Everything he does is for family—including moving in with a woman he can’t trust...

Cash Barron has always been the good son, protecting his father’s billion-dollar empire. So when grifters target Barron Enterprises, Cash focuses on the femme fatale of the bunch. To keep tabs on Roxanne Rowland, he’ll move her into his luxury condo. And one step closer to his bed...

But Roxie is innocent—just a pawn in her family’s criminal game. Worse still, she’s long had a crush on ruthless Cash. So can Roxie find the chink in his armor and redeem this hard-hearted, hard-muscled man?

Redeemed by the Cowgirl is part of the Red Dirt Royalty series.

“Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” He offered a smug grin. “Cleaning up after you?”

“No. Making me lose control.”

“Is that what I do to you?” Damn, but he hoped so.

Her breathing deepened, her chest expanding with her heavy breaths. “Yes.”

Things were progressing right on track. “Good. I think you need to lose control, Red.”

“No, I don’t. That’s not a good thing.” She pushed against his chest but the gesture seemed halfhearted.

“I think it’s a very good thing.”

“Ha. You would. You’re a man.” Her eyes glittered like whiskey in a cut-glass tumbler. “I think you need to lose control.”

To prove her point, she wrapped her hands around the back of his neck and tugged his face down to hers.

* * *

Redeemed by the Cowgirl is part of the Red Dirt Royalty series— These Oklahoma millionaires work hard and play harder.

Redeemed by the Cowgirl

Silver James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

SILVER JAMES likes walks on the wild side and coffee. Okay. She LOVES coffee. A cowgirl at heart, she’s been an army officer’s wife and mum, and worked in the legal field, fire service and law enforcement. Now retired from the real world, she lives in Oklahoma, spending her days writing with the assistance of two Newfoundlands, the cat who rules them all and the characters living in her imagination.

MILLS & BOON

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To Clary. You know why.

And to my dream editor, Charles.

You know why, too.

Also to Stacy and Tahra, and the whole fantastic Harlequin Desire team! Y’all are made of awesomesauce.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

One

Cash Barron was a man who understood duty—especially to his family. Unlike his brothers. Staring out the window of his twin’s apartment on the fiftieth floor of Barron Crown Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, he did his best to stuff his anger into a corner of his mind. He’d watched his three older brothers turn their backs and walk away from the very thing that made them Barrons—their loyalty to one another. Even his twin, Chase, had chosen a woman so completely unsuitable that Cash could barely comprehend their marriage. And now Chase and Savannah were about to celebrate the first anniversary of their quickie Vegas wedding.

A sharp rap on the door jerked his attention from the vista outside the window. Bridger Tate, his cousin and second-in-command, entered without invitation. He didn’t like the look on the man’s face.

“What?”

“Last night’s video from the casino floor has been analyzed.”

A series of curse words ricocheted through his brain but he refrained from speaking them. “Is it them?”

Bridge looked angry but resigned. “Yeah. Tucker isolated images of the Rowland clan on the casino floor.”

Tucker Tate was Bridger’s brother and vice president of Barron Entertainment, the media and hotel conglomerate that was Chase’s domain. They’d been dealing with a security problem at the casino for almost a year. As president of Barron Security Services, all problems—from the security detail for his brother Senator Clay Barron to the theft of oilfield pipe from a Barron Energy drilling site—landed on his desk. The occasional missing cow from the ranch, the odd employee embezzlement, the more frequent crackpot sending threatening emails—these bucks all stopped with him. It was his job to protect his family, even from themselves.

“Cash?”

Glancing up, he realized he’d tuned out Bridger’s play-by-play. “Sorry. What were you saying?”

“Tuck did a good job isolating the Rowlands.”

“Are they all present and accounted for?”

“Yup. Max, Alex and Ajax, Braxton, Dexter. The king of cons and his larcenous princes. I had IT highlight their positions in each of the videos.”

Cash huffed out a breath that was a thinly disguised sigh. He strode to Chase’s in-home office, settled heavily at the desk and called up the info on the giant monitor. He leaned back, eyes tracking the glowing orbs highlighting faces on the screen.

Bridger settled a hip on the corner of the desk and twisted his head to see the monitor. “I have our IT team checking footage from Scottsdale, Nashville, Miami and New Orleans.”

“What’s their objective?”

“Who knows? Seems they really like Barron properties, though.”

“Jolly.”

“Yeah, figured that would please you.”

“Are we the marks or is it a guest?”

“Probably both.”

Cash closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. Could it get any more complicated?

* * *

Roxanne Rowland lined her lips with red pencil before adding bright red gloss. The woman in the mirror staring back at her was a stranger. Dragging fingers through her red hair, she fluffed the waves, startled anew by the bright color tipping her nails. She wasn’t used to the manicure, either. Dark, smoky shadows fringed her eyes, making them sparkle like amber. She refused to wear the tinted contacts sitting in a case on the counter.

Smoothing down the borrowed body-hugging black dress, she opened the bathroom door and collided with her older brother. His fingers gripped her biceps none too gently. “Time to go, Rox.” He studied her a moment. “You didn’t wear the contacts.”

She winced at the accusatory tone in his voice. “They hurt and make my eyes water. I had to redo my makeup three times before I gave up.”

He squeezed her arm as he strode away, pulling her along. She wobbled on the stiletto heels and teetered for a moment as she scrambled to find her balance. The high heels were as foreign to her as the rest of her getup. She wore jeans and boots. Not haute couture. Especially not a dress that cost close to a month’s salary—a dress she’d been told to tuck the tag inside and not to get dirty. That meant it would be returned to the store for a credit.

“What’s going on, Dex?”

“You don’t need to know, little sister.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Max is working.”

Maximilian Rowland—her father and sire of her four older brothers, Lex, Jax, Brax and Dex—whom they never called “Dad.”

“That doesn’t explain why I’m here. I don’t work with him.”

“You do now.” His voice remained implacable as he ushered her out of the hotel room. “This is big, Rox, and you’ll do your duty to the family. Or else.”

Or else? What did that mean? Dex didn’t enlighten her as they rode down in the elevator. When he’d picked her up at Las Vegas’s McCarran International Airport, all he’d said was that their father needed her help, and it was time to take her place in the family.

“Stop fidgeting.”

“I can’t help it.”

Dex cut his eyes in her direction and smirked. “What’s wrong, your feet hurt?”

“As a matter of fact.” Her feet didn’t just hurt, they ached like someone was shoving cold needles into her toes and hammering her arches with rusty nails. “You try wearing these shoes for five minutes.”

“I’m a guy. I don’t wear heels.”

“So?”

“So, you’re a girl. You do.”

“No, I don’t. I—” She didn’t get to finish her argument. The elevator doors opened and Dex grabbed her arm, jerking her out into a swirl of color and noise. He guided her into a corner, his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

“Stand here until one of us comes to get you.”

“What? No—”

“Shut up, Roxie. Do as you’re told.”

“You are not the boss of me, Dexter.”

“Tonight I am. Shut up and listen. There’s a man at the blackjack table. He has a propensity for redheads. Tall, curvy redheads.” He flicked the strap of her dress so it sagged off the curve of her shoulder. “When the time comes, you will sashay that sweet ass of yours to Max. You will ignore Max but you will make nice to the man next to him. Understood?

“No.”

“Tough. Just do as you’re told. You flirt. You distract. And you get him to take you up to his room. You get him naked and we’ll do the rest.”

“Now you wait just a minute, Dexter Row—”

He pushed her back into the corner, eyes hard. “You’ve had it easy all your life, baby girl. Time to pay up. We told Max he screwed up sending you off to those snooty schools instead of teaching you what you needed to know about the business. That ends tonight. Starting now, you’ll do your duty to this family.”

Dex draped a heavy necklace around her throat. Colored diamonds and old gold. He bent to her ear. “There’s more where this came from—all hidden where you won’t find the evidence, but the cops will. You try to walk away or turn us in? They’ll know just how deeply involved you are.”

“That’s blackmail.” Her voice remained remarkably steady despite the fear zinging through her.

“Welcome to the family, little sister.”

With those parting words, he disappeared into the crowd bustling around the entrance to the casino floor. When they’d arrived at the Crown Hotel and Casino that afternoon, she’d been excited. The resort was one of the jewels on the Las Vegas Strip. Like the naive twit she evidently was, she thought she was coming for a vacation at the luxurious hotel. Yeah, no.

She slipped her feet out of the heels and almost whimpered in relief when the thick rug cushioned her toes. She wasn’t sure she believed Dex’s threat. He’d always been something of a bully—a fact she’d put down to him being the youngest brother. Sibling rivalry rolled downhill. Alexander—Lex, her oldest brother—had always been aloof. He’d been thirteen when she was born, and they had nothing in common. By the time she’d turned five, he was already traveling with Max. Ajax, two years younger than Lex, was the next oldest. Tall, handsome and gregarious, Jax was a charmer. He’d always attracted the opposite sex. He and Braxton were what were sometimes referred to as Catholic twins—barely nine months apart. Brax was the scholar, always reading and studying. Wickedly intelligent, he had an innate ability to plan. Then there was Dex. He’d been five when Roxie came along, and he’d pretty much hated her from the beginning.

Roxie jerked her thoughts away from her family and concentrated on how she could get out of this mess. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Dex would carry through with his threat and not only set her up but make sure she took the fall. She knew that from experience. At the moment, she had no choice but to follow orders until she could figure out their endgame and how to avoid involvement.

“Get your shoes on, girl.”

Startled, she retreated deeper into the corner and squinted at Lex. At 35, he was debonair and aloof, and he scared her just a little. Okay, if she was honest, a lot. He might have been absent—like Max—for most of her childhood, but when he was around, he was as much a father figure as Max had been.

“I don’t want to do this, Lex. Whatever this is.” She made air quotes for emphasis.

“Don’t care what you want, Roxanne. You’re doing it. Get your shoes on and get out there. You make that smart mouth of yours pouty, bat your lashes and get the mark up to his room.”

“Or else? Dex already threatened me with that. I’m not impressed.”

He slid his big hand around her throat, and she gulped but raised her chin. “Not telling you again. Get to work.” Squeezing his fingers for good measure, he didn’t let her go until she had both shoes on her feet and was wobbling into the throng of vacationers.

She was terrified of falling flat on her face, arms and legs akimbo, her tush displayed in the air and her thong hiding nothing from the crowd of onlookers. “Slow down,” she hissed over her shoulder at Lex. He didn’t, the hand at the small of her back pushing her harder. “If I fall off these darn shoes and break my ankle, the great con will be a bust.”

* * *

Cash rubbed his eyes, a dull headache caused by staring at the bank of security monitors throbbing at the base of his skull. Tucker handed him a cup of coffee and a bottle of painkillers. He tossed back a couple of the pills and chased them with the hot black liquid.

“When did you tumble onto their presence?” Cash didn’t take his eyes from the live footage.

“Yesterday when they checked in. That new facial recognition software you had installed works like a charm. I have footage if you want to see.” Tucker watched the monitors, too.

“Just give me the rundown.”

“Max arrived first. Had reservations for a mini-suite under the name Grant Franklin.”

Cash scrubbed at his forehead with the heel of one hand. “And his sons?”

“Alexander and Ajax checked in together. Another mini-suite. Hamilton and Jackson Grant.”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Nope.” Tuck’s voice hardened.

“Great. Go on.”

“Braxton checked in about an hour later. Lincoln Washington. And then Dexter checked in this afternoon. Reservations were for Mr. and Mrs. Franklin Cleveland.”

Cash sat up straight, whipping around to stare at the other man. “Hamilton, Jackson, Grant, Lincoln, Washington, Franklin and Cleveland. Now they’re just rubbing our noses in it.” His cousin looked confused so he laid it out. “Those are presidential last names. All of them. Except Franklin. But ol’ Ben’s still on the hundred-dollar bill.”

“It’s all about the money.”

“Yeah. Wait. Dexter brought a woman?” Cash pushed out of the chair. “Do you have a picture of her?”

“No. He checked in alone, was up in his room for about forty-five minutes and then left in a cab he caught at the front entrance. He hasn’t been back since.”

“You sure of that?” Cash walked to a monitor and tapped it. “That’s Dexter at the roulette table.”

“How the hell—”

Bridger walked up to them and cut his brother off. “We have a gap in the security surveillance somewhere. We’ll find it, Tuck. Sorry I’m late for the party, Cash. I was double-checking footage.”

“I want eyes on all of the Rowlands. Max is at the high-stakes blackjack table. Alex walked out about five minutes ago, after Dexter tossed him a high sign. Ajax and Braxton are roaming around on the slot machine floor.” Cash returned to his chair and swiveled it around. “I want our guys on them, Bridger.” He held up a hand to stop Tucker’s rebuttal. “Your security is good. Heck, we hired and trained them, but they look like casino security. My guys won’t.”

Bridger offered a feral grin to Tucker. “Little brother, you pick my guys out, I’ll buy you the biggest steak they have at the Barron House.”

The radio at Cash’s elbow hissed. “I have target two in sight. He’s with a woman. Redhead. Black dress. Lobby entrance.”

Cash’s eyes swept the bank of monitors until he picked out Alex Rowland. His eyes locked on the woman preceding the thief. She was tall but not slender. No, she definitely had curves in all the places a woman should, but she still looked sleek in the short cocktail dress. Her auburn hair was a mass of wavy curls, but he couldn’t tell the color of her eyes through the grainy camera lens. He stared at her, a memory swimming in the back of his mind. He knew her from somewhere.

Alex peeled away and Braxton took his place, herding the woman toward the table where Max sat, relaxed and cheerful. She stumbled and Cash found himself reaching forward as if to catch her. Braxton made no move to assist, and it was a stranger who offered a steadying hand. He managed to read her lips, the words and expression easy to translate. “Pardon me. I’m so sorry,” she mouthed before Braxton swept her along in front of him.

“Bridge, pull in some markers. Find out when the Rowlands added a woman to their crew. I want to know who she is.”

“On it.”

Cash continued to study the woman. She looked...uncomfortable. Unsure. If it was an act, it was a good one. She ended up squeezed between Max and the man next to him at the table, all but sprawled in the man’s lap. Something hot and angry lanced through him. Keying the camera on her face, he could see that she looked young and scared despite the getup. That didn’t fit the Rowlands’ MO at all. That odd sense of recognition continued to niggle at him and he sorted through memories of all the women he knew. He’d figure it out sooner or later.

He’d been so intent on the woman—girl—he’d lost track of the other Rowlands. “Where’s Alex? And where did Ajax and Dexter disappear to?”

Various scenes flickered on the monitors mounted to the wall in front of him and a lot of cuss words filtered into muttered conversations as Chase’s security staff combed the screens for a sighting. Something popped, and then there was a hum like a generator winding down. Moments later, lights dimmed, monitors died and the room was plunged into darkness.

Cash was out of his chair and headed toward the door as backup lighting kicked in. He tapped the emergency code into the keypad and had to shove the door open when the lock clicked. He heard Bridger shouting behind him.

“Lock down the counting room and the vault. Deploy personnel to all the exits.”

Knowing Bridge would take control of the security room, Cash sprang into action. He needed to get his hands on one of the Rowlands. And he definitely wanted to get his hands on the red-haired woman.

* * *

The lights went out and the packed casino floor erupted into pandemonium. Women squealed. Men shouted. Other voices rose, yelling above the melee in an effort to restore order. Lights from cell phones added ghostly illumination to the scene as emergency lighting flickered on.

Someone gripped Roxie’s arm and jerked. She attempted to pull away but hearing her name growled shocked her into compliancy. Max. She tripped after him, trying to stay upright. Blasted shoes. She hobbled in her father’s wake, then he shoved her at Dex with a muffled, “Get her undercover.”

The next thing she knew, she was tossed over her brother’s shoulder like a sack of flour, and no amount of beating against his back made him release her. She tried to kick her legs but his arm was an iron band across her knees. When they reached one of the exit doors, he set her down and backed her against the wall. A moment later, the door slammed open, missing her by a hair.

She watched a tall man sprint through the exit. Dark hair, broad shoulders, a shadowed jawline. His suit was likely hand-tailored. Roxie wondered who he was as Dex disappeared into the stairwell and the door closed. She pulled on the handle, panicked now that she was alone. The door didn’t budge. She had to get away.

Roxie turned, feeling the blood drain from her face. She recognized the man now. Cash Barron, standing there, bigger’n Dallas. She whirled to run the other direction only to be brought up short by two security guards who could play middle linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys. She pivoted very slowly to face the man she’d never been able to get out of her fantasies. She was in so much trouble now.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

Two

As soon as Cash saw her up close, he remembered who she was—or who he thought she’d been. Anne Landerson—a slightly clueless student who’d been involved with the theft of some jewels and fine art from his great-aunt Elizabeth. He reached out to snag her but she charged, ducking under his arm and diving into the crowd milling around the lobby. He plowed after her but she was gone, running right out of her shoes. He was left with a pair of killer stilettos in a color his sisters-in-law described as “Do-Me Red.” Like a whiff of smoke, she was gone.

Two hours later, he was no closer to capturing any of them. Despite the lockdown, the Rowlands had escaped, as had the girl. Frustrated at every turn, Cash threw in the allegorical towel and returned to Oklahoma City.

Cash spent the week chasing shadows, but no concrete leads had popped up. Neither had the Rowlands. Frustrated, he sat in his office staring at the designer high heels displayed on his desk. How the hell did a woman walk on stilts like them? Then he remembered the stumbling gait of the woman in the security footage. A woman dressed to the nines, with makeup meant for seduction, wearing a black cocktail dress that hugged her curves like a lover. A curious dichotomy. He’d pulled the file on his aunt’s case, one of the first Barron Security had handled after he took over.

The girl had claimed to know nothing about the stolen goods—only that she’d received a package in the mail and the items had been inside. She’d been scared, panic and apologies reflected in her huge amber eyes—eyes Cash hadn’t forgotten in the six years since the incident. The school’s headmistress and the lawyer who’d showed up had met with the prosecutor and a deal had been worked out. Seemed the kid was probably an innocent dupe so Barron Security signed off on community service and recovery of the property.

Now he had another problem. He’d run a search on Anne Landerson. She didn’t exist. There was no record of her in any databases his team could access. Bridger was calling in favors to check those they couldn’t without special dispensation. In the meantime, he had to focus on the Rowlands. He was no closer to discovering why they were targeting Barron properties and what their endgame could be.

Twice now, this girl had been in the Rowlands’ crosshairs. Why? Was she with one of the brothers? That created a tangled knot of thoughts. For reasons he couldn’t identify, Chase didn’t like the idea of her belonging to someone.

A brusque tap on his door had him looking up as Bridger entered.

“Please tell me you’ve found something.”

His second-in-command shook his head, a hangdog expression on his face. “Nothing with FBI or Treasury. We even checked Interpol. The Rowlands are everywhere, but the girl? She’s a ghost, at least under that name.”

Cash leaned back in the massive leather desk chair and scratched at his cheek. His dark stubble was becoming a beard, a decision he made after he’d impersonated his twin in an attempt to make Chase and his wife separate, and realized how simple it was. “Maybe we’re looking at this wrong.”

“How so?”

“Could she have been the mark?”

Before Bridger could answer, his phone pinged. He checked the screen and a huge smile creased his cheeks. “Bingo. We found her.”

Bridger pressed some buttons on his phone and a second later, a link popped up on Cash’s computer monitor. He clicked on it and waited as the tab opened. There she was. Sort of. His brow furrowed as he stared at a face familiar yet that of a stranger. He read off the information.

“Roxanne Rosetta Rowland. Bachelor’s degree in history, followed by a master’s in museum studies.” Cash continued skimming the information. “She graduated from the University of Central Oklahoma?”

“Yup. And with that information, we should be able to find out where she’s currently living and working, and why there’s no record tying her to the Rowlands, especially since she’s using their name.”

“I want to know everything there is to know about her.” Cash rubbed his chin. Oh, yeah. He wanted every last detail about Roxanne Rowland, especially where she’d been and what she’d done since that interview at the Fairfax Police Department. Man, but he’d been a fool to believe her sob story and not follow up, despite assertions from the school that she was a victim. Innocents didn’t use fake names. Now he’d have the facts before the day was out.

* * *

Roxie paced the confines of her cluttered office. No one in her family had contacted her. She’d managed to get to her room in Vegas, grab her stuff—sans the blackmail items—and run. Ha! She knew all their tricks, and had found the incriminating evidence and deposited it in the lost and found box on a maid’s cart on her way out. She’d caught the first flight out of Las Vegas, then made her way home.

Every time her phone dinged with a text message, she jumped. Was it one of her brothers? But there had been no phone calls. No emails. Nothing. Aggravated, she’d put her research skills to work. What she’d discovered about her family left her worried, feeling stupid and more than a little angry. She’d guessed they walked the wrong side of the line. Con men. Grifters. But like an ostrich with her head buried, she’d had no clue how illicit their activities were. Her father and brothers were wanted by the FBI and Interpol for fraud, theft and questioning in a murder.

“What have y’all dragged me into?” she muttered as she paced. And what did the Barrons have to do with it? Nobody took on the Barron family and won. Everyone at Reade-Cannon-Mansfield was in awe of the family people called Red Dirt Royalty. She wouldn’t be surprised if the advertising firm had originally coined the phrase. While she really wanted to work in a museum, she loved her job as corporate archivist for the ad agency. She didn’t want to jeopardize her position by tangling with the Barrons.

So what could she do? Going to the police was a bad idea. One, she had no clue what her family had done—if anything—and two, she’d likely be considered an accessory. If the police got involved, she could kiss any chance of a career goodbye.

She clutched her cell phone in her hand and stared at it. Should she call Max and ask him what was going on? Would he tell her? She bit her bottom lip in indecision. Scrolling to his name on her contact list, her thumb hovered over the call button. When the phone vibrated in her hand, she almost dropped it. Fumbling and juggling, she got it back in her grip and stared at the text message from Brax.

FORGET U EVER WENT TO VEGAS

She texted back frantically. What’s going on?

NOT A WORD TO ANY1 ROX BAD THINGS HAPPEN IF U TALK

I want to know what’s happening!

WILL CALL WHEN WE NEED U JUST REMEMBER FAMILY IS EVERYTHING

Family is everything? That was rich. Growing up, she spent every Christmas alone at boarding school. The one time they’d remembered her birthday, it had been to hide their ill-gotten gains. And graduations? Ha! Their idea of family and hers were oceans apart.

She stared at the screen. Wait. Bad things would happen if she talked? What did that mean? She panicked for a moment, sinking onto her chair and putting her head between her knees. When she stopped seeing stars, she straightened. Her father and brothers were criminals. And they were up to their necks in something involving the Barrons—something they wanted her in the middle of. That was so not going to happen.

“What to do, what to do?” she mumbled, standing to pace again. One of the open tabs on her computer browser caught her gaze. A web search for “Barron Companies.”

Dropping into her chair, she scooted it up to the desk and began investigating. Five minutes later, she had a phone number for Barron Security Services, at the helm of which was CEO Cash Barron. She hadn’t known who he was back when she was sixteen and he’d stood in that dingy interview room at the Fairfax Police Department. But she’d never forgotten him. He’d starred in some of her more...lurid fantasies over the years. Should she call him? What would she say?

She needed a plan.

* * *

Cash put his best tracer on Roxanne Rowland. The information they’d discovered did not mesh with what he knew about the rest of the family. The girl lived in a cheap apartment in the northwest part of town and worked at Reade-Cannon-Mansfield, the premier advertising firm based in Oklahoma City. He’d made some phone calls to the Barron account executive at RCM to get a rundown on her. According to his investigation of the Rowlands, Max and the boys lived the high life. From the French Riviera, to the luxury hotels of Dubai and Hong Kong, to the Gold Coast of Florida, the Hamptons, Aspen. Every playground of the rich and famous had been a hunting ground for the larcenous clan. None of that jibed with the information they’d dug up on Roxanne.

His door burst open and Bridger stood there with a shit-eating grin. “You aren’t going to believe who’s on line one.” His cousin nodded toward the phone console on the desk.

Cash arched a brow, waiting for Bridger to fill him in. He didn’t have to wait long.

“A woman wanting to speak to whoever is in charge of casino security. The call was routed to Cheri. When she asked the caller’s name, the twit gave it to her. Roxanne Rowland.”

Suspicious by nature, Cash reined in the surge of adrenaline spiking through him at the news. “What are the odds, Bridge?”

“High enough I wouldn’t lay a bet on ’em. That said, we don’t have anything to lose. I’ve already started the trace on the call. I can keep her on the line long enough to pinpoint her location.”

Cash motioned him closer, and before hitting the line to put it on speakerphone, said, “You take the call.”

“Bridger Tate. How can I help you?”

“Um...” Several muffled breaths puffed through the speaker. “Uh...hi. I...are you the one in charge of security for the Crown Casino out in Las Vegas?”

“Yes.”

“Uh...you said your name is Tate?” The voice on the other end sounded hesitant.

“That’s right. Bridger Tate. I’m vice president of BSS.”

“Oh. Okay. That’s okay then. I guess.”

“Is there a reason you’re calling, ma’am?”

“Oh. Roxie. Er, Roxanne. Roxanne Rowland. You don’t know me or anything.”

Cash made a circling motion with his hand, indicating Bridger should move things along.

“Should I know you, Ms. Rowland?”

“No.” The word came out forcefully. “I mean, no.” Softer this time. “I don’t think so. I...look, I’m sorry. This was a bad idea.”

“Don’t hang up!” Cash’s order cut through the air. “This is Cash Barron.”

“Oh.” The single syllable all but trembled as it sighed through the speaker.

“Why are you calling, Ms. Rowland?”

“My family...you see, they...”

They what? he wanted to shout. Her father and brothers were criminal scum and she had to be calling on their behalf. What sort of scam were they trying to set up? “I don’t have all day, Ms. Rowland. There must be a reason you’re calling. Get to it.”

“Oh, okay. Yes. Well, see... I’d like to meet with you. Explain in person.” Her voice grew a little stronger. The woman was a helluva actress.

“Explain what?”

“Can we meet somewhere?”

“I’ll be happy to set up an appointment here in our offices.” And he’d have the cops on speed dial to take her into custody.

“I... I’m not sure that would be a good idea.” She inhaled deeply and blew out the breath. “Oh, never mind. This was a stupid idea. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“Ms. Rowland,” Cash snarled. “Roxanne.”

“I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what they’re doing. Only that it’s bad. I’m sure of it. It was stupid to call you. I just... When I saw you in Vegas, and recognized you... I thought maybe...oh, heck. I don’t know what I thought.”

“Come to my office, Roxanne. We’ll talk.”

“No. I don’t know if they’re following me.”

“Who?”

“My...never mind. I...look, I’ll be at the...at the—” She cleared her throat. “Cyrano’s. At Thunder River Casino. You know where it is, right? Eight o’clock tonight.” Muffled voices sounded in the background. “I have to go. I’ll be there. For an hour.”

The dead line hummed over the speaker. Cash hit the button to end the call. Oh, yeah. He knew where the nightclub was all right. He stared at his cousin. “What’s your take on this?”

Bridger lifted his shoulders and dropped them, his expression perplexed. “Your guess is as good as mine. I do find it interesting that we hit pay dirt with our search on her and she just happens to call. Out of the blue.”

“Don’t trust coincidences?”

“Nope.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then again, Cash, maybe we shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“You’ll meet her?”

Cash curled his lips into a sarcastic smile that didn’t reach his eyes but coated his voice. “What do you think? I mean, gift horse and all that.”

“Yeah, I figured. I’ll arrange backup.”

Backup was easy. Barron Security was the authority in casino operations, and in addition to the Barron family properties, they had contracts with most of the tribal entities in Oklahoma. Meaning they’d have their own security force in place at Thunder River.

After Bridger walked out, Cash studied Roxanne’s driver’s license. Fresh-faced, her red hair a tangle of wisps and waves, eyes the color of the aged whiskey he liked to drink. With a click of the mouse, he displayed the clearest photo he had of her from the Barron Casino. Smoky eye shadow smudging her lids. Kiss-me red lips. Heightened color on her cheeks. The girl in the first photo appeared sure of herself, almost cocky, but with a sweetness under the surface. The second? She looked like a kid playing dress-up. Who was the real Roxanne Rowland? Cash planned to find out. And would in a matter of hours.

He couldn’t wait.

Three

Cash studied the monitors in the Thunder River Casino’s security room. He’d manually added photos of the Rowland clan to the facial recognition program. He didn’t trust Roxanne and trusted her family even less. That slip of the tongue indicating she might be followed could be paranoia, real fear or calculated intent. He leaned toward calculation. She’d certainly played him when she was a teenager.

He almost missed her when she walked in. This was not the woman he’d seen in Vegas. Everything about her was toned down—hair, makeup, clothing. He had to look twice to be sure. Then he checked her ID photo. Yes. Same woman. He wondered again who the real Roxanne Rowland was. The ID and the woman waiting at the hostess station in Cyrano’s, or the femme fatale in a little black dress and four-inch designer stilettos. Tonight, she wore tight jeans tucked into blinged-out Western boots and a body-hugging sweater belted with leather and silver.

“Keep your eyes open for any of the suspects,” Cash ordered the security supervisor.

“Yes, sir. Monitor three is the camera for her table.”

Cash’s breath came quick and sharp as he watched the hostess escort Roxanne to the table. Concentrating, he leveled out his nerves. This was business. Nothing more. He needed to stay focused. Moments later, a waitress arrived, took her order, then delivered what looked like plain iced tea.

Over the next hour, Roxanne nursed the tea, declined several offers from men and fended off increasingly impatient attentions from the waitress. She became jumpy, staring at the entrance and coming to attention every time someone entered, and constantly checked her watch. Interesting. She looked at her watch a final time, finished the tea and left a tip far larger than the cost of the drink.

Cash smiled, feeling predatory. Showtime.

Roxanne was looking over her shoulder when she plowed into him just outside Cyrano’s entrance. Reflex made him grab her arms to steady her, but something far more perverse had him hauling her up against his chest. She held still for a long moment, then pushed her arms between them and attempted to shove him away. He allowed only enough room between them that he could look down into her face.

Those amber eyes of hers widened and she wet her bottom lip with her tongue. He corralled his libido and pasted a disinterested expression on his face. Snagging her hand, he tugged her along as he returned to the security area. Two uniformed guards waited at the secured door and escorted them to a small interview room. Roxanne’s hand tightened convulsively on his as he led her inside. Interesting.

“Have a seat, Ms. Rowland.” He held out a chair for her and waited until she sat down before asking, “Why are you here?”

* * *

Roxie did her best to curb her panic. She hid her hands under the table, gripping her thighs to control their trembling. Swallowing around the lump clogging her throat, she prayed her voice remained steady. “Why am I here?”

“Easy question, Roxanne.”

“No, not really.”

“So enlighten me.”

Enlighten him? Easy for him to say. She needed to understand what was happening—why it was happening to explain her reasons for contacting him. “Do you have a couple of hours?”

He arched one brow, and darn if that didn’t set hummingbirds loose in her stomach. He was just as dark and sexy and...no, not debonair. He was too intense for debonair, too cynical. Cash didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. His piercing gaze and that oh-so-eloquent eyebrow spoke volumes.

“You probably don’t remember me.” Why would he? She’d been a gangly teenager, just turned sixteen, with wild red hair and more than her share of freckles. Mortified, she’d sat in that interview room for almost twenty hours until a fast-talking lawyer in a cheap suit had shown up with the headmistress. Sometimes, Cash had sat across from her, never speaking, just watching. Other times, he’d stood in a corner, shoulder braced against the wall, legs crossed at the ankle and arms either crossed over a very muscular chest or shoved into the front pockets of tailored slacks. Her teenage self had totally fallen for him. Her grown-up self was torn between that remembered hormonal hero worship and total terror.

She huffed out a breath, placing her fisted hands on the table. “My father is a thief.” She didn’t expect the sharp burst of laughter her statement evoked.

“There’s no need to be rude, Mr. Barron.” Heat suffused her cheeks but she ignored it. “I didn’t have to call you.”

“We would have tracked you down eventually.”

“I’m not that hard to find.”

He slid a hip onto the corner of the table and stared at her. “Last time we sat in a room like this, your name was Anne Landerson.”

Her lips pursed at that and she quickly smoothed them out to a hard line as his eyes focused on her mouth. “That’s the name I was enrolled with at that school. My father told me it was for security reasons.”

Cash laughed again, but this time, the sound was dark and derisive. “Oh, this ought to be good. Spell it out for me, Red.”

“Don’t call me that.”

And there went his eyebrow again. “I...didn’t spend much time with my father or brothers growing up. I was left with a family called the Millers until I was old enough for boarding school. I had...” She wondered how to phrase this part. “I was told not use my real name and had a false birth certificate. I had no clue what my father did. I only knew that he traveled, was very dashing and mysterious, and on more than one occasion, I imagined he was an international spy.”

His other eyebrow rose, accompanied by a twist at the corner of his mouth. Cash’s expression caused her to feel dumb about those childish fantasies. What little girl wanted to believe her father was a criminal?

“On my sixteenth birthday, a box arrived. As I’d never received a gift from my father before, this was a momentous occasion.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Ooh. The sarcasm fairly dripped from those three words. “For a girl who had little contact with her family, who had never celebrated birthdays or Christmas, it was.”

He shifted off the table, moved to the corner and assumed a posture she’d grown familiar with. Something jiggled his jacket pocket. He reached in and withdrew his cell phone, presumably to send and receive texts. She couldn’t keep herself from admiring his long, nimble fingers, even though her blush deepened as her thoughts wandered down completely inappropriate paths.

Cash Barron was fantasy-inducing. Tall, broad-shouldered, with long legs, a slim waist. She could attest to the muscularity of his chest from her stolen moment of weakness earlier that evening. She couldn’t help but be struck by the black hair, brown eyes the color of dark-roast coffee and a sculpted face that would make a fashion model jealous. When she’d looked up his bio before calling, Roxie had been shocked to learn he wasn’t all that much older than her. At sixteen, she’d been a starry-eyed girl and he’d been very much a man. Confident, handsome, strong. She’d sat there in that room, dreaming about kissing his full lips, about falling into his arms, about... Jerking back from the sexy images, she deep-breathed through a slight panic attack when she discovered him watching her intently. The glint in his eyes was...unsettling.

“So, you received a gift from your mysterious father.”

Right back to business. This was good. She should concentrate on business, not...other things. She centered her thoughts. “Yes. I was excited when I opened it. I found what looked like costume jewelry, which I thought odd, given my age and the fact that we’d had little interaction over the years. And then I found the little picture. I thought it was a print—ballerinas in tutus, and I was thrilled. I wanted to be a ballerina at the time, despite the school’s dance master rolling his eyes whenever I attempted to dance in toe shoes.”

Cash snorted and she glared at him. “I was a lonely girl with no particular talent, Mr. Barron. I was touched because I believed the picture was my father’s way of acknowledging my dreams. I didn’t read the note attached to the package until later, when it was too late.”

“Okay. I’ll bite. What did it say?”

And why did her thoughts go right back down that dark road to sexy city? Biting was a big no-no. She cleared her throat. “My father told me to stash the box and keep it safe. I was never meant to open it. It never even occurred to him that I might mistake it for a gift. He didn’t remember it was my birthday.”

Roxie lifted her head, her gaze colliding with his. “I discovered on my sixteenth birthday that, not only was my father a wanted criminal, but he had so little regard for me that he couldn’t be bothered to remember my birthday. As you know, the jewelry turned out to be real and that sweet little print of the ballerinas turned out to be an original Degas, scammed from an eighty-year-old woman by a smooth-talking stranger, according to the police.” She dropped her hands to her lap and wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans before continuing. “The next day, I returned to the Millers. I used my birth name after that.”

“Want to explain how you ended up here?”

She contemplated that question for a moment. “Here here or here in general?”

“In Oklahoma. In Oklahoma City. Why did you go to UCO?”

“Oh. I took online classes and got my GED when I was seventeen. I checked out a directory of American colleges and universities from the library, closed my eyes, opened the book and stabbed my finger on the page.”

His dubious expression said it all. “That’s the truth, Mr. Barron.”

“Why were you in Vegas?”

“I don’t really know.” She canted her chin at a stubborn angle as her hands gripped the edge of the table. “The itinerary, hotel reservations and boarding pass showed up in my inbox. A weekend jaunt in Vegas, all expenses paid. The email said I’d won a contest. I checked with the airline. The ticket was real so I had no reason to think it was a setup until my brother Brax met me at the airport. I was given a bag of clothes from a high-end boutique, told to—and I quote—doll myself up. On the way down in the elevator, Brax told me I was to...” Her voice faltered and she swallowed down a wave of nausea. “They had a mark. Max was working him on the casino floor. I was supposed to...to be nice to him.”

“What does that mean?”

She clasped her hands and stared at them, unable to meet Cash’s gaze any longer. “They wanted me to get him to his room, to...” She had to swallow again.

“I get the picture.” His voice sounded gruff but she still couldn’t face him.

“The lights went out and then...”

“And then I almost caught you.”

“Yes.”

* * *

Cash almost believed her—that lonely little girl act was guaranteed to play on a man’s protective instincts. If this were a movie, he’d nominate her for an Oscar. She was one terrific actress. The blushes, the swallows, the trembling hands fisted together were all perfect touches.

“Why is your family targeting Barron properties?” He moved closer, then dropped into the chair across from her.

Roxanne’s head jerked up and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if he’d taken her by surprise. A look of consternation quickly followed the one of shock created by his question. Cash had interviewed a lot of people in his life. Instinct insisted this girl was exactly what she seemed—a sweet kid too naive for her own good. But experience persisted in believing her to be as big a con as the rest of her family.

Maximilian Rowland was a consummate thief and scoundrel who had raised his sons in his own mold. Why would such a man not utilize every tool he had—including his beautiful daughter? He shoved the parallel to his own father and brothers to the very back of his mind.

“I...didn’t know they were.” Her eyebrows pulled into an intriguing vee above the bridge of her scrunched-up nose. She looked cutely perplexed. “I suppose that rather falls in line with why I contacted you.”

Leaning back in the chair, he waited for her to continue.

“My father is a...criminal, Mr. Barron. We’ve been mostly estranged my entire life, but especially since that one incident. My brothers have contacted me periodically, checking up on me, occasionally sending money—which I sent back.” She hurried to add that bit of information and again, he almost believed her. “Anyway, the trip to Las Vegas was a complete surprise.”

She blinked at him, still portraying her innocence. “So you had no idea you’d be...” He searched for a word. “Working with them?”

“No! None at all. But...” Her voice trailed off and she wouldn’t look directly at him.

“But what?”

“I have the feeling they aren’t done with me.” She leaned forward, her expression earnest. “To be perfectly honest, Mr. Barron, I want nothing to do with them. I like my job. There are things I want to do with my life and they do not include jail time.” She inhaled deeply, huffed out the breath and plastered a serious look on her face. “I have a proposal for you.”

Cash watched, making sure there was nothing on his face for her to read. “A proposal.”

“Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically and leaned even closer.

He glanced down, just to see what she was “offering.” Nothing. Her sweater remained sedately in place. He was almost disappointed. Then her pursed lips caught his attention.

“You see, as I stated, I don’t want anything to do with them, but if you—or the police—can catch them, then I get to keep my life.”

“And keeping your life is important to you?”

She tossed him a cute expression meant to convey “duh.”

“Exactly. Look, I’m a museum curator by education. I want to work in a museum. Being the corporate archivist for RCM is interesting, but I really want to use my history degree. My father and brothers? They’ll ruin everything.”

“And your proposal?”

“Oh! I thought I’d said. I’m pretty sure they plan on dragging me into whatever their scheme is. I can pretend to play along, notify you, and you and the police can swoop in and arrest them.”

“Swoop in.”

She nodded enthusiastically again. “Exactly.”

Cash didn’t believe her, but he admitted things were getting interesting. “Tell me what you do know.”

She rambled along, either filling in blanks or making stuff up as she went. She was an imaginative little thing. He was busy texting Bridger. She had a proposition? He had the beginnings of a plan.

“Um... I still have the dress.”

“Dress?” He looked up from his phone.

“Yes, the one I told you about. The one I wore to the casino? It still had the tags when I wore it and I was told not to tear them off because my brother planned to return the dress for credit. Or he shoplifted it and just told me that.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want to send it back to the store...or at least find out if someone actually paid for it. I might keep it if Braxton did. He’s a pig.”

Somewhere along the way, Cash had lost control of the conversation, though the flurry of texts he exchanged with Bridger had been enlightening. According to their account rep at RCM, Roxanne Rowland had been hired as an archivist—basically a glorified librarian charged with cataloging and preserving ad campaign material. They were thrilled to have her, she’d been a model employee, and was there a problem?

He wasn’t quite sure when—or why—he made the decision he did, but with one final text, he put his plan into motion.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You’re moving in with me.”

Roxie’s face registered shocked denial. “What? No!”

“I don’t think you understand, sweetheart. Until this situation is resolved, we’re joined at the hip.”

“First, I am not your sweetheart.”

“Boy, ain’t that the truth.” He muttered the sentiment under his breath.

“And second, I can’t. I have work.”

“That’s been taken care of. You’re on loan to the Barron Companies.”

“Wait... I...that can’t be! I’m in the middle of a project. You...what in the world will I do for the Barron Companies?”

“The same thing you do for RCM, Red. Bottom line, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”

Color tinted her cheeks, and her eyes glinted like bright sun shining on a broken whiskey bottle. “Oh? Really? How does that work, precisely? Are you going to handcuff me to the toilet when you shower? Tie me to the bed?”

“That can be arranged.”

Four

Evil. He was just pure evil. Roxie’s temper flared even as a wave of unadulterated lust surged through her insides. It had nothing to do with being tied to Cash Barron’s bed and everything to do with the man himself. And she needed to murder her girlish fantasies immediately or she’d never survive this debacle intact. She chanced a look in his direction. His expression remained resolute but was that a twinkle of mischief in his eyes?

“Let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you. My car is in the parking lot.”

“I’ll have security drive it home for you.”

“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself.”

“You’re riding with me. We’ll go by your apartment, you can pack, then we’ll head to my place.”

“What part of no do you not understand? I have responsibilities. I—” She felt her eyes widen. “I have someone waiting at home for me.”

“Who?”

“Um... Harley.”

“Who’s that?”

Cash’s gaze narrowed, and did he sound suspicious or was it something else? Something...intriguing. Like jealousy? Ha. Roxie was just a means to an end. Jealous was not a word she would ever associate with Cash. “He’s my...roommate.” Well, technically speaking, that was true. Harley lived with her. “And I sort of have to take care of him.”

Cash leaned closer and peered at her, his gaze sharp and assessing. “What’s that mean—you have to take care of him?”

Roxie forced herself to meet his gaze despite the jitters skipping through her. “He’s...um...immature. He can’t really look after himself.”

“Uh-huh.”

He totally was not convinced. But there was no way she could leave Harley home alone. “I’m telling the truth, Mr. Barron.”

“Uh-huh. C’mon. Let’s go meet this guy and see what he has to say about all this.”

He latched on to her hand and tugged her along after him. Roxie was suddenly reminded of what walking with Harley was like. She tried to plant her feet, but the leather soles of her boots skidded over the smooth flooring. She attempted to jerk her hand free, but Cash simply tightened his grip and kept walking. She finally gave up and trotted to keep up with his long-legged stride.

When they reached the entrance, there was a dark gray Range Rover waiting, and a man in a black suit, starched white shirt and black tie held the passenger-side door open. He tucked his chin as he extended a hand palm-up and said, “Ma’am, we’ll need your keys.”

“No, you don’t. I’m driving myself home.”

The security guard quickly turned his attention to Cash, looking for guidance.

“Give him your keys, Red.”

“Gah! No. Get it through your thick head, Mr. Barron. Just because I agreed to help you does not mean you can tell me what to do.”

Cash stalked around the vehicle toward her and she stepped back, right into the bulk of the security guard—who didn’t give an inch. “Give the nice man your car keys, Roxanne, and get into the Rover.”

He glared daggers at her and his mouth was a tight line. This guy definitely meant business. She’d been an idiot to call him. Still, if she ever wanted control of her life back, she needed him. Darn it. She huffed out a breath, dug in her purse and pulled out her key chain.

* * *

Cash watched as Roxanne meticulously removed a key from the jumble of metal consisting of more keys, a flashlight, at least ten plastic loyalty tags for various restaurants and stores, and other dangly things like weird jewelry. She passed the key to the guard, then that mess of a key chain disappeared back into the bag hitched over her shoulder.

“Get in the car, Roxanne.”

She stuck out her tongue but settled into the front seat. He closed the door and gestured for security to remain there so she couldn’t escape. Once he was behind the wheel, he glanced at her.

“Buckle up, buttercup.”

Her upper lip curled into a kittenish snarl and he almost laughed. Roxanne Rowland was turning into something totally unexpected. Deep down, Cash wondered if he was getting played. The woman dressed in comfortable clothes and wearing no makeup with a sprinkling of freckles was not the woman he’d watched on the security monitors in Vegas.

The trip from the south end of the metro to the northwest side was made in silence. If she was surprised when they turned into her apartment complex, she didn’t show it. He couldn’t wait to meet this imaginary roommate. Bridger had checked with the complex’s management. Roxanne had a one-bedroom studio and was the only one listed on the lease. If she’d sneaked in a boyfriend, she was in violation.

He parked in a slot near her ground-floor apartment and watched her. She appeared irritated rather than nervous. “Getting out?”

“I was waiting for you to open my door, but you obviously aren’t a gentleman.” With that, she popped her door open and started to get out—only she was snagged by the seat belt.

Pressing his lips together to keep from laughing, Cash hit the release button to free her. Was she really this klutzy, or was it all an act meant to disarm him? Act or not, she was doing just that.

Stomping up the walkway to her apartment, she inserted her key, pushed the door open and stepped to the side. Cash had about five seconds to prepare for the hairy monster launching in his direction. He braced himself, one foot forward, shoulders lowered, and found his arms full of furry energy intent on slobbering all over his face. He muscled the gigantic dog to the ground and glared at Roxanne. She was doubled over, laughing.

“Thanks for the warning. I’m assuming this is Harley?”

She inhaled deeply and bit her lips for a long moment while she regained her composure. “Yes.”

“I’ll make arrangements to have him boarded.” He recognized his tactical error a second too late. Both woman and dog turned on him.

“Harley is not going to some smelly old kennel! He goes where I go!” The dog barked, an echoing woof that rattled windows.

“Oh? What did you do with him while you were in Vegas?” He had her there.

Her face scrunched up into an adorably perplexed expression. “Um... Leo.”

“And who is Leo?”

“I’m Leo and girlfriend, you did not tell me you had a date with a fine, fine man like this one.”

Cash looked up at the man leaning over the balcony above them before returning his attention to Roxanne. “So let Leo take care of him.”

“Uh-uh. Not happening. I have company comin’ and I won’t have time to be traipsing back and forth to let that creature out every time he thinks he needs to sniff the bushes.”

Roxanne turned those golden eyes on him. “Harley suffers from separation anxiety. You’re the one who is so insistent I move in with you.”

“Whoa! You’ve really been holdin’ out on me, Miss Roxie-anne.” If Leo leaned any farther over the railing, the man would fall into the very bushes Harley now sniffed.

As if he knew he was the subject of conversation, the big mutt lumbered over, sat right in front of Cash and put a massive paw on his thigh. The dog whuffed, a sound too similar to Roxanne’s echoing sigh. He resisted throwing up his arms in surrender.

“Fine, but that thing better be housebroken.”

Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, Roxanne leveled what he supposed was an insulted glare on him. “Good.” She turned away and muttered under her breath, “Oh, yeah? I bet you aren’t housebroken, Chase Barron.”

For the next hour, Cash sat on the couch with the massive furball. The dog sprawled next to him, huge head on his thigh. Roxanne puttered around, packing suitcases and grocery bags full of dog food, toys, brushes and other pet paraphernalia. He was far too amused by her, discovering he was smiling at odd times.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

Cash checked her over. Roxanne had tucked her hair up into a messy ponytail and stood in the midst of a pile of stuff. He stared at her, then stared pointedly at the boxes and suitcases around her feet. “Should I call a moving van? We can load up your furniture, too.”

“Ha-ha. Not funny. I’m trying to be nice in a difficult situation.”

He eyed all the gear. “Nice?”

“Yes. I figured you wouldn’t want to be running back and forth between your place and mi—”

Cash’s cell rang, cutting her off. He shoved the dog away and stood, phone to his ear. He listened to Bridger without giving away the gist of their conversation, his gaze glued on Roxanne.

“Otto Baer is a whale, according to Tucker. He’s never stayed at any of the Barron casinos before the incident with the Rowlands.”

He considered that information. A whale, also referred to as a high roller, bet large amounts of money. Casinos offered them lavish “comps,” such as free private jet transfers, limousine access and use of the casinos’ best suites, to lure them onto the gambling floors.

“What was the deal?” Cash asked the question with careful words.

“That’s what’s really weird, coz. Tuck checked with Chase and with their concierge. They didn’t even know the guy was there.”

“Interesting.”

“I thought so. He stayed two days, lost some money but not a huge amount, won a little of it back and then took off for Tahoe.” Harley bellowed out a bark, and a startled Bridger added, “What the hell was that?”

“One of my new houseguests.”

“Do I want to know?”

“Probably not. See what else you can find out. I’m headed to my place as soon as I can get all of Roxanne’s stuff loaded in the Rover.”

“Roxanne’s stuff. Loaded in the Rover. Uh...huh. Care to explain?”

“Executive decision.”

“Oh, boy. Can’t wait to hear this story. Will I see you at the office in the morning?”

“Yes.” Cash clicked off the call before Bridger could ask any further irritating questions. He centered himself and said, “Let’s go.”

Ignoring the huge wet spot staining his slacks—a splotch that resembled slug slime—he gathered up an armful of boxes and a suitcase. It took them two trips each to stow all of her odds and ends in the cargo area. When it came time to load Harley in the backseat, Cash balked.

“Those are leather seats. Claws and drool do not mix with leather.”

Roxanne harrumphed and rolled her eyes. “Fine.” She marched back inside and returned quickly with a blanket. “Here, Mr. Fuddy-Duddy.”

He was not a fuddy-duddy. He just appreciated fine things, and that included leather seats in his vehicles. “You already owe me a cleaning bill for these slacks. I figured you wouldn’t want to add replacement seats to your tab.”

“Replacement—” Roxanne’s jaw snapped shut and her golden eyes sparked.

Cash had a perverse streak, obviously. Pushing this woman’s buttons was far too much fun. He watched her avidly while she bent over, reaching into the vehicle to smooth the blanket over the backseats. He caught a few of her muttered imprecations.

“...made of Corinthian leather...male-chauvinist moron...cheapskate...cars that cost more than some people’s houses...hates my dog.”

He glanced down at the huge black dog sitting beside him. “Does she always talk to herself?” The animal gazed up with solemn brown eyes and sighed. Cash tilted his head to get a better look at Roxanne’s very lovely butt. She backed out of the vehicle and whirled, catching him in the act.

“Really?” she demanded, then muttered, “Add jerkface to the list.”

Biting his lips to stifle a burst of laughter, Cash snapped his fingers at the dog. “Get in the car, mutt.”

“He is not a mutt. Harley is a full-blooded, pedigreed Newfoundland.”

He figured the inside of his mouth would be bloody before they got to his place. “Fine.” He snapped his fingers again. “Get in the car, full-blooded, pedigreed Newfoundland mutt.”

Harley bounded into the backseat, apparently unconcerned that Cash was dissing him. Roxanne threw her arms up as her anger simmered. She clambered into the front seat and slammed the door. Cash could no longer hold back his laughter. She was cute and feisty and he was far more turned on by that than he should be, given their circumstances. He just managed to choke off his laughter as he got into the driver’s seat.

“It’s not funny,” Roxanne huffed.

“It is from where I’m sitting.”

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