Neon Prison

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA, 1974
     Jennifer McCormick Thursten felt the strange sensation of being watched.  As if drawn by a magnet, she turned her gaze from glimmering lights and glistening fountains to scan the gridlock in which she sat with her Aunt Margaret McCormick.  The tinted window of a stretch limousine next to them glided down, and a man’s dark, hooked eyes locked onto hers.  Dark eyes possessing a sinister quality, yet softened by lines of kindness and perhaps merriment radiating from the corners.  Eyes that turned her cold, yet lured her in.  Unable to make out the rest of his features behind the partially-opened window, Jennifer smiled her confusion and embarrassment then turned away.                   

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     From the back seat of his limo, Frank Davanti studied the gorgeous woman who stared with a look of wonder at the Costa Brava Hotel and Casino.  His hotel.
     To his surprise, she turned and looked his way.  Her clear, emerald eyes captivated him, and he partially lowered the tinted window to get a better look.  Davanti’s stomach knotted when she smiled briefly before lowering the curtain of her dark lashes and turning away.
     Frank Davanti, toughest of the tough guys, who cast women aside like so many empty bottles of Scotch, felt the seed of a foreign emotion taking root within.
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     Traffic began to move through the intersection at Tropicana and the Strip, and Jennifer lost sight of the man in the limousine.  Intrigued by the odd jumble of emotions coursing through her, she strained to locate his vehicle.  She felt a mixture of relief to be free from the pull of those dark eyes, yet an odd sense of disappointment from a potential opportunity lost.
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     Having spent little time in casinos since her arrival, a month earlier, Jennifer found their strange and intimidating atmosphere rather intriguing.  This twenty-four-hour town with its varied lifestyles did fascinate Jennifer.  Its promise of wealth and power and intrigue beckoned to her “dark side” – that part of the human condition most strive never to acknowledge.
     As she and Margaret stood watching through the glass partition, Jennifer again felt the sensation of being watched.  She turned to find a tall, attractive man studying her.  His full head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair set off a flawless bronze complexion.  Leaning nonchalantly against a pillar at the far end of the room he followed her every movement with familiar, dark eyes.  Where had she seen those eyes?