Chapter One
U.S. Marshal Ben Justiss stared across the lobby of the Excelsior Hotel. He had a bad feeling that hadn’t gone away the closer he got to Las Vegas and the woman he couldn’t get off his mind.
One year, six months, and five days, and he could still see Peggy McCormack’s sweet smile and taste her melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk pie. Damn sneaky tactic, overnighting him a fresh-baked pie from the diner she ran with her sister Kate in Apple Grove, Ohio.
He scanned the well-dressed crowd. It was going to be a logistical nightmare protecting Peggy during the First Las Vegas Bake-Off. He and his brother Matt had gone over the list of coordinators for the bake-off, the contestants, the media involved, and the hotel’s support staff. They’d narrowed down the suspects to a handful since receiving the frantic call from her sister Kate and the heads-up from his cousin Patrick Garahan and his wife Grace Mulcahy Garahan—on speakerphone. Damn hard to concentrate with two people talking at the same damn time.
His gut burned. They were out of time. “Why didn’t she call and ask for help?”
“Maybe she’s still waiting for you to call and thank her for that pie.” The deep chuckle from the other side of the potted palm separating him from his younger brother pissed him off.
“Didn’t mean to say that out loud,” Ben grumbled.
“Don’t worry,” his brother reassured him. “I don’t think the guy in the tacky plaid slacks and hot pink golf shirt heard you.”
Ben had spotted the guy in hot pink earlier. “This place is everything Tex’s intel promised.”
“I wonder if old Louis ‘The Lip’ LaFica is still kicking?”
Ben hadn’t given the retired mobster who’d built the hotel in the 1960s a thought. His sole point of focus had been weeding out suspects and protecting Peggy McCormack from harm. “Wasn’t there a rumor that he bought the farm back in 1975?”
“Unsubstantiated,” his brother told him. “I’d like to have a talk with him.”
“He’d have to be over one hundred years old,” Ben said. “Might not survive interrogation.”
“Maybe Tex’s intel is off by a few years,” his brother suggested.
“Even if it is,” Ben said, “1960 is fifty-six years ago! Give or take five years either way he’d still be over ninety years old.”
The lush potted palms and spiny cacti scattered throughout the lobby were a concern. But the number of additions to the hotel over the last twenty years had him wondering just how soon this job would be FUBAR.
“Have you spotted her yet?” Matt asked.
“Negative. I’ll feel better when I see her.”
Matt coughed to cover what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “Sure thing, bro.”
Ben knew his brother wasn’t done ribbing him yet for not sending Peggy flowers. Matt sent women flowers for every occasion. “I was going to get around to thanking her.”
“In this millennium?” Matt asked.
Before Ben could snarl out a reply, his brother rasped, “Main lobby doors. Tall, blonde, and curvy.”
Ben’s gaze swung over to the doors. His gut twisted and his throat went dry. He’d forgotten how stunning Peggy McCormack was. “I should’ve sent flowers.”
“You know it,” Matt agreed. “What’s the plan for contact?”
“According to the Ohio Garahans, this is a semihostile protection job.”
“Wait, what—do Tom and John know?”
“Not sure. Peggy’s sister Kate just called a few minutes ago,” Ben said. “Peggy isn’t taking the threats seriously.” Watching the blonde beauty striding from the doors to the long line at the reception desk, he frowned. “Kate warned she’d be difficult.”
Ben moved closer to the front desk, while his brother circled around behind to make contact with the bodyguards they’d subcontracted for this job—two of their New York City cousins, Tom and John Garahan, both with the FDNY. They nodded as Matt walked past and touched a fingertip to his right ear.
“Got your ears on?”
“Roger Wilco,” Tom answered, then said, “She looks different.”
“She’s not wearing jeans and her apron,” Ben answered.
“Yo,” John chimed in. “No ponytail.”
“Yeah,” Tom added. “She had long hair at Pat and Grace’s wedding.”
Ben’s gut clenched, remembering a sky-blue dress swirling in the breeze and long blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight. “Yeah.”
Ben and his brother were the fourth generation of Justiss lawmen—U.S. Marshals. The code of honor and integrity was bone-deep and in their blood. It was similar to the cowboy code his Texas cousins lived by, and the brothers-in-fire code his New York City cousins lived by.
He moved into her line of sight and waited until she looked up. He touched the brim of his Stetson. “Miss McCormack.”
Peggy’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe she called you.”
“Right before Patrick and Grace called.”
Her blue eyes flashed fire before narrowing. “I don’t need a bodyguard. I need to win the bake-off.”
He wanted to shake some sense into her. “Pretty descriptive threats.”
She snorted and tossed her head, just like his favorite Palomino filly at his folks’ ranch…and just as feisty. “Bogus threats.”
“Descriptive,” he said again. “Right down to which bones they would break in your hands so you could never pick up a spoon or bowl again.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing her pale. Not good enough. He needed her scared enough to trust him and his team. “Kate forwarded another email a few minutes ago.”
She was trying hard not to look interested. “I didn’t receive any email this morning.”
“It was sent to the main email address for the diner.”
“And?”
He waited a beat and ground out, “They threatened to cut off your hands with a meat cleaver.”
Her face lost every ounce of color. Finally. That got through to her.
But Peggy McCormack was a tough nut to crack. “Kate had no right hacking into my personal email, or to forward those emails to you.”
“Your sister loves you and is smart enough to be scared for you.”
She drew in a breath, giving him a chance to add, “Look, can we discuss this somewhere other than the middle of the lobby?”
“Where?” she asked, vibrating with outrage. “My room?”
He nodded. “It’d be more private.”
“You had your chance, Marshal Justiss, and you flubbed it. I don’t need you, and I sure as hell don’t want you breathing down my neck right now. I need to focus.” She pulled out her phone and ignored him.
If he wasn’t so concerned that those threats were real, he might admire her damn-the-torpedoes attitude. “Stubborn,” he mumbled, signaling for one of his cousins to shadow her. He was meeting the hotel manager in five and then doing a walk-through of the ballroom to see if they needed to make any changes to their protection detail. From the length of the line of people waiting to check in, he figured he had a little time before she would head up to her room.
A little while later, he strode out of the hotel manager’s office, veering off toward the main ballroom. The Excelsior had been family-run since Louis ‘The Lip’ LaFica first opened its doors, but so far he hadn’t met any of the LaFicas. He wondered if the family made it a point to stay out of the public eye, or if it was just working for a living that they were avoiding.
“Heads up,” Tom warned. “Line’s moving.”
Ben was about to head back to the reception area when John said, “Peggy’s meeting with the bake-off coordinator, then will be registering for the bake-off. You’ve got time.”
The main doors to the ballroom were locked, so he went around to the side. There was only one set of double doors and three other doors. Still he covered all of the bases, asking and receiving approval from the manager to use the hotel’s security tonight and over the next few days as needed.
Come hell or high water, he was going to keep that stubborn woman safe. A tall order, but he was up to the challenge and had his crack team as backup. If their Garahan cousins hadn’t already had firefighting careers, he and his brother might have tried talking them into joining the U.S. Marshals.
He and Matt had started up a security company when the word came down about their suspensions on vague and unsubstantiated charges. But so far the jobs had been small compared to this venue. They’d been relieved when two of their cousins became available after being ordered to take some of the vacation time they’d been stockpiling.
With a tap to his earpiece, he communicated to his team, “Meeting in five…supply room by the freight elevator.”
Return to Love at the Las Vegas Bake-Off
