So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 6

  “What’s happened?” I asked, quite conscious of Dane’s quiet comforting presence at my side.

  “Someone broke into Mr. and Mrs. Daniels’ apartment on the twenty-fifth floor.”

  “That should be simple enough. The cameras in the elevator and on the floors should tell you who it was,” I said.

  But Forrest shook his head. “No, the burglar came in through the window.”

  Dane and I both looked skyward—with no balconies below the top two floors, using the window as an entrance seemed impossible.

  “The window? Are you sure?” Dane asked.

  Forrest nodded. “I heard the cops talking. Apparently the guy had a glass cutter—he made himself a nice, neat hole.”

  “Took jewelry and money, left all the rest?” Dane continued.

  “They haven’t said what the guy took, but he was slick, alright. He knew right where the safe was and didn’t seem to have any trouble busting into it.” Forrest looked at me and I saw the question in his eyes.

  “This is Mr. Dane,” I said, taking Forrest’s cue. “He has a background in security work. Dane, this is Forrest, our safety net.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “I didn’t do you all no good tonight,” Forrest said, hanging his head.

  “Some things are impossible to stop,” Dane said, his words a salve for Forrest’s wounded pride.

  “You be careful, Miss Lucky.” Forrest’s face was a mask of concern. “If he got into the Daniels’ place, getting into yours would be a piece of cake—what with the balcony and being so close to the top of the building and all.”

  On that happy note, Dane and I took our leave. The police were letting the residents back into the building, so we joined the queue, leaving Forrest to find out what he could.

  “He’s right you know. You could be next,” Dane whispered, as he grabbed my elbow. I wondered if the whole elbow bit was a chivalry thing or a good excuse to try to knock me off-kilter. Knowing Dane, it was probably both.

  “He’d be sorely disappointed in the slim pickings at my place.” I tried to sound brave, but even though the thief hadn’t been in my home, I felt a vicarious violation. And, in keeping with my recent theme of admitting my shortcomings, I felt a bit afraid.

  At the elevators, I put my hand on Dane’s chest. “This is the end of the trail, Cowboy.”

  “What if the burglar is hiding in your place? Fighting bad guys is one of my best things.”

  “You’re milking this for all it’s worth, but if the guy looks like Cary Grant, I’m good with that, okay?” I stalled for time while I debated with myself.

  “To Catch a Thief. Good flick. Grace Kelly, man she was one fine filly.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him and he gave me a lopsided grin. “Perhaps not the best night to poke this rattlesnake,” I said as I tried to make sense of my whirling emotions. But fear finally prevailed over good sense. “Okay, you can come up. But only to check under the bed and in the closets. Deal?”

  “Scout’s honor.” He made a crossing motion over his chest.

  The elevator deposited us in the center of my great room.

  “Nice digs,” Dane said as he drank it all in. “Sort of minimalist though, don’t you think?”

  A large space with white walls, an occasional splash of art (pastels depicting the many moods of the Mojave), bright furniture dotting the hardwood floor, and little else, I could see why he would call it minimalist. To me it was uncluttered, and I liked it that way—a huge space in which to breathe.

  “Where you been, bitch?” A familiar voice rang out, startling Dane.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Just Newton.” I grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the kitchen. “Come, let me introduce you.”

  “You didn’t tell me anyone would be here.”

  “You didn’t ask.”

  When Newton caught sight of me he shouted, “Asshole!” an expression of true love if ever there was one.

  Newton is my one foray into pet ownership—a foulmouthed, vividly hued macaw. The service that came in twice a day to feed him had apparently forgotten to cover his cage. The bird danced in delight, muttering, “Bitch, Bitch, I’m gonna smack you.”

  “As you can tell, Newton had a very sketchy upbringing. I’m trying to teach him better manners, but parrots are like old dogs and elephants.”

  Dane picked up a piece of browned apple from the dish beside the cage and stuffed it through the bars.

  “Watch your fingers.”

  Newton eyed him warily. “Asshole!” shouted the bird, then, like a snake snagging a mouse, he grabbed the apple, and retreated to the far side of the cage with his prize.

  “I never took you to be a pet owner,” Dane said as he watched the bird.

  “Newton picked me. After hearing his vocabulary, I had to keep him.” I threw the cover over the cage. “You’re supposed to be checking all the dark corners for bad men, remember? The bedrooms are that way.”

  I let Dane explore by himself. Tonight had been filled with awkward moments and I couldn’t stomach one more—the one where I stood there introducing him to my bedroom and boudoir.

  He returned shortly, shaking his head. “No bad guys.” If he noticed Teddie’s sax in the corner, his clothes in the closet, or his shaving stuff on the bathroom counter, he was too polite to mention them. “I guess you’re safe for now.”

  “Darn.”

  We stood there awkwardly for a moment, then he said, “I better shove off.”

  “Right.”

  I handed him back his blazer and walked him to the elevator.

  While we waited, he turned to me. Putting a hand on each of my shoulders, he looked me in the eye, a serious expression on his face. “Don’t you ever wonder… ?”

  I touched my lips with two fingers, then pressed them to his. His skin felt hot to my touch. “All the time.”

  ***

  Dane left me alone with my wonderings. Pummeled by the day, I was too exhausted to think, yet too juiced to sleep, so I dragged my sorry carcass to the shower. After a session in front of massaging jets, the water set on scald, my muscles started to relax, the day drifting away with the steam.

  I had barely slipped between the sheets, luxuriating in the sensual feel of 1400 count Egyptian cotton and the downy embrace of a feather mattress, when the telephone rang. Thankfully I had tossed the thing on my nightstand, because I wasn’t getting out of bed even if the High Priestess and Keeper of the Secrets of the Cult of Multiple Orgasms was calling. Clearly, I needed to work on my priorities.

  “O’Toole.” I pressed the thing to my ear, but didn’t open my eyes.

  “Are you naked?”

  The familiar voice sent warmth shooting to my core. Who needed the secrets of the cult when they had someone like Teddie? “Completely,” I purred, trying my best to sound sexy. “Are you?”

  “No. And, since I’m eating brunch at a wonderful brasserie on the Left Bank, that is probably a good thing—I’d be arrested.”

  “Not on the Left Bank. What are you eating?” Most couples in the throes of new love had phone sex when apart. Teddie and I had food sex.

  “I started with onion soup…real French onion soup. Made from scratch with just a whiff of tarragon, the cheese so fresh I could almost hear the cows.”

  I groaned. “You’re killing me. What next?” I couldn’t remember my last meal.

  “Then a croissant with fresh strawberry preserves and an omelet, the eggs whipped to perfection with a hint of basil and rosemary, accompanied by a nice Pinot Blanc from Alsace.”

  “Don’t they shoot you for drinking anything other than Chardonnay in Paris?”

  “Kindly, they’ve let me live.” I heard the distance between us in the hollow echo on the line. “I miss holding you,” he said.

  “Me, too.” I gripped the phone and closed my eyes tight, squeezing back the tears. “I hope to hell you’re having a great time, because sleeping in this bed, with nothing but the memories of your
touch to keep me warm, is no fun at all. It’s like trying to sleep in a haunted house.”

  “Oh man, Lucky, you wouldn’t believe all the stuff that’s happening,” Teddie said, deftly sidestepping my implicit begging for some morsel, some hint that somehow we were going to work out this tortured thing between us. His voice brightened, burbling with happiness. Why did that hurt my heart so bad? “The audiences have been amazing. They actually listen to my stuff now. The energy is intoxicating.”

  “That’s great,” I said only half-meaning it, then felt guilty for not wanting the world for him. Well, actually I did want the world for him—I just wanted the world to be me.

  “Yeah, they’ve extended the tour a bit, given me more exposure, a larger part to play. Reza and I are even putting together a duet.” Teddie opened for Reza Pashiri, the current flavor-of-the-month in popville. She had a rabid following worldwide, so Teddie couldn’t have found a better team to hitch his wagon to.

  “And your music… are you writing any songs?” That had been Teddie’s original dream, our original dream, and the one I had helped him with—until he’d been seduced by the Dark Side.

  “I don’t have time.”

  “That’s a real shame. You’re brilliant.”

  “If I sent you a ticket, do you think you could meet me in Paris? It’s the romance capital of the world—and the food isn’t too bad either.”

  I couldn’t think of anything I’d like more than to share the City of Lights with Teddie. “When?”

  “Today.”

  “Today for you is tomorrow for me, right?”

  “Right… I think. But I meant as soon as you can.”

  I thought about the coming weekend. My plate was full. With a sinking heart I realized there was no way. “It’s Halloween. I’m in charge of the Bondage Ball and the Houdini Séance. We have the UFO crowd in the hotel, and I’m VIPing a group of magicians. I have to finalize the plans for the restaurant at the new hotel with Jean-Charles—construction starts in a couple of days—and I’m missing a magician.”

  Teddie chuckled—it wasn’t a happy chuckle, but more like a resigned, I-knew-you-would-turn-me-down kind of chuckle. “I figured, but I thought I’d ask. Pretty funny when you think about it.”

  I didn’t share his humor—in fact I thought the whole thing very sad, très tragique even. “How so?”

  “Not funny, really… Ironic, if anything.”

  “I sowed the seeds of my own destruction?”

  “A bit melodramatic, but close to the mark.”

  “Teddie,” I started, then paused. Needing time to search for some illusive courage, I pushed myself up in bed and plumped the pillows behind me. Dane had been wrong—I sure as hell needed a strong dose, and courage wasn’t cooperating. I took a deep breath. “Is there an us anymore?”

  “Of course,” he said with a snort, as if my IQ had plummeted.

  “But it’s not the same,” I pressed, surprising myself with a hint of backbone—or maybe it was desperation—who knew? Clutching at straws, I went with it. “We need to talk.”

  “Not over the phone.” His voice held defeat. “Please come.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then we’ll have to shelve this conversation until later.”

  The hollowness echoed in the silence between us.

  “Lucky, I gotta go,” Teddie said, his voice brusque. “We’ve got rehearsal in an hour.”

  “Teddie…”

  “Later.”

  “Fine.” My anger seethed, but probably the only thing I knew about men for a fact was, if I tried to make them do something they didn’t want to, they would go out of their way to make my life miserable. And, right now, I was miserable enough. “Be safe, Teddie.”

  And be very, very careful.

  Chapter Four

  The sun hung high in the sky when I pushed through the front doors into the Babylon. Coming to work late was one of the advantages of being at the top of the totem pole, as was having two assistants—who would cover my butt, no questions asked.

  For the first time in eons I had slept soundly, without dreams, without nightmares—without haunting memories of the past. Something had changed. Whatever it was, I felt more at peace with the murkiness of the future, more in control—I liked it. Control was generally an illusion—I knew that—but today seemed as good as any to be delusional, so I went with it.

  The lobby teemed with life. Nodding to the valets and bellmen, and with a spring in my step, I joined the crowd. Happy voices swirled around me as I worked my way toward the stairwell. Smiling young men and women greeted each guest as they joined the short line in front of Registration. I waved and nodded when I caught an eye. A cocktail waitress took orders, then darted into the casino. Like a practiced orchestra playing under the direction of a world-class conductor, the Babylon hummed—a lilting tune full of promise and excitement—with nary a strident note.

  “Ms. O’Toole!”

  I’d spoken too soon.

  Sergio Fabiano, our front desk manager, had called to me—I’d recognize his smooth voice, perpetually pitched with panic, anywhere. Dark hair, dark skin, smoldering eyes, and the body of a Greek god, Sergio attracted female attention like misbehaving celebrities attract the paparazzi. However, he was a bit fussy for my tastes.

  Out of breath and clearly out of patience, he rushed to my side. “We have an issue on the golf course that needs your attention.”

  I waited for more, but he just stared at me with those impenetrable eyes. “Are you going to give me a hint, or just toss me to the wolves?” I finally asked.

  He threw up his hands. “I do not know what they are saying—something about a gold-plated Scotty.”

  Gold-plated Scotty? Now that conjured interesting pictures. “I’m on it.”

  ***

  In keeping with The Big Boss’s exacting standards, our golf course had been designed by the best in the business and regularly made the list of top-ten courses in the country. Occupying one hundred and forty acres of prime real estate directly behind the hotel, with tall pines, lush vegetation, and numerous water features—including a huge waterfall—the course was an oasis, a seemingly impossible patch of green in the stark browns of the Mojave. Recently we had come under fire for all the water it took to keep it green, but I don’t think The Big Boss gave the complaints more than a passing thought.

  Did the locals really think people flocked to Vegas to experience the desert? If they did, they were as clueless as the do-gooders trying to “cleanup” Sin City. If Vegas became just another buckle on the Bible Belt, then the forty-five million visitors a year would be history and our goose thoroughly cooked.

  A young man drove me out to the twelfth tee, where I found two angry knots of people hurling verbal spears at each other. A crowd gathered around them, effectively bringing the day’s golf to a grinding halt.

  Our head pro, Jay Mc “G,” stood bravely between the warring factions; two security guys provided reinforcement. One group clustered behind a gentleman in bright green and yellow plaid pants, a yellow shirt, bright green golf shoes, and a crimson face—proof that golf isn’t so much a sport as an excuse to dress badly. The second group consisted of one of our caddies, soaking wet and clad in only a pair of rather thin boxer briefs—made all the more transparent by the soaking—backed by several of his mates. At an impasse, the two sides glared at each other.

  Everybody started talking at once when they saw me.

  “One at a time,” I barked. “Jay, give me the short version.”

  Before Jay could open his mouth, Mr. Green-and-Yellow pointed to our almost naked caddie and shouted, “I want this worthless piece of crap fired!”

  My eyes went all slitty—nobody calls a Babylon employee a worthless piece of crap. I held up my hand and gave him my best scowl. It must’ve been good—the guy backed down. Of course, I had that whole height-weight advantage thing going for me.

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Jay said, gesturing toward our potty-mouthed shou
ter, “lost his temper and threw his putter in the lake.”

  “You mean all of this is about a putter?”

  “Not just any putter. A gold-plated Scotty Cameron,” said the caddie. “He threw it in the lake. I swam for it, so it’s mine.”

  I glanced at the lake. “You went swimming in that? The water’s unnatural blue-green color reminded me of toilet bowl cleaner. All the water in Vegas looked like that—the result of algaecide, or so I’d been told.

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  I might not always be swift on the uptake, but even I was beginning to understand this was no ordinary putter. “Give me some perspective here, Jay.”

  “Six grand.”

  “It’s a limited edition autographed by Tiger Woods and the rest of the last Ryder Cup team,” shouted Mr. Jenkins. “And it’s Dr. Jenkins.”

  A doctor! Terrific. If I lost my cool and stuffed the thing up his ass, maybe he could extricate it with minimal blood loss.

  I raised an eyebrow at Jay.

  “Perhaps nine grand,” he admitted.

  Squinting my eyes against the sun, I looked out over the golf course. This was an interesting problem, without an easy solution. If I gave the putter back to the jerk, I’d be letting our people down. If I gave it to the caddie, I’d be a hero in the employee locker room, but I’d alienate a valued guest and run the risk of generating some negative press, and perhaps a lawsuit, in the process. I wondered just how valued a guest Dr. Jenkins was. With everyone watching me like dogs eyeing leftovers, I couldn’t exactly call my office and ask how much money the guy kept in play.

  “Dr. Jenkins, is this your first visit to the Babylon?” I asked.

  “And quite likely my last,” he growled.

  “Oh, you haven’t given us a chance, yet.” I gave him my best smile—sucking up is a major part of my job description. “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I’m actually a college professor with a PhD in Archeology.”

  “Really? What’s your specialty?” I doubted a pile-it-higher-and-deeper doctor would have much money to wager, but I’d been surprised before… and apparently he did have an incredible putter…