Lucky Break Page 2

  “I know, threatened to boil you in oil or something. Don’t worry. It’s fine.” I stopped before I disappeared into the dark confines of the car. “Just ignore them,” I whispered. “Maybe they’ll go away.”

  Paolo nodded, his smile forced, terror in his eyes.

  He situated Mona next to me and Teddie in front, then slid behind the wheel, I checked the clock. Ten minutes until a press conference my father had arranged. If I wasn’t there, heads would roll.

  I toggled the switch that would allow Paolo to hear despite the glass window raised to cocoon the back. “Paolo, the time.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Paolo pressed his cap on tight as he gripped the wheel, his knuckles white. “Hold on.”

  I reached for the looped strap near my left ear and held on.

  Mona tapped me on the leg to get my attention, like we’d been having a nice conversation and I’d gotten distracted. She recoiled when I looked at her with my not-so-happy face.

  “This is my night, Mother. How dare you?”

  She looked crestfallen, her best gambit. I didn’t cave.

  Teddie lowered the window separating the front seat from the rear compartment. “Lucky, I’m sorry. Mona said—”

  I held up my hand, cutting him off. “Playing the hapless stooge in a game run by women is getting old, and it is not attractive. You know Mona. And you know our rules. We are friends, but you are not allowed in my apartment unless you have a specific invitation from me.”

  “At least you’re talking,” Mona said with more than a little gloat. “This is wonderful,” she said with bright eyes.

  A bit late to wise-up, Teddie ignored her. “Mona said you’d be okay with it.”

  “Mona lies,” I said, transfixing my mother with a stare. But Teddie knew that already. “Paolo, step on it before I kill somebody.”

  Tires squealed as he did as I asked, fishtailing the big car onto Koval, then accelerating south. The forward momentum of the large car pressed me back in my seat and scared Mona into quiet.

  In less than five minutes, with several tourists terrified but still breathing, Paolo turned up the grand drive to Cielo. Huge trees lined the curved entrance, giving the hotel a secretive feel, as if one had to be in the know to find the place. Like The Mansion at MGM, Cielo was a decadent hideaway for those who valued their privacy or just needed a respite from the constant pulsing energy of the Strip. The front entrance, normally protected by large gates and armed security, stood open, ready to receive all tonight. Protected under a copper porte cochere, and softened with pots of riotous flowering plants, the entrance was welcoming and warm with understated elegance. The architects had bent under my supervision and used rock, wood and other natural building materials where possible. The effect was stunning, warm and welcoming like a Japanese sanctuary. Frosted glass with images of reeds etched into them separated the large space into smaller vestibules. When the hotel officially opened, hosts would greet each guest, escorting them to a desk where the registration process would be handled with a glass of Champagne. The waterfall on the far wall lent a comforting sound as well as humidity, to the parched desert air. Yes, the place had turned out exactly as I’d hoped.

  When the Big Boss and I had bought the property out of foreclosure, I had imagined this, dreamt of it, but never really thought I’d pull it off. The building, which we’d taken down to the bare bones, then built out, adding on where we could, had housed one of the grand dames of Vegas past, The Athena. Irv Gittings, the former owner, would never recognize what had been the diamond in his crown. Life had taken a hard turn for Ol’ Irv. The rest of us moved on, and he went to jail.

  Through the glass, I could see Jean-Charles just inside the front entrance talking to a group of reporters. Resplendent in his chef’s whites, the trousers black-and-white striped, he looked at ease amid the well-liveried crowd milling about the lobby in their formal dress. His brown hair curled softly over the collar of his jacket. Trim, with broad shoulders and a slightly formal bearing, he made my heart melt.

  When the limo eased in next to the curb, he moved to meet us as if he’d been watching, which he probably had. He opened the door, extended a hand, and pulled me into his embrace. Flash bulbs popped as I lost myself in his kiss. For a moment the world disappeared, and it was just the two of us. “You are late,” he whispered against my cheek. “I was worried.”

  I kept my arms looped around his neck. “Shanghaied by my mother. I’m sorry. Shouldn’t you be upstairs?”

  He gave me a Gallic shrug and an irresistible smile that lit his robin’s-egg-blue eyes. “This is more important.”

  “There’s just something about the French. Romance oozing out of every pore,” Mona cooed.

  Even though her words sounded benign, I felt the prick of her jab.

  Apparently, Jean-Charles didn’t; his eyes warm, never drifted from mine. “You look good enough to eat. This is right, non?” On a never-ending quest to learn American idioms, Jean-Charles never missed a chance to trot one out. Tonight, he got it right. Most of the time, not so much, with charming consequences.

  “High praise indeed from a master chef.”

  He beamed, until he caught sight of Teddie with Mona now leaning possessively on his arm, claiming her horse in this race. “Your mother and her games.” While the words were light, his tone was not. “Mona, how good to see you,” he said, slipping into a well-honed insincerity.

  Mona smiled, unaware of the frost chilling his words.

  “Theodore, I didn’t know you were attending.” Jean-Charles acknowledged Teddie but didn’t extend a hand as he ushered us all inside. “Your father is waiting. He is a bit angry.”

  “Why?”

  “The reporters, they only want to talk to you.” He led me to the half-circle of chairs bookending a couch and lighted for the media. “I will be upstairs. The food …”

  “Needs your attention.” I gave him a quick kiss. “Go. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  I watched him as he worked his way toward the elevators, admiring the ease with which he made each person he spoke with shine … like they felt like the most important person in the world. Where did sincerity end and civility begin? With the French, it was hard to tell. So polished. So smooth.

  “Lucky?” A light touch on my arm rescued me just before I slipped into insecurity.

  Kimberly Cho, one of the P.R. people who had been helping me with a sticky problem at the Big Boss’s Macau property, looked up at me, her eyes a bit too wide, her normal polished perfection a bit ruffled. “Do you have a moment? It’s important. I won’t take much of your time.” Her black hair drawn back in a soft chignon, her porcelain skin lightly blushed, her eyes kohled, she’d chosen a one-shoulder sheath of exquisitely embroidered Asian silk in turquoise. I envied the ease with which she carried her elegance. Although short and trim, she had the presence of someone much taller. “You know I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”

  “I know.” I checked the time. I glanced at my father, a light sheen on his face from the heat of the kliegs. The interviewer and her attendants shifted nervously—everyone waiting on yours truly. “Will it wait until after my interview? Everyone is waiting.”

  Her hand shook as she tucked in a strand of hair that had the audacity to wander loose. “There’s this man. A very bad man. You must be careful.”

  “What? Who?”

  “I knew him. From before.” Her eyes stared past me. Her face went slack.

  “Kimberly, what is it?”

  When her eyes again shifted to mine, they looked dead. “Be careful.” With a nod, she backed away.

  “Find security, then meet me at the elevator,” I called after her. “We’ll ride up alone. You’ll have my undivided attention, and we’ll have some privacy.”

  I turned to go. Something in the way she looked bothered me. The paleness of her skin, the slight haunted look in her eyes. She wasn’t scared; she was terrified. Why did I let her go? I whirled around to call her back.


  She was gone.

  I scanned the crowd. Nothing.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. Kimberly would be waiting at the elevator, I told myself as I painted on a smile and mentally shifted, grinding a few gears and threatening to throw the transmission.

  My father waited, his smile firmly in place, his eyes questioning. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said, half-joking.

  “Once-removed.” At his confused look, I said, “A friend, she looked troubled.”

  “You can help her.” My father stated that like a certainty.

  Helping people, solving problems, was a yin and yang kind of thing. Sort of like the push and pull of life. I loved helping people, then I resented them for needing too much. Drawing boundaries was not a tool in my toolbox.

  “I’m sorry I cut it rather close,” I said, settling myself. A perfunctory peace offering as a young man worked to find a place for the mic on my minimal bodice.

  Seated next to my father, with Teddie and Mona stashed somewhere in the back of the crowd, the lights hot and unforgiving, I felt like a captive awaiting interrogation. While I was often the spokesperson for the Babylon, I wasn’t used to having the spotlight turned on me, on my personal life. Everyone wanted to see my ring, which I thought odd, and an invasion of a sort.

  My father chuckled at my discomfort. Tonight, sharp in his tux, his salt-and-pepper hair perfectly groomed, his square jaw thrust slightly out as if begging for a fight, my father looked every inch the hardscrabble hotel magnate he was.

  “Throwing me to the wolves, how ungallant of you,” I pretended to grouse.

  “It’s your show, kid. I’m old news.”

  According to those present, I had managed to sidestep the most invasive questions, keeping the interview on topic, and I didn’t offend anyone in the process. A clear win in my book, but I didn’t remember much of it. Panic derails any ability I might have to remember clearly. The pain was so great, if I remembered it I’d never do it again.

  Like love.

  Pain and pleasure—emotional triggers separated by perception.

  Having Teddie around scratched at the thin scab over the tear in my heart. I wished he’d leave, which, had I chosen to listen, should’ve told me something. But I didn’t.

  I paused to speak with a few colleagues and old friends. Even though two million people lived in Vegas, in many ways it still was a small town. The power elite, the casino owners and representatives, the few local professionals peddling regulatory connections or perhaps insight earned from years in the business, and the requisite attorneys to create messes where there were none and the P.R. people to repair the damage—it was a small group. We hung out at the same parties, knew the same people, fought the same battles, often on opposite sides. But if one of us succeeded, Vegas succeeded. So, when the contests were over, the winner declared, we all settled back into being wary combatants always looking to realign allegiances to better our positions. Nerve-wracking and exhausting. The Big Boss was a pro, I an unwilling acolyte, strictly third-string.

  At the elevator, I waited, surprised Kimberly wasn’t lurking close by. Since we’d talked, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in some sort of trouble. Silly, I kept telling myself. But I’d seen enough trouble to know how it looked, and how it felt, worming its way inside, coiling, cold and dreadful in the pit of your stomach.

  I’d seen it, felt it, when I’d talked to Kimberly.

  She didn’t show. Get a grip, Lucky. As I stepped into the cab of the elevator, I shook off the odd feeling. Okay, I pushed it aside and tried to ignore it.

  I had a party to work and a man’s arm to grace. So nice for once not to be in charge, to be able to relax and enjoy the fruits of someone else’s labor.

  Amazingly, no one pushed in with me and I had the elevator to myself as I rode to the top floor. Teddie and Mona had left me to the media wolves, preferring to be early at the party. Mona loved to stake out the best spot in a room. From there she would work the party like a well-seasoned debutante. The thought of Mona with the high-society crowd made me smile. Teddie’s parents wore the blue-blood taint, and Mona had put them where they belonged. I wished that kind of moxie, that ability to dissect someone without them realizing it, was genetically transferred, but no such luck. Either that or it had skipped my generation. Either way, I came out on the short end.

  Pressing my back to the cool metal at the back of the elevator car, I let it hold some of my weight as the doors slid shut, cocooning me inside.

  I used the quiet to breathe, the smooth ride to make a mental transition from being the lead dancer to a member of the corps. As the elevator slowed, I brushed down my dress, arranged my hair, wiped under my eyes, and relaxed … ready to enjoy the part of the evening where Jean-Charles could showcase his brilliance and I could stay out of the limelight. The doors opened. My luck held—the hall to the restaurant was empty.

  Visible through the glass doors, a Van Gogh hung on the wall, spotlighted perfectly, the personification of perfection and elegance of execution—like Jean-Charles and his cuisine. Jean-Charles and I had had a bit of a tiff over the painting—actually, it was the ace up my sleeve that I held until Jean-Charles had capitulated on a few expensive requests. He’d been played, and he’d handled it well.

  Somehow we’d managed to be business partners as well as a team in life. I had no idea how we’d dodged the bullets that flew at us from every direction, but we had.

  The noise of a party in full swing buffeted me as I pushed through the double glass doors fronting the elegant foyer. A few steps to the right and around a corner, then I stepped into the crowd. I loved seeing the Vegas glitterati turned out for a formal gathering. A quick scan of the room confirmed everyone who was anyone or who thought they were someone was here, including the political contingent. Not the governor, but some Gaming Commission members, as well as the mayor of Las Vegas and a few local politicos. If I remembered correctly, the lieutenant governor had hinted at putting in an appearance. With campaigns ramping up toward next year’s elections, he just might. That would make sure we got some press in Carson City and Reno, never a bad thing. Even though the northern part of the state was further from Vegas than L.A., San Diego, and Phoenix, those folks still popped down for a taste of the bright lights.

  The men looked brilliant in their fitted formal wear. The women, many of them powerful businesspeople in their own right, dressed to showcase figures and surgery, rather than their innate loveliness and quiet competence that made them truly interesting and set them apart. Superficiality—a Vegas thing that didn’t make me proud.

  Most days I felt like I waded alone in my quest for something a bit more solid than pretty outsides and relationships measured in hours. As Teddie had likened it, Don Quixote and his windmills, considering this was Vegas, where one could try on a different life for the weekend.

  Excited voices competed with lively tunes from a quartet in the corner. Sinatra. My Way. Perfect. Mouth-watering aromas drifted from the kitchen each time a waiter pushed through the swinging doors. The tables and chairs had been hidden away, leaving the expanse of wooden floor open for gathering, dancing, and whatever. Bar tables with high stools ringed the floor, except that the far wall of windows overlooking the glory of the Strip was left unobstructed. The dark green walls, the wooden beams overhead, the brass sconces casting a warm glow, and the wrought-iron light fixtures above, each with a tiny flame in glass where a light should be, gave the space the comfort of a French country house, just as Jean-Charles had wanted.

  “Food is pleasure,” he told me, “to be enjoyed and shared with good friends. I want my customers to feel like friends here.”

  From the looks of it, he’d accomplished that in spades.

  Many turned to greet me as I worked my way across the room. Mona and my father were encircled against the far wall of windows, the multicolored lights of the Strip backlighting them. My former assistant and now the Head of Customer Relations at the Babylon, Miss P, nuzz
led her intended, the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock at a table in the corner. Their wedding was set for Christmas Eve, only a few days from now, it would be the first to be performed at Cielo. Brandy, my assistant, had corralled a few important media-types, presumably stroking their egos as she spoon-fed them the story we’d like to see printed.

  Still no Kimberly Cho. I tried not to be worried. But, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that tonight was going to be anything but routine.

  Waiters passed trays of delectables, which I waved away for the moment. Me? Passing up a feeding opportunity? I was either sick or the apocalypse was imminent. I should wear tight clothes more often. Perhaps one day I’d fit comfortably in them and pigs would fly.

  The Babylon’s head bartender, Sean, appeared at my elbow with a flute of bubbly. “Schramsberg rosé. Medicinal. Chef’s orders.”

  That I didn’t wave away, thanking him with a smile as he stepped back behind the bar. I spied Jean-Charles across the room and began working my way toward him.

  The back of a man walking away from me caught my eye. For a brief moment my heart went cold.

  Irv Gittings? It couldn’t be. An old, old flame, back when I was young and stupid, the thought of him usually had me reaching for a deadly weapon. One of my proudest accomplishments had been to play a large role in seeing him put behind bars a few months ago. There were nights I fell asleep picturing the problems he would be having in the general prison population. He’d tried to frame the Big Boss for murder, and then steal the Babylon from him. A capital offense in my book. And this was Nevada, one of the last outposts of the Wild West, where the death penalty was considered fitting punishment.

  The guy easing out of the kitchen and striding away from me was dressed like Irv used to: a white dinner jacket with the crested gold buttons glinting on the sleeve as he raised his hand and a red tie that I could just catch a corner of as he angled away. The cut of the jaw, the arrogance in the exaggerated shoulder-back posture … I narrowed my eyes. No, not Irv. Shorter, maybe. And hair more pepper and less salt than Irv’s. But close enough to be spooky. I got ahold of myself. Irv couldn’t be here. He was playing games with the inmates at Indian Springs.