Wanna Get Lucky? (32 page)

The two across from me were quiet as I scanned the application. “I see here you finished your hotel and restaurant degree last spring.” I gave a low whistle. “Pretty gaudy grade point.”

Brandy smiled. “I’m a hard worker.”

“I remember that about you.” I remembered other things about Brandy as well. On her own, with no real marketable assets other than her Marilyn Monroe figure, she’d worked her way through college.

Study by day, strip by night.

Technically she had danced in a cage after hours in one of the local watering holes. She’d come to class with black eyes and assorted bruises from time to time after turning down demands for extracurricular activities. I’d offered help, but she’d refused—said she could handle them. I remember one guy she’d put in the hospital. “Wine isn’t your real last name is it?”

“No, it’s Alexander.”

Not much better, but at least Brandy Alexander sounded more like a real name rather than a stage name. “Well, Miss Alexander, with your degree and grades, how come I found you parking cars at the Athena?”

She straightened at my question, looked me unwaveringly in the eye, and said, “Most of the hotels don’t want former strippers in their management.”

“Ah yes, the new saintly image of Sin City.” All done to appease
the delicate sensibilities of the corporate types at the home office in New York—as if covering the grime in a new coat of whitewash made the grime disappear. “I can assure you, you’ll find none of that hypocrisy in this office. I carry the taint myself—my mother runs a whorehouse in Pahrump.”

“Cool.” The girl looked at Miss Patterson questioningly.

“I’m from Iowa,” Miss Patterson said. “My mother milks cows and drives a tractor. Sorry.”

“Here’s the deal,” I explained. “We’re looking for an assistant for Miss Patterson—strictly customer relations. With your background, I would think you would be more inclined toward operations.”

“Do you have any idea how many kids in the program would kill to work for you?”

I was taken aback. “Really? Whatever for?

“You rock.”

“I’ll take that as a good thing.” Today really was the weirdest day.

“We’ll work you like a galley slave, and—” I nodded at her shoes. “The salary won’t buy many pairs of Christian Louboutin’s.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be learning from the best in the business.”

I leveled my gaze at her, trying to muster a serious expression. “You can’t put any of our guests in the hospital.”

Miss Patterson’s eyebrows shot up.

“You remember that.” Brandy looked stricken.

“Her hands are registered lethal weapons,” I explained to Miss Patterson.

Brandy waved her unassuming appendages. “Black belt, karate and aikido.”

I nodded to Miss Patterson. “Do you have any questions for Miss Alexander?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“Fine. Brandy, would you mind stepping outside? I need to confer with my assistant—this is a small office, we watch each other’s backs here, so we need to feel comfortable with each other.”

The girl closed the door behind her, but I could still see her through the glass side panels as she stood looking out at the teeming lobby below.

“She’d work for food.” Miss Patterson and her bullshit meter.

“Yeah.”

God, just looking at her transported me back. I was fifteen, fear tempering my brashness to a steel-like hardness. I’d had to convince The Big Boss that not only was I really eighteen, but I could do a good job with no training other than growing up in a whorehouse. He’d known I was lying, but he’d taken a flier on me. That foot in the door had made all the difference.

“So what do you think?” I asked.

“How can we not hire her? I couldn’t live with myself and you couldn’t either.”

“She worked her ass off and got doors slammed in her face for it,” I said, shaking my head. “Vegas, the town that eats its young. She’s your assistant if you can get her to accept your offer.”

“And what is my offer?” Miss Patterson looked at me, her pencil poised above a notepad.

“Fifty grand to start, a review and possible raise after six months, the normal benefits. All in exchange for her soul and every second of her free time.”

“Great.” Miss Patterson rose to go. “But I think I’ll leave out that last part. She can discover that on her own.”

ONE
advantage, probably the only advantage, of paperwork is it demands my total attention. No thinking about Teddie . . . or Dane and his lies. No worrying whether Willie the Weasel, Ol’ Irv, and Felicia Reilly would get what they deserved. And my mother? What was up with that last phone call? Did she really think she could put me off the scent? I’m a better hound dog than that—if anybody knows that it would be Mother.

Okay, clearly I had lost my powers of concentration. The pile of papers still commanded every square inch of surface area on my
desk—I hadn’t made much of a dent, and I’d been at it for over an hour.

Miss Patterson wasn’t back from taking Brandy to Human Resources.

Leaning back in my chair, I put my feet on my desk and closed my eyes. Dog tired, I never realized how much energy emotion took.

The outer door opened and closed. Unable to muster even a scintilla of curiosity, I stayed where I was. If it was trouble, it would find me. Trouble knew where I lived.

“Hey.” Not trouble—Teddie, to the extent those two were mutually exclusive.

“Practice over?” I asked, but didn’t move.

“The sex show folks needed to get in. You wouldn’t believe what they’re doing.”

I held up my hand. “I’m very visual.”

He laughed. “That could be ugly. What do you say I buy you a drink, then maybe some dinner?”

“A drink would be good.” I opened one eye and looked at the clock. Five forty-five. “But I’m meeting someone at Tigris for dinner in forty-five minutes.”

“Really?” Teddie asked as he pulled me to my feet.

“Yeah, I’m having dinner with the Dark Side.”

ONCE
again seated side by side at the bar in Delilah’s, Teddie asked the question I was hoping he wouldn’t. “Who is the Dark Side?”

“Paxton Dane.”

“Oh.”

The look on his face made me feel queasy, like I’d kicked a dog or something. “It’s business.”

“Interesting place for business.”

“I won a bet.”

“Really?”

“I can’t explain. Not until I have a few more answers—” His hand on my arm stopped me.

“You don’t have to explain.” He smiled, but hurt still clouded his eyes. “Are you coming to the party later?”

“I’ll try.”

“Good.” He pushed backward off the stool. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

I watched him walk away.

I guess he’d forgotten about buying me that drink.

RELATIONSHIPS
—so damned difficult. I could handle my job with ease and confidence. My life was a whole other matter.

The Babylon had a sister hotel in Macau—taking any job there was looking really good right now. With time to kill, I wandered toward my office. Miss Patterson should go home, and I needed to think about what corner of the office would become Brandy’s domain.

My two assistants were way ahead of me. They had already moved furniture, pushing Miss Patterson’s desk closer to the front door, and clearing a corner near the entrance to my office.

“We ordered a desk, a chair and some supplies,” Miss Patterson announced as I walked in. “The desk can go here.” She stood with her back to the wall, her arms extended. “I think it all fits without blocking any of us. What do you think?”

“That’s fine.” I waved at them as I disappeared into my office. “Whatever makes you guys happy is fine with me.”

Unable to sit, I stared glumly out the window at all the happy people below. And this day had started so well . . .

Miss Patterson stuck her head through the door. “You okay?”

Before I could answer, the outer door burst open. Teddie rushed in, almost knocking Miss Patterson down in the process.

“Sorry.” He gently scooted Miss Patterson out of the doorway and pulled the office door shut. Walking over to me, he took my hands in his. “I really mishandled that whole thing in the bar.”

I pulled my hands away—I couldn’t say what I had to say with my skin on his. “
That
was exactly what I was afraid of. You’re my
best friend and now you have all these other expectations of me. What if I can’t live up to them? Then you won’t be my friend anymore?”

Reaching for me, he closed the distance between us.

I crossed my arms and stepped back. “Don’t. I can’t think straight when you’re touching me.”

Dropping his arms to his side, he stopped. He didn’t have to say anything—I could see it in his eyes.

“I can’t think straight when you look at me like that either.”

“Don’t try so hard, and don’t worry so much. You’re overthinking this whole thing.”

“Me? Overthink? That’s a first.” I managed a smile.

“Just relax. Let go.”

“That’s what men say just before they start working a hand up under my skirt.”

“Clearly you’ve been hanging out with the wrong men.”

Despite my protests he hugged me tight.

No longer willing to resist, I let him hold me, my head on his shoulder, my arms around his waist.

He felt solid and safe, calming yet exciting, the same yet so very different. How could one kiss have changed so much?

D
ane waited for me just outside the double bronze doors of Tigris.

I watched him from across the casino as he scanned the crowd, then checked his watch. Already purposefully ten minutes late, I decided another few minutes of forcing Dane to cool his heels might get him hot under the collar—a distraction I could use.

Paxton Dane was a veritable living, breathing, reminder of the old adage: If something is too good to be true, it usually is. Tonight he sported a pair of fitted, creased jeans, a plaid button-down under a camel blazer, a flash of gold on the wrist, and those expensive-looking kickers.

Wavy brown hair begged fingers to run through it. Emerald eyes softened the sharp planes of his face. Full lips, normally curved in
wry amusement, now were pulled tight by anger. He wore a look of self-awareness—he was a hunk and he knew it.

I bet Dane hadn’t been turned down by a female since grade school.

Good thing I no longer had that libido problem.

Anger flashed in Dane’s eyes as I walked up, then he hid it behind a forced smile. “There you are. You know they’ll only hold our reservation for fifteen minutes.”

“I’m really sorry. This job of mine!” I shook my head as I hooked my arm through his.

If he could pretend to be a good guy, I could pretend to be happy to see him.

He visibly relaxed as he escorted me through the bronze doors into another world. The ceilings low, the lighting subtle, Tigris commanded the top of a very short list of exquisite five-star restaurants in Vegas.

Silk carpets in bright colors hung in loops from the ceiling, tightly woven straw mats covered mahogany floors, burnished to a dark shine, palm trees grew from patches of sandy soil—a Vegas interpretation of a sultan’s luxurious tent. Torches, real flame under glass, lit the path through the tables. Sumerian treasures adorned the walls. Somewhere, there was a very early Greek reproduction of the Code of Hammurabi, but I didn’t see it as we followed a young woman to our table next to the window.

In contrast to the slick elegance of most top restaurants, the tables in Tigris were made of intricate inlaid mosaic. The glassware was sturdy and blue. Omer, the culinary genius in charge of Tigris, was an unknown, self-taught, Turkish chef when The Big Boss had found him slaving away at a very nice restaurant in Oman.

Now the toast of Vegas, Omer was no longer little known.

Roham, our waiter tonight, waited at my chair with a big grin. “Miss O’Toole, so good to see you!”

I let him seat me. “I see they haven’t sent you back to Iran.”

“Not yet,” he said. His smile lit his dark eyes. “You want Wild
Turkey, neat.” A statement, not a question. He nodded at Dane. “May I offer you a beverage?”