Read Online Can't Take the Heat by Jackie Barbosa - Free Book Online Page A

going to think three months is too long to wait to have her on a Barrows stage.”
    Wes set the photo back on his desk and studied his friend. Aaron Castro had worked his way up from backstage grunt work to Las Vegas’s premier talent scout in a little less than fifteen years. He’d done it through a combination of perseverance, smarts, and complete integrity. His business depended on that reputation. He wouldn’t risk it for a piece of ass.
    Even a really hot piece of ass.
    “Fair enough.”
    “Good, since I already got you a ticket for tomorrow night.” Aaron pulled a small envelope out of his breast pocket and handed it to Wes. “The show was already sold out for tonight.”
    Wes started to take the envelope but hesitated. He couldn’t be sure that Delaney would be staying with him even one more night, let alone two, but if she was, he couldn’t very well leave her alone in the apartment.
    He handed the ticket back to Aaron. “Make it two, and you’re on.”

    I pull up to the curb behind Jett’s minivan and slide the Lexus into park. The neighborhood looks familiar, but I suspect that’s only because I used to walk through it on the way to school. I recognize the house, too, but for much the same reason. This is a post-WWII tract, and every fifth or sixth house is the same model with slight variations in trim.
    But even though no memory bells are ringing, I can see why I’d have chosen this particular house. It’s a Spanish style design with a deep front porch that runs half the length of the house. There’s a small, one-car garage on one end, and a room with a large, floor-to-ceiling window on the other. The tiled roof of the porch is supported by a series of broad arches, and a large Palo Verde tree that’s probably as old as the building provides a lacy shade to the xeriscaped front yard and the Saltillo tile walkway that leads from the sidewalk to the front door.
    Yes, I can easily imagine myself falling in love with this house, even if I can’t conceive how I can possibly afford it.
    “You remember something?” Jett asks hopefully when she sees the smile on my face.
    “Not a damn thing,” I admit. “But I do like the house. At least what I can see of it.”
    “Me, too. And you got it for a great price.”
    “So, how are we going to get inside?”
    She winks at me. “C’mon, you don’t really think you don’t have a hide-a-key, do you? Or that your bestie doesn’t know where you keep it?”
    I follow her up the walkway and onto the porch, where she bends down and digs in a potted plant until she comes out with a key. Sliding it into the deadbolt, she unlocks the door and swings it open.
    As I walk inside, the first emotion that hits me is disappointment. I recognize everything, but remember nothing.
    All right, that isn’t strictly true. I know, for example, that I’ve never seen the dark cinnamon-colored sofa and matching chairs before, but they are exactly what I would expect myself to choose when furnishing my living room. The color is vibrant without being overpowering and the style—high-backed, rounded arms—looks comfortable and inviting. Which is more than I can say for the industrial strength seating in the apartment back at the casino.
    But I also see plenty of other pieces that I know and love, because I grew up with them. After my mother died and we—I say “we” because Wes held my hand every step of the way through those dark months—had to move out of the house she’d rented for the past seventeen years, I put the high quality items in storage. We couldn’t use them in the apartment, but I figured we’d get our own place sooner or later.
    There are the solid mahogany coffee table and matching end tables that originally belonged to my grandmother. The fireplace mantel is adorned with the collection of antique candlesticks Mom built over the years. Her favorite, which is eighteen inches tall and made of delicate intertwined wrought iron, sits in the center. She