Luck Be a Lady

by Gemma Halliday

  "And now you have nothing again," I murmured, channeling her melancholy.

  Britton shook her head so adamantly her ponytail came loose as she turned back toward me, tears now freely flowing down her cheeks. "No. I had five of the best years of my life, filled with more love than I ever imagined possible. I'll keep that with me always. That's totally not nothing." She released a heavy sigh.

  I stared at my father's wife, really seeing her for the first time. I'd seen Britton before, but it was as the gold digger I thought she was, the harlot-slash-prostitute my mother thought she was, or the airhead most people saw her as. She was none of those. I'd been looking at her through the eyes of a spoiled teenager who didn't get things exactly the way she wanted or the stilted view of my mother who thought Britton and my father embodied the end of the world. I wasted so many years complaining that things hadn't gone my way, instead of embracing the way they were. Now, it was too late.

  The tears flowing down my face surprised both of us.

  "Oh, honey," she muttered as she pulled me into her arms.

  "I'm so sorry," I whispered, "for so very many things."

  We spent a good five minutes sniffling and sobbing before she gently pushed me away, wiping at her cheeks.

  "Wow, that was therapeutic," she said, attempting a smile.

  I couldn't help grinning. "So, you said you talked to Alfie?" I asked, focusing on a less emotional subject in order to get my running mascara under control.

  Britton nodded, then sniffed loudly. "I did. I told him Weston killed Dickie."

  "And what did he say to that?"

  She shrugged. "The usual. That the police were looking into it, that we should stay out of it, that I needed—"

  "—to go relax at the spa," I finished for her.

  She grinned in earnest this time. "How did you know?"

  "He's so predictable. Plus, Agent Ryder pretty much told me the same thing."

  "Yeah, what was he doing here anyway?" Britton asked.

  Not for the first time, I noticed that very little got past her. "Nothing," I mumbled. "He was just...looking into stuff." That was so lame even to my ears, but the last thing I wanted to do was add another layer of worry to Britton's already heavy load. She had lost a spouse, she was being kicked out of her home and facing a huge question mark about her future now that the Royal Palace fund had dried up for her. Besides, I had complete confidence that the police would soon realize Britton had not killed my dad.

  Okay, I had 75% confidence.

  "Anyway, I'm gonna hit the gym," Britton said. "A good long run on the treadmill is what I need to clear my head, you know?"

  I nodded, though I thought a good long nap might be more my speed.

  We parted ways as the elevator let me off at the 5th floor for my room and Britton continued down to the lower level gym. My brain was still lost in thought over everything that I'd learned that day as I made my way down the hall and opened the door to my room.

  Then froze.

  The cushions of my loveseat were tossed beside the bed, which was stripped down to the mattress, sheets, comforter, and pillows strewn across the floor. My clothes were draped everywhere with my suitcase turned upside down in the bottom of the closet. Cosmetics, personal items, and hotel knickknacks were strewn across the floor in every direction. The scene looked a whole lot like Britton's penthouse when the cops had been searching it.

  My breath caught in my throat. Someone had ransacked my room.

  I quickly pulled out my cell from my pockets, fingers hovering over the keyboard to dial Alfie, when a sound behind me pulled my attention.

  I spun to see what it was. But I never got the chance, as pain exploded on the side of my head, the ground rushed up to meet me, and the phone flew from my hand.

  Just before everything went black.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Thanks to my mother's constant lectures on the evils of all things casino, Tahoe, or gambling related, I had never been a huge drinker. Though when I was faced with being a bridesmaid for the third time in one summer after all three of my best friends from college had found their Mr. Rights, and I'd found a stray cat, I will admit to overindulging just a bit at the open bar at the reception. Especially after one of the groomsmen had mistaken me for my BFF's older aunt. Several rounds with Jose Cuervo and one night spent drooling on my BFF's couch later, I'd awoken with a headache that had extended all the way from my scalp down to my toes, the pounding so intense I'd sworn my brain was seconds from actually leaking out of my ears.

  This was worse.

  I blinked, instantly regretting the decision as pain numbed my senses, my head pounding with the violence of a thousand drum lines.

  "Tess," I heard a voice calling, though it sounded far away. And under water.

  I struggled through the fog enveloping my brain to place it.

  "Tessie?" the voice called again. Deep, smooth, worried.

  I forced myself to blink again, which was slightly less painful this time, slowly letting the world come into focus. A figure in front of me emerged from the fog, his dark eyebrows drawn in concern over the greenest pair of eyes on the planet.

  "There you are," Rafe said, his fingers sliding across my cheek, his other arm cinching me against him. "You had me worried, hon."

  I did some more blinking before deciding to try speech. "What happened?" I croaked out.

  Rafe shook his head. "You tell me. I came to pick you up for dinner and found the door open and you on the floor." He drew in a shaky breath. "Your place looks like hell."

  I focused past him to the chaos of my belongings scattered in every direction, the scene I'd first witnessed slowly flooding back to me.

  "Someone hit me," I said.

  Rafe pursed his lips together. "Who?" he asked, looking like he was ready to clobber the offender.

  "I wish I knew. He hit me from behind."

  "You didn't see anything?" he asked.

  I bit my lip. "No. I heard something though," I said, memories flooding.

  "Something like a..."

  "I don't know," I admitted. I tried to sit up to assess the damage to my stuff. Bad idea. The room started to spin, and I instantly fell back on my elbows.

  "Whoa, careful," Rafe said. "Paramedics are on the way."

  "No, I don't need…" But the sharp pain on the side of my head cut my words short.

  "Humor me and let them at least look you over," he said.

  As if on cue, a knock sounded at the door, and a voice yelled, "Paramedics."

  Rafe left my side for the split second it took to open the door for them before returning right back to me. Two men and a mobile gurney pushed through the door.

  "Did you move her?" the bigger guy barked at Rafe.

  He shook his head. "She tried to sit up."

  "That's not good if she has any kind of spinal injury," he huffed. "Hold her still."

  Rafe's arms froze around me.

  "I'm awake." I raised my hand, waving at the men.

  As though I'd not spoken a word, the two men broke into their routine, shining lights in my eyes, taking vitals, and blurting what sounded like gibberish back and forth.

  "There doesn't seem to be a concussion, but we're going to need to take her in for tests," the lead medic said as he ripped the Velcro open on a neck brace.

  "I'm awake, and I'm fine," I said again, slapping the paramedic's hands away. I forced myself past the wild drumming in my head and into a sitting position.

  He stood tall in front of me, blue gloved hands gripping his hips. "Well, ma'am, we can't force you to go."

  "Good, then I'll stay."

  The other guy shoved a clipboard in front of me. "If you'll just sign off there, we'll leave you be. Come to the Emergency Room if you have any of the symptoms listed on the sheet."

  He turned his glare toward Rafe. "Please make sure she stays awake for at least a couple of hours to watch for any speech problems or eyesight changes."

  After scrawling what I w
as almost positive to be my signature fairly close to the line indicated, the second in command shoved the carbon copy into my hands. They simultaneously cast a wary look over their shoulders as they wheeled the gurney into the hall and disappeared toward the elevator.

  Rafe pushed the hair away from my temple and winced right along with me when he touched the knot on the side of my head. "That's a pretty impressive lump. Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital."

  "I'm sure," I grumbled. Something about all of the illnesses and needles all bundled up in one building made me positive.

  Rafe pulled out his cell phone and started dialing.

  "Now who are you calling?" I asked, peeking at the screen.

  "Alfie. He needs to know."

  I groaned. "Are you sure?"

  "Smart man," Alfie's voice boomed from the doorway. "I was caught up with an issue on the floor, or I'd have been here before the ambulance." He dropped to his knees on the other side of me, grabbed my chin, and whipped my face toward him. The room did a tilt-a-whirl impression. If I had eaten anything recently, it would've made an encore presentation.

  I squinted up at him, pushing his hand away. "Do you understand the concept of gentle?"

  His thick brows scrunched into one, but a glimmer of a smile danced in his eyes as he looked up toward Rafe. "As long as she keeps being a smart ass, we don't really need to worry."

  "She says she was attacked," Rafe said, not sharing his levity. I silently crushed on him all the harder for it.

  Alfie's eyes surveyed the room. "Anything missing?" he asked. I was fairly certain he was talking to me though his eyes were on the mess.

  "I don't know," I answered honestly. "I haven't had a chance to look through it all yet. But I didn't have a whole lot with me for anyone to take."

  Alfie stepped through the room, picking up a pair of shoes, lifting a dress to look underneath. "I've got my guys going through the security footage of the hallway now."

  "Be sure to use that facial recognition software," I mumbled.

  "What was that?" Alfie asked.

  "Nothing." I blinked innocently at him.

  "Hmm," he muttered. "Well, I hate to tell you this, Ms. King, but this doesn't look like a robbery. It looks like a warning." Alfie paused to let that sink in before spinning on me. "Who have you gone and pissed off now?"

  I narrowed my eyes at him. "I haven't pissed off anyone."

  Alfie snorted. "Mrs. Ditmeyer would disagree, but I doubt the old girl has this kind of anger management issue."

  "Maybe it was random?" Rafe piped up. "Some kids or something."

  As much as I wanted that to be true, I doubted anyone in the room believed it.

  "This wasn't random," I said, shooting down that comforting theory. "It was Joe Pesci." I sat up, trying to steady myself, against the room dancing around me.

  "Excuse me?" Alfie asked.

  "Not the Joe Pesci. At least, I don't think it is," I explained.

  Alfie looked from me to Rafe. "How hard did she hit her head?" he asked.

  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and did my best to sound convincing as I told them both about what I'd seen in the lounge, the actor, the missing valet, the thefts and Britton's theory about Weston being behind it all.

  "Britton mentioned something about Weston earlier," Alfie admitted, almost to himself. I hoped he felt just a little guilty now for not looking into it. "But I highly doubt he'd go around whacking our guests."

  "But he might send his henchman to do it," I said. I refrained from pointing out that I was not a guest at the Royal Palace, but the owner. At least for eight more days.

  Alfie drew a long breath in through his nose. "Fine. I'll have Maverick look through the tapes for any sign of 'Joe Pesci.'" He finished off the statement with a pair of air quotes that told me he wasn't totally convinced he was going to find anything at all. "In the meantime," he continued, "it's not safe for you to stay here. I'll send someone to move your things up to the penthouse for the time being."

  The stern scowl on his face kept me from arguing. Not that I really wanted to stay in my room after all that had happened. Instead, I nodded meekly.

  Alfie's phone rang, and he pushed the button on his earpiece. "Malone," he said before lumbering out into the hall to talk.

  "Don't worry," Rafe told me. "Alfie won't let that guy get away with this." While I'm sure it was meant to be reassuring, I couldn't help feeling like every guy in my life was telling me to sit back and let them take care of things. Which was turning out just dandy so far.

  "Hey," he added, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear. "You hungry?"

  I knew I should be. But as I glanced around my disheveled room, all I really wanted was to sleep for about three days. Only I didn't feel safe enough anywhere for that to happen. "I guess I need to try to eat something," I finally gave in.

  "I'll call down and tell them to hold our table."

  I couldn't even imagine trying to fight the hem of the dangerous dress with my head pounding, but my little black funeral dress would be passable with the slacks and v-neck sweater Rafe was wearing. "I'll go change, then."

  I pushed against the couch, attempting to use it for leverage, but my knees buckled. Rafe's hands slid around my waist and pulled me to my feet. I looked up into his face as he pulled me against him. Time stood still for one long moment as his stubbled jaw tensed with concern, his amazingly bright green eyes roving my face, his lips so close I could almost taste them.

  Then he gently set me down on the sofa. Teen-me whimpered in protest.

  "Scratch changing," Rafe said, seemingly oblivious to the moment. "In fact, maybe we should just do room service."

  "No!" I said. Maybe a little more forceful than I'd meant to. "No, I mean, let's go somewhere else. I'm...I'm not sure I can stay here." Which was the truth. My cozy little haven suddenly had a menacing taint to it.

  As if he instinctually understood, Rafe nodded, made the call to the restaurant, and ten minutes later we were standing in front of the Golden Chalice.

  The Chalice was one of the finer dining experiences at the Royal Palace. During the day, most people dined in khakis and sundresses, but when the mountain shadows fell over the casino, the unwritten dress code got a bit ritzier. As we stood in line waiting on the maître de, a woman pranced by in a full length formal dress on the arms of a man in jacket and tie. I suddenly missed the short dress.

  Obviously sensing my discomfort, Rafe grabbed my hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm. "You look beautiful."

  I glanced up at him and forced a smile to my face. "You're full of crap, but thank you for trying."

  "How's your head?"

  I ran a light finger over the knot at my temple with my free hand. "I think the bump is getting bigger," I moaned.

  "Then I think we're line-jumping," he said, tugging my hand toward the front.

  The small framed man dressed in a starched white shirt, black pants and long apron turned an annoyed face our way at the intrusion. That is until recognition animated his features. "Mr. Lorenzo, Ms. King, why has my staff kept you waiting in line?" He waved frenzied arms resembling one of the large inflatables businesses put in their parking lots to drum up customers. "Please, allow our VIPs through."

  Rafe slipped the man some money as they shook hands. "I'm so sorry to throw my weight around like that, but Ms. King has a bit of a headache and needs to sit down."

  I almost resisted rolling my eyes. His words made me sound like a prima donna trying to get her way.

  But they did the trick.

  "Oh, you poor thing. Right this way." He waved the menus in his hand toward a table in the center of the room. "The best seat in the house," he assured us.

  As we were seated, the window next to us afforded a view of the swimming pool, illuminated with floating candles and ambient lighting. The sun was setting along the horizon, dark orange outlining the jagged mountain tops in the distance. Several fond memories of my father and me sitting at th
e very same table filtered past the throbbing pain. He'd order a dirty martini and oysters for himself and a Shirley Temple for me before the host even got us settled.

  "It's good to see you smile," Rafe said as the waiter stopped at our table. "Well, I was going to order wine for us, but with that nasty bump, we'd better stick to iced tea." He held up two fingers and the waiter disappeared.

  He picked up his menu, casually scanning it. "So, what does one eat after being bludgeoned?" His eyes sparkled teasingly over the top of his menu at me.

  "I don't know what tradition dictates," I played back at him, "but I'm leaning toward the Chicken Bella."

  "Superb choice," the waiter interjected as he walked up to the table. His pen hovered over his order pad until I nodded.

  "I'll have the same," Rafe said. Then as the waiter walked away, he added, "You know, I was going to float some ideas for the casino by you tonight, but if you're not up to it..."

  I shook my head. "No, no. I'm fine. And, actually, I'd love to hear your ideas." Which was only half true. What I'd have loved was to sit and stare at the sunset, reminiscing about old times. But I knew that thoughts of old times would lead to thoughts of my dad. Which would lead to thoughts of who had killed him, who was stealing from our hotel guests, and who had hit me over the head. All of which were not going to do my headache any good. So, while I'll admit to only half listening, the change of pace was a welcome distraction.

  Rafe's spiel was as focused and well thought out as any sales pitch I'd ever heard. He had big ideas about transforming the image of the Palace, making it more family friendly like some of the Vegas casinos. He wanted to create an atmosphere that welcomed the young and old alike to the slopes, not just the throw-back crowd my dad had catered to. While his ideas had merit, I knew they required money. And that was something the casino was sorely lacking at the moment. While he talked, I kept checking my phone for any news from Alfie, but as our plates were placed in front of us, I forced myself to pay closer attention to Rafe.