utterly sincere as he replied to a question from a reporter.
Just for the heck of it, Rafe focused on the face in front of him. Concentrated.
Nothing . Just like Danny.
“What the hell?” He set down the cereal box and leaned closer to the TV, but the story changed to a local fire. Frustration burned in his gut.
He yanked open the cabinet door to pull down a bowl. What in blazes was going on with his powers? They had never been so erratic before, always as reliable as the sunrise. He could look at a photo, at film coverage, or best of all, into a person’s eyes face-to-face and see what he needed to know.
The only time his powers had not worked had been with his own family. Now suddenly, he couldn’t read select people—people who were not related to him in the slightest. People who had nothing in common with each other.
What the hell was going on?
* * *
Cara couldn’t help but yawn as she walked into the lobby of the Mesopotamian resort. She knew what she must look like—yesterday’s clothes, no makeup, hair twisted up haphazardly in a ponytail. She had fallen asleep on Danny’s couch last night and, boy, did she look it. She was surprised security didn’t stop her as soon as she walked in the door.
The exclusive hotel complex known as the Mesopotamian Resort and Casino had been designed like an ancient city with huge columns of sandy stone enhanced by gleaming marble floors. Fountains graced the sprawling expanse of shops and restaurants, many adjacent to foliage that hid private grottoes with benches for lovers stealing a moment alone. The centerpiece was the huge ziggurat, a temple-like structure with a waterfall trickling down its steep stairs, set in a high-ceilinged lobby that mimicked the night sky. At the base of the ziggurat was the front desk, concierge stand, and bell station.
Bartow had spared no expense to transport his guests to the mystical world of the ancients, though on the other side of the ziggurat was the entrance to the casino—a very modern setting with flashing lights and human cries of exaltation or dismay.
Cara wasn’t a gambler. She worked too hard for her money to take the chance of losing it on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. Oh, she might drop a few coins into a slot machine, but she wasn’t about to bet the farm, especially now that the business was struggling and her condo was on the line since Danny had skipped bail.
She made her way toward the coffee stand cleverly tucked between two immense statues of ancient gods. Her stepbrother’s apartment had revealed no clues to his whereabouts, not even to her, the person who knew him the best.
Unless someone had already found all the clues. Someone like Rafe Montana.
She got in the coffee line, fumbling in her purse for cash. Montana was legitimate, all right. She’d followed his suggestion and checked with the police, then taken it a step further and called Danny’s bail bondsman, Sal Fellone. Rafe Montana was a bona fide bounty hunter, and he had an excellent track record of getting his man in record time.
Maybe it would be worth it to talk to him, see if they could work together—only this time without the pepper spray and wrestling.
Though the wrestling hadn’t been all that bad, actually.
The thought startled her. Since Warren’s defection, no man had coaxed so much as a blip from her libido. But it was easy to forget about Warren here in Vegas, a place that seemed galaxies away from Jersey. Maybe this was just what she needed, a getaway of sorts to put the past year in perspective. And the bounty hunter sure had been easy on the eyes.
“Good morning, Miss McGaffigan.” Mr. Gray, Bartow’s head of security, slipped into line behind her.
She angled her body so she could see him. She didn’t know what it was about Gray, but he triggered her defenses. Was it his dark eyes that saw everything and gave away nothing? His immaculate
Just for the heck of it, Rafe focused on the face in front of him. Concentrated.
Nothing . Just like Danny.
“What the hell?” He set down the cereal box and leaned closer to the TV, but the story changed to a local fire. Frustration burned in his gut.
He yanked open the cabinet door to pull down a bowl. What in blazes was going on with his powers? They had never been so erratic before, always as reliable as the sunrise. He could look at a photo, at film coverage, or best of all, into a person’s eyes face-to-face and see what he needed to know.
The only time his powers had not worked had been with his own family. Now suddenly, he couldn’t read select people—people who were not related to him in the slightest. People who had nothing in common with each other.
What the hell was going on?
* * *
Cara couldn’t help but yawn as she walked into the lobby of the Mesopotamian resort. She knew what she must look like—yesterday’s clothes, no makeup, hair twisted up haphazardly in a ponytail. She had fallen asleep on Danny’s couch last night and, boy, did she look it. She was surprised security didn’t stop her as soon as she walked in the door.
The exclusive hotel complex known as the Mesopotamian Resort and Casino had been designed like an ancient city with huge columns of sandy stone enhanced by gleaming marble floors. Fountains graced the sprawling expanse of shops and restaurants, many adjacent to foliage that hid private grottoes with benches for lovers stealing a moment alone. The centerpiece was the huge ziggurat, a temple-like structure with a waterfall trickling down its steep stairs, set in a high-ceilinged lobby that mimicked the night sky. At the base of the ziggurat was the front desk, concierge stand, and bell station.
Bartow had spared no expense to transport his guests to the mystical world of the ancients, though on the other side of the ziggurat was the entrance to the casino—a very modern setting with flashing lights and human cries of exaltation or dismay.
Cara wasn’t a gambler. She worked too hard for her money to take the chance of losing it on the turn of a card or the spin of a wheel. Oh, she might drop a few coins into a slot machine, but she wasn’t about to bet the farm, especially now that the business was struggling and her condo was on the line since Danny had skipped bail.
She made her way toward the coffee stand cleverly tucked between two immense statues of ancient gods. Her stepbrother’s apartment had revealed no clues to his whereabouts, not even to her, the person who knew him the best.
Unless someone had already found all the clues. Someone like Rafe Montana.
She got in the coffee line, fumbling in her purse for cash. Montana was legitimate, all right. She’d followed his suggestion and checked with the police, then taken it a step further and called Danny’s bail bondsman, Sal Fellone. Rafe Montana was a bona fide bounty hunter, and he had an excellent track record of getting his man in record time.
Maybe it would be worth it to talk to him, see if they could work together—only this time without the pepper spray and wrestling.
Though the wrestling hadn’t been all that bad, actually.
The thought startled her. Since Warren’s defection, no man had coaxed so much as a blip from her libido. But it was easy to forget about Warren here in Vegas, a place that seemed galaxies away from Jersey. Maybe this was just what she needed, a getaway of sorts to put the past year in perspective. And the bounty hunter sure had been easy on the eyes.
“Good morning, Miss McGaffigan.” Mr. Gray, Bartow’s head of security, slipped into line behind her.
She angled her body so she could see him. She didn’t know what it was about Gray, but he triggered her defenses. Was it his dark eyes that saw everything and gave away nothing? His immaculate
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