Hell on Heels (2 page)

“But that was thirty years ago, Tom. Real estate on The Strip has skyrocketed since then. The land alone is probably worth triple that now.”

“I don't get out here much anymore,” Tom said. “Maybe it's time to just sell out. I admit I've thought about it a dozen times over the years and I've had some good offers too. Benny Binion offered for it three times. Don't know why I've held onto it. Maybe it's just foolish nostalgia.”

Ty swallowed hard, as if given a death sentence. He recalled watching the demolitions of the old landmark casinos and shut his eyes on visions of implosions and wrecking balls. He opened them again on a fatal sigh, scrubbed his face, and then took another long swig. Although they were still talking, he couldn't judge by Tom's expression whether he had cause to worry or to celebrate.

“You really think you can turn the operation around?” Tom asked.

“Hell, I don't know,” Ty groaned. “But I wanna try.”

“You really think building an attraction is the answer?”

“Yeah, I do. The life you and I know is a novelty to these folks. I'd like us to offer live entertainment of a kind folks don't expect here in Vegas.”

“Like what?”

“Bulls, Tom.”

“Bulls?”

“Yeah,” Ty said. “Why not? People come from all over to see magicians and those pansy-ass Canadian circus performers. Why not give them some all-American entertainment? America still loves cowboys. The proof is in the pudding on that—the national bull-riding association's making money hand over fist.”

“I thought you wanted out of that game. Wasn't it why you left Oklahoma?” Tom's question was more probing than rhetorical.

“I had a lot of reasons for leaving,” Ty replied. “But I figure some of those aren't as relevant anymore.”

Tom had offered him the job in Vegas when Ty was at an all-time low and desperate to break the cycle that had killed his father, the cycle he'd sworn never to fall into. But he
had
fallen. Deeper and harder than his old man ever had. Given time, his end would have been the same. The change of scenery had been a literal lifeline.

“Didn't say I plan to be the one in the arena,” Ty corrected. “I'm too old and busted up for any more of that shit, but there's plenty of younger guys gunnin' to do it. Vegas holds the bull-riding championships every year, but I'd like to take the whole thing up a notch.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not yet, but I'm exploring some new ideas.”

“Bulls, eh? I like it, Ty. I really do. Fuck the bean counters!” Tom slapped the table. “I'd like to see where you take this. Let's rebuild the place. Make it bigger. Make it better.”

“What did you say?” Ty could hardly believe his ears.

“You heard me right. If we're gonna do it, let's not go about it half-assed. Here's what I'm willing to do.” Ty's heart raced as Tom pulled a bundle of papers from his jacket pocket and penned a figure on the page that nearly made his eyes cross. He'd already done the research and spoken with architects. He knew his big plans required big funding, but Tom was offering far more than he'd asked for. Almost double.

Guilt hit him. Hard. He pushed the papers back across the table.

“It's too damned much, Tom. I can't accept it. Even if it succeeds, you'll never come close to the kind of return you'd get investing this in the shale fields.”

“Who says I need it? I've already got more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes.” Tom raised his glass, his gray eyes twinkling. “Every decision doesn't have to be about big gains, Ty. Hell, even ranching makes a damn fine business . . . when you have a few dozen oil wells.” He clapped Ty on the back with a chuckle. “C'mon, partner. Let's raze the damned nightmare and build a dream.”

“T
he letter of intent has been drafted and copies have been provided for your approval.”

The occupants of the room simultaneously opened the embossed folders they held. Monica glanced up from behind the mountain of neatly stacked financial reports and darted her gaze over the faces of the paunchy, middle-aged venture capitalists seated around the conference table. None of them would bat an eye at dropping millions into any blind pool investment proposed by Evan Hirschfeld Davis III.

“As to prospects”—Evan's eyes gleamed—“there are several properties on the Jersey Shore that never recovered from Hurricane Sandy. They can be had for pennies on the dollar, gentlemen. If we act quickly, we can
Trump
any other potential bids.”

Monica internally rolled her eyes at the bad pun, but all the men chuckled.

Evan was nearly salivating at the prospect of snapping up another floundering company. Even now, he was probably sporting a semi. Evan's passion always manifested itself far more in the boardroom than in the bedroom. Any new acquisition, especially a hostile takeover, always excited him sexually. Fortunately, Evan bought, sold, merged, or dismantled companies with sufficient frequency to satisfy the few opportunities Monica took to indulge her libido.

Work occupied most of their waking hours anyway. It was a decent match, all things considered. Although they weren't exactly lighting the mattress on fire, sex and intimacy weren't high priorities for either of them. Success was—and Evan lived, breathed, and bred success.

Evan continued to address the potential investors. “We only need to come to a decision on the proportion of cash, stocks, and bonds that will be utilized to fund this venture—”

A soft knock sounded on the door. Delores crept into the boardroom with a wince. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Davis, but there's an important call for Ms. Brandt.”

Monica glanced across the table at Evan who speared her assistant with a deadly look. The interruption had come in the middle of a make-or-break-a-career kind of deal.

Evan glowered, his gaze black and cold as onyx, his displeasure palpable. “I thought I gave clear instructions to
hold
all calls,” he replied, tight-lipped.

Delores's throat visibly worked as she swallowed. “They said it's an emergency.”

“It had
better
be,” Evan retorted.

Absolutely nothing superseded business in Evan's world—especially a deal of this magnitude. Even Monica's status as his fiancée wouldn't insulate her from his wrath. Although he'd been her mentor, and his sponsorship had provided her entrée to the investment banking team, their personal relationship always evaporated the moment they crossed the threshold of the boardroom.

Monica murmured a prayer under her breath and then faced the cadre of corporate moguls with an apologetic smile. “Please excuse me for just a moment, gentlemen. This won't delay a thing. Michael will review the financial details in my place.”

Michael paled. “Certainly, Ms. Brandt,” he replied in a voice that sounded half an octave higher than normal.

Everything was already there in black and white. They'd covered all the details prior to the meeting. All he really had to do was parrot what they'd reviewed. She wondered dryly if he'd manage without squawking.

She crossed the boardroom with impatient purpose, the furious tap of her stiletto heels muffled in the thick, handmade, imported Persian rug. The moment the door clicked behind her, she spun on Delores. “Whatever the
hell
you pulled me out of that meeting for had better be worth risking both of our jobs for. Evan was pissed. He's canned people for less.”

Delores's eyes widened. “I'm so sorry, but what else could I do? It's your father, Ms. Brandt. He's in the hospital.”

“My father?” Monica reached across the desk to snatch up the phone receiver. “Which line?” she asked, frowning at the panel of blinking lights. She then looked toward the boardroom, chewing her lip. A second later, she dropped the handset back down. “I need to take this in private anyway. Please transfer it to my office, okay?” Flinging the command over her shoulder, she headed briskly down the hall.

The phone was already buzzing by the time she hit the threshold to her office. Flinging the door shut, she rushed to answer. Although she tried to keep her cool, her hands trembled. “This is Monica Brandt.”

“Ms. Brandt? I'm calling from Desert Springs Medical Center. I'm so glad we've finally tracked you down—”

“I'm sorry. I was in an important meeting and had my cell turned off. What is it? What's happened to my father?”

“Just one moment, please. I've paged the neurology resident. He'll speak with you shortly.”

“Neurology? Oh God!” Monica's hand flew to her mouth. “Did Tom forget to take his blood-pressure medication again?”

“I'm sorry, but I'm just the unit clerk. I can't answer any clinical questions.”

“Then for God's sake's put someone on who can!”

“
Excuse me?
I understand your concern, but there's no need to bite my head off—”

“Is
your
father in the hospital?”

“No.”

“Has your father
been
in the hospital?”

“No.”

“Then you can't possibly understand,” Monica bit back. “Get me the doctor.”

“I've paged him for you. That's all I can do.”

For precisely seven minutes and thirty-three seconds Monica was punished with the ear-bleeding torture of Barbara Streisand's
Memory
and Neil Diamond's
September Morn
before a new voice jarred into her Muzak-induced coma.

“Ms. Brandt? This is Dr. Chen. Our records show that you are Thomas Brandt's health-care surrogate?”

“Yes.” She swallowed the lump lodged in her throat. “I'm also his daughter. What's happened to him?”

“I regret to inform you that he's had a cerebrovascular accident and is currently under close neurological observation in our critical-care unit.”

“Oh God! A stroke? How bad is it?”

“It was hemorrhagic. That means he had some bleeding inside his brain. We've stabilized his intracranial pressure, but it may be some days and several tests before we can make an accurate prognosis. Of course we'll need to consult with you regarding his follow-up care. In the meantime, there are a number of forms we need you to sign.”

“Of course,” she whispered. “You can fax them here to my office, but I intend to handle anything else in person. I'll be there on the next flight.”

Slamming the phone down, she hit the intercom. “Delores, I need you to get me on the first plane to Las Vegas. I don't care which airport I fly out of, just get me there tonight.”

“Right, Ms. Brandt. I'm on it.”

Monica slid her laptop into its case and began packing up her things.

“What the hell was that disappearing act all about?” She looked up to find Evan shadowing her doorway. “There's a big fucking deal on the line here, Monica. I need people I can count on. Are you on ‘Team Evan' or not?”

“Of course I am, but I have a family emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

“My father's had a stroke.”

“If only
I
was so lucky,” he replied dryly. “Don't look so censorious, Mon. You know I despise my father, the controlling son of a bitch. So what's the news about . . . ?” He waved his hand vaguely as if searching his memory.

“Tom?” Monica supplied, annoyed as hell that he couldn't recall her father's first name. They'd even had dinner together once. Tom had surprised her by flying all the way from Oklahoma to celebrate with her when she'd landed her current job at Hirschfeld & Davis. Tom was always thoughtful like that. Her mother, on the other hand, rarely even remembered her birthday.

“Not good,” she answered. “I need to go out to Las Vegas for a while, but Michael can handle all the preliminaries in my absence.”

“The hell he can! You think I'm going to let a clueless associate handle a hundred-million-dollar deal?”

“He's not clueless, just intimidated by you. And I didn't say I was handing it off to him completely. There's no reason I can't take care of things remotely. All I need is an Internet connection. I'm going to Nevada, not Mars.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I'm not sure yet.” Monica scanned the stacks of folders on her desk, wondering what she should pack, but the billions in pending deals sitting there suddenly meant nothing. “A few days,” she replied absently. “Maybe a week or two. I won't really know until I get there.”

“Ms. Brandt?” Delores's voice interrupted.

Monica punched the intercom. “Yes? Did you get me a flight?”

“The last one out tonight departs from LaGuardia at seven-fifteen.”

Monica drew back her sleeve to check her watch.
Shit.
It was almost five. Even if she left straight from the office, there was no way in hell she'd ever get through the midtown rush hour in time. “When's the next one?”

“Six-fifteen tomorrow morning out of Kennedy.”

“Put me on it. And please hire a limo while you're at it. I'll need one to Kennedy and another in Vegas when I arrive. Could you also call the hospital to let them know I want to meet with the neurologist as soon as I get there?”

“Absolutely. Will do, Ms. Brandt.”

Evan strolled over and perched his hip on her desk. “If you can hold off a couple of days, I'll clear my schedule and fly you out on the Gulf Stream. I'm overdue for a visit to Vegas. Besides, it's been way too long since we've had any
quality time
together.”

Quality time
was Evan's euphemism for sex.

Monica frowned. “This is hardly a pleasure trip, Evan.”

“Maybe not. But we can still take advantage, can't we? If I spend a day or two scouting out investment opportunities we can write the whole thing off as business.”

Her frown deepened. “I can't believe you. My father could be dying, and you're talking about sex and tax deductions? Don't you have
any
sensitivity?”

“Sure I do, and it's all right here waiting for that pretty mouth of yours.” His thumb stroking slowly over her lips told her exactly what he wanted. “Make it good for me, Mon,” he murmured darkly, “and I'll make it just as good for you.”

“Don't you get it, Evan?” She jerked away. “I'm not in the mood.”

He exhaled a curse. “For Christ's sake, Monica, it's not like he
raised
you.”

“Maybe not, but he's still my father!”

“Fine. I understand, but you're not leaving until the morning. You can't do anything for him, so why not take care of me? C'mon, I need you, Mon. Now, baby.”

“Why does everything always have to be about
you
? The entire world doesn't revolve on your command.”

He smirked. “Maybe not the
entire
world, but certainly this corner of it. You'd do well to remember that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You've got a damned nice setup here, Ms. Brandt.” He cast a slow, appraising gaze over her office before it landed back on her. “Great job . . . expensive office . . .”

Her stomach knotted. “Where are you going with this?”

“I'm just saying a little more
appreciation
wouldn't be out of order.”

“I don't like your insinuation. You didn't
give
me any of this. I
earned
it.”

He came around the desk, cornering her in her chair. “Is that what you think? Think again, sweetheart.” His lips curved into a humorless smile. “Evan giveth, and Evan can just as easily taketh away.”

His words gave her a sudden chill. “Is that some kind of threat?”

Did she even know this man? She'd seen his ruthlessness in business, and now, for the second time in their relationship, he'd revealed a darker, controlling, and manipulative side that made her increasingly uncomfortable.

“Not at all,” he replied mildly. “I'm simply reminding you that nothing worthwhile in this world comes for free. You've been around long enough to know that. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, and all that.... But it's not my back that's itching. So tell you what, Mon, I'll make this whole thing real simple. You take care of me and I'll take care of you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Blow me and I'll let you take my plane to Vegas. One call and you fly out tonight. You see how neat that is?” He flashed a smug smile. “We each get what we want. Problem solved.”

She weighed his offer—ten minutes on her knees in exchange for a flight on a private jet. She could be by her father's side in a matter of hours. It did seem simple on the surface. It wasn't as if she'd never given Evan head before, and she even had his ring on her finger. But on deeper examination, the whole thing felt far too much like emotional extortion.

She studied his face, wondering what other surprises lurked beneath the surface. “What if I refuse?”

He shook his head slowly, a deep frown furrowing his brow. “Now, why the fuck would you want to do that? I asked you nicely, Monica. I even offered you an equitable trade. Now you'll do it because I told you to.”

“
Excuse me
?” Monica gaped as if she regarded a stranger. “I'm not some whore at your beck and call, Evan. And I refuse to be treated like one.” Her hands shook uncontrollably as she wrenched the five-carat Cartier solitaire off her finger and set it on the desk between them.