Lucky Bastard (27 page)

Romeo pulled himself to his full height, and worked the kinks out of his shoulders. “I’m hitting the dance floor. I do some of my best thinking there. Besides, I can’t think of anything else to do.”

As I watched him go, I didn’t know whether he was pulling my leg or not. Not only had I apparently lost my ability to read people, I didn’t have any answers or theories either. This whole thing was a mess—Dane on the lam, presumably with Cole Weston in tow although the blood confused things, Dane’s wife dead, our Poker Room manager poisoned like a bit player in a Bogart black-and-white, Shady Slim taking a dump (no, I did not grin at that pun), Slurry fighting for his life, Watalsky and DeLuca lying by omission, a mysterious girl on the run, a killer on the loose…and poker the only connection.

Oh how I hated poker…and all the other games people played.

“I am
so sorry.” The Frenchman’s voice at my elbow startled me. I guess I had closed my eyes again. “You look like the standing dead. This is the right way to say this, no?”

“‘Dead on my feet’ is the idiom I believe you are reaching for.”

“Yes, yes. This is it.”

As I looked into his eyes, cloudy with concern, I had the same thought about something all together different. This
is
it. He
is
it. But, I’d been wrong before…so, very, very wrong.

And he was right—I was in the middle of a whizz-bang energy crisis and on the verge of emotional meltdown. It would probably take the Aztec calendar and an abacus to figure out when I’d last had any meaningful rest. A sadistic internal projectionist kept running the film of Kevin Slurry as he fell, leaving me little peace.

So, this most definitely was not the time to make decisions about the rest of my life. To be honest, deciding
what
to wear to bed would be a sufficient challenge—deciding
whom
to take to bed was way outside my current capabilities. So, I punted. “Walk me home?”

He extended an elbow. “With pleasure. But you must tell me what happened to your ankle.”

“A brief, but ugly battle with exceptionally high heels. I lost.”

He looked at me for a moment as if weighing my words. “You must be more careful,” he finally said. The look on his face left me with the distinct impression he saw way more than I told. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

“Truer words were never spoken.”

At this time of night, Vegas would be firing on all cylinders. We eased into the river of humanity in the Bazaar and let ourselves be carried along on the flow enthusiasm toward the hotel lobby. Surrounded by the chatter of excitement and captured in the crush of people intent on having a good time, did bolster my spirits—Vegas magic always had that effect. Too bad I couldn’t tap into some of the ever-present energy.

“I know you are dead, and your ankle hurts, but perhaps we could rest in the Hanging Gardens for a bit?”

Even in my depleted state I wasn’t so far gone that I’d turn down a romantic…rest…with a gorgeous Frenchmen who suffered from the delusion that I was special. Clutching his arm with both of my hands, I squeezed and nodded. “The perfect antidote to a semi-dreadful day.”

Leaning heavily on his arm, we walked together sheltered in the bubble of our own little world. Jean-Charles bent and kissed my forehead, then murmured in my ear. “You did not tell me Chef Omer has allowed me to use his kitchen for the competition.”

“His kitchen, he should be the one to tell you.”

Jean-Charles was quiet for a moment as he digested that. “You can trust me, Lucky, just as I trust you. I will not hurt you. And someday you will tell me all these things you hold inside.”

No one could make those kinds of promises about a fickle future, but I didn’t want to spoil the mood so I didn’t mention it. Instead, I rested my head on his shoulder.

One step at a time.

***

One of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, the original Hanging Gardens of Babylon had beckoned travelers from far and wide, requiring many days of travel by boat and beast. The thought alone made me hurt. Thankfully, the trip here in Vegas was much shorter and didn’t involve camels. Even though I’d missed the original, I was pretty sure the Big Boss’s rendition did the ancient version proud.

Night hung low and heavy under the canopy of trees high above as we pushed through the doors into the only tropical climate zone west of the Rockies. The dampness caressed my skin—skin that was used to being sucked dry in the Mojave furnace. I filled my lungs, savoring the high relative humidity. Water. As a species we hadn’t traveled very far since the first of us abandoned fins and crawled out of the primordial stew. Some of us had moved farther from our reptilian ancestry than others, but I didn’t want to think about that now.

As I clutched my Frenchman’s arm, his hand covering mine, I let him lead me down discreetly lit paths through lush vegetation. The scent of flowers mingled with the lingering aromas of suntan oil and fruity beverages—vestiges of a day long since put to bed. Water burbled in the darkness as our path followed the waterway that connected our three pools. The bars were closed, the pools abandoned, which suited me just fine. Silence was a welcomed contrast to the endless party called Vegas.

Even the birds were quiet, but snatches of music drifted past on a slightly cool breeze. Bats winged silently, feeding. I must’ve shivered as Jean-Charles paused and shrugged out of his jacket. Placing it over my shoulders, he wrapped an arm around me. Once again I settled my head on his shoulder, securing his nearness with an arm around his waist. The other hand, I placed on his stomach, comforted in his warmth, the regular rise and fall of each breath.

“Thank you,” I whispered, afraid my voice would shatter the delicate peace.

He said nothing, but gave me a slight squeeze.

Time seemed to stand still—a perfect antidote to the mad rush of the day. I had no idea how long we wandered—for some reason my ankle didn’t bother me that much. Jean-Charles pulled me toward a chaise, then extricated himself from my hold. After he grabbed a clean towel from the tall stack awaiting tomorrow’s sun worshippers, he spread it on the chair and motioned for me to lie down. “We get such little time to enjoy each other’s company.”

Settling myself, I scootched over to allow room for Jean-Charles. Darkness shadowed his face as he eased in next to me. I couldn’t see what lurked in his eyes, but his features looked relaxed with a pleasant emotion. “If I fall asleep, you won’t be insulted.”

“Having you fall asleep in my arms would be a dream,” he whispered against my hair as he wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close.

Too tired to resist, I snuggled in, his body molding to mine. Why did he have to fit perfectly? Even the measure of my breath, the cadence of my heart, matched his.

“Christophe arrives tomorrow.”

My stomach clenched—so much for relaxing. Jean-Charles’s son. Although he looked like a charmer, if the kid didn’t like me, he could be a deal breaker. While sucking-up to adults was in my job description, navigating a five-year-old was way beyond my capabilities.

“So soon? I’d lost track of time.”

“Yes, my niece, Chantal, she is bringing him. They arrive tomorrow night.” A warm tenor infused his voice when he talked about his son.

Would there be room in their life and hearts for me? Another question with no easy answer. Why was I not surprised? “I don’t need to ask if you are excited.”

“To be a family again, it will be nice. Christophe, he will go to school. Life will find its song.”

“Rhythm,” I corrected reflexively. The warmth in his voice made me smile, and his love for his son filled my heart. Despite my fear, I wanted him to be happy. “And Chantal?”

“She is wearing my boots. She is only sixteen, but she will be a student at the Culinary Institute.”

Overcome by surprise, this time I didn’t bother correcting his idiomatic error. A five-year-old
and
a teenager. Just as my courage flagged I heard Miss P’s admonishing voice, “Remember, Lucky, the harder the struggle, the larger the prize” and courage was restored. I could handle a five-year-old. Sure I could! Assuming I lived through the teenager. “I didn’t know Chantal would be staying.”

“My mother, she is not pleased. She says I am a Pied Piper stealing all the children.”

And the hearts, I thought. The Game of Life. What I would give for an instruction manual. Or at least a list of rules. Or a crystal ball.

In the comfort of Jean-Charles’s arms, my eyelids grew heavy, my breathing slowed, and the wheels ground to a halt. The safe haven of sleep exerted its inexorable pull. Did I dare relinquish myself? He said it would be a dream.

I took him at his word.

***

A chill tickled the back of my neck, awakening me. For a moment, I lay still, remembering, enjoying. The night had darkened. The music had slipped from a pulsing rhythm to languid melodies. Hours had passed.

“You are awake, yes?” Somehow a male-timbered French accent made dreams unnecessary.

“And you have not slept.”

“For a bit, perhaps. But sleep would rob me of these memories.”

I pushed myself up to my elbow so I could look at him. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. His eyes had turned all deep and delicious—an unfair advantage in my weakened state.

“You never say what I think you’re going to say,” I admitted as I traced the line of his jaw, then bent and brushed my lips over his.

Reaching a hand behind my head, he pulled me to him, deepening the kiss. Molten lava flowed through my veins, pooling in my core where it exploded in a ball of desire. The guy was going to be the death of me. But I wasn’t going down today…I cringed at the back choice of words. Anyway, my demise would have to be rescheduled.

Both hands pressing against his chest broke his hold. “Walk me home?”

He grinned. “Is this not how we ended up here?”

“You expect me to remember?”

The crowd was much thinner now as we pushed through the doors back into the casino. We blinked against the assault of the light—casinos were the only places south of the Artic where daylight prevailed twenty-four hours a day. Smoke hung heavy in the air. Gamblers riding a hot streak or nursing hopes of a change in their luck clustered around a few tables. The remaining tables like picnic tables after a party, sat forlorn, abandoned, surrounded by empty stools. Bees darting among blossoms, cocktail waitresses bounced between groups keeping the participants well oiled. Casinos walked a fine line—allowing a severely intoxicated player to keep playing was a violation of gaming laws. But a slightly inebriated player would push his comfort zones, usually to the house’s benefit.

In quiet corners, the cleaning crew labored surreptitiously with their spot cleaners. Cases of liquor and condiments were stacked next to the bars like sand bags bracing for an impending flood. A group of bored employees circled several slot machines as a rep from the Gaming Commission droned on about new ways cheaters rigged the machines and what to watch out for. Dane used to give that class—a lifetime ago.

Dane, the perfect strident note of reality to burst my joy balloon.

Poised to leap into the abyss of gloom, I concentrated on Jean-Charles’s and my reflection in the double bronze doors as we waited for the elevator. My chef, quiet, handsome, sedately calm, holding himself in a relaxed easy manner. Me, mussed, frazzled around the edges, held together with the epoxy of resolve. Proof that opposites attract.

My phone vibrated at my hip. Briefly I thought about ignoring it. But, life had taught me that problems were like sparks in a dry forest—the sooner you threw water on them, the smaller the chance of an inferno. With a practiced motion I pulled the phone from its holster and pushed to talk. “Yeah.”

Jerry didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “You wanted DeLuca. He’s in Delilah’s holding court.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

“You must leave?” Jean-Charles asked as I reholstered my phone.

“Duty calls. I’m sorry.”

Jean-Charles took me in his arms. Reaching up he brushed a strand of hair out of my face, then he brushed his lips across mine, igniting the sting after a burn. A sensual tease leaving me wanting for more. “I am glad you got a bit of sleep. Your job, it is not healthy.”

“Now there’s an understatement.” I gave a shaky laugh and waved away the look of worry that turned his eyes all dark and deep. “Gotta go.”

With regret, and a bit more willpower than I thought it’d take, I pushed aside the lingering warmth left by the Frenchman and tried to concentrate. Frank had some questions to answer…if I could only remember what they were. I watched Jean-Charles as he disappeared through the doors to the garage, then I turned and headed into the Casino.

Another call caught me halfway to Delilah’s. “So, where is he now?”

“Who?” Romeo didn’t sound confused, just tired, as if he couldn’t understand the context or he didn’t care.

“Sorry, I thought you were Jerry.” Pressing my phone to one ear, I stopped next to an abandoned bank of slot machines and stuck a finger in the other ear. “Whatcha got?”

“A couple of your guests who got into a knock-down, drag-out with some folks as they were leaving Piero’s. A cruiser picked them up and dropped them in my lap. I spend so much time here at the Detention Center, they’re going to give me my own room.”

“And you need me because…?”

“Because…,” Romeo chuckled, “you’re going to love this. I need you because the male guest was arrested for soliciting.” I started to say something, but Romeo said, “No, wait for it.” He paused dramatically. “Your guest, he was arrested for soliciting his wife.”

“Oh, you’ve met Toby and Myrna.”

“How do you know everything?” The bravado had leaked out of Romeo’s voice.

“It’s my job.” No way was I telling him how lucky I really was. “And what I don’t know, I can figure out. Soliciting one’s wife is not a crime, at least, not the last time I looked. So, there must be something else.”

“A piece…of jewelry. The other couple involved swears the necklace is theirs and that it was stolen out of their suite at the Babylon a few weeks ago.”

“Really?”

“And what do Toby and Myrna say?”

“They won’t say a word until you get here.”

***

As much as I wanted to, I didn’t have the heart to leave guests cooling their heels in a cell while I went on a little fishing trip with Mr. Frank DeLuca. So, I did an about-face and headed toward the lobby. Fresh out of vehicles, I grabbed a cab for the ten-minute ride to the Detention Center.

A young officer greeted me as I pushed through the doors and escorted me to the interrogation room. Somehow it seemed to be too sad a commentary on my life that I could find it by myself, so I didn’t admit to it. Instead, I followed him dutifully, like a wide-eyed first-timer.