Secrets in the Dark (Vegas After Dark #9)
Chapter One
Celia
I never expected pink roses to be the beginning of my end.
At Bailey it angled forty-five degrees off true. A throw pillow perched dead center on the couch instead of its usual left corner. Case briefs on the kitchen counter aligned too perfectly, edges flush in a way I never managed despite my organizational tendencies. Someone had entered, touched my life, rearranged just enough to whisper: I was here. I decide the boundaries.
My bedroom door stood ajar. I flicked on the hall light, unwilling to step into darkness.
Golden glow spilled over neat bedding, organized dresser, closet door shut. Exactly as I'd left it that morning—except for the single pink rose centered on my pillow. Under it, a cream card in that now-familiar script:
You forgot to leave the lamp on.
A strangled sound escaped me. He knew my small habit—leaving the bedside lamp burning when I worked late, a childhood holdover I'd never outgrown. He had stood where I slept. Had perhaps watched me sleep on previous nights. The violation crashed over me in waves, sending me stumbling backward into the hallway.
Retreating to the living room, I punched Miles's number with trembling fingers. Miles Thatcher wasn't just my boss; he was the closest thing I had to a mentor in Las Vegas. Three years at Bailey I turned back to Val, who watched with undisguised amusement.
"Roman King," she supplied without my asking. "Dealer at the high-limit tables. Started a few weeks ago." She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Gorgeous, isn't he? And that intensity—like he sees right through you."
"I'm not here for...distractions," I murmured, lifting the drink she pushed toward me.
"Vegas is built on distraction, mi reina. Even shadows need a little light." She tipped her glass against mine. "Just keep your secrets and enjoy the view. God knows we could all use some pleasure in this glittering prison."
She was more accurate than she knew. My danger wasn't gamblers or flirtation. It was a faceless predator who caught momentary jacket changes behind closed doors. Trusting anyone—especially someone whose eyes missed nothing—could be fatal.
When Val departed and the bar emptied, I navigated the maze back to my dressing cubicle. The laminated badge bounced against my ribs with each step, a constant reminder of the fiction I lived. Nova Sinclair. Ghost girl. A woman who didn't exist before three days ago and might not exist a month from now.
I opened the cubicle door—then froze.
Centered on the makeup counter stood a crystal vase cradling a single pink rose. Beside it lay a cream note card identical to the ones in my office and bedroom.
Hands trembling, I unfolded it.
Welcome to the show, Nova.