Lucky In Love

by Deborah Coonts

  He swallowed hard. “I got it.”

  “Deal?” I extended my hand.

  He reluctantly took it in his limp, clammy one and gave my hand a weak pump. “Deal.”

  * * *

  After he had dressed, I sent him back to the Babylon alone in the limo. Maybe I thought if I shared the same air with him, some of his despair, some of his disillusionment, some of his lack of faith in the grandeur of the human spirit might rub off on me. The guy had a black hole for a soul. And right now, I felt the pull of the darkness. It hid in the shadows, waiting like a hellhound to snatch the nugget of optimism glowing inside of me and lighting my way.

  Besides, Miss Minnie and I still had a bit of business to transact.

  She was sitting behind the reception desk when I returned—an imperious little Korean geisha, to the extent those terms fit together. Her hands were clasped in front of her, and her little bow-tie, painted-on mouth puckered with disapproval.

  I held out my hand and snapped my fingers, then extended my open palm. “Give it to me.”

  “You took my best girl. You no get nothing.”

  My eyes never leaving hers, I reached for my phone. With my thumb, I felt the raised buttons, found the one I wanted, and pressed. When it started ringing, I held it to my ear.

  “Who you calling?” Miss Minnie tried to hide fear with indignation as she pulled herself straight and threw her shoulders back. “You no scare me.”

  I thought we’d established that that wasn’t true, but since mentioning it probably wouldn’t be helpful, I didn’t. “I work closely with the Pandering Investigation Team. I’m sure you’re familiar with the vice team at Metro. Sheriff Gillespie is a personal friend.”

  “I a businesswoman. ” Shooting me daggers, Miss Minnie pulled the videotape from under the desk and slapped it on the counter. “You win.”

  I pocketed the tape. “Yes. I win.” I didn’t even try to hide my gloat.

  When I walked outside, victory had beaten back the pull of darkness—not a bad evening, all things considered. As I paused at the curb, a taxi flashed its lights and then eased to a stop in front of me. I opened the back door and peered inside at the driver. “Hey, Watalsky. Fancy meeting you here.”

  “I could say the same,” he replied, grinning at me through a full beard. River Watalsky was an inveterate poker player. He’d won and lost more fortunes than he could keep track of. Recently on a downward trend, he’d come to me for a job. I’d found him one with the cab company. “Your office called the company. When the dispatcher said the pickup was you, I took the call.”

  Miss P and Paolo—they took better care of me than I could. I shut the back door and climbed in the front. “Follow the yellow brick road back to Oz, please.”

  He turned and put the car into gear. “The Babylon?”

  “No, home. I think I’ll knock off for the day.”

  “Had enough crossing swords with the Wicked Witch?”

  I settled into the seat and tried not to think about why commercial-grade rubber covered the entire inside of the car. “Why don’t the cops put her out of business?”

  “Honey, without the bad, how do we know the good?”

  Chapter Four

  The Presidio, a tall cylinder of steel and glass, served as home and home-away-from-home to financiers, entertainers, athletes, celebrities, and me. One of the toniest addresses in Vegas, the Presidio had impeccable service and unrivaled views, but I wouldn’t know—all my home time was spent sleeping or changing clothes. More than once I’d thought about just moving into a small apartment at the hotel, but Teddie also lived at the Presidio. Giving up proximity and privacy seemed too high a price for expediency.

  After rewarding Watalsky for his business acumen, I pushed through the double doors into rarified air. Filled with wood, brass, knotted silk rugs, and important artwork, the lobby reeked of class and exclusivity. To be honest, had I not bought my place at pre-construction prices, I would no longer have enough green to even worm my way onto the waiting list. Not that that would bother me—I got enough attitude at work, I didn’t also have to live with it. Frankly, the whole thing had been Teddie’s idea—he bought the penthouse and I bought the floor below. A good investment, he had said, and he’d been right.

  Forrest, our resident concierge/bouncer/doorman/friend, rushed from behind his desk. A former nfl player, Forrest now hobbled on creaky knees, but he still managed to make it to the elevator before me. The mountain of a man pressed the up button. “Miss Lucky, you get fired or something? I never see you before the wee hours.”

  “I wish. But, I have learned that if I’m really disagreeable they’ll send me home early.” I stepped into the elevator, which he held open for me.

  “Not you, Miss Lucky.” Forrest reached in and punched the button for my floor after I had swiped my magic card. “Mr. Teddie is home. Thought you might want to know.”

  The doors closed on his mile-wide smile. Why I felt like an inside joke, I didn’t know, but I wasn’t sure I liked it.

  The elevator deposited me in the middle of my great room. A vast open space with polished wood floors, whitewashed walls, splashes of furniture, and rugs in bright colors, my apartment was my sanctuary. Quiet, open, serene—the antithesis of the Babylon. A place where I could breathe. As I tossed my phone on the couch—I’d left my purse in my office—I felt my tension ease. Wandering into the kitchen, I reached into the fridge, grabbed a Diet Coke, and popped the top. As I guzzled the cool bubbles, I grabbed the cover on a cage in the corner and whisked it off.

  My multicolored macaw, Newton, eyed me through sleepy eyes, one leg tucked under him as he perched on his high bar. “Whassup, bitch?” The product of a hazy upbringing, his potty-mouth always made me smile.

  From a bowl on the sideboard, I chose a piece of browned apple and carefully stuck it through the bars of the bird’s cage. He’d been known to take a chunk out of my finger when I got sloppy. “Here you go, birdbrain.”

  The look he gave me made me wonder if birds understood the concept of disdain. They couldn’t, could they?

  With a quick strike, he grabbed the apple. “Asshole!” he sang out, then retreated to the other side of the perch to savor his prize.

  As I watched him gnaw, it dawned on me that ours was the only relationship I had that I understood. I fed him; he pretended to hate me—it worked for both of us. Why couldn’t all relationships be as simple? I drained the last of my Diet Coke, crushed the can, and tossed it into the garbage can in the corner. And, while I was dreaming, why couldn’t every day be Christmas?

  Time to get comfortable and then go find a hug.

  * * *

  Teddie, in his infinite wisdom, had contracted for a back staircase connecting our two apartments. Actually, he had done it before I could think it through, but since we’d started as best friends, I don’t think “thought” would’ve changed the outcome. Music wafted from his apartment as I hit the stairs, trudged up the thirteen steps—which I tried not to count—and stepped into his kitchen.

  A similar space and layout to mine, but with higher ceilings, Teddie’s apartment reflected his own eclectic style. Comfortable furniture clustered on small rugs. Sketches of various musicians—some famous, some not so much—dotted the walls, all of them done in Teddie’s hand: one of his many talents. Various instruments on stands sprouted from the floor like small brass bushes, surrounding the centerpiece—a gleaming white baby grand under a spotlight.

  Teddie, sitting at the keys, looked up when I leaned on the piano. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “You were lost.” I handed him a glass of Bordeaux I had poured on my way through his kitchen. The second glass I kept for myself. “What’s that you’re working on?”

  “This.” He played me a riff. “What do you think?”

  “Sounds like the start of something good.” We clinked glasses in a silent toast.

  Teddie looked delicious. Short, spiky blond hair, huge blue eyes fringed by lashes Cover Girl woul
d kill for, high cheekbones, and full lips. He could look sexy as hell dressed in Chanel. Tonight, in his Harvard sweatshirt with the collar cut out—a remnant from his mba days—and his threadbare jeans, he inspired thoughts that, well, didn’t require clothing... which was a real testament to his appeal, given my near-dead state.

  Pushing back from the piano, he rose and came around to greet me properly. The kiss flowed through me like a sweet rush of warm, molten chocolate, gooey and good. I let my hands explore the broad expanse of his chest, then drift lower, savoring.

  He moaned against my lips, then pulled away. Grabbing my hand, he tugged me over to the couch, where I curled into him, my head on his shoulder.

  “How is the music coming?” I was afraid to look at him. I knew I’d see his excitement. Right now I didn’t want to think about his music—his mistress, the one huge hurdle for us to overcome. Personally, I’d liked it better when he’d been Vegas’s foremost female impersonator, and I’d come home to see him prancing around channeling Cher in silver lamé and stilettos. Of course, he’d been brilliant at that as well. He could wear Oscar de la Renta like nobody else—something that used to worry Mona and turn me green with envy.

  “Dig Me O’Dell has been on my ass. As has your Miss One Note Wiley.” He took a sip of wine as he tangled the fingers of his other hand in my hair, which made it hard to concentrate. “They want ten original tracks by yesterday.”

  Dig Me O’Dell was a record producer of some serious fame. He’d contracted with Teddie, launching my love’s dream. One Note Wiley was Teddie’s agent. I’d made the original introductions—something I now felt pretty conflicted about. Launch a dream; torpedo a future. Teddie didn’t seem concerned. Which was fine—I had enough paranoia for both of us.

  “How many tracks do you have so far?” My hand shook a bit as I lifted my glass to my lips.

  “Seven. Three good ones, two mediocre, and two totally blow.”

  “How can blow be the opposite of suck but mean the same thing?” I asked, clearly avoiding something: Teddie, myself, the topic at hand, the one we never spoke about, all of the above.

  “You think about the weirdest stuff,” Teddie said, with a laugh. “The music will come, it always does.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “When you bolted from the bar, where did you go? Was it something serious?”

  “Serious enough, but I smoothed it over.”

  “You’re good at that.”

  “One of my many talents.” I uncurled myself, then stood. “Would you like me to show you some of my other skills?”

  He grinned up at me. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  Caffeine was the only antidote to morning—okay, early afternoon—the cruelest part of the day. What could be camouflaged under the cover of darkness now lay bare, exposed in the bright birth of a new day. As a creature of the night, I was not at my best before nightfall, and especially if not fully caffeinated.

  Pulling the pillow off my head, Teddie waved a steaming mug at me. “Vanilla nut, your favorite. With enough milk to take the bitter out.”

  I rolled over and groaned. My place or his? I couldn’t remember. Not a good sign. I pushed myself up then plumped the pillows behind me. My place. I didn’t even remember how I had gotten here, but I’d never admit it. Talk about sleepwalking. I smiled at him and cupped my hands around the mug, absorbing the warmth and inhaling the aroma. After a test sip, I took a long pull and sighed. “You are a prince among men.”

  “I have you fooled.” I don’t think he meant it like I heard it. One thing for sure, if he kept standing there looking all tousled and sleepy-eyed I was going to be seriously late for work.

  I reached up and tugged on the elastic band of his pants—a pair of tattered warm-ups that were the only things standing between him and indecency.

  “Ah, what a difference a good night’s sleep makes.” He took my coffee mug and set it on the nightstand. Then he slid out of his pants—clearly my suggestion had raised... expectations. Lifting the edge of the duvet, he slid in beside me.

  “Hot coffee. Hot guy. Am I lucky, or what?”

  He nuzzled my neck as I circled him and spread my body the length of his. For a moment he arrested a hand against my stomach, spreading a warmth that exploded when he moved higher, cupping my breast and teasing my nipple with his thumb. When he covered my lips with his and plundered my mouth with his tongue, the world disappeared. Sensation alone remained.

  My hands roamed, retracing, memorizing anew every peak and valley. Closing my mind to my worry about our future, my confusion at how to still believe in forever love when surrounded by the carnage of so many relationships, I reveled in the here and the now.

  The future would take care of itself. Or not. And somehow, I’d survive.

  * * *

  Showered, dressed in blue linen Dana Buchman pants, a silver silk cami, a blue cashmere cardigan with silver threads running thorough it, and my very first pair of sensible blue Ferragamos, which had been rebuilt at least five times, I was not only sated and caffeinated, but feeling pretty self-satisfied. A lingering kiss from Teddie had launched me out the door and into a delicious early fall day. Walking had seemed like a good idea—the stroll from the Presidio to the Babylon took twenty minutes, if I dawdled, and today was a dawdling kind of day.

  With so much to do, there was rarely any time to think, to reach for elusive perspective. So I enjoyed the quiet time alone with myself. Life. Love. No easy answers. But, if it were easy, then everyone would do it, right? Of course, everyone did do it. So was it just me who made it harder than it should be?

  Lost in thought, I hiked up the long curving driveway to the Babylon. Bordered by palm trees tall enough to turn Donald Trump green with envy, it reminded me of a tropical Appian Way—but without the burial monuments alongside or the catacombs underneath, which I thought was a good thing.

  Paolo was just pressing his hat on his head as he burst through the doors and made a turn toward the limo park. Spying me, his face creased into a lower-wattage smile—apparently he remembered our last conversation—as he altered course and headed toward me. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Toole. I see, we are both starting the day late.”

  “I prefer to think of it as getting a jump start on our evening.” I thought about adding that I also believed that love came to those who waited, but I was losing a bit of strength in that conviction. Besides, clichés were more my thing—I’d leave non-sequiturs to someone else.

  Paolo stopped in front of me, bowing slightly from the waist. “I was just coming to get you.” He turned toward his car, then stopped mid-stride. Turning to me again, he asked, “Did your office reach you?”

  “No. I accidentally left my phone at home. Why?”

  “We have a bit of a problem that will take your special skills.” He moved to the rear of the limo, opened the door, and motioned me inside. “Let me fill you in on the way.”

  “Anything to keep me out of the office.” I dove through the opening and settled into the deep seat. I waited until we were out of the traffic on the Strip. When we were traveling sedately west on Tropicana, I moved over to the bench seat and leaned through the opening—déjà vu all over again, as Yogi Berra once said. “Want to tell me what’s so important?”

  “The bottom-feeders have staked out one of the contest couples. They got ‘em pinned down.”

  “A rescue mission from the paparazzi. You’ve could’ve done that with a security guy or two.”

  “No, ma’am. They got them trapped at Spanish Trail.” Paolo gave me a knowing look in the rearview, bursting my little bubble of joie de vivre.

  “Let me guess. Phil Stewart’s house?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The look on his face told me all I needed to know.

  Phil Stewart. Just the thought of him made my skin crawl. Phil was a swinger. And he loved to host spouse-swapping parties at his estate in Spanish Trail. I attended one once... as a spectator. Before you
take that the wrong way, Teddie and Dane had conspired with Detective Romeo to catch a killer at one of Phil’s little soirées. One had been more than enough.

  Spanish Trail was the first gated community in Las Vegas. Built almost thirty years ago, it was so far west of the Strip, on a two-lane dirt portion of Tropicana Avenue, that most thought it should have been called East Los Angeles. The power-trust running Las Vegas had deemed the developers fools. Now that section of Trop was a six-lane speed trap, and Spanish Trail was in the middle of suburbia and one of the most sought-after developments of its kind in the Valley. The developers had laughed all the way to the bank, and were probably living on their own islands in the South Pacific or the Med. None of that mattered right now, of course. But the fact that Spanish Trail was not only gated, but also had gated communities inside the gated community, mattered a lot. Phil Stewart’s house sat on a primo lot behind two gates.

  Paolo rolled down his window as we turned into the east gate and eased up to the guard shack. A bored adolescent in a yellow shirt black pants with a gun holstered on his hip gave us the once-over. “Help you?”

  Why, with each passing day, did everyone look younger and younger? I stuck my head out the back window and introduced myself. “I hear you got a bit of a problem in the Estates?”

  “Shutterbugs all anglin’ for a People magazine paycheck.”

  “I’m here to take the persons of interest off your hands.”

  His eyes widened. “Hope your life insurance is up to date.” He punched a button and the gates slowly inched open. “You got the code to the second set?”

  Paolo flashed a piece of paper and nodded as the guard waved us through.

  “We need a plan,” I said, trotting out my flair for the obvious. I watched Paolo maneuver the big car past the golf course on our right and the clubhouse on our left. I thought for a moment, but inspiration refused to strike. “We couldn’t do something so simple and bold as to pull up to the front of the house and grab them, could we? Who are we grabbing anyway?”