Werewolf in Las Vegas by Vicki Lewis Thompson Page A

Bryce written all over it. She remembered the first time he’d seen it done in a movie when he was twelve.
    He’d spent months perfecting the technique of balancing a bucket of water over a doorway, tying a string to the knob, and carefully exiting the room. The first person through the door would get doused. He’d quit doing it when their folks threatened to permanently ground him, but obviously he hadn’t forgotten how.
    â€œCynthia! That wasn’t funny!” Bellowing and dripping, Luke stomped the rest of the way into the room. “You’d better
not
be here, damn it!”
    Stepping over the damp carpet, Giselle glanced down at the hotel ice bucket upended on the floor. She knew Cynthia and Bryce had left. She’d watched her brother create this booby trap countless times, and the last part involved closing the door very carefully.
    â€œGood thing there are towels in this room. At least I can dry off. I suppose I should feel lucky it was only water. Could’ve been tomato juice or maple syrup.” He continued to rave on as he walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light.
    â€œBetter not be hiding in the shower!” he called out. That was followed by the squeak of shower rings being pulled along the metal rod. Obviously he’d had to check.
    Moving into the room, Giselle scanned it for any other booby traps. “Someone left an envelope on the bed.”
    Luke came out of the bathroom, drying his wet hair with a towel. “Oh?” He draped the towel around his neck in a typical male gesture. “Maybe they left us a note.”
    â€œMust be a really big note.”
    His eyes widened as he spotted the large manila envelope lying precisely in the middle of the bed. “My name’s on it, and that’s her handwriting.” He finger-combed his wet hair. “After the bucket of water, I’m not sure whether to pick it up or not.”
    â€œIt looks harmless enough.” Giselle was dying of curiosity.
    â€œIt does. Oh, what the hell.” He grabbed the envelope, and when nothing happened, he blew out a breath. “Sometimes an envelope is just an envelope.” Prying open the flap, he pulled out a glossy studio shot of a little blond girl in a pink tutu. “Oh, shit.” There was a definite catch in his voice. “I should’ve guessed it would be something like this.”
    â€œHow old was she in that picture?”
    â€œThree, maybe four.” He cleared his throat. “Her age is probably written on the back.” He flipped the picture over. Someone, probably his mother, had written Cynthia’s name in a flowing script and underneath had added her age, three and a half. Below that, in a much bolder hand, someone had scribbled,
You’re all wet, Luke Dalton.
    Giselle pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
    Apparently Luke could tell she thought it was funny. “Oh, yeah, that’s hysterical.”
    Giselle met his gaze. “It’s clever, pointed, and harmless. And it communicates that she still wants to engage you in a discussion of sorts. If she was determined to defy you and risk causing a permanent rift, she could have gone up to Reno and landed a job up there, or taken off for New York.”
    â€œI guess.” He tucked the picture carefully back in the envelope as if to make sure he didn’t damage it. “I wonder if she swiped any more of these.”
    â€œWhere would she swipe them from?”
    â€œThe family photo gallery in the penthouse of the Silver Crescent. She has a key.”
    â€œYour family moved to the Crescent?”
    â€œYep. My father, mother, and Cynthia all lived in the penthouse. They wanted me to live there, too, but a twenty-three-year-old usually doesn’t care to stay in a bedroom down the hall from his folks. We compromised, and I took an apartment one floor down. After Cynthia turned eighteen, she insisted on having the same arrangement I