Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) (14 page)

"What exactly are you doing here?" I asked, turning the focus back on him.

He shook his head. "It's an official capacity."

"I thought you were off the case."

"Of your father's death, yes."

I waited for him to go on, but he just stared at me. Or, more accurately, at my cleavage. "It's kind of low, right?" I admitted.

He blinked his eyes up to meet mine. "What?"

"The neckline. I know it's too low, but it's not my dress. See, I'm just borrowing it. I don't normally dress like this," I said, tugging my hemline again.

I watched Ryder's Adam's apple bob up and down. "You should. You look…" he paused, his eyes sliding to my hemline. "…great."

I felt my face flush, but before I could respond, Tate—clearly losing interest in the heterosexual Ryder—was grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stage again.

"Look, fresh meat!" he cried, pointing to a new crop of dancers on stage.

I glanced back over my shoulder, but Ryder was gone, melting into the crowd and taking off on whatever "official" business had brought him here in the first place.

"Oh-em-gee, I'm in love," Tate squealed.

I turned my attention back to the new beefcakes gyrating and grinding to the beat of the pulsing music. My gaze narrowed on the lead dancer's features, a spark of recognition filtering into my foggy brain.

I pushed my way closer to the stage, as he stripped to his G-string, and waited for him to stop shaking his booty. When he turned around, I suddenly knew exactly who he was.

The elusive Mr. Price, in the flesh.

CHAPTER TWELVE

"That's the guy I've been looking for!" I yelled.

"Me, too. He's delish, right?" Tate said, punctuating the statement with a war-whoop holler.

"No. I mean, yes, he's delish. But that's not what I meant. I know him." I pointed my finger in Mr. Price's direction. Then I pulled Tate's head down toward me and spoke directly into his ear. "He was using the name of Mr. Price at the Royal Palace and promised one of our high rollers an exclusive high-stakes game."

"Oh." Tate's eyes got big as the light bulb of recognition went off. "Ohmigosh, Mr. Carvell? This is the guy who stole his cash?"

Nodding, I looked around suspiciously. Like anyone could hear or even cared. Every eye was focused on the dancers. "Maybe. I mean, he's definitely the guy who was setting up the fake game. Whether or not he stole the money..." I trailed off shrugging.

"Maybe he just likes to play poker in his spare time?" Tate said, obviously reluctant to think anything bad about Mr. Hottie.

I flung my hand toward Mr. Price. "That guy was dressed way above his Chippendale dancer pay grade. Armani, Tate, and not the stuff you get at the mall."

"You saw him?"

"I saw him on camera. I spent a mind numbing afternoon going through footage to find the guy our customer said met him at the tables."

Tate's nose scrunched again. "What took so long? I thought we had facial recognition software."

"Oh, we do. That was just something that slipped Alfie's mind," I muttered sarcastically. "Anyway, the guy up there was posing as a high roller with private game connections. My guess is he's working for someone else. His job is to get the target to order in a large amount of cash so someone with access to the rooms can clean out the safe before the supposed poker game."

Tate's lips pursed, and he ran his finger and thumb over an imaginary mustache, deep in thought. "Who would have access to the rooms except..." He paused, then shook his head violently from side to side. "No way. You don't think a casino employee is involved, do you?"

I took a deep breath. "Yeah, I do." I hated saying it out loud, but there it was. As Tate said, who else would have access?

"Honey, I honestly can't imagine any of our employees getting involved in something like that."

As much as I didn't want to imagine it, Alfie had almost confirmed as much. "That's why we have to go talk to him." I gestured toward Mr. Price again. "We need to find out who he's working with."

Tate's eyes lit up like Christmas. "Does that mean we get to go backstage?" he asked, bouncing back and forth from one foot to the other, frantically shaking his hands.

I nodded. "I think we need to." Though I was having a hard time getting as giddy about it as Tate. Hot guys in thongs on stage was one thing. In person, I had a feeling things were a lot less glamorous and a lot more embarrassing.   

The song ended and the men filed off stage, Mr. Price leading the way, as new dancers marched on from the other side.

"Now's our chance," I said, nudging Tate.

I barely had the words out before Tate was knocking people out of our way and clearing a path for us.

The backstage door was partly opened, a guy in a black "Security" T-shirt standing near it. Luckily for us, his attention was engaged with a cute little blonde who was currently trying to suck his lips off his face. As the blonde jumped into the guy's arms, straddling his waist, I grabbed Tate's hand and yanked him through the door with me.

Men of all shapes and sizes milled about the open aisles in various stages of undress. I felt my cheeks go warm, resisting the urge to cover my eyes with both hands.

Lighted vanities stocked with makeup lined the walls, racks of clothing filling the center of the room. A few guys with clipboards barked orders as they made their rounds, while a few others dug through the racks and handed out clothing.

I grabbed a rainbow colored G-string from one of the racks, trying to blend in as wardrobe. Tate followed my lead, picking up an abandoned clipboard. Together we roved the room, searching among the faces of the dozens of dancers for Mr. Price. Or, more accurately,
I
searched faces. Tate was having a hard time keeping his eyes above waist-level.

Though I wasn't sure either of us was having a tremendous amount of luck. In the fluorescent lighting and crush of nearly-nude bodies, all the guys blended together. Without the stage spotlight directing my attention to Mr. Price, I was having a hard time picking him out of the crowd.

"Hey, honey, you new?" I heard a voice behind me.

I spun to find a huge, six-foot-four guy in teeny, tiny hot pants standing behind me. Very close behind me.

Instinctively I took a step back.

"Uh, yeah. New."

"Daaaaamn," he said, drawing the word out as his eyes roved my dress from low neckline to high hemline in a way that suddenly made me feel like I needed a shower. "You dress mighty fine for a wardrobe girl."

"Yeah, well, we're upgrading," I mumbled, my eyes darting left and right for Tate. Unfortunately, he was lost in the racks and naked men.

"Oh, that's the kind of upgrade I like," the guy said, taking a step closer.

I tried to take another back, but came up against the wall, suddenly feeling nervous as the Neanderthal closed what little gap existed between us.

I cleared my throat. "Uh, look, I'm just looking for a dancer—"

"You got one, honey," he said, cutting me off.

"No, I mean a specific dancer. He was just on stage?"

Neanderthal's sacchariny sweet smile broadened into a positively lewd leer. "Baby, trust me. When I get done with you, you won't want anyone but me."

I swallowed a lump of fear and revulsion as he pressed himself against me. I was just about to scream bloody murder—not that I had much hope of being heard over the pulsing music from the stage, when a shiny piece of metal slid between us, grazing the guy's throat.

Tate's shaky voice barked, "Let her go, or I will end you."

Neanderthal froze, then took a step back, putting distance between us again.

"That's better," Tate said, his voice cracking only slightly.

The dancer's eyes shot from Tate to what I now noticed was a straight razor right out of a 50's movie. "Dude, I didn't know she was yours." He put his hands up in a surrender motion.

Our little altercation had caught the attention of another dancer, one I recognized as dancing backup to Mr. Price. He was smaller than Neanderthal, but tanner and more toned, wearing a pair of black, tear-away pants and a bowtie at his neck.

"You getting your ass handed to you again, Damien?" the guy asked, a teasing tone in his voice.

Damien grunted, a scowl marring his features. "You're not my type, anyway," he spat in my direction before turning away.

"Yeah, right," the tan guy said. "Anything with a pulse and a pair of tits is your type," he joked. Then he shot me a wink before making his way to a vanity in the center of the room.

I let out a sigh of relief so deep it ruffled my hair. I saw Tate do a mirror image of it.

"You okay, honey?" he asked, his voice as shaky as my legs felt now that the rush of adrenaline was fading.

I nodded. "This dress is dangerous. It's totally going back in the morning."

Tate nodded. "Agreed."

"But, thanks," I told him. "My hero."

He laughed, shaking his own adrenaline rush out of his system as he slipped the razor back into his pants pocket.

I gestured to it. "Since when do you carry a razor?"

Tate grinned. "Hey, a boy's got to have protection. I got it when
Grease
came to town. Cute souvenir and scary accessory all in one."

I couldn't help grinning back. "Only you would carry a weapon from a musical." We giggled together, working the last of the nerves out of our systems.

I glanced over to the vanity in the center of the room where Tan Man was applying one last coat of bronzer to his chest before taking the stage again. "We should go thank him, too."

Tate followed me to the table where I extended my hand toward the guy. "Thanks for having our backs," I said.

"Hey, no sweat," he said, wiping the bronzer on a towel before shaking my hand. "Damien's a dick. You've got to watch out for guys like him. I'm pretty sure he's just trying to make up for a pocket pinkie." He punctuated his statement with a smile and a wink.

Then he looked past me, and his smile widened. "Who's your friend?"

"This is Tate." I waved over my shoulder.

Tan Man practically nudged me out of the way to take Tate's hand in his. "Well, hello Tate. I'm Michael James." He raised Tate's knuckles to his lips in a soft kiss. Their gazes met, and I'm pretty sure Tate almost fainted, his lashes fluttering faster than hummingbird wings.

"Hi," Tate squeaked while fanning himself with his free hand.

"Do you have a last name, Tate?"

"Um, yes." His eyes widened, and the fanning became frantic.

"And it is?"

"Uh..."

"Lopez," I supplied for my friend, whose hormones had obviously caused a short circuit between his brain and lips.

"Yes! That's my name." The fanning stopped, but his head kept bobbing his acknowledgement.

I stifled a laugh at his
smooth
moves. But if Michael noticed, he didn't say anything. Instead he just continued staring at Tate as if he were a brand new toy he just couldn't wait to play with.

"Uh, listen, we're looking for a...friend," I cut into the hook-up moment. "He was dancing the lead in that number you guys just did out there." I gestured toward the stage door.

"Brad?" Michael asked.

"That's him. Our friend Brad," I said, hoping I sounded convincing. "Is he around?"

But Michael shook his head. "He had to skate. Said something about another gig. Must have been late because he left in a big hurry."

"Another dancing job?" I asked, though I feared that "gig" would be portraying Mr. Price somewhere.

"No, he's an actor. He gets bit parts around town and in Reno. We both do."

"You're an actor?" Tate breathed in a seductive voice that could rival Marilyn Monroe any day.

Michael smiled and nodded. "I am. This dancing stuff just pays the bill between gigs. But I've got an audition for a soap in Reno next week."

"Ohmigod, a soap star," Tate said, practically swooning as he gasped air in and out.

"Wait, they film soap operas in Reno?" I couldn't help but ask. It was the nearest big city, but Hollywood it was not.

Michael nodded. "It's a Spanish soap, but the part is great. I play the Latin lover of the lady of the house whose husband is in a coma."

"The Latin lover," Tate breathed heavily, eyes glazing over.

He was going to start hyperventilating at this rate.

"Uh, do you happen to have Brad's phone number?" I asked.

If Michael thought it was odd that Brad's "friend" didn't know his number, he didn't register it, instead soaking up Tate's adoring gaze like a sponge.

"Sorry. Can't help you there. We're not exactly close." He leaned in and stage-whispered to Tate. "He's not really my type. I'm not into the macho-man thing."

If he was looking for anti-macho, you couldn't get more anti- than Tate.

"I don't suppose you have an address, then?" I asked.

Michael shook his head again. "Sorry."

"Uh, one more thing," I asked, grasping for anything that could help me track down "Mr. Price". "Do you know if Brad's going by his real name or his stage name here?"

Michael squinted, looking off in the distance. "Real name, I think. Dunley?"

I made a mental note of it. At the very least, maybe I could bribe someone in human resources at the Deep Blue to look up his contact info. Of course, that would have to wait until the offices opened again tomorrow morning.

A loud noise sounded over the intercom system, followed by a staticky voice announcing, "Top Hat and Tail number on stage in five."

"That's me," Michael said, gesturing to his bow tie. "Hey, you want to watch the number from the wings?"

Tate clapped his hands and nodded so hard his head was in danger of bobbing loose.

"There's a great spot near the curtains that we reserve for
special
friends," Michael crooned.

Tate squealed with excitement.

At what seemed a stalemate for the night, sleep suddenly sounded so much more fun to me than watching more naked men. "I think I'm actually going to call it a night," I said.

Both pairs of eyes turned to me, almost looking surprised to see I was still there.