Can't Take the Heat (7 page)

Kari clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing. His father said something unintelligible—which was probably a good thing, as whatever he said was undoubtedly profane—in response. Wes ignored it and headed for his own office around the corner.

Much as he’d wanted to spend the day with Delaney, he could no longer ignore his job as manager of the Barrows empire’s day-to-day operations. God knew what he was going to find on his desk or in his email after almost a week away. His father might be brilliant when it came to dreaming up new ways to turn a profit, but he was lousy at dealing with people.

Once a company got to be this big—with over a thousand employees and twice that many contractors and suppliers—the glad-handing, people-pleasing side of the business started to take precedence over pure profit potential. That wasn’t to say you stopped demanding the best products and performance or gave up driving a hard bargain. It was just you had to do it in a way that made people feel valued rather than bullied or taken advantage of. Sam was mostly only capable of inducing the latter emotions.

Honestly, there were days when Wes marveled at the fact that his father had been able to build such a large, thriving business when he was so difficult to work for. (No one worked
with
Sam. The concept simply wasn’t in the man’s frame of reference.) But Wes had to give credit where it was due, and whatever his father’s character flaws might be, poor business sense wasn’t one of them.

Wes knew the story inside and out, of course. Sam Barrows moved from small-town Idaho to Las Vegas in 1972, planning to make his fortune on the poker circuit. Over the next four years, he managed to sock away a decent nest egg but nowhere near the millions he had in mind. On a whim, he bought a failing, run-down hotel and casino just off the Strip at auction, and through a series of modest capital investments and what could only be described as marketing genius, turned the enterprise around inside of a year. Two years later, he sold the reinvigorated property and purchased a larger, even more troubled establishment a few blocks away. He turned that one around in short order as well.

After repeating this process several times, he was sitting on a pile of cash big enough to buy the once-storied but by then merely venerable Midas. Alongside the Flamingo and the Tropicana, the Midas had been an institution on the Strip, frequented by Hollywood A-Listers and other high rollers in its heyday. By the late nineties, however, the place had fallen on hard times thanks to a combination of stiffening competition and a too-cozy affiliation with an organized crime boss who wound up in the federal pen on RICO charges. Sam snapped up the property for pennies on the dollar, razed the existing buildings, and built the first Barrows Grand in its place.

Since then, the Grand had undergone two major expansions: one to add the high-rise hotel tower and a second to double the casino and create a small shopping mall populated entirely by retailers of high-end luxury goods: Coach, Jimmy Choo, Rolex. The latter half of that project was Wes’s idea, and its overwhelming success raised his stock in his father’s eyes enough to garner him the post of Chief Operating Officer at the tender age of twenty-seven.

Wes immediately set out to make sure no one in the business could accuse him of having achieved his position through nepotism, although the idea that Sam would give anyone a break out of sentimentality would be ludicrous to anyone who knew the man. But Wes was determined to prove he’d earned it by running the cleanest, tightest ship in town. He began by rehabilitating the Barrows Grand’s reputation for being the worst casino to work for on the Strip. It had taken time, and Wes still had to run interference to keep Sam from losing his temper when a staff member committed a minor screwup, but thanks to the institution of family- and student-friendly work policies, the Barrows Grand now hired away from the competition instead of the other way around.

His next task had been to lure higher quality performers for the resort’s two theater venues. His father had always viewed entertainment as a sideshow—something you did to get asses in the casino door so they’d drop money in the slots. Wes knew that, on this score, at least, Sam’s business genius had failed him. Quality acts supported ticket prices with high profit margins and filled every seat. And the asses that filled those seats still dropped their money in the slots when the show was over. Win/win. At least for the house.

One of the reasons Wes had absolutely had to come in today—aside from the very real possibility that his father had managed to fire half the staff in his absence—was that Aaron Castro, the casino’s primary talent scout, was dropping by to pitch some new acts. At just shy of thirty-five, Castro was obscenely young to have as much influence as he did, but that was because he was also obscenely good at his job. He’d been the driving force behind a slew of Las Vegas’s most successful acts. His ability to turn unknown performers into near household names was unparalleled. When Castro had called two days ago, his had been one of the few messages Wes bothered responding to. Because when Aaron said he had a sure thing and wanted to give Wes and the Barrows first crack at the show…well, Wes knew better than to put him off.

Once in his office, Wes sat down at his desk and tried to decide whether to conquer the stack of paperwork or the blinking light on his telephone first. He didn’t have time to make up his mind.

“So, how’s she doing?” His father leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad, Armani-suited chest. For a man pushing seventy, Sam Barrows still cut an impressive figure.

The gruffly delivered question took Wes by surprise. He raised his eyebrows. “When did you start taking an interest in Delaney’s well-being?”

“Not her I’m worried about.”

There it was again. First his sister, now his dad. Did no one think he was capable of handling his own shit?

Chelsea’s concern was sort of understandable. In the first few months, she’d seen him drinking a bit too much, eating a bit too little, and spending way too many hours at work. But way too many hours at work was exactly what his father wanted. He would have thought Sam would be rooting for a second, even more catastrophic breakup. Was his father turning sentimental in his old age?

“Well, don’t worry. She hasn’t got her memory back, but we both know this situation is temporary.” Which was why it had been so damn hard to leave her this morning. To be entirely honest, if she hadn’t reminded him that she had a nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Fernandez, he might have given in to temptation and blown off his meeting with Aaron. As it was, he’d lingered a half an hour longer than he intended. A quickie was better than nothing.

“I just want to be sure you’re not going to blow off your responsibilities nursing her back to health. This business doesn’t run itself, you know.”

Wes snorted. “So I’ve noticed.” He patted the stack of papers on his desk, most of them undoubtedly invoices, checks, and other documents his father could easily have signed off on.

“Good.” His father turned to leave, hesitated, then turned back around. “Your mother and I are planning our second honeymoon.”

Wes’s mouth fell open. He could not have been more surprised if his father had told him he had decided to sell everything, donate it to charity, and become a Buddhist monk. Maybe Sam really was turning sentimental in his old age.

“We’ll be leaving six months from now,” Sam went on. “On our thirty-fifth anniversary.”

Wes couldn’t stop blinking in disbelief. As far as he could remember, his parents had never even acknowledged their anniversary—no flowers, no presents, no celebration. He was kind of shocked to discover that his father even knew the date. And had his mom and dad even had a first honeymoon? If they had, Wes had never heard a word about it.

Finally, he managed to squeeze out the words, “That’s nice.”

Because it
was
nice. He had just never associated niceness with his father.

“Erm, yes, but that’s not why I brought it up.” Sam cleared his throat. “You see, we’re going to be gone for a year. An around-the-world tour.”

“A year?” Wes echoed.

His father nodded. “So I figured this would be as good a time as any for me to retire. No point in my making you CEO if I’m just gonna take it back in a year.”

Wes was glad he hadn’t stood up, because his head was spinning. “You’re turning the business over to me? For good?”

“Well, technically to you and Chelsea, but I see you in the CEO position and Chelsea as Chief Operating Officer. Unless you’ve got other ideas.”

Wes sat there, simultaneously stunned and exultant. In his wildest dreams, he’d never imagined taking over the company while his father was still alive. And since he had also never believed that Sam would countenance the inconvenience of dying, Wes had pretty much envisioned himself in the passenger seat for the rest of his life.

“I—um—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll get the damn job done and not run what I’ve built into the ground inside of six months.”

Now there was the Sam Barrows Wes knew and loved. The latter part of that thought was almost as big a shock to him as his father’s announcement, but he recognized the truth in it. His father wasn’t an easy man, but he was—mostly—a good one. Yes, he was demanding, judgmental, and prone to occasional petty cruelties, but he was also hardworking, reliable, and never expected more dedication or effort from anyone than he expected of himself.

“You won’t be disappointed, Dad.”

With a curt nod, Sam backed out into the hall. “And if you have any sense, you won’t let that girl get away this time.”

Wes stared at the doorway for a long time after it was empty. Wonders never fucking ceased.

When I pull Wes’s Lexus coupe into the lot at Fusilacci’s, Jett’s blue Honda Odyssey is already parked in a space three slots down. At least a few things haven’t changed in the past three years.

And a few others haven’t changed in twenty.

Fusilacci’s falls into the latter category. Jett and I grew up in the housing division a few blocks from here, and I can’t remember a time when this place wasn’t here. With its faux Leaning Tower of Pisa entry and kitschy interior décor consisting primarily of plastic vines wrapped around cheap redwood trellises, it’s one of the few places in Las Vegas that delivers exactly what its appearance promises—solid but unpretentious Italian comfort food at reasonable prices.

My eyes need a few seconds to adjust to the dim interior, but on a blazing hot day like this, the cool and the dark are welcome. Only a few of the tables are occupied—it’s a little early yet for the lunch rush—and once I can see properly, I quickly locate Jett in our favorite booth in the corner nearest the bar, twirling the stem of a wine glass full of Chianti. Her nearly black hair is shorter than I remember, cut in a stylish bob that makes her big, blue eyes seem even bigger. She waves enthusiastically at me, just in case I haven’t seen her, and I smile back. It’s so odd to know that my last memory of seeing her and her last of seeing me probably bear little resemblance to each other.

I drop my purse onto the red-upholstered bench seat and slide in. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

I’d called her a little over an hour ago from Jessica’s office to ask—no, beg—her to meet me for lunch. After my conversation with my neurologist about my progress, or lack thereof, I needed someone to talk to, and I knew that someone couldn’t be Wes. Not that he’d be available when I got back to the apartment, anyway.

“What did you do with the kids?” Jett and her husband have two girls and a boy. Or, at least, I think they do. She said after her son was born that she was closing up the uterine shop, having successfully provided the requisite male heir, but that was almost five years ago. Maybe she changed her mind and had another one I don’t remember.

“I left them at the neighbor’s house. She has a girl and a boy about the same ages as Lily and Zach.” Lily is Jett’s middle child, but there are only eighteen months between the girls, so I bet the oldest, Violet, is just fine with bossing her younger sister and the neighbor’s daughter around when they play together.

“I hope your neighbor doesn’t mind taking care of them for a few hours.”

Jett waved her hand. “Hell, the kids are over there more than they’re at home these days, anyway. They have a swimming pool. And now, thanks to you, I have this.” She lifts the wine glass from the table and took a sip. “It’s noon, isn’t it?”

“In Montana,” I tease, “but who’s paying attention?”