Wanna Get Lucky? (29 page)

Warm cup cradled in my hands, I stared out at my city as the sunlight pushed the darkness of night over the mountains.

I loved Vegas—the city of dreams.

People came here to escape a life defined by all their previous choices—a brief respite from the burden of reality. For a scant moment in time, they were no longer a used car salesman from Dallas, a plumber from Chicago, or a factory worker from Detroit. They could be anything they wanted to be in the fantasy world of Vegas—handsome, virile, beautiful, rich . . . in love.

Like boulders pushed ahead of the flood, my thoughts came tumbling back. I was powerless to stop them. For me, Vegas wasn’t a fantasy world—it was my reality—a carefully constructed box with me on the inside and everybody else on the outside.

Teddie was banging on the door—a door hanging on one hinge.

Did I have the courage to let him in? Could I keep him out?

I took a sip of the warm brew and felt the caffeine jump start.

Who was I kidding? Like fine sand, the illusion of control slipped
through my fingers, and triggered a distant memory—my mother, the specter of pain behind her eyes, announcing in a tired, resigned voice, “We can’t pick who we fall in love with, little one. Love picks us.” I didn’t remember the conversation or what had triggered it. Too young to understand my mother’s pain, the memory haunted me for years.

Would love pick me?

Would it bring the pain it had brought to my mother?

Was that really what I was afraid of?

The shriek of my alarm startled me as it echoed through the apartment. I’d forgotten to turn the thing off. Spilling coffee as I went, I trotted to the bedroom and silenced the offending device with one slap.

Enough thinking.

Time to face the day.

AS
twin jets of warm water pummeled my body, kneading the tension from my neck and shoulders, I swiveled my head from side to side—no pain—a minor miracle. Turning the temperature to cold, I forced myself to stand there. The jolt added to the coffee jump start.

Adrenaline and caffeine—my drugs of choice.

After scouring myself dry, I wrapped myself in a thick, Turkish terry-cloth towel. Unfortunately, through the years I had developed an appreciation for the finer things in life. Sometime ago, a boyfriend had announced that I was officially “high-maintenance.”

I took that as a compliment.

I set to work doing battle with myself. The makeup I could handle, but the hair eluded me. The front part was easy, but without three hands, the back was impossible. That was the problem with styled hair—Linda’s creation was fabulous, but I could never duplicate it. All that money to end up feeling somehow inadequate and slightly disappointed.

Still, it was a vast improvement over my former shoddy self.

My dressing room beckoned—all five hundred square feet of it.
Larger than my first apartment, it was lined with closet doors on two walls. Another wall held a full-length mirror, angled so I could see my rear view—on the off chance I could stomach it. Shelves of shoes rounded out the fourth wall.

An unrepentant clotheshorse, I’d been collecting designer clothes a piece at a time, as money allowed, for practically forever. Today I was in the mood for something flirty and fun, and a maybe a little bit naughty.

Escada. And I knew just the piece.

I twirled in front of the mirror. A pretty beige suit, with a delicate fitted jacket and a swing skirt. A sheer bright orange cami underneath. Bronze Dolce & Gabbana peep-toes, a cascade of David Yurman silver and gold, and I was set.

I fed the bird, my thoughtfulness rewarded with a “Get lost bitch,” grabbed my Birkin, and, surrounded by a balloon of happy memories—all thanks to the kind Mr. Kowalski—floated out the door to meet the day.

THE
sharp point of reality punctured my balloon the minute I walked through the front door of the Babylon.

“Ms. O’Toole! Could I have your assistance, please?” The hint of panic in Sergio’s voice matched the look on his face. With frantic waving, he beckoned me to the front desk.

“How can I help?”

He gestured to a woman standing in front of him. “This is Ms. Hetherington. She is staying with us—”

“This man won’t help me,” the woman interrupted. “I have a problem and I need it fixed. Now!”

The woman, dressed in black from head to toe, smacked her gum as she talked. She didn’t smile. I wasn’t sure she could. A study in too much plastic surgery, her face was pulled as tight as a canvas on a frame. The heavily applied makeup didn’t help.

She motioned to a Loius Vuitton trunk open at her feet. “Honestly, I can’t see
why
this is so hard!” Hand on hip, she looked from
me to Sergio and back again, then pointed to the contents of the trunk. “Smell that.”

Bending low, I was assaulted by the unmistakable stench of cat urine.

“Whoa!” The ammonia made my eyes water. “How did that happen?”

“The cats, of course.” She rolled her eyes, apparently put out at having to deal with me and my double-digit IQ.

“Whose cats?” My voice took on a flat tone. She didn’t notice.

“Mine, of course. Two Bengals and a long-haired Siamese.” She blew a bubble with the gum then smacked it loudly. “I thought they’d be fine, but I guess they got nervous or something.”

“You packed your cats?”

“Well, yeah,” she said, sounding like a teenager in desperate need of a parent to draw some boundaries. “What else was I to do? The airlines wouldn’t let me carry on more than one—even in first class.”

“Where are the cats now?”

She waved her hand indicating the lobby. “Somewhere out there. I don’t know. They ran when I opened the trunk.”

“Sergio, get hold of Jerry. Tell him to find those cats. They’re probably hungry and if they get into the baby ducks swimming in the Euphrates—” I stopped. I could visualize the carnage—feathers flying, blood in the river, children screaming—traumatized for life. “Just tell him it’s really important.”

Sergio disappeared into the back.

“Now,” Ms. Hetherington said as she picked up an article of clothing from the trunk. Holding it between two fingers, arm extended, she wrinkled her nose in disgust. “I need all of this cleaned, immediately. I’m standing in the only outfit I have that’s wearable, and it’s totally unacceptable for the party tonight.”

“Fine.” I forced a smile. “We’ll be glad to take care of it. You should have your clothes in a couple of hours. The trunk may take a bit longer.”

“What about the cats?”

“This hotel has a policy against animals in the rooms. We will see the cats are taken care of during your stay—when we find them.”

“What do you mean I can’t have my cats? Do you know who my husband is?”

“A very lucky man, I am sure. But, still, no pets.”

She dismissed me with a sneer, and turned to Sergio, who had reappeared. “I want to speak to your supervisor—now!”

Sergio gave me a glance then said, “I’m the front desk manager.”

“Surely you answer to somebody?” Ms. Hetherington huffed.

I half expected her to stamp her foot.

“In matters like this, I would go to the head of customer relations.”

“And that would be me,” I interjected. “Have you checked in?” She waggled her key in front of my face. “Helloooo . . .”

I motioned one of the bellmen over. “This gentleman will escort you to your room. I can assure you, your cats will be well tended. We’ll deliver your clothes when they are ready.

“I should think so,” she huffed. “Really, that’s the least you could do.”

THE
office door was locked when I got there.

That was odd—Miss Patterson usually beat me.

I checked my watch—9:15.

Miraculously, I found my keys lurking on the bottom of my bag. Turning on the lights as I went, I walked through to my office and shrugged off my purse as I deposited myself on the couch.

Scrolling through the list of contacts in my Nextel, I highlighted Miss Patterson’s cell number and pushed send.

The Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock answered on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

“Hey, Jeremy.” I struggled to keep the smile out of my voice. I didn’t even try to keep it off my face. “You wouldn’t happen to know where my fearless assistant is, would you?”

“Oh, hey! She just left. She was running late—I guess she forgot her phone.”

“Apparently.”

“I’m totally glad I cracked into her. I thought she’d fob me off, for sure.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked hesitantly. To me, his statement sounded as if it bordered on too much information.

“Bugger. I forget sometimes you people don’t talk right over here. I’m glad I asked her out. I thought she wouldn’t give me a chance.”

“You had a good time, then?”

“The best. Tell her I’ll lob in after a bit with her phone.”

“Sure,” I said, not completely sure what it was I was supposed to tell her.

Jeremy had just rung off, when I heard the outer door open.

Miss Patterson appeared in my doorway. Her face red, her hair a bit mussed, she patted down her dress—the same little black number from yesterday. My Jimmy Choos sparkled on her feet. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“A bit overdressed for work, wouldn’t you say?” I bit back a smile.

Her brows crinkled as she looked down at the dress and the shoes. “Well, I . . .”

I held up my hand. “It’s okay. I just wish you’d called. I was worried.”

“I tried. I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find my phone.”

“Jeremy has it.”

“Oh.”

“I called. He said you’d just left.”

“Oh.”

“I would ask you whether you had a good time, but I’m pretty sure I know the answer already.”

Gathering her dignity, Miss Patterson looked me in the eye. “Honey, I’m older than you. My time is running short.” With that, she retreated.

I followed her into the outer office. Boy, get a makeover, release the cougar within.

“I hoped you and Jeremy would make some hay, but I never thought you’d roll around in it—not on the first date.”

“You’d do well to follow my lead.” She sat at her desk, unscrewed my earrings, then handed them to me. “You know what they say about women over thirty—they have a better chance of being hit by lightning than getting married.”

I reinstalled my earrings. “It’s women over thirty-five, thank ou very much. I still have plenty of time.”

“Fine. But you and Teddie—”

I waggled my finger at her, cutting her off. “Oh no. This isn’t about me. Besides, I’m already late for breakfast with The Big Boss.”

“Chicken.”

Her words followed me out the door. I didn’t have an answer.

How do you argue with the truth?

“YOU’RE
late,” The Big Boss announced. A plate of food already in front of him, he occupied a two-top against the window, in a closed section of Nebuchadnezzar’s.

“Two minutes.” I flopped into the chair across from him. “Sorry. I had to take care of a lady with some cats. Miss Patterson was late—”

“It’s not important.” The Big Boss forked in a bite of scrambled eggs and green chili. “You want some food?”

“No, thanks. I had a late dinner.”

He looked at me for a second, but didn’t ask the question I saw in his eyes. Thank God for small favors. I had too many questions and too few answers as it was.

“Your tapes were interesting listening,” he said through another mouthful of egg. “Irv Gittings—I look forward to dealing with him in front of the board tomorrow.”

That was probably the only thing keeping Ol’ Irv from an appointment with his maker. I doubted if he knew how lucky he was.

“Did you have a chance to call your friend on the Gaming Control Board?” I asked.

“Yeah. He said they were on top of the discrepancies at the Athena, but he couldn’t give me the details. Just confirming Gittings’s problems was more than he should have revealed, but he owed me.”

“Ol’ Irv’s got more problems than a mongrel has fleas.”

“Well put.” The Big Boss grinned, then pushed his plate away. He flipped his glasses down from their perch on top of his head, then grabbed some papers from his briefcase by his feet and began to spread them on the table.

“Before we start in on our presentation to the board, I need to ask you a favor,” I said.

“Fire away.”

“I need to hire another assistant. I’m spending twenty hours here most days—Miss Patterson almost as many. I’m exhausted.” I blew at some hair tickling my eyes. “And I need a life.”

The Big Boss looked at me over his cheaters, which rested on the end of his nose. “Does this have anything to do with your late dinner last night?”

Did anything get by The Big Boss?

“Yes. No.” I sighed. “I don’t know. That’s my problem. I’m too tired to think straight.”

“I see.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to ask me for permission to hire an assistant. If you need one, hire one.”

The Big Boss rooted through his stack of papers, extracted a page and pushed it across the table to me. “Now, about tomorrow, we need to get our story straight on Willie and Lyda Sue. Irv’s requested to address the board, so we’d better be able to counter his every move. . . .”

THE
cooks were clearing the breakfast items from the steam tables, replacing them with lunch when The Big Boss and I finally finished our meeting.

Miss Patterson caught me on my Nextel as I was climbing the wide staircase to the lobby. “Lucky?”

“Whatcha got?”

“Miranda Jones wants to meet with you—something about going over the guest list for her table at the awards banquet.”

“Right. Do you have the final workup from catering?”

Miss Patterson gave me the rundown.

“So nothing new?”

“No. Miranda said she’d be at the pool, and you’d know where to find her.”

THE
hanging gardens of Babylon were one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. The Big Boss had spared no expense in re-creating them as our pool area. Vines and trailing flowering plants hung from every possible nook, cranny, crevice and ledge, creating a veritable cascade of greenery and blooms. A permanent staff of horticulturists tended to baskets and pots of riotous blooming plants.