"Rafael," he muttered.

"Cool name," she said, leaning provocatively toward him, full cleavage on show. "It got some kinda ring to it. You the manager or what?"

"I own this club," Rafael said, deciding that playing the boss had its advantages. "This is my place."

"I thought Alejandro-"

"You thought wrong."

"You gotta be important, then," Sonia said, widening her eyes as if she was impressed. "You gotta be the big boy around here."

"I certainly am," Rafael boasted, the champagne loosening his tongue.

"If you're the boss you must have a private office, a place we could maybe have ourselves a fun time."

Yes, Rafael thought. Fun. Exactly what he needed before he took off with Pablo Fernandez Diego's money.

Sonia could tell she had him-this one was easier than she'd thought. "What we waitin' for, big boy?" she said. "Whyn't we go get ourselves some privacy?"

Rafael did not need to be asked twice. This girl was offering herself to him, and he was accepting.

He stood up and was surprised to discover that he wasn't quite steady on his feet. It was the champagne. He wasn't used to it. No more drinking after tonight. No more women either. This one was his final fling.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE.

None of them saw it coming.

Not Alejandro, who was showing off the enormous speed his new toy could achieve.

Not Dante, who was smoking a joint and imagining what he would do to the redhead in the backseat when they arrived in Vegas.

Not Willow, who was daydreaming about her career comeback.

And certainly not Max, who was thinking about the text she'd received from Billy and what it all meant.

Further down the desert highway, barreling along in the opposite direction toward L.A., Dave Riggio was enjoying the ministrations of the young runaway who was determined to show him that she was worthy of the ride as she buried her head in his lap, sucking his dick and gasping for breath, not letting go for a second.

A second was all it took as Dave Riggio shut his eyes for one brief moment, causing his heavy rig to veer across the highway into the oncoming lane. And even though Alejandro-driving 150 miles per hour-saw the rig bearing down on them, it was too late. There was nothing he could do.

It was a fiery crash of major proportions. The impact so strong that the Bentley was demolished and both vehicles were immediately engulfed in flames.

Metal against metal.

Deadly.

Fatal.

The night sky lit up like one huge firework.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR.

Chris Warwick was angry. Why hadn't anyone thought to warn him that the main lobby of the Magiriano was going to be filled with a milling crowd of Middle Eastern women wearing long black abayas and face veils, their mascaraed eyes staring out at the world? The women were surrounded by mountains of luggage, and a plethora of shopping bags from Chanel, Vuitton, and Cartier. Unruly children abounded, racing around the lobby yelling and laughing like packs of wild hyenas.

Chris summoned Ian Simmons, the general manager. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded to know. "This is unacceptable."

Ian, a tall, thin import from England, was embarrassed. "It wasn't supposed to happen this way," he said. "King Emir and his entourage were not due to check out for another ten days."

"It sure looks like that all changed," Chris huffed. "We have many VIPs arriving for the funeral service at noon, and I expect the lobby to be clear of all this chaos as they walk through to the outside. I thought this was made clear."

"There is a fleet of limos arriving any moment to pick everyone up," Ian assured him. "We're doing our best."

"Your best won't be good enough for Ms. Santangelo if she sees what's going on here," Chris threatened. "You'd better get this lobby clear and soon."

"I understand," Ian said, somewhat resentful that this security person was speaking to him in such a dismissive way. "Although I should point out that during his stay, the king has racked up a bill of over three million dollars. I'm sure Ms. Santangelo wouldn't object to that."

Unimpressed, Chris said, "Who is this king anyway?"

"King Emir Amin Mohamed Jordan."

"From where?"

"Akramshar. It's a small country rich in oil. These women are all his wives."

Akramshar. The name sounded familiar, but why?

Taking out his phone, Chris called Danny. "You ever heard of a Middle Eastern country called Akramshar?" he asked brusquely.

"Why?" Danny ventured.

"Have you or have you not?" Chris said, in no mood to play games.

"Uh ... yes. Last year there was a shooting incident at the Keys. A man was shot-Armand Jordan. He was originally from Akramshar, one of the king's sons."

Chris had been abroad at the time, but now Danny had jogged his memory. As far as he could recall, the story was that Armand Jordan had been trying to negotiate with Lucky to buy her hotel, she'd refused, and Armand had been assassinated by-as the cops put it-a professional. No arrests had ever taken place.

Chris experienced a feeling that all was not right. Why was King Emir in Vegas? And why was he checking out on the day of Gino's funeral?

He was mad at himself that there had been no early security checks on the king and his entourage. Wasn't Danny supposed to be in charge of that? It pissed him off when people didn't do their job properly. Surely Danny should have connected the dots?

Too late now. Anyway, it was probably a coincidence-rich Saudis were always in Vegas, indulging in big-stakes gambling while their women shopped for ridiculous shoes, expensive jewelry, and designer clothes they would never dare to wear in their home country.

They were leaving, which was a good thing.

Still ... Chris couldn't shake the feeling that all was not right.

Her cell was ringing, and Denver was not inclined to answer it since she was in the middle of a dream that had her floating on a raft in the ocean. It was a peaceful dream.

Reluctantly, she stretched out her arm for her phone, whereupon she encountered a body lying next to her. For a moment she was disoriented, until she realized that the man asleep beside her was Sam.

Damn it! She'd slept with Sam. In Bobby's bed. Well, technically it wasn't Bobby's bed; they'd chosen it together. Still, she immediately felt overwhelmed with guilt and she was furious with herself for drinking too much the night before.

Grabbing her phone, she muttered a quick, "Hello."

"Where were you last night?" Leon asked, sounding put out. "I told you I'd be calling you back. We're on a job here, Denver."

"I guess I fell asleep," she admitted sheepishly. "What time did you call?"

"Three A.M. Couldn't reach you, so I met with Sonia myself."

Now she was really pissed. While she'd been busy screwing Sam-although she couldn't remember the details-Leon had been working the case without her, and that wasn't right.

"What did Sonia come up with?" she asked, struggling to sit up.

"The entire layout of Alejandro's private office. She got the photos on her phone."

"Really?"

"Told you she was the shit," Leon boasted.

"I'm on my way in," Denver said, trying to navigate her way out of bed without waking Sam.

"Make it fast. We're payin' another visit to Frankie."

"We are?"

"You bet we are. He says he has more for us. Somethin' that'll nail Alejandro's ass for sure."

"I'm excited."

"Me too."

"See you in a minute," she said, clicking off her phone.

"Hey," Sam said, rolling over with a big smile on his face and a massive hard-on. "How about me? I'm excited too."

"Not now," Denver said, pulling away, her feet hitting the floor. "Gotta go to work."

"Where the hell is Max?" Lennie grumbled, walking in on Lucky as she sat in front of her makeup table. "I stayed up half the night waiting for her to arrive."

"You did?"

"Yes, I did. I can't wait to ream that so-called boss of hers a new asshole. What was he thinking? Driving when they were supposed to get a helicopter."

"Calm down," Lucky replied, applying a smoky brown shadow to her eyes. "She's no doubt having breakfast with Cookie and Harry."

"We don't see her for months," Lennie steamed, standing behind his wife. "Then she gets here, and all she wants to do is hang out with her friends. I'm pissed."

"That's the way it goes with teenagers," Lucky pointed out, remembering her own wild teenage years. "You'd better stop behaving like the ogre father or you'll drive her away."

"Drive her away? She's fucking living in Europe as it is. How much farther can she go?"

"Who knows?"

"Max and I used to have a very special bond."

"I know that," Lucky said, putting down her makeup brush. "We'll see her soon, so what you should do is get dressed and stop complaining."

"Who's complaining?" Lennie said, frowning. "I'd like to spend time with my daughter. Is that a crime?"

"Jeez!" Lucky said, suddenly losing patience. "Aren't we the dramatic one."

"Not dramatic, merely concerned."

"Okay, okay. I get it."

There was a short silence before Lennie said, "Bobby's here. I saw him last night."

"What time did he arrive?"

"Late. I don't know why Max couldn't've come with him."

"You should call her," Lucky said, standing up.

"I have. Her phone doesn't seem to be working."

"Then go downstairs and find her. I'm telling you she'll be with Cookie. When you see her, ask her to come up. I need to know what she's planning on wearing."

"For crissake," Lennie snapped. "This isn't a fashion show."

Lucky gave him a long dark stare. When it came to Max, he was way too protective and sometimes it was too much-especially today of all days. "I'm well aware of that," she said coolly. "And since it's my father's funeral, I'd appreciate it if you'd take your pissy attitude and dump it elsewhere. I'm not in the mood."

Realizing that he was being unreasonable, Lennie paused by the door. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said. "I understand how difficult this day is for you."