Games of the Heart (Crimson Romance) by Eva Shaw Page A

Or so I thought until she reached one manicured index finger, touched his chest, and the man became mute. That was creepier by far.
    “Oh, Bob, don’t go filling this little pastor with such stuff. We’re just a-doing what we can.” The southern accent poured out, like gravy over biscuits with a Denny’s breakfast. “You’re doing God’s real work in here.” Then she looked down at her perfectly polished fingernails and twisted the bracelets. Fluttering mascara-laden eyelashes, she dipped her chin and whispered something to Bob. It was too much for me to stare this time. I turned and gagged.
    Bob glanced at his Rolex. “Off you go now. Know you have to all get going. Hallelujah. Brothers and sisters, I say hallelujah. Good to have you here. We’ll do it again soon.”
    As the crowd filed out, I stood like a bump on a log, although my eyes were glued to the cozy chat between the pastor and Delta Cheney as they walked to her cream-colored Mercedes. He bent close. He cocked his head. I wanted to dash to the restroom and scrub my hands, face, and entire body with antibacterial soap.
    Even in the short time I’d been in Vegas, I knew that Delta and this crowd weren’t that unusual. A few of the people, I had come to learn, seemed to think that living here automatically turned them into missionaries serving in a foreign land. A few residents I had met in this church family seemed to wear their citizenship like a bright medal.
    As a newcomer, I didn’t want to upset the applecart to tell them every city and town has a dark side. I wondered what the crap dealers, pit bosses, cocktail servers, and the thousands of other workers at the gambling palaces thought about their lives. Mind you, it is the service industry, but did some of them need more in life? I had no answers. Besides, what did I know, being a new preacher on the block? These ideas zipped through my caffeine-addled brain as I smiled brightly. Hey, I’m not a hypocrite. Smiles are part of the job because, I’ll have you know, preachin’ is like sales. Yeah, think it over.
    However, as soon as possible, I’d dive into Google to get the scoop on Delta and PSA. Maybe God in His wisdom had plopped Delta in my life because I’d thought of adoption. If it hadn’t been for adoption of my father into Gramps’ family, well, there wouldn’t have been me. Delta seemed to be doing a heavenly job.
    As Pastor Bob returned, he snagged my elbow and said. “Coffee, Jane? Oh, see you’ve already got some. What I wanted to do was some strategic brainstorming on an idea Delta, um, well, the others had. You’re going to love it. It’s got everything we need, including raising much-needed funds. Wait until you hear.”
    He ushered my unwilling body into his office and said, “All the hubbub of ballroom dancing, and everyone nowadays is fanatical about it. Banking on that and the fact we need to raise money, if we want to construct a youth building, we must do something. Mind you, we have seed money, but this shouldn’t just depend on sponsors. Don’t you agree, Pastor Jane? Of course you do. Why, we must take action. Right now, hallelujah.” He was waving his arms and speaking as if there were a roomful of converts rather than just little old me.
    Taking the guest chair, I placed my Starbucks iced coffee drink cup on the creamy colored carpet, careful to put it in a safe spot so I wouldn’t knock it over. I relaxed and sipped occasionally from my cup, listening to the rest of his spiel, including occasional hallelujahs, and the air conditioner was lulling me into agreement until Delta Cheney’s name came up in one of his outpourings.
    I waved my hand like an excited first-grader and yes, I was amazed when he allowed me to ask, “Ms. Cheney comes here to church? I haven’t seen her before.”
    “Hardly.” But that didn’t seem to bother the man as he continued, “Our Delta talks about attending church, says she does when she’s in New York. Says our little