“He does hold me accountable for these sorts of transgressions.” We both knew it was a lie, but that was part of the game.
Mr. Fujikara puffed out his chest in indignation. “Well, we can’t have that. I will pay for the car!” We both knew he was only agreeing to pay the few grand of the deductible, a paltry sum in his world, but his friends probably didn’t know that.
“Oh, Mr. Fujikara! Do you mean it?” I reached over and grabbed his hand in both of mine. “What a kind and generous man you are!”
Mr. Fujikara beamed. His friends looked suitably impressed.
“Mr. Fujikara, you are indeed one of my favorites!” I leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek.
“Now, now. It is but a small thing,” he stammered.
I rose as Kimmy arrived with the champagne. “Gentlemen, enjoy.” I smiled and bowed at Mr. Fujikara. “I’ll look forward to seeing you soon. Perhaps dinner this week sometime?” I thought I caught a wink as he nodded in return.
Waving Kimmy away, he turned to his friends and proffered the bottle of champagne. “Let’s drink!” He popped the cork and began to pour.
They all stood and bowed as I took my leave. It was very awkward, all this bowing—I’d never gotten used to it. Finally, I turned and tottered toward the steps. I almost made it to the casino floor. On the next to the last step, my ankle twisted. I yelped and grabbed for the rail, which slipped by just out of reach. I started to fall. Out of nowhere, a pair of strong hands grabbed me.
“Whoa. Steady there.”
I looked up into the twinkling eyes of Paxton Dane. Eyes that took in my cleavage, and my fuck-me shoes.
“Very nice,” he said as he easily set me right. “And well played.” He cocked his head in the direction of Mr. Fujikara, who, thankfully, was out of earshot. “Would you like to practice on me sometime?”
Intensely aware of the warmth of his hands on my bare arms, my heart tripped. What is it with my taste in men? Regaining my balance, if not my pride, I stepped away from him and smoothed my dress. “That’s just a game Mr. Fujikara and I play.”
“And you played him pretty well.” Dane smirked.
“I’ve had a lot of practice.” I grabbed his elbow and drew him into the crowd and away from the bar. I looked back at Mr. Fujikara and his friends. They were laughing. Mr. Fujikara caught my eye and raised his glass in a silent toast. I smiled and nodded in return. “I helped him be a big man in front of his friends. What’s so bad about that?” Realizing I still had hold of Dane’s arm, I let go and stepped back.
“If word of your personal touch gets out, we may have a rash of whales with fender benders.”
“Not likely. Now, how do we go about finding a missing helicopter?”
“Want to go for a ride?” Dane asked.
“Don’t tell me you found it already?” Just thinking about getting my hands around Willie’s neck made me salivate
“Unfortunately, no. But my contact arranged for us to view the videotapes of tonight’s air traffic at the control tower at McCarran. Maybe we can figure out where the pilot went.”
“I’m in, but I’ve got to do a couple of things first. Can we meet out front in a half an hour?”
“You got it.”
I watched Dane walk away. When he was out of earshot, I keyed my Nextel. “Jer, what do you have on the megamillions lady?”
“Mrs. Paisley? The tapes and machine are in agreement—she only played two quarters.”
“What did she win?”
“Three hundred and sixty-five thousand.”
Not a bad payday, but nowhere near the eighty-five million she would have won had she played six quarters. And I was going to be the bearer of the bad news. On nights like this, being the messenger not only put me in the line of fire but also put me in a bad mood.
“You want me to tell her?” Jerry asked.
“You’re a sweetheart, but this is what I get paid for.” Reluctantly, I headed for the elevators.
Soon I was standing in front of the gilded double doors of the Sodom and Gomorrah suite. One of our best suites, it encompassed half of the top floor of the northwest wing. With its three bedrooms, great room with a bar, dining room for private dinners, and a large, Roman-inspired bath with a hot tub for you and ten of your closest friends, the suite was a favorite with the Hollywood and professional athlete crowds. Decorated in an over-the-top Egyptian motif, with gold columns, huge potted palms and clouds painted on the ceiling, the suite reminded me of the set of an old Egyptian horror movie. I had no idea how anyone could sleep in there—not that anyone spent much time sleeping in Vegas. In my opinion, the view was the best part, looking straight up the Strip.
I so didn’t want to do this. The Big Boss would probably fire me if he knew how badly I wanted to give away eighty-five million dollars. I forced myself to pull the rope beside the door. Deep inside, a bell chimed. I stepped back half expecting a tall, scantily dressed Nubian to appear at my summons.
Instead, the lady who opened the door couldn’t have been even a fraction over five feet tall. And she was most definitely not Nubian; she was more like middle North American. Almost as wide as she was tall, she sported a cap of graying curls and the best set of dimples I’d seen in quite a while. Wrapped in one of the Babylon’s terry-cloth robes, which looked to be about three sizes too large, sleeves rolled up, and hem dragging the ground, her feet bare and her eyes bright, the little lady flashed a big smile.
“Mrs. Paisley?” I asked.
“For heaven’s sake, call me Velma. Mrs. Paisley is, or was, my mother-in-law.” She stepped back, opening the door wider and motioning me inside. “You must have drawn the short straw.”
“I’m Lucky O’Toole, and I’m in charge of customer relations here at the Babylon. My job entails a lot of short straws.”
“It can’t be much fun coming to tell me I didn’t win the eighty-five million.”
So she knew. “No, this is not one of the better parts of my job.”
Her three friends, also dressed in oversize robes, gathered around us. They all looked flushed, as if they’d been enjoying the hot tub.
“Goodness.” She laid a hand on my arm. “Don’t worry yourself. I knew I had only played two quarters. I’d been playing six most of the evening, but then, about a half hour before I hit, I switched to two quarters per pull.”
“How much did you win, Velma?” asked one of her friends.
All eyes swiveled to me.
“Three hundred and sixty-five thousand,” I said.
“That’s wonderful!” Mrs. Paisley positively beamed. “After taxes that should be almost enough to get my grandson through Harvard.”
“You have a grandson at Harvard?” I asked.
“Not yet. He’s applied, but hasn’t heard. He’s wanted to go there practically forever.”
“You don’t seem upset about hitting the big one, but not winning the eighty-five million.”
Mrs. Paisley held onto my arm as she directed me to a couch in the great room.
I took a peek at the fabulous view. The lights of the Strip stretched off into the distance. For some reason I felt like shouting, “I’m king of the world,” but that had already been done.
“Sit, Ms. O’Toole. May I offer you a drink?”
“Please call me Lucky. Perhaps a small one.” I was entitled to a drink; I’d spent the better part of the last sixteen hours at work—above and beyond by anyone’s definition. But I hadn’t eaten in a while, so the drink had better be small or I’d find myself sleeping it off in a stairwell just like our naked guy.
At the clap of Mrs. Paisley’s small hands, a buff blond guy dressed in a loin cloth appeared.
“Chad, bring Ms. O’Toole whatever she wants.” Mrs. Paisley sounded imperious and impish at the same time. Who wouldn’t enjoy having buff-body Chad waiting to grant their every wish?
“Scotch, neat.”
Chad nodded and disappeared.
Mrs. Paisley settled in next to me. Her friend
s took the chairs across from us.
“Eighty-five million is a life-changing amount,” Mrs. Paisley announced. “Some lives don’t need that much changing. Mine’s one of them. Mr. Paisley left me well taken care of. After he passed, I was bored, so I started baking pies for the local restaurants back in my hometown of Griffin, Indiana. Do you know of it?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, no.” Chad reappeared with my drink. I took a long sip, gasping as the liquid burned down my throat.
“It’s a small town, mostly farming folk, but we’re on Interstate 70, so we get a fair amount of traffic.” Mrs. Paisley wiggled like a puppy, clearly enjoying her moment in the spotlight. “My pies were pretty popular and then Margaret over there . . .” She pointed to one of the ladies sitting opposite us. “Well, she was taking names of the out-of-towners who would call asking for us to send them a pie. After the names started adding up, she convinced me, and Paisley Pies was born.”
“Paisley Pies?”
“We’re small, but growing. All my kids and most of my grandkids, at one time or another, have worked with me. My friends process the orders and handle all of the shipping. According to my grandson, I even have a ‘Web presence.’ I’m not sure what that means, but he seems thrilled. And the orders are increasing almost faster than we can keep up. So, Lucky, what more could I possibly want?”
“You’re a real glass-half-full kind of woman, aren’t you?” I took another sip of my scotch enjoying the warmth—as much from Mrs. Paisley as the alcohol—spreading through me.
“Most folks only think about what they don’t have. I know what I’ve got. Eighty-five million wouldn’t make it any better.”
I patted Mrs. Paisley’s knee. “You are a breath of fresh air. And you have made my night.” I pulled one of my cards out of my pocket and turned it over. “Does anyone have a pen?” I put my drink down on the side table. I’d just about polished it off.
One of the ladies found a pencil and handed it to me.
“Velma, what’s your grandson’s name?” I asked, pencil poised. “The one who wants to go to Harvard?”
“Pete. Peter Paisley the Fourth. He’s named after my late husband and the other Paisley men before him.”
I noted his name and put the card in my pocket. “Ladies, I must go. Meeting you has restored my faith in humanity. Please, order anything you want from the restaurant or partake of any of the spa treatments, on the house, with my compliments.”
Chapter
THREE
Iducked into my office. A change of shoes was definitely in order.
As I suspected, Miss Patterson still manned her desk. Her eyes twinkled as she handed me my flats. “I trust everything went smoothly with Mr. Fujikara?”
I nodded and with a grateful sigh, I sank into the chair opposite her desk. “A bit more expensive than I thought it would be. Can you believe the little shyster tagged me for two bottles of very nice wine and a bottle of Dom Perignon?”
“I could take lessons from him,” she said.
I snorted. “Be careful. You just might clever yourself right out of a job.” We both knew it was a hollow threat.
“I’ve spent the last hour cleaning up your e-mail. You had another job offer from the Athena. The salary and benefits they’re offering border on the obscene.”
“My salary is already off the charts. The Big Boss will have to fire me if he wants to get rid of me. This is my home; I’m here to stay.”
She visibly sighed with relief. “I prepared your response, but I haven’t sent it.”
“A simple ‘thank you, but, hell no’ will do.”
She smiled. “I figured that’s what you’d say.”
My feet practically shouted with glee as I tucked them back into my comfy flats. “You know me well. Now, go home. I don’t want to see your frowning face for at least twelve hours.”
“Are you going home as well?”
“Soon, God willing, but I have to swing by the airport first. Oh, before you leave could you have Paolo meet us down front?” Paolo drove one of the company limos, and he usually worked the graveyard shift.
“Us?”
“Paxton Dane is going with me. Paolo can be my chaperone.” I had no intention of riding around Vegas at this hour of the morning alone with Paxton Dane—like I said, after midnight I have no self-control.
“I see.” Miss Patterson’s expression didn’t change. “That could salvage the evening. Mr. Dane is a tasty bit of eye candy.”
“I think I’ll leave that comment alone.” Weak, I know, but my skills suffer when I’m low on fuel and it’s late in the game.
With a bland expression, but victory in her eyes, Miss Patterson handed me the satchel I called my purse. It actually was a prized possession—a Hermès Birkin bag. Obscenely expensive, sickeningly fashionable, it had been a gift from The Big Boss. “Jerry’s package is in your bag, and the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock will be by tomorrow afternoon around two.”
“Right. Thanks. And what about Felicia Reilly? I assume she isn’t on the property or she would be here.”
“She called in sick.”
“When was her shift to start?”
“Midnight.”
“I see,” I replied, but I didn’t see at all. Another piece to the puzzle, but I had no idea how it fit. “Thanks again. And remember, twelve hours. Go home. Get some rest.”
I charged through the office door and raced for the elevator.
PAXTON Dane was waiting just outside the front entrance. He gave me the once-over as I walked up. “Your car or mine? And, for the record, I liked the other shoes better.”
“You don’t have to walk in them.” I breezed past him and motioned to Paolo. “You probably drive an old pickup with a gun rack and a coonhound slobbering out the window. Let’s take the company car.” I didn’t look at Dane as he stepped to the curb beside me. Something about the man kept me just a bit off balance. He practically oozed sex. I remembered the feel of his chest, his hands on my arms, his breath on my cheek.
I may have sworn off men, but my body apparently hadn’t gotten the memo. My mind wasn’t exactly cooperating either.
A sleek, black limo eased to a stop in front of us. Paolo jumped out and ran around the car to greet us. “Ms. O’Toole, what a pleasure!”
I liked Paolo, but, like a bright light, I could take him only in small doses. Dark and Latin, he had so much energy he seemed to bounce when he walked. Sporting an ever-ready smile, he opened the back door with the flourish of a matador taunting a bull.
“Paolo, how’re Maria and little Javier?”
“Ms. O’Toole, you are so kind to remember my family,” Paolo gushed. “They are wonderful. Thank you.”
I ducked inside the cavernous automobile. I’ve never felt comfortable in the back of a limo—they were for celebrities and people trying to attract attention—and I struck out on both counts.
Dane took the seat directly across from me. So now I had to look at him or out the window. Great.
Before Paolo could shut the door, I remembered the little elephant The Big Boss had given me. I pulled it out of my pocket. “Here’s something for Javier.”
Paolo took it gently. “Thank you, Ms. O’Toole!”
“You’re welcome. We need to go to the control tower at the airport. Do you have any idea how to get there?”
“I will find it. You can trust Paolo!”
As the car eased away from the curb, I leaned back and shut my eyes—that way I avoided looking at anything. The little headache that was forming earlier behind my right eye had bloomed into a thumper, the whiskey had left a bilious brew in the pit of my stomach, and I was hungry. I bet the three were related.
Without opening my eyes, I found the intercom button. “Paolo, are we too late to make a swing through In-N-Out before they close?”
“They turn out the lights at one thirty. We should be able to get to the one on Maryland Parkway by then.”
“See if you can make it, I’m starved.” I ope
ned one eye and looked at Dane. He was watching me with a bemused expression on his face. “What? You don’t mind, do you?”
“Now that you ask, no.”
The lights were still on when we pulled into the drive-thru. Maybe my luck was turning—I was about due for something to go my way. I pressed the intercom switch. “Paolo, I want a combo with a large Diet Coke. Oh, and make it animal-style.” I let off the switch. “Dane, what do you want?”
“I’ve never done ‘animal-style,’ ” he answered, his face an inscrutable mask.
I’ll bet. He was just the sort who’d want to do the doggy. God, was my brain determined to stay in the gutter when I was around him? “ ‘Animal-style’ generally means they add grilled onions. What do you want?” I was way too smart to ask him what he wanted to eat.
“What are my choices? I’ve never dined at this fine establishment.”
I leaned back and watched him as he perused the limited menu. “Don’t let appearances deceive you. In-N-Out is a mecca. Three times a day junk food addicts prostrate themselves in front of the counter willing to sell their grandmothers for a burger animal-style.”
“You mean hamburgers aren’t just for breakfast anymore?” he fired back with a grin.
“This is Vegas. We don’t eat meals here; we grab food when we can find it.”
“When in Rome . . .” he said with a smile. “Animal-style it is.”
I depressed the intercom switch again. “Okay, Paolo, make that two combos, animal-style, both with large drinks. Mine’s a Diet Coke, and Dane wants . . .” I cocked an eyebrow at him.
“Do they have Dr Pepper?”
“And Dane’s will be a Dr Pepper. Then order whatever you want. ” I dove into my Birkin, rooting around for my wallet.
Dane stopped me. “Here.” He pulled a crumpled twenty out of his pant’s pocket. “Allow me.”
I didn’t come up for air until I had inhaled half my burger and almost all of my fries.
“Impressive.” Dane, a half-eaten burger in his hands, watched me with a look of wry amusement and awe.
“Lunch was a long time ago.” I could feel the heat rise in my face. Eating in front of people was hard for me. I’d never been petite, or small, or even medium-sized. In Las Vegas, a city where all the Barbie-sized clothes sell out first, I was a giant living in the land of the munchkins. Of course, when I deigned to shop, I had no trouble finding clothes in my size, which was a plus—literally. A saleslady once told me they stocked my size for the transvestites.
Wanna Get Lucky? Page 4