Lucky In Love (4 page)

“Are you okay?” I asked, as I grabbed his arm.

He nodded as a grin lifted the corner of his mouth. Tears sprung to his eyes. The guy wasn’t stroking out, he was laughing—clearly an unusual state. Reaching for his back pocket, he extracted a purple handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes, careful not to dislodge his war paint.

Weakly, he patted my shoulder. “I can’t decide whether I like you or I want to kill you.”

“I have that effect on people.”

“Those two kids like to cook. The restaurants would be a good place to start.” He turned to go. “Find them. Now.”

As he walked away I thought I heard a very faint, “Please.”

That was... unsettling. Okay, restaurants. There was only one in the bazaar, the Burger Palais.

My father, the owner of the Babylon, had recently acquired a run-down local property. Before the remodeling plans had even been finalized, he hired a very well known French chef, Jean-Charles Bouclet, to conceptualize, develop, and manage an eponymous restaurant at this new property. A wee bit precipitous, in my opinion, but my father dangled the chance of opening a gourmet burger restaurant in the Bazaar at the Babylon to lure his gastronomic
coups de grâce
. Hence, the Burger Palais. To be honest, it was a great use of a space vacated by a forceibly evicted Italian joint that hadn’t been up to snuff.

It was early yet for dinner, and there wasn’t much of a crowd when I charged through the doors. Blinking my eyes in an attempt to force them to adjust to the relative darkness, I paused just inside the restaurant. I didn’t see Paxton Dane until he spoke.

“You’re not at the taping?” His smooth voice held the honeyed tones of Texas and made me smile. Dane and I, well, I didn’t know what we were. There was an attraction... or something, but I wasn’t going there. Despite my awe-inspiring skills, I could handle only one man at a time.

“Watching those shows is like sitting at a dangerous intersection waiting for a crash.”

“I’ve been told that’s their charm.”

Finally my eyes adjusted, and I could see the smile in his emerald eyes. He had me by a few inches, and it was nice to be able to look someone in the eye without looking down. I never figured out how to look down
at
someone without seeming to look down
on
them.

Dane worked in security, so I assumed he might be wise to my mission. “You looking for our two runaways, too?”

“Yeah.” Dane moved me further inside with a slight touch to the middle of my back.

I could feel the warmth of his skin through my shirt. A shiver chased down my spine.

“They don’t seem to be in here,” he said as he scanned the eating area, “but let’s look in the kitchen just to be sure.”

Jean-Charles had a habit of inviting folks into his inner sanctum. Once I had been so blessed, and I’d never been the same. There was something about that Frenchman... sizzle and burn and an odd connection. He made me nervous in a way I’d never felt before.

As I peered into the kitchen through the wall of glass separating it from the dining area, I saw him bending over the stove. Trim, handsome, his brown hair curling over his collar, he glanced up and caught me staring. I reddened. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew they were a robin’s egg blue that went all dark and stormy when he became serious. Flashing a smile that had probably melted more hearts than I cared to think about, he motioned us inside.

Dane threw me a look as he stepped around me. “Our runaways are right where we thought they’d be.” He motioned with his head toward the prep table on the other side of the stove.

Rocco, his head bent and face scrunched in concentration, worked on some vegetables with a knife large enough to cut out someone’s heart. His strokes quick, his movements precise, he created a mound of chopped greenery in a few seconds—apparently without shedding blood or sacrificing body parts. I was in awe.

Gail stood between Jean-Charles and Rocco, so slight and still I’d missed her on my first visual reconnoiter. Engrossed, she listened as Jean-Charles continued a running commentary punctuated by his pointing from pan to pot to oven.

Focusing on the youngsters, I strode into the kitchen, trying my best to override that silly schoolgirl nervousness by ignoring the chef. “You guys do know Trey Gold has threatened to shoot the entire staff of the hotel if we don’t get you to the theater posthaste?”

Rocco glanced up, his dark curls hanging in his face. His dreamy look reminded me of the face of a child lost in his imaginings. “What time is it?”

“Way past pumpkin time.”

Gail seemed oblivious to all of us, her fresh face creased into a frown. “So, you would make a plate of
osso bucco
with the cranberry wild rice?”

“
Oui
.” Jean-Charles pursed his lips as he thought. “A simple poached pear salad with goat cheese to start, perhaps? Something savory, something tart . . .”

“Something sweet,” Gail chimed in. “Perfect. Paired with a smooth pinot noir?”

“Nothing too heavy, though,” Jean-Charles agreed, a smile playing with his lips. “You have good instincts. The plate will be pleasing; the meal, satisfying.”

“Excuse me,” I said, pretending to be perturbed. “Playtime is over. Time to earn your keep.” I motioned to the Jerseyites. “You two better skedaddle—you’re holding up the show. Dane, could you deliver them to Mr. Gold, personally? He’s out for blood.”

The Texan glanced between Jean-Charles—who stood wiping his hand on a white towel that hung from his waist—and me, then nodded. “Come on, guys. You’ve got a lot of folks chasing their tails.”

“I am sorry,” Jean-Charles said after the trio had left. “When I create, time loses meaning.”

“Especially when you have a rapt audience and a skilled accomplice.”

He tossed me a hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look and rewarded me with a Gallic shrug and brilliant grin. “He is very talented, Rocco. And Gail has a gift for menu design, pushing the boundaries slightly while keeping things comfortable for modestly educated palates.” He pulled a stool next to the stove where he continued to work while he talked. “Sit. Stay with me.”

I didn’t need a second invitation—the aromas were enough, but the Frenchman was an added delectable. Straddling the stool, I reached for a bottle chilling in a cooler on the counter and poured us both a glass of wine. I held the glass up and swirled its contents. “Not a Bordeaux, something lighter.” I held it to my nose, inhaling its fresh, fruity bouquet. “A Syrah?”

“Hmmm, from the Oregon AVAs.” He peeked under the lid of a pot, dipped a spoon in, and then blew on the steaming liquid before tasting. He shrugged but said nothing as he took the wine glass. After sniffing and swirling, he took a sip, held the liquid in his mouth a moment, and then swallowed. “Nice, but not nice enough for the price point.”

“Your call.” I wasn’t about to question his heretofore-impeccable taste. We could quarrel over costing-out his restaurant, but the food and wine were his sole province. “How did you happen to corral the runaways?”

“They corralled me. I was working on some menu ideas for the new restaurant, and they wanted to help. They are a good pair, those two. But they do not yet know they are in love.”

“They entered a game show to win a wedding.”

Jean-Charles stirred something in a saucepan that started my mouth watering. “
Non
.”

“What is that?” I leaned forward, breathing deeply of the delicious aroma. “And what do you mean,
non
?”

“A red wine reduction with a special addition I am trying.” He took a sip of wine as he leveled those baby blues on me. They held a smile that made my heart do a somersault. My heart was apparently playing hooky from the School of Teddie. “And
non
, they entered the contest to get to Las Vegas and our restaurants.”

“I see.”

“And Rocco is going to teach me how to make his grandmother’s secret marinara sauce.” Jean-Charles actually looked thrilled.

“I thought you stuffy French-types were above something so mundane as tomato sauce.”

Seeing that the level of wine in my glass had dropped an inch or so, he grabbed the bottle and reached to add more. His hand brushed mine with an electric shock. The muscles in his jaw clenched—he felt it too. Man, I so did not need this. Teddie had my heart, but my body had clearly missed the memo.

He poured the wine with a studiousness the act didn’t deserve, and replaced the bottle before answering. “Not only is food nourishment, it is also pleasure—a feast for the senses. Like love, it does not need to be complex or exotic to be satisfying. Simple, direct, rich, and spiced with the flavors of passion, it feeds the body as well as the soul.”

Enraptured, I was holding my breath as the chef captured me like a snake charmer weaves a spell over a cobra. I let my breath out in a whoosh and shook my head slightly, trying to break the spell. “And the complex and exotic?”

“Feed the ego.”

* * *

I
still
felt as if I had filled my lungs with helium or something as I pushed through my office doors—a couple of hours with the chef, sharing dinner in his lair, was enough to do that to any female. “Crisis averted. Harmony in the universe has been restored.” I didn’t sound like Pee Wee Herman so the whole helium thing had been a figment of my imagination. One small thing to be thankful for. That fact that I appeared to be in lust with our new chef was
not
on that list. Usually, meaningful sex was an antidote to libido overdrive. I wondered why it wasn’t working this time. With no answer, I abandoned that line of self-interrogation as being a threat to the status quo.

Miss P, holding the handset to her phone in one hand, looked at me over the top of her cheaters. “Alert the media. How are you coming on the world peace problem?”

“I’ve added it to my Christmas list along with a plea for superpowers. That’s the best I can do.” I picked up a pile of messages in her outbox—my inbox—and waved them at her. “Any of these important?”

“I guess that depends on your point of view.”

I gave her a glare, but I think my grin sort of killed the effect. I plopped down in a chair across from her, my legs stuck out in front of me. “Your job is to prioritize. Give me the top five, then we delegate.”

Being at the top of the food chain had its disadvantages—I drew the short straw every time. “A wife mix-up?” I read from the message on top. “What is this about?”

“Bungalow Five.” Miss P couldn’t hide her grin. “Mr. Handy?”

“The brawny half of Couple Number Three?”

“His
wife
is looking for him and she’s
not
happy.”

* * *

T
he
door to Bungalow Five was standing open when I skidded to a halt in front of it, short of breath and ideas. “Hello?” I knocked on the doorjamb as I peeked inside. The living room was empty. “Anybody here?”

Angry voices emanated from the direction of the master bedroom. “I told you not to come. You’ll ruin everything.” A male voice. Guy Handy. I still couldn’t get my mind around the fact that with that name and that body, he wasn’t in a male revue or stripping somewhere.

Throwing protocol to the wind, I charged inside and headed for the escalating argument.

“But, honey, I know we agreed to let this play out.” Female voice. Mrs. Handy, perhaps? Without even a hint of ice, the voice clearly didn’t belong to Vera.

“You have to leave. Now. Before the bitch shows up. She’ll have a capillary.”

I stuck my head in the room in time to see a petite brunette put a hand in Mr. Handy’s chest and say, “Coronary.”

Guy wrinkled his brow, but the word obviously took his mind of the issue at hand. “What?”

“She’ll have a coronary. A heart attack,” the brunette explained, with staggering composure. “A capillary is . . .”

Since no one seemed to be brandishing a weapon, I felt brave enough to step into the room and make my presence known. “Excuse me?”

They both whirled, and then seeing it was me, sagged in relief.

Mr. Handy was the first to find his voice. “God, I thought you were the . . .”

“Vera?” I interrupted.

As if on cue, a tornado of seething anger whirled into the room—Vera. Pointing a finger at the brunette, who scurried to hide behind the formidable form of Mr. Handy, the female half of Couple Number Three adopted an imperious stance. “Who the hell is this? And why is she here?”

I
put
my body between Vera and the Handys. Today seemed to be my hazardous duty day. “Let’s all calm down. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.” I glanced at Guy for affirmation.

His eyes stricken, he shook his head.

“Okay,” I said, as I took a deep breath. “No good explanation.”

“This is my wife.” Guy clutched the small woman to him. She leaned into him, disappearing into the crook of his arm, which circled her protectively.

Directly in the line of fire, I didn’t have enough time to formulate even one mediocre idea. Vera launched herself at the couple with talons drawn, fangs exposed. Instinctively, I pushed Handy and his wife behind me, and then turned to shield us with my shoulder as I closed my eyes and braced for impact. Hell hath no fury and all of that.... This wasn’t going to be pretty.

“Vera!” a voice boomed. A male voice.

When Vera, the human missile, failed to make contact, I inched one eye open.

Walker Worthington, the buttoned-up half of Couple Number Two—still spit-and-polished and looking like he’d stepped out of a Brooks Brothers ad—had Vera by the waist in a bear hug. She kicked and fought, but he held tight. “Calm down, honey. Double-digit boy-toys are a dime a dozen.”

With superhuman self-control, Vera pulled herself together. Throwing her shoulders back, she stretched to her fullest height and pushed at Walker’s arms. “I’m fine now. Thank you.” Her voice was sharp and cutting, but cool. “Dignity is too high a price to pay for that . . .”

“Man,” I interjected.

She shot me a venomous look. “Fine. Although, Walker, I’ll have you know I paid considerably more than a dime.”

Walker Worthington gave Guy Handy the once-over. “You overpaid.”

With that, Vera wilted like a starched shirt on a humid day. She put one hand on her hip as she worked her strand of pearls with the other, and eyed the couple. “Guy, perhaps you would be so kind as to shed some light?” Her voice dripped with honeyed sarcasm. I was proud.

Keeping a watchful eye on Vera, Guy hissed at his wife, “Honey, you said I could see this through. We both agreed we could use the money.”

If he and Vera actually won the contest, I wondered how he planned to leap the polygamy hurdle, but I didn’t think this was the time to ask. Instead I said, rather stupidly, “This was about money?”

I’m sooo naïve. Pity me.

Vera cocked one eyebrow at me. I knew the look. She said, “Did you really think I could put up with this... this . . .”

“Man?” I once again offered.

“Fine.” Vera tossed her head and rolled her eyes. “Of course it was about the money. What else would it be about?”

“Gosh, next you’re going to tell me there’s no Santa Claus.” I know, I know, not particularly helpful, but it was better than saying what I was thinking: that it could be about the sex. Even I was smart enough to know not to poke the bear if I was in the cage with her.

The four of them stared at me wide-eyed, as if expecting me to fix this mess.

I blew at a strand of hair that tickled my left eye, stalling for time. Reality
tv
shows were as baffling to me as the game of love. If you stacked the deck, did you really win?

Trey Gold found us stuck in that awkward silence—like a herd of lemmings looking for a cliff to plunge over—and rushed in to fill the momentary silence. “What the hell is going on here?” Without his makeup he looked almost normal... almost. His hair still didn’t move, which bothered me. “We can hear your voices halfway to Pahrump. The reporters are circling like wolves around a herd of pigs.”

Okay, not a metaphor I would have reached for, but it seemed to fit.

Trey pointed an accusatory finger at the brunette. “Handy, who is this?”

“My wife.”

The bombshell exploded, rendering Trey Gold speechless. A rarity, if I could hazard a guess. Wild-eyed, he turned to me. “Is this true,” he sputtered, when he found his voice.

I shrugged. “He should know.”

Trey whirled on Handy’s supposed other half. “Vera?”

She couldn’t look him in the eye. “All right, I paid him.”

Trey blinked rapidly, as if that would help get his pea-brain around the problem. “I should throw you off the show. That’s a clear violation of the rules.”

“What about my money?” Guy Handy whined.

Vera shot him a lethal look. “Read your contract. You haven’t fulfilled your duties.”

“You have a contract?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity out of my voice. “You put this in writing? You have a section spelling out ‘duties of the parties’?”

Vera gave me a terrified look as reality hit her right between the eyes. “Very specifically.”

“They say the devil is in the details.” I’d never write anything I didn’t want to see on the front page of the paper. “Serious damage control is in order.” I reached for my phone to alert my team.

“I wouldn’t get involved, if I were you,” Trey said, through clenched teeth. “This is my show. And I’m sure you wouldn’t want the Babylon to be presented in an unsavory light, now, would you?”

My hand dropped to my side, my fingers itching to circle his neck. “Is that a threat?”

“Of course.”

At least he was honest... a snake, comfortable in his skin.

Dismissing me, the little reptile turned to Vera. “How’d you get around my investigators? They should’ve discovered your ruse.” I could almost hear the rusty cogs grinding in his tiny, self-serving, narcissistic mind.

Vera gave him a look normally reserved for mongrel dogs. “Please, I run a Fortune 1000 corporation. Shuck and jive is part of the skill set.”

If recent Wall Street shenanigans were any testament, I’d say she was stating the obvious, but I’m not sure I’d admit it.

Since no one else seemed to be willing to pose the obvious question, I did. “Mrs. Handy, if you agreed to all of this, why are you here? Why now, so close to the end?”

Blinking her huge doe-eyes, she seemed to shrink within herself as she ducked behind her husband again, hiding most of her body. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment Guy stood there, dumbstruck.

I fought my smile at the tortured pun. And I fought the urge to make sure he understood the meaning of the word “pregnant.”

Grabbing his wife at the waist, he picked her up and spun her around. She giggled, her hands on his shoulders. When he stopped twirling, he slid her down his body and wrapped her in a hug. Teddie used to do that to me, but I couldn’t remember the last time. There was a red flag in there somewhere, but I chose to ignore it.

“People.” Trey clapped his hands like a kindergarten teacher trying to get a room of five-year-olds to focus. “Attention!”

All heads swiveled his direction.

“This is perfect,” he announced with glee. “Think about it.” Driven by an inner need to move, he began to pace. We all watched him going back and forth, like fans at a tennis tournament. “Folks, this is reality television at its finest.”

“A train wreck,” I gasped, as reality hit. “You wouldn’t?”

His face split by a huge grin, he nodded at me. “Oh, I would.”

“I’ll sue,” Vera threatened, in a voice that left little doubt that
sue
was just a nice way of saying
disembowel
. She’d obviously found the page in the book we were all reading from.

Trey waved her off. “Honey, read your contract.” Turning to the Handys, he said, “You two come with me. We need to strategize. You guys are going to be bigger than Snooki and the Situation.”

Dollar signs in their eyes, they followed him like lambs to slaughter.

Vera leaned into Walker as his arm circled her shoulder. She looked stricken. I didn’t blame her—nothing to take the starch out of your shirt like the prospect of the world knowing that you were so desperate you had to pay an actor to pretend to love you. Well, you live by the contract, you die by the contract. No wonder everyone hated lawyers.

“Walker, what am I going to do?” The ice had melted.

“You two know each other?”

“We’ve done several deals together,” Walker explained, before turning to Vera. “As
ceo
s, you and I know how to spin anything to our advantage. Why don’t you let me buy you a drink? We can put out heads together.”

* * *

M
y
father found me in Delilah’s Bar, contemplating various healing waters. “Pick your poison, I’m buying.” He snaked an arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze, then let go as he straddled the stool next to mine. He was a handsome man, shorter than me by several inches but fit and trim, with chiseled features and salt-and-pepper hair. He looked twenty years younger than his mid-sixties age. Tonight, he had abandoned his normal suit and tie in favor of an open-collared pink button-down and charcoal grey slacks.

“You sure? Tonight calls for a double dose.” I’d left the contestants to solve their own problems. Usually, not being able to bring about a good solution made me twitchy. Not tonight. Besides, I didn’t see a ready happy ending, which took a bit of rose tint off my glasses.

“That bad?” My father nodded at Sean, our head bartender, who set to work. Apparently the mixologist had heard enough of the conversation. With a flourish and a smile he slid a tumbler filled with Wild Turkey to me, then put the same in front of my father.

Holding the glass to the light, I eyeballed the contents. More than a double. To hell with the Self-Betterment Program. “I’m seriously considering serial monogamy.”

My timing was impeccable—my father had just taken his first sip. He spluttered and choked until I thought I might need to hammer him on the back.

“I don’t know,” I continued. “It seems there comes a point in every relationship where something changes. One or both quit trying. The honeymoon ends. Whatever. It just doesn’t seem to work so seamlessly anymore.” I cast a forlorn look at my father.

His face red, he dabbed at his eyes with a cocktail napkin and still could not draw a full breath.

“This is where the serial monogamy comes in. After a couple of years, when things start to settle into that whole taking-each-other-for-granted phase, my friends and I could get together and trade.”

“Trade?” My father managed to choke the word out. I ignored the fact that he looked ready to do something rash.

“Yeah. We could pass the guys around, sort like musical chairs, and we each could move one spot to the right. Then it would still stay fresh. Know what I mean?”

My father looked defeated. “I’m sure there’s a law against that, or something.”

“Please, it’s Vegas. Long-term relationships here are measured in hours, not to mention paid for in similar increments.” I took a dainty sip of my Wild Turkey and relished the ball of fire that chased down my throat and exploded in my stomach. Bliss. “Speaking of which, where’s Mother? Aren’t you two attached at the hip or something?”

“I know you love her, as I do, so I’m not going to give you the fight you’re angling for.”

Fathers. They could see right through you. I hated that part.

“I’m not really picking a fight, but something’s bugging me, I’ll admit that. I just don’t know what exactly.”

My father seemed to think that over for a minute as we both worked on our firewater.

“Seriously, where’s Mother?”

“She knows me well,” my father said. He spun around on his stool. Back to the bar, he leaned back resting his elbows on the polished mahogany as he surveyed the casino. “Sometimes I just need to wander, check the pulse of the hotel.”

I followed his lead, turning my back to the bar and my face to my world.

Understanding, I nodded as we both gazed on the crowd in silence. “Seriously, how do you keep that whole wild-sex-on-every-piece-of-furniture phase going?”

“Should I be having this conversation with you?” My father, looking decidedly ill at ease, reached for his wallet. He extracted what I knew to be a hundred dollar bill and then replaced his wallet. Studiously avoiding my eyes, he began to crease and fold the paper. When under stress he turned to origami to calm his nerves. Funny he should need it now—sorta sweet.

“Who else would I trust to not only understand me, but to care enough to soft-sell any bad news? Mother?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at me. “Good point.” He made a number of meticulous folds before continuing. “Can you give me a hint as to who might have put this particular burr under your saddle?”

“I think I’m becoming cynical about love.”

That got a huge grin out of him, which, to his credit, he tried to hide. “Honey, you still believe life is a Rodgers and Hammerstein movie. ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ is your theme song. I love the fact that you think true love is just going to swoop in someday.”

“Like a buzzard, to pluck my heart out.” I watched a little figure take shape in his hands—a bird. Cute. “Stupid, huh?”

“Charming. And encouraging.” He stopped a young couple as they walked in front of us. “Here.” He dropped the bird in the young woman’s hand and smiled at her delighted gasp of surprise.