Page 12

Easton

"Five more machines." Torres's voice through the phone carried unmistakable tension. "Same tampering signature as before. You need to see this."

Harlow and I sprang apart, the moment between us shattered. She grabbed her blazer from the back of the couch, already shifting into investigator mode despite the flush still coloring her cheeks. I ran both hands through my hair, trying to recalibrate from desire to crisis management.

"We're on our way," I replied, ending the call.

In the elevator, we stood carefully apart, the air charged with unfinished business. Harlow stared straight ahead, her professional mask firmly in place, but her breathing hadn't quite returned to normal.

"About what almost happened—" I began.

"Later," she cut me off, though not unkindly. "When we're not surrounded by security personnel and compromised equipment."

The subtle promise in her voice—that there would be a "later"—sent a jolt through my system that had nothing to do with sabotaged machines and everything to do with the woman beside me.

The casino floor buzzed with controlled activity as Carmen Torres directed her security team around the cordoned-off high-limit area. Five more slot machines had been isolated, their access panels showing the same subtle signs of tampering we'd discovered yesterday.

"The pattern is identical," Torres explained, pulling up diagnostic readings on her tablet. "Programming altered to favor the house beyond legal parameters. But they've escalated—these machines were set to trigger only for specific player card numbers."

"Targeted victims," Harlow murmured, leaning close to examine the screen. Her shoulder brushed against mine, and I felt the contact like an electric current. "Whoever did this was planning to cheat specific players."

"High rollers," I confirmed, recognizing several of the flagged card numbers. "Our platinum-tier VIPs who regularly wager five figures per session. If they'd been systematically cheated..."

"The lawsuit would have been devastating," Harlow finished my thought. "Not just financially, but reputationally. The commission would have no choice but to suspend operations pending full investigation."

She circled the machines, her movements precise and focused despite her obvious fatigue.

I found myself watching her work—the slight furrow of concentration between her brows, the methodical way she documented each detail, the quiet authority in her gestures as she directed Torres's team.

Even exhausted and under pressure, she was magnificent.

"Mr. Hardwick?" Torres's voice snapped me back to the crisis at hand. "We've also discovered a server breach attempt at 2:13 AM. Someone tried to access the financial database using executive credentials."

Harlow's head snapped up. "Were they successful?"

"No. The secondary biometric authentication blocked them after three failed attempts."

"So we're dealing with someone who has executive access codes but not biometric authorization," I said, the implications settling like ice in my stomach. The list of people with that level of access was very short—and populated exclusively by those I trusted most.

"I need to see the server logs," Harlow said, her investigator instincts visibly shifting into higher gear.

For the next hour, we worked side by side in the security office, reviewing footage and access records.

Every time she leaned toward my screen, her scent—subtle vanilla with something distinctly her—clouded my concentration.

When our fingers brushed as we exchanged tablets, the momentary contact sent heat spiraling through me that had no place in a professional investigation.

"The timing is precise," she noted, creating a digital timeline on the main monitor. "The machine tampering occurred between midnight and 2 AM. The server breach attempt at 2:13. Whoever's doing this knows exactly when security rotations change and which systems to target for maximum impact."

"An inside job," I confirmed grimly. "Someone who knows our protocols intimately."

Her eyes met mine, and for a brief moment, the professional facade slipped to reveal something softer. "I'm sorry, Easton. I know how difficult it is to consider that someone close to you might be involved."

The genuine compassion in her voice touched something deep within me. This woman who had once been my professional nemesis now seemed to understand me better than most people who'd known me for years.

"We need to check David Wilson's whereabouts," I suggested, redirecting to safer professional ground. "As IT Director, he has both the access and technical skills."

The employee records showed Wilson had badged into the server room at 1:48 AM and out at 2:32 AM—exactly when the breach attempt occurred.

"That seems convenient," Harlow said, frowning at the timeline. "Almost too convenient."

"What do you mean?"

"If Wilson wanted to breach the system, why do it while logged in under his own credentials?

Why not wait until he was off-premises and use the executive codes remotely?

" She tapped her pen against the tablet, her analytical mind visibly processing possibilities.

"It's like he's being set up as the obvious suspect. "

Her logic was impeccable, sending a chill down my spine. If someone was creating false trails and deliberate misdirection, we were dealing with a far more sophisticated adversary than I'd initially believed.

Torres returned with additional security footage, and we spent the next several hours tracing access patterns and system vulnerabilities.

Throughout it all, I remained acutely aware of Harlow's presence—her sharp insights, her methodical approach, and the undeniable attraction simmering between us despite our professional focus.

By early evening, exhaustion had settled over both of us. The saboteur had covered their tracks expertly, leaving just enough evidence to raise suspicions but not enough to identify them conclusively.

"We need to look deeper," Harlow said finally, rubbing her temples. "Financial records, personnel files, possible motivations. This level of sophistication suggests planning and insider knowledge."

"My office," I suggested. "We'll have privacy and access to the confidential systems."

The unspoken subtext hung between us—privacy to continue our interrupted conversation as well.

***

Night had fallen by the time we retreated to my office, the Vegas skyline a glittering backdrop through the floor-to-ceiling windows. I'd ordered dinner, and we spread financial records across my desk while eating Thai food straight from the containers.

"These vendor payments," Harlow said, highlighting a sequence on her tablet. "They show a pattern over the past six months. All approved with the same executive code, all falling just below the automatic review threshold."

I leaned closer, our shoulders touching as I studied the data. "They look legitimate on the surface. Standard vendors, appropriate amounts."

"Except when you cross-reference with delivery records." She swiped to another document. "Three of these vendors don't exist beyond paper corporations. Two others delivered only partial orders but were paid in full."

My stomach tightened as I recognized the approval code on the transactions: BDFX-7734. Bryce's personal authorization key.

"There could be explanations," I said, though the words sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Clerical errors, system glitches—"

"Easton." She set down her tablet, her voice gentler than I'd ever heard it. "These aren't errors. They're systematic siphoning by someone who understands exactly how to stay under regulatory radar."

The implication hung in the air between us. Bryce. My oldest friend. The man who'd stood beside me through every professional triumph and disaster since college.

"I've known him half my life," I said quietly, a lead weight settling in my chest. "He helped me rebuild after you shut down my first operation. He's been with me through everything."

Harlow set aside her food, moving to perch on the edge of my desk. In the soft lighting of my office, with her professional armor lowered by exhaustion and shared purpose, she looked both vulnerable and strong in a way that made my chest ache.

"People who betray us are often those closest to us," she said softly. "They know our blind spots, our vulnerabilities. We trust them implicitly, which gives them the perfect cover."

I looked up, meeting her eyes. "Like your ex?"

She nodded, a shadow crossing her features. "He used my trust against me. Extracted information while I thought we were building a future together."

"I'm sorry that happened to you," I said, meaning it more than she could know.

"It taught me to be careful," she admitted. "Maybe too careful."

We fell silent, the unspoken connection between us growing stronger despite—or perhaps because of—our shared experiences with betrayal.

I found myself standing, moving around the desk until we were face to face. "Harlow, about what almost happened earlier..."

"We shouldn't," she whispered, though she made no move to increase the distance between us. "It would complicate everything."

"It's already complicated," I countered, drawn inexorably closer to her. "Has been since you walked into the Jade Petal wearing that devastating dress."

A hint of a smile touched her lips. "The dress you selected."

"I have excellent taste." My hand moved of its own accord, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "In fashion and in women."

Her breath caught, but still she resisted. "We're in the middle of an investigation. One that could determine both our professional futures."

"I know." My fingers traced the line of her jaw, feeling her pulse quicken beneath my touch. "I know all the reasons why this is a terrible idea."

"Then why are you still moving closer?" Her voice had dropped to a whisper.