He was coming after me with a steady, determined gait, closing the distance between us. Out of options, I entered the shopping center and went into the Dolce&Gabbana store, trying to lose myself in the thin morning crowd. Hoping he’d get bored and move on.
He didn’t.
He stood outside the shop and conspicuously waited for me, his arms crossed at his muscular chest. Leaving Dolce&Gabbana, I walked straight past him and into Louis Vuitton. He followed me inside this time, knowing quite well that I knew he was there and not giving a damn. I felt him breathing down my neck, although he kept about ten feet away. I was scared ... and hated it.
And today, with what I had to do, I didn’t need to be scared. I couldn’t afford it. Fear clouds people’s minds, breeding more fear, sowing the seeds of bad decisions and missed opportunities and bitter failure. Fear could drive me away from Vegas before I even had a chance to discover its possibilities.
I wasn’t going to stand for it.
I picked up the pace while walking past some stores, checking window reflections to make sure he was still following me. I rounded a corner, then stopped short and waited, my right hand propped on my hip. Unsuspecting when he turned the corner, he nearly bumped into me. He didn’t skip a beat, though. Under his breath, he uttered, “Excuse me,” and veered to the side, where he stopped to lean against a wall. Staring at me.
The nerve of this man ...
Yet I’d lost mine. I didn’t dare ask him what he wanted with me. What if he pulled out a badge and dragged me into some smelly, godforsaken police-precinct interrogation room to question me for a day or two? What if he was one of those random haters who threw acid in people’s faces just because they could?
I stood there, only ten feet away, and stared at him just as he stared at me, our eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. I didn’t like what I saw. His demeanor—casual, and yet strong and fearless—was the kind thatscreamedI got nothing to hideor, perhaps,nothing to lose. His feet were set firmly on the floor about a foot apart, and his arms remained crossed at his chest, a posture I’d seen many times before in private security professionals guarding high-value assets. His face, clean shaven, and his hair, buzz-trimmed short, spelled former military.
Who was this man? And what did he want with me?
I decided to call him Jack until he grew the sense to introduce himself, if ever. He looked like a Jack, reminding me of the two episodes ofReacherI’d watched on the flight over. The tough type, like in the movies. Perhaps more of a protector than a creep, but someone else’s protector, not mine. I couldn’t think of a single real-life famous felon named Jack—not since the Ripper, anyway—but I was sure there had been a few.
The man looked dangerous, too. With that acknowledgment, fear rose in me like the tide.
I challenged myself to think about options under his piercing scrutiny. To find other reasonable explanations that didn’t feed my anxiety or mean I was in trouble. Perhaps the Taylor family had hired someone to check me out. Who was this Olivia Taylor who lived at the ARIA, claiming she was related to them and that she was an heiress to their vast fortune?
Yeah, that had to be it.
Well, I’d never claimed anything. Shrugging in a visible manner and shaking my head for his benefit, I left Jack standing there and found the nearest exit. As I put some distance between us, though, I still worried he might decide to keep following me. I kept checking store-window reflections, but he was gone.
I was probably right. He’d just delivered a firm warning to not come near the Taylor family with some claim or another. To stay the hell away from their gambling empire.
After a while, when I was sure he wasn’t trailing me anymore, I flagged a cab and climbed in the back, my head on a swivel. I couldn’tsee Jack anywhere, but the Strip was busy with hordes of tourists pouring in for spring break. It was hard to tell.
“Where to, miss?” The cabbie had a strong New York accent.
“Drive around for a while. Show me the city,” I said, not willing to show my hand just yet.
“What do you want to see?” An all-knowing smile fluttered on his thin lips.
I looked behind us, registering the cars in my sight. A small truck whose only purpose was to display a mobile ad for some strip joint. A bottled-water delivery van. A white Toyota with the Uber logo lit up on its dash. A couple of sedans, one red and one black, and a motorcycle. No trace of Jack.
“Just up and down the Strip, I guess.”
“You got it.” He swerved expertly to avoid a group of jaywalking teenagers that spilled from the wide sidewalk without looking. “Hey, you’re that girl in the paper this morning, right?” He made eye contact with me through his rearview mirror. “Sorry, I forgot your name.”
“No worries,” I said, smiling and relieved. “Take me all the way to the end of the Strip, then to the DMV on Sahara Avenue.”
“There’s one closer than that. It’s on Charleston, if it’s the same to you.”
“The one on Sahara, please.” My voice had dropped about ten degrees in temperature.
His smile waned. “You got it.”
We spent the rest of the drive in silence, while I steeled my fraught nerves for the DMV appointment.
Fear tingled through me like static electricity, raising my hair on end.
This part was the single most dangerous aspect of what I had to do. I had no way of knowing how it would end.
