Hell on Heels

Hell on Heels

Hotel Rodeo Series

Victoria Vane

LYRICAL SHINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to Karla, Steffi, Kristen, and Kathleen at Swept Away by Romance for beta reading the first few chapters of this story, and for giving it a thumbs-up. I appreciate your time and feedback more than I can say.

I would also like to thank my wonderfully supportive agent, Jessica Alvarez from BookEnds, and my awesome editor, Mercedes Fernandez, for seeing the potential in this sassy, sexy series. I hope readers will love Ty and Monica as much as I do!

T
y Morgan jammed the elevator button three times with his thumb, and then, noticing he was alone, gave the steel door a solid kick with his boot. And then another just for good measure, curses flowing in a steady stream. He didn't normally have such a short fuse, but he was so pissed off he was seeing red. With Tom's forced retirement, he knew there'd be changes, but this was just too damned much! The new boss was both clueless and color-blind—to anything but red and black.

Sure, the place wasn't doing as well as expected, but all of Vegas was still feeling the pain of the economic recession. These things didn't fix themselves overnight. On top of that, the timing of everything had sucked, but with so much skin in the game, he and Tom would both lose their asses if they didn't let it ride. Tom had understood that—even though he'd had the most at risk. But now Tom was out of the picture, and his choice of replacement didn't know her ass from a hole in the wall.

 

A dull throb had begun behind Monica Brandt's eyes, no doubt a lingering side effect of two weeks of sleepless nights camped outside the critical care unit at Desert Springs Medical Center. Desperate to ward off an imminent migraine, Monica snatched her Prada purse from the desk drawer and rummaged for an elusive bottle of Excedrin. She finally found the bottle and popped four, chasing them with the tepid dregs of a Starbucks triple espresso, not that she really needed the caffeine. She was already wired for a confrontation.

She flicked a glance at her diamond-bezel Tag Heuer Aquaracer—her last birthday present to herself. The watch, the bag, and even her Jimmy Choos were all well-recognized power statements in New York, not that
he'd
know the difference. And
he
was now fifteen minutes late. She uncrossed her legs and then crossed them again, sounding her impatience in the staccato tap of a stiletto heel. Monica snatched up her phone, was about to hit redial, and then threw it back down again.

She inhaled, counted to ten, and then exhaled with a huff of exasperation. Was this just some passive-aggressive strategy to unsettle her? Maybe. But then again, she was probably giving Ty Morgan way too much credit—the dumb cowboy probably didn't know
how
to tell time.

 

T
y was late meeting Tom. Noontime traffic was a bitch, and finding a parking spot for a dually anywhere in the city was always a royal pain in the ass. Giving up the truck would be the most practical thing to do, but the F350 power-stroke diesel was as much a part of his identity as his Stetson. Although this place was once nothing more than a lonely desert cow town, his hat and truck were both becoming increasingly out of place in a progressively urbanized Las Vegas.

Sometimes Ty wondered what had kept him in Sin City all these years, but the longer he'd stayed away from Oklahoma, the more impossible it seemed ever to go back. Tom, on the other hand, only used Vegas for brief getaways, a return to civilization after months of seclusion at his ranch. Although he'd made vast improvements to the spread since the old days, the isolation of it—hours away from anything but cattle, cactus, and tumbleweeds—was probably the biggest reason three wives had left him.

Barely squeezing into the first vacant parking spot, Ty cut the engine and then quickly scrolled through the messages on his iPhone—nothing that couldn't wait. He switched it over to vibrate, slid it into his pocket, and climbed down from the cab.

Bob Taylor's Ranch House was a haunt of the Vegas old guard, and one of Tom's favorite restaurants. The western memorabilia covering the walls created an ideal ambience for a couple of transplanted cowboys. It was also all the way on the northwest side of town, which made it far enough off the beaten track to ensure the privacy they required. Ty hadn't even realized how hungry he was until he was hit by the mouth-watering aroma of meat seared on the open mesquite grill. He'd skipped breakfast, too preoccupied to think about food. He inhaled deeply and salivated as he scanned the room, spotting Tom at his favorite table, a booth favored by Elvis and Ann Margaret when they were shooting
Viva Las Vegas
.

Catching his eye, Tom flashed a lopsided grin and started to rise, but then gripped the table edge as if to balance himself. Early drinking didn't bode well. It wasn't like Tom, but then again, Ty had asked a helluva boon even from someone as flush in the pockets as Tom was.

“Sorry I'm late, Tom.” They came together with a hand squeeze and shoulder clap, the closest they ever came to an actual hug. Ty slid into the booth.

“No trouble.” Tom waved his hand. “I went ahead and ordered for both of us.”

“Great.” Ty grinned. “What're we having?”

“The twenty-two-ounce porterhouse from the dinner menu,” Tom replied.

“Kinda heavy for lunch, doncha think?”

“Hell, yeah, but I didn't come to the food capital to eat veggie burgers. The steak here is still the best in town, and Rosa doesn't let me have beef but twice a week since my damned coronary last year. If I never see another chicken it'll be too soon.”

Hiring Rosa had been Tom's answer to his three matrimonial strikeouts, but judging by his housekeeper's relative youth and voluptuousness, Ty guessed she was a bit more than that.

“When'd you get in?” Ty asked.

“Day b'fore yesterday.”

“And you only called me this morning?” That wasn't like Tom either. This meeting already wasn't looking good. Deciding he should brace himself for bad news, Ty flagged down a cocktail waitress. “A double Jim Beam Black on the rocks, please.”

The waitress was an attractive blonde with a nice rack who eyed them both from hats to boots with a blinding smile. Now that he thought about it, most of the women in Vegas had great tits and blazing white teeth. Maybe that's part of what kept him here. After taking Ty's order, she turned to Tom.

“You want anything from the bar, Mr. Brandt?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Tom replied, looking her over with overt appreciation. He might be getting up in years, but he still admired a good-looking woman as much as the next man.

“All right-y, then,” she replied with another flash of white teeth. “Be back in a jiff.”

Both men watched her ass sway as she walked away. She noticed, caught Ty's eye, and winked. His prick stirred to life. Hell, it was only a wink. Was it
that
long since he'd been laid? Weeks probably, he realized dismally. But he'd been so damned busy lately. He decided then and there to add a good long fuck to his agenda once this meeting was over. Hell, if things turned out as he feared, he'd have to flag it as a number-one priority—right after getting shit-faced.

“I didn't call sooner because I wanted to meet with my banker, accountant, and lawyer before answering you,” Tom replied at last, his perfectly impassive expression giving nothing away.

“And?” Ty prompted.

“I'm sorry to say they all counseled me against it, Ty. The ROI is piss-poor compared to what I'd make on the shale fields. You know how those bean counters are.”

Fuck.
Ty's gaze darted to the bar, where the waitress was flirting with a brawny blond bartender. He
really
needed that bourbon.
Now.

“We both know the place is well past its heyday,” Tom continued. “It hasn't made a profit in the past decade. Sure, it made money back when all the city dudes were hot to impress their gals on the mechanical bulls, but times have changed. I hate to say it, Ty, but my financial advisers want me to pull out of the hotel altogether and put the money where it'll grow—into hydraulic drilling and exploration.” Tom sat back with a thoughtful look. “Ironic, isn't it? My granddaddy made a fortune wildcatting, lost most of it in the Depression, and now fracking the very same sites has made mine.”

The waitress returned with his drink, but this time Ty answered her inviting smile with only a curt nod and a terse thanks. Pretty blondes, even ones with nice racks and pert asses, were now the last thing on his mind.

Tom's decision to pull out was a blow he'd half-expected but still wasn't completely prepared for. But with no wife or family, and nothing but old scars and broken bones to his credit, the hotel was all Ty had left. He took a long drink, savoring the bourbon bite while struggling to collect his scattered thoughts. After another fortifying swallow, he set his glass on the table. He still believed he could save the place and wasn't about to give it up without a fight.

“I can't argue with what your money men say, Tom, but Vegas is coming back. Maybe slowly, but it's happening. Gaming may still be down, but entertainment is up. Way up. Have you seen the High Roller yet? It's bigger even than the London Eye.”

“Shit!” Tom shook his head with a chuckle. “Makes me dizzy just to look at that damned monstrosity. Can't stand anything higher than the back of a horse, myself. Not that I even do much of that anymore. It's hell to get old, Ty,” Tom added with a sigh. “As for Vegas, you're right that this town has weathered a lot of shit storms since your father and I first hauled up here thirty years ago. Still can't believe it's been that long.” He shook his head in bemusement. “Did I ever tell you I met my first wife here that very week?”

“Nope. I don't believe you ever did.” In reality, Ty had heard the story half a dozen times, but he chose to indulge Tom's fondness for reminiscing.

Tom studied his drink for a while with a ghost of a smile. “It was back in eighty-five, the same year they moved the rodeo finals from Oklahoma City to Vegas. Her name was Vivian. Well, it still is, last I knew,” he chuckled. “She'd come out to Vegas on a private jet with a group of girls on spring break from one of those snotty Ivy League schools. I forget which one. They were all dressed like movie stars and hot to slum with us cowboys—not to say we minded it a lick.” He winked. “I was here with your ol' man. We'd hauled up a dozen bulls to an outfit outside Salt Lake and stopped in Vegas on the way back, only planning to stay one night, but ended up spending a long wild weekend in a penthouse at Caesar's. I remember having some good luck at the tables, but after that it's all a bit hazy.” Tom looked chagrinned. “To tell the truth, the most I recall of that whole weekend is going to bed drunk as a skunk and waking up married.”

“Not the first time that's ever happened in Vegas,” Ty quipped. “How long did it last?”

“Not long. Vivian high-tailed it back to Connecticut the minute I voiced my intention of hauling her back to Oklahoma with me. It was maybe a week later that I got served with divorce papers. I thought about contesting it but didn't see the point. It was fun while it lasted, but she was far too highbrow for the likes of an Okie like me.”

“I know that feeling,” Ty remarked dryly. He'd made a similar error with a Houston-bred beauty named Delaney McCall. Ty had sworn never to repeat the mistake. Tom, on the other hand, wrote triple alimony checks.

Ty and Delaney had met at the Houston Livestock Show. He'd been instantly infatuated with her, while she'd taken up with him purely out of rebellion. Much like Tom's marriage to Vivian, their honeymoon had been short-lived. The sex was hot but the rest . . . was not. She'd wanted to settle down on the ranch and have babies, but Ty wasn't ready to give up rodeo contracting. He also wasn't willing to let anyone dictate his life. One of his chief faults was his refusal to answer to anyone. Tom was the only exception to that rule, but Tom had largely let him go his own way.

“I never heard from Vivian for nigh on eighteen years,” Tom continued, snapping him back to the present. “But when she got word I'd come into some money, I got the shock of my life—and slapped with a patrimony suit. It turns out that Monica was born only two months after the divorce was finalized, but I never even knew she existed until Vivian decided to sue for eighteen years of back child support . . . and won,” he ended dryly.

“That's a bitch and a half,” Ty remarked.

“She is,” Tom laughed. “But it wasn't paying out all that money that burnt my ass as much as losing all that time with my daughter. You were the son I never had, and she's the daughter I didn't even know about.” Tom shook his head with a look of profound regret. “All those years wasted. There ain't no way to ever make that up, Ty.”

“How'd Monica react to the news?” Ty asked.

“It was as much a shock to her as it was to me, but she agreed to a legal adoption. She was already in college when I finally met her. We've been slowly building on that ever since. Better late than never, I guess. I go to New York a couple times a year to see her, but I've never been able to convince her to come out to the ranch.”

“I don't imagine a New York woman would care much for cattle ranching.”

“You're right about that,” Tom agreed with a chuckle and then retrieved his wallet. “Here, take a gander.” He pulled out a photo of a young brunette in her graduation cap and gown. “Harvard Business School, magna cum laude.”

Ty studied the photo. She had Tom's clear gray eyes, but where Tom's were softened by a perpetual hint of humor, Monica's held a gleam that suggested she knew her worth. Her mouth was curved in a subtle kiss-my-ass kinda smile. Going by looks alone, Ty summed her up as a bitch-in-the-making. “So what is she now, about twenty-eight?” he asked, more out of courtesy than real interest.

“Yup. Graduated with an MBA five years ago and landed a job on Wall Street in investment banking. Smart as hell and tough as nails to boot. You know a woman's gotta be twice as good as a man just to compete. I've offered to put her in charge of any of my business interests, but she refuses. Says we'll talk only after she's made it on her own merits.”

Ty handed the photo back with a nod. Whether Tom was close to his daughter or not, it was clear that he was mighty proud of her.

“She recently got engaged to a real asshole, though,” Tom continued. “Smug, self-important sonofabitch. Don't know what she sees in him.” Tom paused, still looking at the photo. “You know, Ty, if I thought you had any mind to settling down . . .”

“Me?” Ty snorted. “You're barking up the wrong tree there, Tom. I ain't marriage-minded, and my track record with women isn't much better than yours.”

“All right. Enough ancient history.” Tom replaced the photo in his wallet. “We're here to talk about the present. I want to hear more about this idea of yours, Ty.”

Ty dipped his index finger into the glass and stirred the ice cubes. Even though it was the original purpose of this meeting, the sudden turn in conversation after talking about Tom's successful daughter made him feel like a real shitheel. Monica, his own flesh and blood, had refused his help, and here he was with his hand out. He consoled himself that at least he'd worked for everything Tom had given him. He'd done his best, but the old hotel was finished unless Tom agreed to invest in it.

“I want to revitalize,” Ty finally said. “But we need an attraction to do it. Caesar's has invested over five hundred mil in their new expansion, and SLS is refurbing the old Sahara across The Strip. They're reopening it as a boutique hotel with a Fred Segal outlet. Everyone who wants to make it out here is renovating or innovating to attract a new non-gaming demographic.

“We can't hope to stay in business, much less compete, unless we act on a big scale. For months I've been dealing with a settling foundation, leaking roof, and almost daily repairs. I've been slapping Band-Aids on the place for too long. If we don't do something soon, we might as well demolish the whole damn place.”

There it was, the fifty-million-dollar question laid out on the table.

Ty waited, watching Tom stare into his glass, mouth pursed in thought. “I agree with you, Ty,” Tom said after a time. “But I've never been real eager to throw good money after bad. And you're asking for lotsa good money. Fifty million is a huge investment under the circumstances. Hell, I only paid eight for the place.”