cat-who-caught-the-canary herself.
Chapter Seven—Get a Room
The Borgata Hotel and Casino towered above the Atlantic City marina, a glistening glass masterpiece. When the taxi pulled in front of the main entrance, a doorman rushed to open the door. Nate paid the cabbie and stepped out of the cab after Ciara, pressing a bill into the doorman’s hand.
Another casual touch. Doormen, taxi drivers, careless pedestrians bumping into one another. He’d never really given much thought to how many times a day he touched people, until Ciara. Now he couldn’t seem to think of anything else. All week he’d been haunted by the urge to touch her. Her smooth, pale skin had lured him in, but he’d kept his distance.
Then all of a sudden she’d done a one-eighty. Touch was not only allowed, she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. She made it impossible for him to keep his hands to himself.
Ciara twined their fingers together and bent her arm behind her back so she was cradled in the crook of his arm. “Let’s get a room.”
Nate laughed and guided her toward the opulent entrance. “We’re here on business, remember? A certain necklace?”
She smiled brightly at the doorman who swept aside the door to the lobby, but pitched her voice low, just for his ears. “How about a quickie? Just to take the edge off.”
Her throaty suggestion had him half hard at the prospect. She meant it too. He could see her sincerity in the wicked gleam in her eyes. Saying no just about killed him.
He groaned. “I’d like to keep my edge, thank you. While we’re grabbing a quickie, the thieves could be fencing the necklace.”
He paused at the border of the lobby, staring out over the sensory blitz of the casino. Up-lit columns and marble floors wound between rows of hundreds of slot machines and a line of empty blackjack tables. The necklace could be anywhere. Luckily he had a secret weapon. “So where is it?”
“A hotel safe.”
Shit. Nate swore. “If it’s in the hotel’s safe, we’ll need a warrant. Which means we need probable cause.”
Ciara shook her head, leaning her body against his from shoulders to knees. “Not the hotel safe. A hotel safe. One of the ones in a room. A pretty plush room, by the look of it. White living room furniture and a killer view over the marina.”
“What’s the room number?”
Ciara winced. “Yeah, sometimes the trace isn’t quite as precise as I might wish. I don’t know the room number. But I’m pretty sure it was the woman in pink’s room.”
Nate couldn’t help the skepticism that declaration induced. “The woman in pink,” he repeated.
“You can’t miss her,” Ciara assured him. “She’s probably a showgirl or something. Pink bustier and hot pants. Blonde with silver eyelashes. Pretty tall, I think, though I can’t really be sure. She’s distinctive.”
“So we’re supposed to wander around looking for a showgirl?”
“She’s definitely here,” Ciara insisted. “I saw the Borgata clear as day.”
Nate grimaced. A woman in a pink bustier was his best lead. And even if they found her, he didn’t have a warrant, or even the means of producing a warrant. He couldn’t just go in, guns a’blazing, and steal back the necklace. That wasn’t how things worked in the real world.
He’d come to Atlantic City more to get Ciara to confess than to actually find the necklace. If the Heart of Monaco really was here, and she wasn’t a criminal, then he needed to call it in. He needed to find out from his boss what the procedure was regarding Ciara’s tips. How did they usually get warrants for her finds?
And he should probably let her get in touch with her boss to prove she wasn’t dead.
“If I get you to a bathtub, do you think you could get a better read? Maybe find the room number?”
“Maybe,” Ciara said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I can definitely try.”
Nate nodded, once, decisively. “Done.”
Twenty minutes later Nate unlocked the door to a
Chapter Seven—Get a Room
The Borgata Hotel and Casino towered above the Atlantic City marina, a glistening glass masterpiece. When the taxi pulled in front of the main entrance, a doorman rushed to open the door. Nate paid the cabbie and stepped out of the cab after Ciara, pressing a bill into the doorman’s hand.
Another casual touch. Doormen, taxi drivers, careless pedestrians bumping into one another. He’d never really given much thought to how many times a day he touched people, until Ciara. Now he couldn’t seem to think of anything else. All week he’d been haunted by the urge to touch her. Her smooth, pale skin had lured him in, but he’d kept his distance.
Then all of a sudden she’d done a one-eighty. Touch was not only allowed, she couldn’t seem to stop touching him. She made it impossible for him to keep his hands to himself.
Ciara twined their fingers together and bent her arm behind her back so she was cradled in the crook of his arm. “Let’s get a room.”
Nate laughed and guided her toward the opulent entrance. “We’re here on business, remember? A certain necklace?”
She smiled brightly at the doorman who swept aside the door to the lobby, but pitched her voice low, just for his ears. “How about a quickie? Just to take the edge off.”
Her throaty suggestion had him half hard at the prospect. She meant it too. He could see her sincerity in the wicked gleam in her eyes. Saying no just about killed him.
He groaned. “I’d like to keep my edge, thank you. While we’re grabbing a quickie, the thieves could be fencing the necklace.”
He paused at the border of the lobby, staring out over the sensory blitz of the casino. Up-lit columns and marble floors wound between rows of hundreds of slot machines and a line of empty blackjack tables. The necklace could be anywhere. Luckily he had a secret weapon. “So where is it?”
“A hotel safe.”
Shit. Nate swore. “If it’s in the hotel’s safe, we’ll need a warrant. Which means we need probable cause.”
Ciara shook her head, leaning her body against his from shoulders to knees. “Not the hotel safe. A hotel safe. One of the ones in a room. A pretty plush room, by the look of it. White living room furniture and a killer view over the marina.”
“What’s the room number?”
Ciara winced. “Yeah, sometimes the trace isn’t quite as precise as I might wish. I don’t know the room number. But I’m pretty sure it was the woman in pink’s room.”
Nate couldn’t help the skepticism that declaration induced. “The woman in pink,” he repeated.
“You can’t miss her,” Ciara assured him. “She’s probably a showgirl or something. Pink bustier and hot pants. Blonde with silver eyelashes. Pretty tall, I think, though I can’t really be sure. She’s distinctive.”
“So we’re supposed to wander around looking for a showgirl?”
“She’s definitely here,” Ciara insisted. “I saw the Borgata clear as day.”
Nate grimaced. A woman in a pink bustier was his best lead. And even if they found her, he didn’t have a warrant, or even the means of producing a warrant. He couldn’t just go in, guns a’blazing, and steal back the necklace. That wasn’t how things worked in the real world.
He’d come to Atlantic City more to get Ciara to confess than to actually find the necklace. If the Heart of Monaco really was here, and she wasn’t a criminal, then he needed to call it in. He needed to find out from his boss what the procedure was regarding Ciara’s tips. How did they usually get warrants for her finds?
And he should probably let her get in touch with her boss to prove she wasn’t dead.
“If I get you to a bathtub, do you think you could get a better read? Maybe find the room number?”
“Maybe,” Ciara said, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “I can definitely try.”
Nate nodded, once, decisively. “Done.”
Twenty minutes later Nate unlocked the door to a
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