Lucky Ce Soir Read online

  Lucky Ce Soir

  Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure: Book 10

  Deborah Coonts

  Contents

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  1. Chapter One

  2. Chapter Two

  3. Chapter Three

  4. Chapter Four

  5. Chapter Five

  6. Chapter Six

  7. Chapter Seven

  8. Chapter Eight

  9. Chapter Nine

  10. Chapter Ten

  11. Chapter Eleven

  12. Chapter Twelve

  13. Chapter Thirteen

  14. Chapter Fourteen

  15. Chapter Fifteen

  16. Chapter Sixteen

  17. Chapter Seventeen

  18. Chapter Eighteen

  19. Chapter Nineteen

  20. Chapter Twenty

  21. Chapter Twenty-One

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two

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  The Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure Series

  Other Books by Deborah Coonts

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “SHE’LL TURN me to stone.” Panic rooted me where I stood as I stared at my nemesis. All four feet and eleven inches of impeccable…Frenchness, she worked her way across the room, stopping periodically, greeting people with a smile, a nod, a quick word. Yet, somehow, she kept the dagger of her attention buried to the hilt between my ribs.

  The party in my honor whirled around me—a kaleidoscope of well-heeled French fashion and feigned disinterest. However, the woman headed my way left no doubt I was very much the American plat du jour.

  Chef Jean-Charles Bouclet, my perfectly presented fiancé in his bespoke tux, cultured manners and delicious accent, pressed close, his shoulder touching mine. His favored cologne, Eau de Seared Beef and Browned Onions, wafted around him, telling me he’d been calming his nerves in the kitchen before my last-minute entrance. A single bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. “What?” He’d been only half-listening.

  “Stone. One look from your mother and I’ll be a permanent fixture in this ancient ossuary.” I made a sweeping gesture that included all the statuary lining the room. Tucked discretely into individual alcoves, they lorded over the festivities. “Maybe that’s where all these marble figurines came from, former guests who were found wanting.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “At least three of them were gifts from various kings. A bit gaudy, but one never says no to a king.” Jean-Charles gave me the hint of a smile.

  I followed his gaze which was locked onto the oncoming human missile, then I leaned in and whispered, “Don’t look her in the eyes.”

  Sheathed in expensive one-of-a-kind couture that hugged her every curve, she advanced on us with an expression worn by those intent on vanquishing their enemies. Before I looked away, I took a bit of delight in the few extra pounds that expanded the middle of what might have been an hourglass figure. And her shoes were…sensible, a French fashion faux-pas. Her hints of human frailty lent me courage, albeit fleeting, but enough to stiffen my backbone.

  Jean-Charles shook his head and finally gave me his attention. “You are making no sense. What do you mean she’ll turn you to rock?” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, then ran a finger around the inside of his collar, tugging it to allow blood to get to his brain, apparently without the desired effect.

  “Not rock. Stone. Like Medusa.” As I braced for the imminent encounter, I let my gaze wander over the gathered throng, looking for friends in the crowded ballroom. No joy. Not a friendly, recognizable face in the lot. In fact, they all looked pinched and judgmental, with a hint of fear, making me feel like I was guest of honor at my own evisceration.

  Okay, overly dramatic, but the whole meeting-my-well-heeled-very-French-future-in-laws had me on the verge of apoplexy. Once I did the I-do thing, my options would be gone. How was I supposed to know if I’d picked the right one? God knew Teddie had been an epic fail.

  Epic.

  My heart still bore the scars, but it had healed. My confidence, not so much.

  But who was it I didn’t trust exactly? Jean-Charles? Or me?

  “Medusa?” Jean-Charles angled his head and looked like he was entertaining my analogy for a moment. Then he dismissed it with a quick shake of his head. “Don’t be silly,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. Instead, he adjusted his bow tie and swallowed hard. The usual robin’s egg blue of his eyes had turned dark and moody. Emotion pulled the skin tight over his cheekbones. Even still, with his full lips and soft brown hair curling over his collar, and that body hugged by the Italian cut of his tux, he was delish. He could be kind, sensitive, demanding, churlish, enigmatic—a dizzying array, which I currently found endlessly entertaining, but worried might wear me out. Time would tell…if I survived.

  Seriously, death-by-mother-in-law is a thing—I know it is.

  “You’re scared, too,” I whispered to Jean-Charles, still unable to focus an unwavering gaze on my future mother-in-law.

  “She’s my mother.” Repeating the obvious was his go-to when avoiding telling me something I didn’t want to hear. “And terrified would be more apt.”

  I swiveled a wide-eyed look at the man I supposedly knew better than anyone.

  His eyes caught mine for a fraction of a second before his gaze skittered away. His smile was tight and thin. “You and I, we share difficult mothers.”

  “Now you tell me?” Despite whispering, my voice held a shrill note.

  Jean-Charles sidestepped my accusation by focusing on a face in the crowd. Following his gaze, I found myself staring at a balding man, his sneer his only distinguishing feature. Jean-Charles looked a bit surprised and put out at seeing him.

  “Who is that?”

  “Someone who was not invited.”

  “Gotta have some steel cojones to crash your mother’s gig. Personally, I would not tempt death that way.”

  “He would’ve been wise to stay away.”

  Christophe, Jean-Charles’s son, moved from clutching his father’s leg to tugging on my vintage Bob Mackie gown.

  Five years old, blond curls and large baby blues like his father’s, he most likely sensed our discomfort and needed reassurance. The kid was an emotional weather vane. My mother, Mona, a new mother to a set of twins, had told me that many things about dealing with children were instinctive. My disbelief had drawn a knowing smile. I hated it when Mona was right. Thankfully, it didn’t happen that often.

  After carefully disengaging his fingers from the delicate fabric, I squatted as much as I dared in the tight sheath, then lifted him. “Ooof! You’ve been eating too many happy-face pancakes.” Christophe still fit on one hip, but he would soon outgrow that perch, and my ability to fly him there. I nuzzled his hair which smelled of baby soap and warm memories.

  “Grand-mère, she looks…different,” he whispered, one hand fisted in my hair.

  “A woman on the warpath,” I muttered, then braced for the elbow to the ribs I knew would be coming. Jean-Charles didn’t disappoint. A soft nudge of displeasure which I ignored. “Girding her loins for battle to protect her sole and sainted son,” I explained to my future stepson despite his father’s glare. The hint of laughter in Jean-Charles’s eyes told me I was on safe ground. The laughter dimmed when I turned on him. “I thought your mother lived on a farm and named the cows.” Even with my limited functionality at the moment, I distinctly remembered that was how he’d described his mother—a charming story about his father’s irritation at not being able to butcher and serve the cows which, in the naming, had become pets. The woman advancing on us with the purpose of a bullet fired from a rifle could have killed the cows with her bare hands and thought nothing of it. My opinion, but the look on her face did
little to convince me otherwise.

  Jean-Charles shrugged. “The vineyard. The farm is more of a hobby. How do you say it, their men’s farm?”

  “Gentleman’s farm?” Usually his trouble with American idioms, which I had a strong suspicion was slightly feigned for my benefit, charmed me. Today, not so much.

  “Oui. This.” He seemed far too pleased with himself.

  I resisted the urge to wipe the smug off his face. Probably bad form at a fancy French soirée. Instead, I narrowed my eyes. “Lying by omission.” Was that a capital offense? Punishable by death or just slow, delicious torture? Either way, it was still a big check in the “con” column.

  Yep, I was straddling the commitment fence. Uncomfortable to say the least.

  And Jean-Charles’s mother was just more of what I didn’t need.

  As she drew closer, the partiers formed a circle of interest, their intensity wafting off them like cheap cologne. Activity and conversation stopped.

  My future mother-in-law, Madame Jeanne Marchand Bouclet, stepped into my space. I resisted the urge to step back, reestablishing my boundary. The more I traveled, the more I realized the American concept of personal space translated about as seamlessly as our humor. The English were equally amused and appalled by it, the Italians ignored it, the French invaded it, and the Asians missed the concept entirely.

  I held my ground as Madame Bouclet gave me a rheumy-eyed once over. The pale bow of her mouth scrunched in only slight distaste—I took that as a win. Her brown hair, the color softened by invading gray, was cut in a stylish bob. Her gown, a golden chenille that changed hues where it wrinkled and flowed, was fitted and tasteful, yet provocative in its off-the-shoulder design. A long cocktail length, the dress exposed her ankles and the color-coordinated ballet slippers adorning her feet.

  My shoes were French, but my gown shouted American chutzpah and not a little bit of Vegas showmanship, no doubt considered a bit bourgeois by this crowd. I envied the effortless style with which French women carried themselves. I also envied their figures. Of course, they didn’t have to ignore the Siren call of In-N-Out Burger, animal style, every day.

  Jean-Charles’s mother said nothing, so I clamped my mouth shut, too, thinking then it would be impossible to stuff my foot in it. We faced off, her appraisal and my fear a chasm of silence between us.

  Jean-Charles leaped into the breach. “Mama, may I present Miss Lucky O’Toole.”

  She flicked one stenciled eyebrow skyward and extended a hand, palm down.

  I hadn’t a clue what to do with it. Kiss it? Not a chance.

  “Mama!”

  Using his exalted-son status, Jean-Charles competed with the raised eyebrow thing. I could beat them both but now was probably not the time. The crowd eased even closer. I felt certain they’d drawn a collective breath and held it. The air didn’t move, hanging instead thick and stifling with emotion.

  “Jesus,” I sighed, the dregs of my patience dried on the bottom of my empty flagon previously filled with the Milk of Human Kindness. I took her hand in both of mine. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. The men in your family have been singing your praises nonstop. Thank you so much for inviting me to your lovely home and having this amazing party. I am incredibly honored.” What can I say? Suck-up is my best thing—a skill well-honed through years in customer service at the Babylon, Las Vegas’s most over the top strip resort. And before that, at lesser properties in the wild and wooly parts of Vegas most well-heeled folks never see. When I began life at a whorehouse in Pahrump, who knew I’d end up here, in Paris, feted by those at the upper end of the upper crust? Certainly not me. This was so far from my normal that all I could do was make it up as I went…and apparently use too many superlatives.

  Madame Bouclet inclined her head slightly.

  The room filled with expelled air. The mood brightened. The fear skittered to hide in the corners. Jean-Charles visibly relaxed, and the lady in front of me gave me a smile. “My dear, please ignore my son’s lack of manners. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. You have captured my son’s heart and have enraptured my grandson—both challenging tasks. I must learn how you have done such a thing.” Her English was flawless—infinitely better than my high-school French, which I had yet to trot out. In this crowd, being six feet tall, curvy, and American was enough of an embarrassment. “Let me introduce you to my friends.” She turned on her heel.

  Jean-Charles motioned for me to follow, then fell in behind me. Christophe gladly rode my hip, bobbing along high above the fray. Being tall was my cross to bear, but I figured it was infinitely better than staring at everybody’s thighs. So I took pity on him, and on me, and let him ride into the fray, a human shield as it were…but he didn’t need to know that.

  “Where’s Desiree?” I tossed the words over my shoulder as I followed in Madame Bouclet’s wake.

  Jean-Charles rested a hand lightly on my shoulder as he leaned closer to catch my words. “Pardon?”

  “Your sister?” I was counting on her to be my wingman. Her absence left me flying solo. Of course, I’d been complicit in the death of her estranged husband, Adone Giovanni, who, with his mistress had conspired to steal Desiree’s business. So maybe expecting her to greet me with a buss on both cheeks might be overshooting.

  Frankly, I thought my assistance in taking him out of the gene pool was a good thing, but love could be super-complicated. Maybe Desiree was planning to plant a dagger between my shoulder blades. To be honest, I didn’t have a clue what transpired between her ears, nor what she held in her heart.

  “She would not miss Mother’s party.” Jean-Charles made the prospect sound like doing so would mean the guillotine.

  “Hope she’s okay.”

  “Pffft,” he puffed in French derision. “It will be a man. It is always a man.”

  “Rather evolved of you. Your man card is in trouble. Don’t you Y-chromosome types always blame bad things on women?”

  “I am not saying she is not at fault. She chooses the men.” He tugged a bit with the hand still on my shoulder. “What is this man card?”

  “Only thing that keeps you guys in the game.”

  Madame Bouclet yanked my attention back to the terror at hand. I so should’ve brushed up on the rules of French decorum. Vaguely, I remembered something about not touching anyone, and for sure not smiling very much—the French think it makes Americans look like fools, and perhaps a bit insincere. Spot on, in my book.

  She stopped in front of a couple waiting with expectant expressions. Tiny, perfectly turned-out, they gave her a thin smile. “This is Miss Lucky O’Toole, Jean-Charles’s fiancée.”

  I painted on what I hoped was a pleasant expression that wasn’t a smile and tried to remember my fancy manners.

  The names, unusual in their pronunciation, faded as one overwrote the one before on my mental hard drive. Christophe wriggled on my hip and my arms ached from corralling his weight as a starched and unctuous liveried member of the staff hurried to Madame Bouclet’s side. If the interruption bothered her, I couldn’t tell. Composure was something I strove for, failed at, and consequently strongly admired. Jean-Charles’s mother’s was impeccable. I wondered if she also had the royal wave down.

  As the man bent and whispered in her ear, Madame Bouclet’s hand moved to her throat, her fingers intertwining with her pearls, twisting them like expensive worry beads. Her face paled. Her jaw slackened, revealing her age and her worry. The man stepped back, and Madame Bouclet motioned to her son with a fluttering hand held close to her side, a subtle move to not draw attention.

  Jean-Charles touched my elbow with a gesture of understanding, and I relinquished his son, my arms screaming their thanks. In one fluid movement, Jean-Charles took his son, lifting him high, then dropping him on his shoulders. “What is it, Maman?”

  “It’s Papa.” She wilted as her knees buckled slightly. With a flawless segue, Jean-Charles caught her arm, steadying her. “He’s not well. His heart.”

  Jean-C
harles skewered the butler with an unmistakable look. The man turned on his heel and disappeared through the doorway. Jean-Charles, now holding his mother’s elbow and his son, inclined his head, indicating I should follow him. I dug in my heels. “I should stay here.”

  “Non!” His tone brooked no argument.

  This was not the place to make a scene—I could feel the heat of the partygoers’ stares.

  Jean-Charles ushered us through a doorway hidden in the paneling of the front hall, then down a hallway with multiple intersections with other corridors. The back of the house. As a hotelier, I was familiar. As a gal from Pahrump, this was home.

  Worry propelled Jean-Charles. I had to hurry to keep up.

  At the third intersection, he turned right, then burst through swinging double doors. I followed, catching the doors on the backswing. Blinking at the light, I found myself in a cavernous, white and stainless kitchen, the workstations spotlighted by commercial-grade overhead lights. Delicious aromas wafted from ovens and bubbling pots. My stomach growled. I cringed as the family clustered around me, afraid they might have heard.

  But something was wrong.

  Jean-Charles pushed into the kitchen. “What is going on here?” He kicked at a pot rolling on the floor. Utensils were scattered on the tile like grown-up Pick-Up Stix. A pool of something that smelled drool-worthy oozed from under a prep table. “Where’s my father?”

  “Over here.” A voice, indignant but weak, answered in a timbre that held hints of his son’s.

  Jean-Charles kicked at a pot as he hurried toward the voice. His staff remained rooted. In full French bluster, he turned and shouted at them. “Back to work. And clean this up, now!”