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HEY BIG SPENDER
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
&
T. SUE VERSTEEG
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Copyright © 2015 by Gemma Halliday
Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen
Gemma Halliday Publishing
http://www.gemmahallidaypublishing.com
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
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ABOUT THE AUTHORS
BOOKS BY GEMMA HALLIDAY
BOOKS BY T. SUE VERSTEEG
SNEAK PEEK
I've been blessed with great friends throughout life, but this book is dedicated to my two BFFs since grade school, Patty and Donna. I love you girls more than you could ever know. Oh yeah, and GO HAWKEYES! ;)
~ T. Sue
A huge thank you to my dedicated editorial team who tirelessly work to take the suckage out of my writing. Susan, Jackson, Michelle, and Dori—appletinis all around!
And a special thanks to Casey and Lake Tahoe Brand for the awesomely inspired woodwork likeness of Tessie!
~ Gemma
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CHAPTER ONE
"Strippers are not prostitutes." The smooth timbre of Rafe Lorenzo's voice made the sentence sound so much more beautiful than the subject matter.
From my perch on the third-floor balcony of the Royal Palace Casino and Resort, I looked across the bustling casino floor. Below me spanned a wide stretch of burgundy carpet filled with the bright lights of slot machines, happily dinging out their songs in neat little rows as retirees indulged in their afternoon sport of choice: video poker, keno, or bingo. Beyond them were groups of the card tables where men in suits sat wearing poker faces and sunglasses indoors, smoking cigars (which was still legal on this side of the Nevada-California border), and hopefully losing a fortune as they downed our complimentary drinks. Surrounding the scene were marble walls trimmed in ornate gold finishings where large family crests—most of which were completely faked—hung in an effort to give the Palace its regal medieval flair. The occasional tourist or ski bum mingled in with the crowd, though it was early for the post-slopes rush we'd have later today.
"Tessie, are you listening to me?"
I spun around at Rafe's voice and gazed up into the greenest eyes known to humankind. I'd been a sucker for his green eyes as a starry-eyed teenager doodling our names in hearts in my Trapper Keeper. Tall, dark, and dangerously handsome, the man could talk an elderly woman out of her panties. Not that he'd ever done it, at least to my knowledge. But once you tossed in wealthy, professional snowboarder, and bigwig board member for my casino, Rafe hit the trifecta of hotness. He blinked his dark, thick, and insanely-long-for-a-man eyelashes at me, and I could see a mysterious twinkle take hold behind the eyes that had doomed me to teenage crushdom once upon a time. "I believe we were discussing strippers?" he said, a teasing edge to his voice this time.
My heart skipped a beat, but I managed to keep my cool. Just barely.
"Strippers, prostitutes. Po-tate-o, po-tot-o," I enunciated. "Same thing." I crossed my arms over my chest in an effort to appear more forceful than my skipping heart felt.
His mouth pulled into a grin, puckering his dimples to maximum depth.
Damn, I couldn't help but smile back.
Rafe heaved a reluctant sigh before pleading his case. "Strippers take their clothes off and dance for money. Prostitutes take it a step further and accept money to perform…"
I stepped toward him and pressed my finger to his mouth, a sensual hum ringing through my entire body at the contact.
A single brow rose almost to his hairline, letting me know that the contact hadn't gone unnoticed by him as well. I quickly yanked my hand away. "You don't need to spell out the details. I know what I'm talking about."
"Oh, so, you know strippers and prostitutes?" His head cocked to the side, his arms crossing over his broad chest to mirror my posture.
I had known one stripper in my tenure at the Palace since my father had passed away. I'd also caught her doing the walk of shame from a high roller's room one morning, glittery stiletto heels in hand, hair smooshed against one side of her head, and makeup smeared like an '80's music video gone horribly wrong.
I shook my head. "It doesn't matter. What does matter is that you're just going to have to convince Mr. Sicianni that he can do without either strippers or prostitutes while he's at my casino."
The smile fell from Rafe's face, taking those amazing dimples with it. "I get it, Tessie. But you know how badly we need to keep Mr. Sicianni happy."
Unfortunately, he was right. I did know how badly we needed him.
When my father had passed away last year, the casino had been left in a sort of limbo without his commanding presence. Richard King had been the king of the Palace in more than just name, building it from the ground up into a premier resort destination in California's winter playground of South Lake Tahoe. His death, an embezzlement scheme, and the ensuing scandals had taken their toll on both the Royal Palace's reputation and its bank accounts. Its board of directors had been on the verge of shutting the casino down and selling it off piece by piece to the highest bidder, when, by a weird twist of fate, I'd been voted in as chairman and operating director.
Temporarily.
The board had originally given me a three-month probationary period to prove I wouldn't burn the place to the ground or run through what was left of their accounts in record time. Admittedly, when the probationary period had started, I'd had about as much doubt as the board of directors. While I'd grown up spending summers and holidays at the casino with my father, it turned out there was a lot more involved in the day-to-day operations of a casino hotel than sunning myself by the pool and hitting the buffets. Not to mention planning the special events that kept the regulars coming back for new and exciting experiences. While I'd inherited my father's blue eyes and strawberry-blonde hair—which usually leaned just a tad more to the strawberry than blonde—I hadn't initially shared his love of the gaming industry, instead opting to study art in college. That had landed me a job as a curator for an art gallery, but it hadn't exactl
y qualified me to head the casino.
However, I was proud to say that at the end of three-month probation, I hadn't royally screwed anything up. Unfortunately, I hadn't actually turned the profit margins around either. The board had extended my tenure as chairman for the rest of the year, but they'd assured me that I had to show "significant" revenue growth in the next four quarters to keep them from voting at the annual shareholders' meeting to close the casino doors for good.
But if anyone had a passion for keeping the Palace alive, it was me. Well, me and Rafe.
Like me, Rafe had practically grown up at the Palace, my father having sponsored his snowboarding career when Rafe was still in his teens. Even when Rafe had opportunities to be sponsored by much larger names, he'd stayed by my father's side right until the end.
It had been Rafe's idea to invite Mr. Sicianni, the producer of the Food TV's megahit television show Battle Buffet to the Royal Palace to film the final episodes live in front of a studio audience. His celebrity chef and star of the show, Bastien Dubois, had helped bring in food critics and some much-needed positive press to the casino. And the foodie fans clamoring for tickets to the tapings and accommodations had us fully booked—a phenomenon that had even the board of directors smiling. Smiles I definitely needed, as the end of my twelve months was only a short week away.
I let out a resigned sigh. "Yes, I'm aware of just how badly we need to keep Mr. Sicianni happy."
Rafe slid a hand across my shoulder and down my arm. Warmth danced through every single spot he touched, filtering southward to regions that made my cheeks warm too.
"And you know what makes Mr. Sicianni happy?" he asked.
I heaved another sigh. "Strippers."
Rafe's grin reappeared. "Let me buy you an early dinner, and we can talk about this."
Teen-me had a moment's giddiness thinking that the cute boy had just asked her out. Regrettably, adult-me knew better. While there had been recent moments where I thought maybe my teen crush hadn't been entirely in the past or completely one sided, those moments had taken a backseat ever since Rafe had started seeing the latest in his long string of blonde, bubbly, snow bunnies. His current version, Tiffany, happened to be the niece of our rival casino owner, Buddy Weston. My mother'd had a poodle named Tiffany while I was growing up. The dog was undoubtedly the smarter of the two.
I patted his hand, tugging my fingers away. "Sorry, I've already got plans," I told him truthfully.
A small frown settled between his delicious green eyes. "They wouldn't be with a certain FBI agent, would they?"
Any warmth I'd felt earlier froze up faster than a puddle in January. Rafe was referring to Devon Ryder, the special agent who'd been assigned to investigate my father's death and alleged organized crime connections to the Royal Palace. While I had my doubts that the organized crime allegations were anything more than speculation, I had to admit that on a professional level, Ryder had been instrumental in bringing my father's killer to justice. On a personal level, Ryder had shown more than a little interest in me, even going so far as to ask me out for New Year's Eve. Of course, then he'd blown me off, leaving me to watch the ball drop and polish off a bottle of champagne alone, so he was probably the absolute last person I'd have plans with now.
"No!" I said, maybe a little too emphatically. "I'm meeting Tate tonight. Sorry." I glanced at Rafe's flashy, high-dollar watch, flinching at the time. "I'm actually late as it is." I slid from his grip. "Rain check?"
"Sure." His dimpled smile returned with a vengeance, making me a little weak in the knees and causing me to question my decision. But I merely waved good-bye and admired the view as he walked away.
Tate Lopez's squeal from farther down the hall pulled my gaze from Rafe's buns of steel. "Tess!" My best friend's hand beckoned in an erratic flutter as he approached. "Are we still on?"
I waved back, making my way toward him. "Of course!"
I wove my way through the crowd, meeting him halfway in front of the elevators. He looked fabulous, as always, in his oversized, untucked purple paisley dress shirt and skinny jeans that hugged his midsection in a manly little muffin top. His dark complexion, hinting at his Mexican heritage, was a stark comparison to his bright bleached-blond hair. It made a statement, and Tate was all about those—the louder the better.
Threading my arm in his, I was glad to be in the company of my bestie, his familiar beachy cologne easing my mind with thoughts of slow rolling waves and hot cabana boys.
"Was that Snowboarder Hottie I saw leaving?" Tate asked.
I nodded, letting him lead me toward the Minstrel Lounge, where our Frank Sinatra impersonator played six out of seven days a week and the steaks were to die for.
"Oooo, deets, girlfriend," Tate insisted.
I shrugged. "No deets to give. At least not about him."
Tate raised an eyebrow. "Do I detect gossip?"
I grinned. "Mr. Sicianni had three girls from the Pretty Kitty lounge up in his room last night for a private dance party."
Tate snorted. "Wait—that strip joint next the dry cleaners?"
I nodded.
"Oh, I bet that went over reeeeeeal well," he drawled.
"Oh yeah," I said, matching his sarcasm. "The older couple on their second honeymoon in the suite next door to Mr. Sicianni's called the front desk to complain about the noise three separate times and threatened to call the police on the 'den of iniquity' that we were harboring here at the Royal Palace."
Tate threw his head back and laughed out loud. "Oh, honey. I've always wanted to visit a 'den of iniquity,'" he said, his manicured fingers making air quotes.
"Yeah, well, you may be the only one." I sighed. "All I can hope is that our celeb-u-chef brings in more revenue than his producer does topless revue."
Tate cackled again, causing a few coiffed, gray-haired heads from the slot machines to turn in our direction as we made our way to dinner.
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Two steaks and numerous Sinatra standards later, I found myself at the front desk helping Tate check in the latest slew of tourists fresh off the slopes, before hitting the appletinis to wash my day away. I had to admit that the excitement of those just starting out their Tahoe vacations was infectious. As each group of tourists entered the lobby, their eyes pinged from the medieval crests to the shiny suits of armor guarding the elevators to the neon signs touting the King's Court All You Can Eat Buffet. I could feel them being sucked into the fantasy world my father had created and couldn't help the smile it brought to my face.
A smile that froze the second I heard a familiar voice approach the desk.
"Ohmigod, if it isn't Tornado Tessie, live and in the flesh!"
The voice alone set my teeth on edge, yanking me from my happy place and dumping me into the least endearing moments of my childhood. I knew it was LeAnna Aiden before I even turned around.
I could still clearly see her prepubescent blonde curls as she sat at the edge of the pool, taunting, "Look! It's Tornado Tessie, the hottest mess in the West!"
Okay, so I'd been a little overly energetic as a kid. And probably a little too eager to make friends during my lonely summers staying with Dad. And yes, I'll admit my hair had been a little frizzy and unruly at that age, making me look like, well, the perfect human embodiment of a spastic tornado. But the nickname that LeAnna Aiden, the daughter of one of the regular high rollers at the Royal Palace, gave me had stuck, and I'd been the butt of her jokes all summer as her father had gambled away a small fortune at my dad's tables.
I inhaled deeply, letting the breath out slowly, in a vain attempt to regain my composure before turning around. I forced my inner Zen to the surface and pulled out the toothiest fake grin I could muster.
"LeAnna Aiden?" I said, turning my attention toward the bane of my nine-year-old self's existence. I scanned the woman in front of me up and down a few times, hating to admit that she still looked fabulous. And, she just happened to be wearing the red print Michael Kors jersey dress I'd been admiring in
our boutique earlier.
Damn.
Her smile faltered as I faced her, but only for a moment. "Girl, you know I'm just kidding about the Tornado Tessie thing, right? We're grown. And as of last year, it's LeAnna Aiden-Taylor now." She shoved her left hand so far in my face the ashtray-sized diamond practically grazed my nose.
"Taylor?" I asked, the name ringing some sort of bell in the back of my mind that I couldn't quite put my finger on.
LeAnna's grin widened to Cheshire cat proportions. "Gerald Taylor. Of the Napa Valley Taylors?"
I raised an eyebrow in her direction. That was the name I knew well. Gerald Taylor was a regular at Royal Palace. He owned a very successful winery in Napa, spent big at our high-roller tables, where he had a habit of passing out after one too many glasses of Cabernet, and was also well over seventy years old.
"Congratulations?" I forced, though I was afraid it came out more question than statement.
LeAnna just fluttered her fake eyelashes, seemingly oblivious to my hesitation. "I know, right? How did I get so lucky!?"
Karma? I bit back the sarcastic reply, proud that the people skills I'd acquired since taking over the casino were keeping my smile in place.
"Anyhoo," LeAnna went on, "we're in town for the big Battle Buffet taping. Gerald, of course, got us VIP spots. Isn't he a dear?"
I opened my mouth to respond, but she didn't give me a chance, clearly not really interested in my opinion on Gerard's "dear" status.
"But enough about me." She propped her fists on impossibly tiny hips as she let her eyes do an up and down of their own over my person. "What are you up to these days?"
I found myself tugging at my blouse and smoothing my pencil skirt. Even though both were from one of our high-end shops, I suddenly felt very underdressed.
"I'm actually the owner of this casino," I heard myself announcing. At least for the next week.
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