Las Vegas, Nevada

Lady Vegas had on her glitzy Christmas gown.

Hannah backed up, making an effort to keep her attention on the bustling expanse of the casino with its bazillion blinking lights. Acres and acres of slot machines and other gaming electronics... As much as she disliked the bright lights, the clamor, and the reek of booze and cigarettes, she preferred it to the crypt-like confines of the elevator. Predictably, her claustrophobia surged to the forefront of her mind. Lightheadedness swept through her.

Okay, breathe... She inhaled and dug her smartphone out of her pocket. She wasn't worried about the device being seen on the surveillance cameras hidden in the ceiling. To security, she'd look like just another device junkie. The electronic transmitter she intended to hook up to the elevator's controls, however, would remain hidden for a while longer.

Strain weighed on the entire band, not just Hannah. The usual four-hour drive to Las Vegas had taken eight. A brutal drive. They—the entire shifter band—got stuck in stop-and-go traffic while leaving Southern California. To the last, they were at their wit's end... and she had to wonder if her request for assistance placed too much of a burden on them. Guilt didn't get in more than a single stab before something else grabbed her attention.

"Move to the left, will you, love?" Oz asked. The drummer's accent was a glorious muddle of Australian and Scottish—and Hannah would've sworn she detected a wee bit o' Irish, although Oz denied it. Mystery and mishmash characterized the half-coyote, half-dingo-shifter hybrid. He personified the penultimate philosopher-pothead with his villainously neat goatee, Deadpool T-shirt, cargo shorts, and Birkenstocks.

"Sure." Hannah scooted aside, and Silver ghosted right on her heels. They moved to stand next to the control panel. He'd been quiet during the drive from LA. His withdrawal concerned her, but only mildly. Prior to a performance, Silver tended to bottle up tremendous creative energy. He unleashed it all on stage, crafting musical magic that enthralled audiences.

Oz guided the front end of the overloaded luggage trolley while Cheyenne, their roadie and driver, pushed from the rear. Despite their combined strength, the pair contrived to turn the wheeling the cart into a full-blown production. The rest of the band—Ursula, Branwen, and Disco, Coyote Hustle's de facto leader—milled about in the elevator bank. Their assigned tasks: to keep watch and, if necessary, obstruct anyone who might decide to investigate the stopped lift.

A black briefcase on the top of the rack contained an electromagnetic pulse generator. Hannah waited until the guys had the trolley all the way inside the elevator before she swiped her finger across the remote controller. The device emitted a significant EMP field. The signal strength bars on her phone dropped to zero as its internal electronics got fried. Likewise, the cameras were destroyed; their circuity would have to be replaced before they worked again. The elevator's internal circuitry, however, had sufficient shielding that it should be protected.

Fingers crossed.

"Is it a go?" Silver asked. His lanky frame thrummed and he held himself at the ready.

"Go." She gave a quick nod to Branwen, who was watching for the signal.

"You were staring at that woman's butt!" Branwen spun on Disco, punched his upper arm, and stood toe-to-toe with him. She only came to his mid-chest, but the comedic difference in their statures didn't appear to faze Branwen.

"I did not!" Disco acquired a loud Italian accent that Hannah had never heard him use before. "C'mon, baby, you're being paranoid!"

"I am not!" Branwen huffed and flounced. She drew Ursula to her. "Mama, you saw him staring at the hussy's huge butt, didn't you?"

Ursula responded in Russian, but there was no mistaking her undeniably rude tone. Predictably, the altercation attracted the attention of the people in the vicinity. Many stared with lewd curiosity but most moved away... as they were meant to.

With a deft twist of his wrist, Silver produced a tool kit which he rolled open. He made short work of the screws, removed the cover, and started working on the internal control panel. Hannah watched him work with marked admiration. He had long, fine fingers and handled a set of lock picks with the same deftness he brought to a guitar. As a thief, he was fast and efficient; although not as competent as Hannah. On the first couple of jobs they'd worked as a team, it'd rattled Hannah's nerves over having to accept the loss of control. Given time, and the opportunity to make adjustments, she'd learned they were stronger as a team than she was alone.

The casino was a modern fortress with guards and sophisticated surveillance devices. Based on weeks spent studying the casino's schematics, she understood the elevators to be the weak link in building security... the Death Star's thermal exhaust port, so to speak.

"I'm almost ready," Silver said, talking around the small flashlight between his molars while he spliced the internal wiring.

"All right." Hannah hit the kill switch on the electromagnetic pulse generator. She dug a new smartphone and the other electronic devices they needed out of the EMP-shielded bag she'd stowed inside her purse.

Still talking like a young Robert De Niro, Disco said to Branwen, "Yeah? Well maybe if you put some meat on your skinny butt, I wouldn't have to look at other women—"

A sharp slap rang out. Ursula cursed Disco out while Branwen shrieked.

Hannah smiled and Oz chuckled. Disco and Branwen sounded like they were having a blast—definitely enjoying their roles. Her earlier guilt eased.

"They're overplaying it," Silver mumbled around the flashlight. He tilted his head, sending a cascade of long, straight black hair over his shoulders. Her fingers twitched, and she had to fight the temptation to stroke the glossy locks.

"Maybe a bit." Hannah plucked the wire cutters from his grasp and passed him the CPU they intended to splice into the system. An attached two-way transmitter would enable her to hack in with her laptop. Once she breached the elevator's rudimentary firewall, she'd have access to the entire building.

"What did you think was gonna happen when you asked those two to pretend to be married?" Oz asked.

Cheyenne's eloquent snort said it all. Hannah shot the werewolf a glance and caught him grinning. Long blond hair hung into his face and past his shoulders. He used it to hide the massive scarring on his throat from where he'd been burned with molten silver. The damage had all but ruined his voice. He hardly ever talked, and when he did, it was painful to hear.

Playing his part in the staged melodrama, Oz leaned out and addressed the bickering couple. "An ass in the hand is worth two in the air."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" Disco swiveled toward the drummer.

"It means, no one cares. Get your asses into this elevator 'cause we're sick of waiting for you!" Oz snapped, and the reprimand became Branwen's launching pad for a whole new round of complaints.

Silver's snicker almost got lost in the ruckus. "I suppose we oughta consider ourselves lucky they didn't decide to impersonate us."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?" Hannah shoved his shoulder. Not hard enough to disrupt his task, but to catch his notice. A tiny tremor of nervousness passed through her. She put the odds at ninety-nine percent that her mate was setting the stage for a joke... but a sliver of doubt remained.

Silver didn't answer immediately. He completed the installation, put away the flashlight, and reattached the metal plate over the control panel. Hannah stowed their tools. To cover their tracks, the band only needed to board the elevator and ride it to their floor. Building security would dispatch the maintenance staff to repair the glitchy cameras... and no one would ever be the wiser.

Not until it was too late, anyway.

"It means..." Silver executed a smooth turn, coming face-to-face with Hannah. They stood almost but not quite the same height. The heat of his breath caressed her face.

"What does it mean?" Rapt, she gazed into his handsome face. As wrong as it sounded, the man was beautiful. Too perfect... like a statue carved by the gods and given life as a divine work of art. It hurt how much she loved him.

Abruptly, Oz and Cheyenne were conspicuously silent. The two men snapped straight into elevator-passenger stance—eyes front and forward—minding their own business.

"No man in his right mind could ever find fault with your perfect angel ass." He brought his arms up and around her, gripping her buttocks through her tight denim jeans.

"If my angel ass is so darn perfect, how come you haven't ever written a song about it?" Hannah strove for an antagonistic tone, but she sounded winded to her own ears. Molten heat pooled in her core. With one touch, Silver rocked her whole world.

"Good point." Silver grinned. "I think I feel a song coming on."