For Love of Money by Cathy Perkins Page B

and said, “I thought everybody had converted to electronic script.”
    Peter gave the patron a quick glance, then scanned the remaining rows of slots. “We keep a few of the older machines. I’m not sure if it’s a nostalgia thing or if some gamblers prefer the tactile sensation of handling the coins.”
    A grin lit his face. “Personally, I think they like the coins spraying everywhere when they hit a jackpot.”
    He filled the remaining walk with pleasant conversation. Spillover from the local vineyards’ harvest tours was filling seats in the casino. The glorious autumn weather—blue skies and moderate temperatures—was drawing droves of tourists to the Columbia River Basin.
    “One of my clients mentioned how much he enjoys coming here,” Holly said.
    “That’s the sort of feedback I like hearing. Which client, if you don’t mind me asking?”
    “Tim Stevens. You know him?”
    “Oh, sure. Nice guy. Comes in about once a week.”
    With a sinking heart, she thought, every week? “I guess all developers are gamblers at heart.”
    “Good point. Stevens is a good customer. Doesn’t make a scene if he loses.” Peter smiled. “He brought his wife in a couple of weeks ago.”
    “Oh?” Nicole didn’t seem like the type who’d enjoy it.
    “She had a blast playing the slots. I was surprised he didn’t bring her in again.” He shrugged. “Maybe I just like seeing pretty women in here. I’m real partial to brunettes.”
    “Brunettes?” She couldn’t keep the startled reaction out of her voice. Nicole was as blond as they came.
    “No offense. Blondes are pretty, too.”
    A brunette? Oh crap . She scrambled, thinking furiously. “That’s okay.”
    Damn. Tim was gambling and cheating on his wife? What else was he doing?
    Peter suddenly blinked and looked as if he’d love to rewind the conversation and answer a different way. “Uh, I could be thinking about a different guy.”
    Before she could decide how to tactfully ask if the brunette was Marcy, Holly’s internal alarm sounded a warning. She glanced to the side, expecting to see one of the gamblers checking her out. Instead, she noticed a man leaning against the far wall. Deeply tanned with dark hair brushing his collar, he wore jeans, a fringe-trimmed shirt, and a cowboy hat with an intricate turquoise band. The hat-brim shaded his features, but his posture said he was watching something with fixed determination.
    His body type—and the intensity of his scrutiny—reminded her of Frank. For half a second, part of her shrieked Run! while the rest chided, Frank’s in Seattle .
    As subtly as she could, she scanned the room, looking for anything out of place. What had caught the man’s attention? Was something about to happen? Something bad, like a robbery?
    She stole another glance. He’d moved away from the wall. Hands on his hips, he blatantly stared at her .
    A shiver of unease ran down her spine. She hadn’t done anything he could consider threatening. Her briefcase looked out of place, but all it held was a bunch of papers.
    Peter said something about the Basin’s winter gloom holding off, and then cocked his head. “You okay? You look a little peaked. Can I offer you something from the snack bar?”
    “No. Thank you, though.” Holly lowered her voice. “Do you know that man? The one wearing the cowboy hat and fringed shirt?”
    Peter craned his neck. “Sure, that’s my security manager. You want to meet him?”
    She held up a hand, stop-sign style. “He just made me nervous. But that makes sense if he’s security. He’s scary enough to keep everyone in line.”
    He must have seen her as out of place—a non-gambler. The suit, the briefcase. She breathed a sigh of relief. Of course it isn’t Frank . Just another cop-wannabe bouncer with an attitude.
    “That’s what we hire them for,” Peter said.
    Of course the casino needed protection. She had to remember that not all law enforcement people—even the intense ones—were crazy