Lucky In Love Read online

  “Vanilla nut cut with milk, just the way you like it.” At my raised eyebrow, she continued. “Miss P called. She said you weren’t... up to speed today.”

  “That’s one way of putting it.” I smiled as I took the proffered mug. My body practically vibrated in anticipation. Caffeine, a drug of necessity—thank god it was still legal. “I left a warm bed and a hot guy so I’m not feeling all that magnanimous, I’ll admit. So forewarned is forearmed.”

  She lowered her eyes and colored a bit.

  One sip of coffee and my whole body sighed. “You will be rewarded by the gods, thank you. Now, come, show me what you’re thinking for the wedding.”

  Apparently unwilling to be cast out of the spotlight any longer, Ella pounced. “Lucky!”

  I winced. “Too many decibels, Ella. Can you please use your inside voice?” I took one of the three chairs that Delphinia had pulled together in front of the altar/dais/podium/whatever—the place where the minister would stand. Minister that would be Ella. With her over-the-top personality, she was just Vegas enough.

  She collapsed in a heap into the chair across from me, her full skirt billowing like a parachute giving up the wind. As if beating glowing embers scattered on a breeze, she patted down the fabric. Finally, she came into view—all four feet, eleven inches and ninety pounds, including several pounds of strawberry blond hair that cascaded in a magnificent wave down her back and well past her butt. Batting her green eyes at me, she looked stricken.

  “Isn’t it a bit early for you, Ella? Aren’t we cutting into your couch time?” I savored another sip of coffee and felt a few brain cells come on line.

  “Oh,” she waved a delicate hand. “I’ve cleared my calendar for the next few days. Can you believe it? They hired me as an expert on the Forever Game. I’m to give some insight into what makes a couple, you know, compatible. We’re looking for the couple most in love!” She clasped her hands together and wiggled like a puppy. “Isn’t this fun?”

  All of this came out in a mellifluous accent carefully steeped in the cauldron of the Deep South—if I remembered correctly, some tiny burg outside of Birmingham, the name of which always eluded me. Why did a Southern accent sound stupid on men—but sound like mint juleps, cool linen, and gentrified manners when dripping off a female tongue? I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer. It probably had something to do with stereotypes and expectations that would flip me to the pissed-off position, so I didn’t waste the tiny dollop of energy I had thinking about it.

  “And of course I’m going to preside at the wedding!” Ella emoted, punctuating her words with grand gestures. “That’s why I’m here, actually. What will you be providing for the production?”

  “Local color,” I said, with a straight face.

  Delphinia, who had taken the chair next to mine, also kept a bland expression, but her eyes sparkled as she refilled my mug from a coffee pot I hadn’t noticed on a side table.

  Ella’s forehead creased into a frown. “oh. Well, that’s just great, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, I’m lucky that way.”

  “You do know that your sarcasm is a defense?” Ella announced in an unexpectedly quiet voice. “We should have a session on that.”

  So, she did have an inside voice. Who knew? I looked at her over the top of my mug as I drained the steaming brew. “In my line of work, an offense is rarely available, so a defense is vital.”

  “You always have a quip.”

  “A substitute for an answer when I don’t have one. But, I really don’t want to go there.”

  Ella pouted as she looked down, picking at a thread sticking out from the bottom buttonhole in her perfect little cashmere cardigan—in a dusty rose that just missed clashing with her hair color. Her shoes matched her cardigan.

  How did one do that? Better question—why? I preferred being a fashion casualty—that way no one had any expectations. “Thank you, though.”

  That perked her up. Southern women and their manners: comfort in insincerity.

  Delphinia cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps I would start, then Ella can have her say.”

  * * *

  The meeting took a bit longer than I’d budgeted, and I was hurrying with my goodbyes when Teddie’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Lucky, woman, are you in here?”

  Delphinia glanced at me, a question on her face.

  “The hot guy.”

  “Oh.” Interest sparked in her eyes, turning them an interesting shade of purple.

  “Come, we can all say hi.”

  Teddie remained outside, lurking as if afraid to enter into the House of Matrimony. I chose not to be worried about that—to be honest, I wasn’t all that comfortable there either.

  Ella bolted in front of Delphinia and me. She waggled her fingers at Teddie, “hi, handsome.”

  Teddie bussed her cheek as expected. “Ella, you look competitive, as always.”

  “Oh, you say the nicest things.” Ella swatted his arm.

  “And you,” Teddie said, turning his attention to me. “You look good enough to eat—a feast for the eyes and food for the soul.”

  Now it was my turn to color as he grabbed me, dipped me over bended knee with a flourish, and then righted me. Pulling me close, he wrapped me tight and kissed me—slow and purposeful, like he really meant it.

  My knees went weak. My breath caught. Nothing like a distraction to keep me focused.

  When Teddie had made his point and air once again filled my lungs and blood reached my brain, I let Delphinia engage Teddie in a bit of small talk while I tried to marshal my elusive composure—something near impossible when Teddie was close by.

  With pleasantries exchanged and quick goodbyes said to Ella and Delphinia, Teddie grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the hotel lobby. “Come on. Hurry.”

  “What?” I laughed as I let him pull me along. “Is Hugh Jackman stripping in the lobby?”

  “If he was I sure wouldn’t tell you.” Teddie slowed his pace a bit. “They’re taping the first segment of the game show—the initial interviews. They asked me to be the Vegas celebrity judge.”

  “Since you’re such an authority on long-term relationships,” I teased, with just the teensiest hint of sarcasm.

  “Hey, I’m staying a chapter ahead of the class.”

  “I guess that makes you an expert.”

  * * *

  By the time we hit the lobby I’d taken two phone calls, and messages were cueing up faster than fans waiting for Lady Gaga tickets. Clearly, I was out of fun time. Teddie didn’t seem too broken up about me not being able to play. He was harder to read than ancient hieroglyphics, even with the friggin’ Rosetta stone. Lately, though, he’d been stuck in “me” mode—one of the curses of the chromosomally challenged. To be honest, I found it really tiresome, and a bit insulting. As if my responsibilities didn’t matter. Perhaps I was being petty. Perhaps not. Frankly, I didn’t have the time to tackle that Gordian knot.

  Nor the patience. Today, crossing the lobby was like trying to fight my way downriver during spawning season. Two-by-two, hand-in-hand, couples streamed in through the front entrance, making a dash for the casino and Teddie’s theater beyond, where preparations were underway for the game show taping. No one stopped to gaze in awe at the thousands of blown-glass hummingbirds and butterflies that swooped across the high ceiling, nor at any of the other awe-worthy features. A river of humanity flowed past, effectively cutting me off from the stairs to the mezzanine and the relative serenity of my office.

  My phone rang just as I was timing my leap into the throng, risking bodily harm in the name of five-star service. I glanced at the caller—my office—then pushed to talk. “Make a note. When the time comes to renegotiate my compensation package, I want to add hazardous duty pay as a benefit.”

  “It’s too early for whining,” Miss P stated, as if it was a rule written somewhere.

  “It’s never too early for whining, but there are times when it may be way too late.” I switched my
phone to my right ear as I ducked into a small alcove, and stuck my finger in my left. Why had no one thought of inventing a noise-cancelling cell phone? “What can I do for you?”

  “Have you seen Rocco Traveneti and Gail Fortunato?”

  “Couple Number One? No. Why?”

  “They’re a no-show for the taping. Trey Gold is starting to panic.”

  “Can security shed any light?”

  “Jerry said he lost them in the Bazaar.” If Jerry lost them, they had skills.

  “I was just there at the Temple and I didn’t see them—not that I was looking—but I’ll head back that way, see if I can pick up their trail.” I turned to scan the lobby. “Keep security on the lookout. The eye-in-the-sky is our best bet. This place is a zoo.” The eye-in-the-sky was our system of highly sophisticated cameras monitored by security. Of course, the casino was the most closely watched, but we had feeds from all corners of the property.

  I reholstered my phone and considered my options. The entrance to the Bazaar was just to my right, between the entrance to the casino and Reception. For once I was glad my progress had been impeded. After negotiating along one wall, I retraced my steps and once again ducked into the Bazaar. The crowd was thin. I popped my head into a few shops, but no luck. A bit too glitzy for New Jersey tastes, I thought.

  Now where would two kids from the Garden State choose to land?

  Trey Gold caught me in front of Samson’s, the Babylon’s beauty salon where females of all shapes and sizes could be primped, polished, and attended by in-the-flesh facsimiles of the Biblical hero. “You!” He stepped into my space—we would’ve been nose-to-nose but for a rather serious height discrepancy in my favor. He smelled like cheap gin, or bad cologne. “This is your fault.”

  “Most likely—along with the balance of trade deficit, inner-city blight, poverty in Africa, and all the rather unsavory uses for a Saturday Night Special, which, by the way, conjures something altogether different here in Sin City. No doubt about it, I am a one-woman wrecking crew. You’d be well advised to steer clear of me.”

  A few strands of his helmeted hair had broken free and ran across his forehead. His countenance, still an unsettling orange, held not a hint of the fury I could see in his eyes. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and he didn’t look well—the same as before, but not well. He stared at me a moment through red-rimmed eyes. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been loosened, his posture, rigid with righteous indignation, sagged. His shoulders started to shake.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, as I grabbed his arm.

  He nodded as a grin lifted the corner of his mouth. Tears sprung to his eyes. The guy wasn’t stroking out, he was laughing—clearly an unusual state. Reaching for his back pocket, he extracted a purple handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes, careful not to dislodge his war paint.

  Weakly, he patted my shoulder. “I can’t decide whether I like you or I want to kill you.”

  “I have that effect on people.”

  “Those two kids like to cook. The restaurants would be a good place to start.” He turned to go. “Find them. Now.”

  As he walked away I thought I heard a very faint, “Please.”

  That was... unsettling. Okay, restaurants. There was only one in the bazaar, the Burger Palais.

  My father, the owner of the Babylon, had recently acquired a run-down local property. Before the remodeling plans had even been finalized, he hired a very well known French chef, Jean-Charles Bouclet, to conceptualize, develop, and manage an eponymous restaurant at this new property. A wee bit precipitous, in my opinion, but my father dangled the chance of opening a gourmet burger restaurant in the Bazaar at the Babylon to lure his gastronomic coups de grâce. Hence, the Burger Palais. To be honest, it was a great use of a space vacated by a forceibly evicted Italian joint that hadn’t been up to snuff.

  It was early yet for dinner, and there wasn’t much of a crowd when I charged through the doors. Blinking my eyes in an attempt to force them to adjust to the relative darkness, I paused just inside the restaurant. I didn’t see Paxton Dane until he spoke.

  “You’re not at the taping?” His smooth voice held the honeyed tones of Texas and made me smile. Dane and I, well, I didn’t know what we were. There was an attraction... or something, but I wasn’t going there. Despite my awe-inspiring skills, I could handle only one man at a time.

  “Watching those shows is like sitting at a dangerous intersection waiting for a crash.”

  “I’ve been told that’s their charm.”

  Finally my eyes adjusted, and I could see the smile in his emerald eyes. He had me by a few inches, and it was nice to be able to look someone in the eye without looking down. I never figured out how to look down at someone without seeming to look down on them.

  Dane worked in security, so I assumed he might be wise to my mission. “You looking for our two runaways, too?”

  “Yeah.” Dane moved me further inside with a slight touch to the middle of my back.

  I could feel the warmth of his skin through my shirt. A shiver chased down my spine.

  “They don’t seem to be in here,” he said as he scanned the eating area, “but let’s look in the kitchen just to be sure.”

  Jean-Charles had a habit of inviting folks into his inner sanctum. Once I had been so blessed, and I’d never been the same. There was something about that Frenchman... sizzle and burn and an odd connection. He made me nervous in a way I’d never felt before.

  As I peered into the kitchen through the wall of glass separating it from the dining area, I saw him bending over the stove. Trim, handsome, his brown hair curling over his collar, he glanced up and caught me staring. I reddened. Even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew they were a robin’s egg blue that went all dark and stormy when he became serious. Flashing a smile that had probably melted more hearts than I cared to think about, he motioned us inside.

  Dane threw me a look as he stepped around me. “Our runaways are right where we thought they’d be.” He motioned with his head toward the prep table on the other side of the stove.

  Rocco, his head bent and face scrunched in concentration, worked on some vegetables with a knife large enough to cut out someone’s heart. His strokes quick, his movements precise, he created a mound of chopped greenery in a few seconds—apparently without shedding blood or sacrificing body parts. I was in awe.

  Gail stood between Jean-Charles and Rocco, so slight and still I’d missed her on my first visual reconnoiter. Engrossed, she listened as Jean-Charles continued a running commentary punctuated by his pointing from pan to pot to oven.

  Focusing on the youngsters, I strode into the kitchen, trying my best to override that silly schoolgirl nervousness by ignoring the chef. “You guys do know Trey Gold has threatened to shoot the entire staff of the hotel if we don’t get you to the theater posthaste?”

  Rocco glanced up, his dark curls hanging in his face. His dreamy look reminded me of the face of a child lost in his imaginings. “What time is it?”

  “Way past pumpkin time.”

  Gail seemed oblivious to all of us, her fresh face creased into a frown. “So, you would make a plate of osso bucco with the cranberry wild rice?”

  “Oui.” Jean-Charles pursed his lips as he thought. “A simple poached pear salad with goat cheese to start, perhaps? Something savory, something tart . . .”

  “Something sweet,” Gail chimed in. “Perfect. Paired with a smooth pinot noir?”

  “Nothing too heavy, though,” Jean-Charles agreed, a smile playing with his lips. “You have good instincts. The plate will be pleasing; the meal, satisfying.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, pretending to be perturbed. “Playtime is over. Time to earn your keep.” I motioned to the Jerseyites. “You two better skedaddle—you’re holding up the show. Dane, could you deliver them to Mr. Gold, personally? He’s out for blood.”

  The Texan glanced between Jean-Charles—who stood wiping his hand on a white towel that hung from his waist—and m
e, then nodded. “Come on, guys. You’ve got a lot of folks chasing their tails.”

  “I am sorry,” Jean-Charles said after the trio had left. “When I create, time loses meaning.”

  “Especially when you have a rapt audience and a skilled accomplice.”

  He tossed me a hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look and rewarded me with a Gallic shrug and brilliant grin. “He is very talented, Rocco. And Gail has a gift for menu design, pushing the boundaries slightly while keeping things comfortable for modestly educated palates.” He pulled a stool next to the stove where he continued to work while he talked. “Sit. Stay with me.”

  I didn’t need a second invitation—the aromas were enough, but the Frenchman was an added delectable. Straddling the stool, I reached for a bottle chilling in a cooler on the counter and poured us both a glass of wine. I held the glass up and swirled its contents. “Not a Bordeaux, something lighter.” I held it to my nose, inhaling its fresh, fruity bouquet. “A Syrah?”

  “Hmmm, from the Oregon AVAs.” He peeked under the lid of a pot, dipped a spoon in, and then blew on the steaming liquid before tasting. He shrugged but said nothing as he took the wine glass. After sniffing and swirling, he took a sip, held the liquid in his mouth a moment, and then swallowed. “Nice, but not nice enough for the price point.”

  “Your call.” I wasn’t about to question his heretofore-impeccable taste. We could quarrel over costing-out his restaurant, but the food and wine were his sole province. “How did you happen to corral the runaways?”

  “They corralled me. I was working on some menu ideas for the new restaurant, and they wanted to help. They are a good pair, those two. But they do not yet know they are in love.”

  “They entered a game show to win a wedding.”

  Jean-Charles stirred something in a saucepan that started my mouth watering. “Non.”

  “What is that?” I leaned forward, breathing deeply of the delicious aroma. “And what do you mean, non?”

  “A red wine reduction with a special addition I am trying.” He took a sip of wine as he leveled those baby blues on me. They held a smile that made my heart do a somersault. My heart was apparently playing hooky from the School of Teddie. “And non, they entered the contest to get to Las Vegas and our restaurants.”