So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 9

“Let bygones be bygones? Water under the bridge and all of that?”

  Clearly not fluent in colonial vernacular, he eyed me. “Oui,” he said, hesitation in his eyes. “If this means we no longer fight, I happily agree.”

  He was lying through his teeth. I’d publicly put a huge bruise on his ego. He was a man—at some point he would make me pay. “That’s what it means.” I raised my glass in toast. “To friends.”

  He tilted his head in agreement and clinked his glass to mine.

  Oh yes, he was very good indeed.

  ***

  Dinner was superb. Given that it was late fall, and Jean-Charles insisted on cooking with seasonal vegetables, my expectations were limited. After all, what can one do with gourds besides fill them with beads for the kids to shake in music class? And I’d never been a squash fan—until now.

  A culinary magician, Jean-Charles showed his skill in preparing lamb chops over a vegetable ragout, herbed artisan bread with freshly churned butter, then, in the finest European tradition, a light salad, and a cheese plate to follow. All complemented by a second bottle of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild. Classy, delicious, just enough, but not too much, elegant… The Big Boss had hired a winner.

  And he was forcing me to reevaluate my stance that cooking is a universal skill—excepting Mona, of course.

  Once he’d served us both, Jean-Charles had also proven himself as adept at small talk as he was in the kitchen—a natural charm emanated from him like excitement shimmered off the Strip. For a brief time we pretended to be friends.

  This spirit of détente continued after dinner, when we settled down to business. We tussled a bit over minor changes to the drawings, but no blood was drawn, no body parts sacrificed—until we hit a sticking point over a wood-fired brick oven.

  “Let me make sure I understand,” I said. “You want a fifty thousand dollar oven, one that uses only wood as a heat source, requiring a special staff member who will do nothing but be in charge of the fire. And this oven will be used only to make flatbread appetizers?”

  “Oui,” he remarked, his disdain evident, as if an oven like this was standard equipment in every tract house.

  “That fifty grand is going to put you over budget.”

  He waved a hand at me and made that blowing sound that French people make when they think someone is being stupid. “The budget. It is only a best guess, non?”

  I felt my eyes getting slitty. Negotiating is one thing, implying I am un imbécile is another thing all together. “So, the amount we have budgeted for your salary and bonuses, that can be adjusted at will also?”

  “You are making fun with me,” he said, his voice low, hard. “You may not take my oven.”

  “I assure you, I am not making fun. And, for the record, I may do as I wish. Read your contract; once you sign off on the budget, you are stuck with it.” We glared at each other for a moment.

  “You are the most… interesting woman. As irritating as a sand flea, but interesting.” Anger infused the chef’s face, a muscle working in his jaw. But another, illusive emotion flashed in his eyes.

  Interesting was not an adjective I expected.

  “The oven is important.” He paused, capturing me with those incredible eyes that now had gone all dark and deep. “Things have changed for me recently—I have made some personal decisions which have allowed me to add depth and complexity to the concept here. If you trust me, I will not disappoint.”

  Accustomed to being his own boss, the effort to explain himself cost him—I could see it in his face. After what I considered to be an appropriate lapse in time—one that would allow me to capitulate but keep my pride intact—I said, “Okay, I will trust you—you get your oven.”

  A grin split his face and he banged his hands on the table. “More wine!”

  “But you must give me something in return.”

  His grin vanished. “What?”

  “The fresco and we drop down a notch in quality on the chairs.” The fresco was a thirty-thousand-dollar line item—a wall painting to be done by a local artist.

  “What will replace the fresco? It is an important visual when guests walk in the door. I think it would establish the country French motif.”

  “Agreed. But it’s not worth the cost. The artist has no name recognition, so you get no real bang for the buck.”

  “Bang for the buck?”

  “Value.” I leaned forward, covering his hand with mine—crossing every line in the business handbook. I gasped at the effect his touch had—like thrusting my hand into a flame. I yanked back my hand. Even though I knew there was no real burn, I rubbed the imagined one and said, “I’m sorry. Inappropriate.” What had prompted me to do such a stupid thing?

  His eyes dark and serious, he cocked his head and nodded once…slowly.

  “Jean-Charles, although you think differently, I’m on your side. If your restaurant is a success, we both win. Help me out here. Can you trust me to find an acceptable replacement for the fresco?”

  “I get my oven, the chairs will be sturdy and comfortable, but one price point down, and you will find a replacement for the fresco that meets with my approval.” He stuck out his hand. “Deal?”

  Warily, waiting for the singe again, I put my hand in his. Even though I was half-expecting it, my body’s reaction to his still surprised me. A touch…then a jolt.

  I must be way hornier than I realized.

  We toasted our agreement with another splash of that wonderful wine.

  His glass in one hand, the other crossed across his chest and tucked under his elbow, the Frenchman eyed me. “So, where do you think you will find this new focal point for the entrance of my restaurant?” he asked, skepticism infusing every word.

  “I already have it.”

  “What?” He leapt to his feet, anger flushing his cheeks. “You tried to fool—”

  “No. I needed to see if you trusted me, if you will work with me. I will not be bullied, or manipulated, and if that was how our relationship was going to be, then I needed to make some adjustments.”

  “A test, then?” He lowered himself to his stool, but he still looked totally torqued.

  I didn’t blame him—I didn’t much like games either, but I had to know what I was dealing with. “We’re partners, not combatants, as you seem to think. It is imperative we work together. We must trust each other.”

  “Agreed.” He put his hand on top of mine.

  I worked to hide my reaction.

  Chewing on his lip, he stared at our hands together on the table. When his eyes lifted to mine they were filled with warmth, his mask of wariness slipping.

  I eased my hand from under his. “Jean-Charles, we have to work together…”

  “Yes.” His mask fell back into place. “So tell me what this wonderful thing will be.”

  “What wonderful thing?” His touch, his eyes had set me adrift—I was totally at sea.

  “To replace the fresco.”

  “Right.” I composed myself, or tried to anyway. “My vision was a piece of artwork—exquisite, recognizable, but not overpowering—your food should be the centerpiece, the focal point, if you will.”

  “Yes, precisely.” The last vestiges of his anger evaporated, a look of interest settled across his features.

  “I was thinking one of Van Gogh’s earlier haystacks. They are intriguing, easily identifiable, and fit with your French country theme. Would that work?”

  For once my French chef had nothing to say. He could only stare. When he found his voice he said, “So you wish to save thirty thousand dollars on a painting, yet will spend tens of millions on a piece of art to replace it?”

  “No, we already own it. The Van Gogh is a piece in The Big Boss’s private collection. Right now it is on display in a small gallery in the Bazaar, but I think I can talk him into loaning it to us.”

  “I think it is a good thing you are on my side.” Jean-Charles said with a grin.

  Now he was getting the picture.

 
I took private delight in my pun. What can I say? Simple girl, simple pleasures.

  ***

  After helping with the cleanup, over the chef’s objections and with only questionable reasons for staying longer, I said good-bye.

  In front of the elevator, Jean-Charles took both my hands in his and gave me a kiss on each cheek, leaving me unexpectedly affected. In an unusual position—I’d never wanted to jump the help before—I found myself clueless as to what rules of engagement applied to our particular battle. Of course, he really wasn’t the help—he was a partner, at least as far as the restaurant went. Staring at my reflection as I rode down, I wondered if, in our game of crossing swords, would I have a parry for his every thrust?

  For some reason, the thought made me sad. I didn’t want to war with the beautiful Frenchman. There was something about him… not just the normal hormonally driven leap of lust, although there was that. But somehow being with him left me strangely settled; he was a kindred spirit, a fellow warrior in the battle of life.

  Dreading the emptiness of home, I headed for the Babylon and its crush of humanity and merriment.

  As expected, the lobby teemed with people—laughter and happy voices echoed off the marble, putting a smile on my face if not on my heart. So strained and distant, my last conversation with Teddie lingered, but I wasn’t going to let it suck the juice out of the evening. I sidled onto an empty stool at the bar in Delilah’s, which was full of energy and people. Someone pounded out tunes on the piano; I tried to ignore them.

  Sean, our head bartender, ended a conversation with a pretty blond at the end of the bar and moved in my direction. “The usual?” he asked, when he stood in front of me.

  A cute kid with spiked hair, a receding hairline, and a ready smile, Sean liked to tell the women his last name was Finnegan and he was Black Irish. In fact, his last name was Pollack and he was from Jersey—in Vegas, we all could be who we wanted to be—even if we couldn’t have what we wanted.

  “No, just soda and lime. I have a very fine Chateau Lafite-Rothschild sloshing around in my stomach. I refuse to adulterate it with any lesser spirits.”

  “Been hanging with the high brows?” Sean filled a tall glass from the gun and knifed a wedge of lime on the rim, then set it in front of me.

  “Apparently.” I tilted my head toward the blond. “Friend of yours?”

  “Acquaintance. She’s an independent contractor.”

  “Don’t tell me anymore,” I said, as I took a sip of soda and grimaced—tasteless beverages were not my thing. “I don’t want to know.”

  In Vegas vernacular, being a young, beautiful, female, independent contractor meant one of two things: She was either a stripper or a hooker. And hooking was illegal in Clark County, the home of Las Vegas. If, in fact, that was her trade it would fall on me to escort her out of the hotel—a less than stellar ending to a near stellar evening.

  “No worries there. She’s a high-end stripper at one of those fancy gentlemen’s clubs.”

  I didn’t think “good” was an appropriate response, so I said nothing.

  “Hey, Lucky! How’re they hangin’?” Junior Arbogast asked from over my shoulder.

  I let my head drop—it was a long way from France to West Virginia—I needed a moment to adjust. “Hangin’ high and tight in keeping with the current fashion,” I replied. I didn’t ask him the same thing because, frankly, I didn’t want to know—way too much information—even on a full stomach.

  “Me and my friends are throwing back some Buds,” he motioned to a rowdy gang in the corner. “Want to join us?”

  “Interesting collection,” I said as I eyed Junior’s party—a group that included Zoom-Zoom Zewicki and Dr. Jenkins, the man with the golden putter. “Have you gotten a bead on the astronaut who talks to dead people?”

  “He’s a curious guy. I thought I had him figured, but I’m not so sure anymore.”

  “And Jenkins?” I asked, as I let Junior lead me back to his table.

  “A true believer,” the fraud-buster whispered in my ear. “Nice guy, but with a big chip on his shoulder.”

  Ridicule could do that, I thought, as I smiled a greeting to the small group. Dr. Jenkins made a space between himself and Zoom-Zoom, and I pulled up a chair. Several men at the table nodded—the women stared for a moment, unwelcoming looks of competition on their faces. Two men on the far side of the table, their heads bent over a computer, didn’t look up.

  A foreigner now in their midst, the conversation stalled as they eyed the newcomer—I hate it when that happens. So awkward. I resisted the urge to jump in and say something stupid.

  Instead, Dr. Jenkins did it for me. “Do you make a habit of joining strange men in the bar?”

  “A hazard of my profession, I’m afraid.” Having lost my interest in bubbles that hadn’t come out of a bottle with a cork, I pushed my glass away. “Who are the strange men at this table?”

  That broke the ice and comfortable conversation again swirled around me. I signaled the waitress and ordered a split of Veuve Clicquot—much better bubbles.

  “How is the conference going for you so far?” I asked Dr. Jenkins.

  “Far better than I imagined. Surrounded by believers, I don’t have to explain myself or justify my theories.” Jenkins fell quiet for a moment as he looked over my shoulder to the casino beyond, a faraway look in his eye. When his focus returned, he said in a small voice, “I can’t tell you how nice it is to be in a group of people who don’t think I’m crazy.”

  “Some of the greatest scientific thinkers were considered heretics until time proved them right.”

  His face brightened. “Are you a believer, Lucky?”

  I had to think about that for a moment, so I took the time to savor my champagne. Whoever thought of putting bubbles and alcohol together should have a place in Heaven. “When it comes to alien life-forms, I’d have to say I’m an agnostic. I’m not sure I’m convinced, but to think our tiny planet, one of billions, is the only one capable of supporting life, approaches a scientific improbability.”

  “Well said.” Jenkins saluted me with his Bud, then took a long pull.

  “Is Dr. Jenkins boring you with his talk of ancient astronauts?” Zoom-Zoom Zewicki asked, leaning in next to me. Coming from such a small man, his deep voice always surprised me.

  “Not at all.” I shifted my focus to the former astronaut.

  His demeanor calm, his face relaxed, he’d lost the wild-eyed look of yesterday. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he looked… normal.

  “Having traveled into space yourself, what do you think of Dr. Jenkins’s theories?” I asked.

  “Space… we know so little.”

  I wanted to ask him what he had learned from the aliens, but I stifled myself, and let him continue uninterrupted.

  “Floating weightless, the earth a blue orb against a backdrop of billions of stars… It makes you feel very small, insignificant—overwhelmed with an appreciation for the fragility, the preciousness of life.”

  “Did you see anything that surprised you?” I asked.

  Junior eyed me across the table as he listened. He knew where I was going.

  “I did have one interesting personal experience. We had initiated our reentry sequence, but were still outside the earth’s atmosphere, when I noticed bright lights traveling very fast near the earth’s surface.”

  “UFOs?”

  “Yes. We couldn’t identify them and they flew. But whether they were aliens, I don’t know.” Zoom-Zoom’s steely eyes held mine. “The lights altered course, paused then darted in a new direction as if they were looking for something.”

  “What?”

  “Who knows? But they lingered near thunderstorms as if the energy attracted them.”

  “They could have been refueling,” Junior offered.

  Zoom-Zoom pursed his down-turned lips, but refused to take the bait. “You know Dr. Jenkins has hidden talents? If you get him liquored up enough, he just might show you his parl
or tricks.”

  The astronaut ignored Jenkins’s frown.

  “What talents?” I asked, only marginally interested. Tricks really weren’t my thing—they made me feel stupid. God knew I felt that way often enough without outside assistance.

  “Yes,” Zoom-Zoom continued, “he has quite the mind-reading act—nobody can figure out how he does it. No assistant to help. Nothing planned in advance, he can do it on the fly—quite amazing, really.”

  There was something in Dr. Zewicki’s eyes as he talked, glancing occasionally at Dr. Jenkins, who didn’t look at all pleased by the revelations, but I couldn’t place it.

  “Will you show me?” I asked Dr. Jenkins even though he clearly was less than pleased. “Please?”

  “His talents are impressive, but I’m sure he can’t perform here,” Dr. Zewicki said, sounding as if he was goading.

  With an irritated jerk, Jenkins took my hand as Zoom-Zoom watched. Closing his eyes, he concentrated, his skin turning suddenly warm where it touched mine. When he opened his eyes, they were dark, deep holes—windows to a different place, a bridge to my soul. I didn’t like it but, like a swimmer caught in an undertow, I was powerless to resist.

  “You are pining for a lover—someone far away.” He paused. “A singer.”

  “Anyone who asked around could know that,” I said. “It’s common knowledge—unfortunately.”

  Jenkins leveled those disconcerting eyes on me. “Do you want me to tell them the secret you hide?”

  My blood ran cold. “What secret?”

  “Your father?”

  Jerking my hand out of his, I said, “That is quite enough.”

  He stared at me, then gave me a wry smile. “He loves you.”

  I thought about asking him if the lover I pined for did as well, but I didn’t really want to hear his answer. Besides, the whole experience left me a bit shaken—as if Jenkins had done a Vulcan mind-meld on me. My whole life was an open book—I shouldn’t have to share my thoughts as well.

  One of the two computer guys, shouted, “I got it!” breaking the weird spell Jenkins had cast over me.

  I felt reality returning. Zoom-Zoom leaned in and whispered, “Pretty creepy, huh?”