Lucky Bastard (13 page)

“Someone was watching her, I know that.” Dane glanced at me as if trying to see if I was buying it or not, then he refocused on his beer.

“Who?”

“She didn’t say.”

I grabbed his knee and spun him around. Face to face, I leaned in. “Don’t play me, Cowboy. I didn’t ask you what she said; I asked you what you know. I’m five seconds from walking.”

“Okay, okay.” He rested a hand on my knee, as if anchoring me to my stool. “I don’t know who exactly was watching her. Several of the players in the game showed more than even the normal amount of interest my wife generally drew, but nothing that seemed odd. Everyone seemed pretty focused.”

“With those guys, it’s about the chase,” I said, thinking out loud. “Winning is everything. There is no such thing as enough. The games they play when the stakes are high are subtle, but very serious. And the Poker Room manager, did she mention him?”

Dane thought for a moment. “Not that I recall. Why?”

“I just find it odd, that, with all his years of experience, he didn’t figure out she was cheating. After that much time, you just develop a sort of sixth sense, you know?”

Dane shrugged. So he knew she had been cheating…“She was slick.”

“Maybe the manager wasn’t that smart, but if anyone else knew…” I let the thought dangle. Vegas was a boat riding on a river of money. Anyone messing with the flow was a marked man…or woman. One possible motive, and a tableful of “persons of interest.” “You told Romeo that she called you during the game, but we both know that isn’t true. Why’d you call her?”

“I wanted her out of there. I could tell the noose was tightening—someone was onto her.” His voice cracked. Swallowing hard, he cleared his throat.

“Saving damsels in distress is your thing, isn’t it?” Dane had run to my defense a time or two so I knew the drill. “But she didn’t want to be rescued.”

“No, she was pissed.” His brows snapped down. “Damned independent women.”

“Excuse me?”

He shrugged, but didn’t meet my angry gaze. Nor did he look sorry.

“You two left the Poker Room together. It’s not too big an assumption to believe you stayed together, but that would make you the killer. You say no. So, what’s your story? Lead me through it.”

Dane worked his shoulders, stretching. “I’m a fool.” I detected a hint of defeat in his voice, but I wasn’t about to argue—I happened to agree with his assessment. “Once we were out of sight of the Poker Room, she…” Again he rubbed his cheek and winced. “Like I said, she was pissed. Said we should split up. She didn’t want anyone to see us together and it would give me a chance to see if anyone followed her.”

That sounded reasonable…I guess, since I’m such an expert in this arena and all. I nodded for him to continue.

“We were to double back and meet in Delilah’s. She promised she would lay the whole thing out for me.” His eyes narrowed and his face shut down. “Guess she had no intention, really. She didn’t show.”

“So how’d you end up in the dealership?” I took another sip of my champagne—much better bubbles.

“I really was on my way to the garage—my truck is still there if you want to check. I saw the dealership door ajar and the rest is history.”

“Not quite—there are some giant holes in the story. You didn’t smell a rat?”

He shook his head.

“Bad time to be wrong.” I resisted diving in for more nuts—Champagne with anything other than beluga was like a crime against the god of good taste or something. No need to add my name to the shit list of another minor deity—I was on enough of those lists already. “Did she clue you in to her need to detour through the dealership?”

“She was pretty good at keeping me in the dark.”

“A skill you seemed to have picked up,” I said as I sipped my bubbly and eyed him over the top of the glass. “Do you have any idea why she would go there?”

“None.”

I let the silence stretch between us. “The cameras in the hallway leading to the front door of the dealership weren’t any help—they were blocked.”

“Yeah. I saw the sign.” He moved to get Sean’s attention then apparently thought better of it—I guess five was his lucky number. I did
not
smile at the pun.

“Do you have any idea how she got in? Did someone let her in?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Doubtful.”

“I’ve told you all I know.” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “Trust me.”

“Said the spider to the fly. Where men are concerned, trust isn’t good for my health.” I finished the flute of Champagne and poured the rest of the contents of the bottle into my glass, before I spoke again. “Did you see anything odd? Anyone hanging around looking nervous?”

“Odd? In this loony bin?”

My patience at an end, I leveled what I thought was my best stern gaze on him. “Anything that looked…I don’t know…wrong?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head.

“And you didn’t show up on any of the security feeds after you and Sylvie split up. Where’d you go?”

“I doubled back. I wanted to see if anyone followed her.”

“So why did you avoid the security cameras? That looks a bit suspicious, don’t you think?”

“I wasn’t avoiding them, it just looks that way.” Dane took a deep breath and looked at me, conjuring his most sincere look. “Lucky, it all looks bad, but I’m telling you the truth. You have to believe me.” His eyes skittered from mine as he hailed the bartender. “Sean, what do I owe you?” he asked as he reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

Sean glanced at me and I shook my head. “It’s on the house,” he answered.

Dane backed off the stool, then pulled a hundred out of his wallet and tossed it on the bar. “This ought to cover it.” Then he turned to me. “If you find out anything, you let me know.”

“You didn’t seem surprised she was cheating. You wouldn’t happen to know why she was also losing, would you?”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine and widened in surprise. The most amazing color of green, those eyes were his best feature—emerald whirlpools that captured the weak and unsuspecting. Conscious effort was the only thing keeping me from surrendering my sanity and succumbing to the pull.

Leaning back, putting a few more inches of distance between us, I nodded in answer to the question I saw lurking in his expression.

“She busted out,” he said. A statement, not a question.

“Curious, isn’t it?” I knew I’d never keep the sarcasm out of that simple statement, so I didn’t waste the effort.

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Amazingly, that much I’d figured out all by myself. Do you have any idea why she would cheat, then not win?”

“Something scared her? It was part of a bigger plan?” He rubbed his eyes and for a moment he let his mask slip and I saw the toll all of this was taking. Not that I felt pity, but I’d be lying if I said his pain didn’t squeeze my heart a tiny bit. “How the hell do I know?” He made it sound like an epithet as his shoulders drooped in defeat.

“Go home, Cowboy.” I picked up his Ben Franklin from the bar and stuffed it in his shirt pocket, then patted his chest. “This mess will be waiting for us tomorrow. Maybe a new day will bring a fresh perspective.” In my experience, that was rarely the case, but a little ray of hope is a powerful thing.

Taking my hand from his chest, he raised it to his lips—his skin was cold. With a sardonic grin, he let my hand go.

I watched Dane saunter away—he really did have a Grade-A ass. Too bad he
was
one as well. Even though he hadn’t answered my questions, he’d shown a few of the cards he was holding. He hadn’t told me about the necklace…or the shoes. He hadn’t explained dodging the security cameras—a skill we all had—at least not to my satisfaction. Although he acted surprised, he hadn’t asked how I knew Sylvie had been cheating or how she had done it. Yup, there was a lot he hadn’t shared. But he had told me one thing loud and clear—we weren’t partners. Like a TV cop working his snitch, Dane wanted to keep me close, letting me do his work for him.

He might think me a fool, but he had met his match. Coming up through the casino ranks, I’d cut my teeth on inveterate liars, cheats, cardsharps, and other vermin. Compared to them, Dane was a piker.

“Did he kill her?” Sean’s voice at my elbow startled me out of my reverie, which was a good thing as my thoughts had done a one-eighty toward committing a murder rather than trying to solve one.

“If he did, he’s dead meat.”

The intoxicating aromas of beef cooking over charcoal, of onions glazing in a buttery skillet, hit me halfway through the Bazaar. Salivating in earnest now, I walked faster, unsure as to which I wanted first—a juicy hamburger or a juicy chef. It was a toss-up. I doubted the order would matter significantly, so I surrendered myself to anticipation.

But, before I fully relinquished myself, I put in a quick call to Jeremy. Reading from the napkin on which Dane had scrawled Sylvie’s number, I recited it to him, then double-checked it as he read it back. “Can you find out who she called and who called her?”

“No worries.”

“Wow, really? That easy?”

“I know people you don’t want to know.”

“You won’t get any argument. Thanks.” I terminated the call and reholstered the phone. If only all my problems were that easy to solve. But they weren’t. And if I was going to be of use to anybody, the hunger beast needed to be feed.

Working in the hermetically sealed environment of a top casino where nary a window or clock could be found, I’d developed other ways to keep track of time. One of them was watching the crowd. Judging by the thickening flow of humanity, older couples dressed for the evening strolling hand in hand, pausing occasionally to drool over the extravagant offerings in the shop windows, and the younger crowd, sunburned and still in pool attire, I guessed afternoon had segued into the refreshment hour.

Even though each day in Vegas seemed to be a random walk through alcohol-fueled chaos, it actually had a subtle regularity to it. The older crowd generally dined early, then hit a show, and were tucked in before the younger crowd had even decided what to wear. Nightclubs didn’t open until ten thirty or eleven—the cool folks wouldn’t show until well after midnight. The morning lull gave all of us time to recover, restore, and rejuvenate—in theory. For me, it was just enough time to catch my breath, and perhaps a couple of winks, if luck was running my way, which wasn’t the normal flow. Even though I kept hiring assistants, the load kept growing, overtaking any free time into which I could fit a life.

Of course, recent history had me rethinking the whole having a life thing—it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

The short line in front of the Burger Palais told me my guess as to the time wasn’t too far off. Guests occupied over half the tables—the place would be packed in an hour with a line out the door. Apparently hamburger joints and reservations didn’t go together—at least according to the gospel of Jean-Charles Bouclet. He felt a line of anxious diners and a reasonable wait fueled demand. By all appearances, he knew what he was talking about, so who was I to quibble? I hated lines. What was it Yogi Berra said? The place was so crowded nobody went there anymore. I so got that. Apparently I was in the minority.

A beckoning combination of rough-hewn wooden floors, mortared brick walls, brass sconces, tables draped with checkered cloth, the restaurant reflected the refinement of its proprietor tempered with his sense of fun. A bar, hand-carved of the finest wood in Scotland and imported piece by piece, curved from the right-hand wall. Bottles lined the shelves—Jean-Charles preferred quality rather than quantity at each price point. Something for everyone, he said, but not so many to choose from that the choice became daunting. A glass wall ran the length of the dining space opposite the bar. Behind the glass, Jean-Charles and his staff toiled in a carefully choreographed dance. Tonight, the proprietor worked the stove while barking orders. I sifted through the early dinner crowd already gathering at the entrance. With a nod and a knowing smile, the hostess stepped out of my way as I breezed by her. Halfway down the far wall, I made a left turn into the kitchen and entered another world.

Steamy and laden with temptation, the air was at least ten degrees warmer. Like a kid timing her entry into a turning jump rope, I watched for a moment then eased into the dance of waiters, prep cooks, and chefs. His back to me, Jean-Charles didn’t notice as I stepped in behind him. His soft brown hair, which he wore a trifle too long, curled from under his toque and feathered over his collar. My hand on his shoulder, I leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tiny square of exposed skin under his right ear. He tasted like hamburgers, go figure.

Jean-Charles didn’t turn. Instead, he reached up, took my hand in his, held it to his lips, then murmured, “Ah, Lucky, my love. My day is now complete.”

His touch jump-started my pulse, which now raced to a staccato beat. “And I thought I was so sneaky. How’d you know?”

“Your Chanel No. 5. And you are the only woman in my life who has that subtle, special
je ne sais quoi
.”

I wanted to ask him if I was the only woman in his life, but he would have found the question odd. As a Frenchman, he failed to understand the peculiar insecurities of American females—our preoccupation with the future to the detriment of the now. Besides, I still wasn’t a 100 percent sure whether I wanted to be the only woman in his life—that would come with expectations. The kind of expectations I sucked at.

He let go of my hand as he continued working the grill. How he kept all the orders straight, cooked all of them to the temperature requested, and melted my heart, I hadn’t a clue.

Rinaldo, the only other human on the planet Jean-Charles would trust at the grill unsupervised, stepped in to flank his boss on the side opposite me. A large man with a round face, sparkling dark eyes, and an easy smile, he gave me a wink as he said, “Boss, why don’t you take a break?”

With a nod, Jean-Charles handed him a spatula and began rattling off the details of the orders he was working on. Of course, all of it was displayed on a computer screen embedded in the backsplash.

“No worries. I got it, boss.” Rinaldo eased into position, effectively moving my Frenchman out, and the dance continued with nary a step lost.

“Come.” Jean-Charles placed a hand in the small of my back and guided me toward the door to the restaurant. “I have a wonderful Viognier on ice. Crisp and refreshing, it is from the Willamette Valley. You will tell me what you think, yes? But, you will like it.”

Once he had me installed at the bar, Jean-Charles moved behind the counter. Tall and trim, with robin’s-egg blue eyes, and high cheekbones bracketing a square jaw that lent an air of ruggedness to his face, Jean-Charles was not what he seemed. A pompous prima donna in public, he played the roll of the chef from Central Casting ready for his eponymous show on the Food Network. But, when the klieg light of public performance dimmed, the camera eye of public opinion blinked out, he let a few of us see behind the façade, to the private man underneath. A kind, driven man who loved his son, he would forever carry the scars of losing his wife to a dissected artery shredded during childbirth.

A sum total of our previous experiences, we all had our baggage, I guess. And life is simply the process of repacking, then unpacking, and repacking again until our baggage could fit easily into the overhead. Jean-Charles seemed to have folded everything neatly into a small carry-on. Time would tell. And, of course, I needed time to discard a particularly hurtful bit of excess baggage—a crooner who preferred the adulation of strangers to the love of a good woman. Yeah, right now my baggage would need a stateroom of its own.

Not a great time to start a new relationship. I knew that, but… throwing caution to the wind is another one of my best things. Foolhardy, my mother used to say, but she was just being nice. Stupid beyond belief would be more accurate, if you ask me. But, thankfully, nobody ever did. They just picked me up, brushed me off, and sent me into the fray one more time. Perhaps just once I’d get it right. Of course, once was all it took.

With the slight frown of concentration, Jean-Charles reached for a glass, setting it in front of me. Next he pulled a bottle out of the ice bucket, wiped it down, then, with practiced ease, popped the cork. His fingers cradled the bottle, his thumb stuck in the indentation in the bottom. With appropriate reverence, as if making an offering to the gods, he poured me a healthy dose of amber liquid. His eyes held mine for a moment—the warmth there took my breath. “You will like this.”

I swirled the wine, then took a sip. Crisp, fruity, but with a body that would complement even a heavy meal. “A nice addition.”

He nodded then poured himself a glass. As he lifted it to his lips, his eyes met mine over the rim. “Your day, it is nice, yes?”

My day? Reality crashed over me in a towering wave of emotion, fatigue and ravenous hunger.

Clearly I hadn’t hidden my feelings as Jean-Charles’s face clouded with concern. “You will tell me.”

“First, I really need food.”

“Your wish…” With a flourish and an exaggerated dip from the waist, he disappeared toward the kitchen.

Past caring, I drained my glass and poured another as I contemplated my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Curiously my exterior remained unruffled—a perfect contrast to the tumult inside. My nerves were as raw as the meat Jean-Charles threw on the grill. Like a beast tearing his way out, hunger gnawed inside my stomach. A wary, weary look folded the skin around my eyes. Still, with my hair in place, makeup subtly applied, laugh lines ready to bend for a smile, I bore an uncanny resemblance to me—even though I didn’t feel like me at all.

I nursed the second glass of wine as I worked to quiet my thoughts, smooth my ragged nerves. The events of last night and today had left me punchy. I felt disconnected—strangely removed as if I was merely a spectator and not a participant. Disassociation, the ultimate survival skill. My motto: If you can’t figure it out, pretend it doesn’t exist and maybe it will go away. Never happened that way before, but, as Mona warned, there was always a first time. Someday I’d probably lose my tether to reality and sanity would slip away like a balloon drifting toward Heaven.

In the mirror, I watched Jean-Charles weave his way from the kitchen back to me. Balanced on his open palm, he held aloft a platter piled with sliders making me salivate—of course Jean-Charles alone was enough to do that. Several patrons called to him, and he stopped momentarily at each table. With an easy manner and quick smile, he greeted everyone, making new fans and, hopefully, repeat customers. He loved to remind me that, even though he sold a product, his was a service business. I wasn’t a hundred percent convinced, but it was hard to argue with success—and with a string of exclusive eateries in all the major cities of the western world, he was certainly that.

Stepping behind me, he paused to nibble my ear, then slid the platter in front of me and stepped around the bar to replenish my glass. If he noticed I’d refilled it once in his absence, he was kind enough to keep his observation to himself. “Your day. It was bad,
oui
?”

“Can grown-ups run away from home?”

Concern darkened his eyes from their normal lighter blue, to a deeper, more sensuous shade. “You are joking, yes?”

I shrugged but didn’t answer. He would be appalled at how alluring I found the idea of packing the credit cards and heading for a part of the world that hadn’t heard of 4G or wi-fi. Summoning courage and resolve that I didn’t know I had, I gave him a lopsided smile and reached for a slider oozing cheddar and sautéed onions—manna from Heaven and food for the soul.

“My day? Perhaps a bit worse than usual, but nothing life-threatening.” At least not to me…yet, but I didn’t say that part. Chicken that I am, I decided not to mention that I was on the trail of a Jimmy Choo–wielding madman.

“Hmmm, you don’t want to tell me?” With a critical eye, my chef perused the offerings on the platter, finally settling on what looked to be a tiny turkey burger. He popped the whole thing in his mouth, chewed for a moment, then washed it down with a slug of wine—American expediency apparently could override a lifetime of European refinement. How many times had I heard him tell me Americans eat, but the French dine?

Before I said anything, he held up his hand and gave me a warm look. “Burgers are to be eaten. If we are to dine, it will be on something more refined. With enough time to savor…everything.”

Was the guy reading my mind? I paled at the possibility. Or was I simply as transparent as usual? Either way, it wasn’t good.

My breath caught and I swallowed hard, shutting my mind to all the possibilities the word
savor
conjured. “I’m good with that.” I reached for another slider—tenderloin, onions, cheese, and French-made thousand-island dressing—the real thing. “Let’s talk about the kitchen facilities you will need for the Last Chef Standing.” Vegas, amazingly enough, was actually a foodie paradise. Not only did we boast locations of most, if not all, of the major restaurants in the world, we also had ongoing competitions featuring the city’s best chefs, culminating in Vegas Uncork’d. A huge blowout to raise not only awareness of the city’s fine food offerings, but also raise money for various local charities. Hugely popular, each event was a coveted showcase.

“You wish to talk about this now?” Jean-Charles looked dubious.

“My day couldn’t get any worse.” I held up my hand as he started to argue. “I know, there’s a time and a place. But, I assure you I can be reasonable despite having an…interesting…day. And this is clearly bothering you so I’d like to address it.”

Jean-Charles seemed to weigh that for a moment, then gave an almost imperceptible shrug and dove in. “My kitchen at Cielo…it is in pieces. It must be completed in a week, ten days, but no more. Then I will have what I need.”

Of course he asked the impossible. I decided not to get into the nuances of code inspections and green tags—he wouldn’t understand. “Two problems.” I held up my hand as he started to argue. “Hear me out, please. I know we plan to open Cielo in phases with your restaurant part of the first phase. But, the demolition on the rooms has just begun and opening the first phase is well, at least two months away—
if
the gods smile on us.” I took another sip of wine as I watched Jean-Charles’s face turn an interesting shade of pink.
No
wasn’t a word he was used to hearing.