“I swear,” Cassie said one night, “more guys think they can cop a feel now that I’m serving drinks than when I was wiggling my ass behind that bar.”
Cassie sounded annoyed more than anything else but Dawn felt a chill dance down her spine. Nobody had touched her since she’d left Harman. Nobody ever would. Even remembering how he’d slobbered on top of her made her feel sick.
“I never thought about that,” she said carefully. “Is it a problem? Men, you know, trying to touch you when you work in the casino?”
“Is it a problem?” Cassie repeated, rolling her eyes. “Is the sun going to shine tomorrow? Yeah, it’s a problem. Well, I mean, men are men, right? They see a good-looking woman, they figure, hey, why not? It was bad enough when I was dancing—you wouldn’t believe how many idiots think a woman who strips down to a G-string in front of maybe a thousand people a week is actually trying to personally turn them on—but now that I sashay around the casino floor with a tray in my hand, dressed in a little black skirt and fishnet stockings…” She gave a noisy sigh. “Like I said, men are men.”
“Oh.” Dawn hesitated. “But when I’m a dealer, I’ll be wearing pants and a jacket. You know, the standard uniform. So I won’t have to worry about—”
“Are you kidding?” Cassie grinned. “You’re good-looking. You’re breathing. You wear a giant paper bag, maybe they won’t come on to you. Look, don’t worry about it. You learn to deal with it.”
“How?”
Cassie’s smile faded. “Oh, honey, what is it? You’ve got a look in your eye that says some son of a bitch laid his hands on you wrong.”
Dawn put on what she thought of as her neutral face. Nobody was going to know anything about Harman. Not ever. That was something else she’d learned in the shelter, not from any of the counselors but from the other women. Don’t trust anybody, they’d told her, don’t tell them who you really are or where you really come from or why you left your man because even if they don’t mean to, they’ll whisper it to their closest friends and their closest friends will whisper it to their closest friends, and before long your secret is out and your man will find you, he’ll come for you, he’ll—
“No,” she’d said a little more earnestly than she’d intended. “No, it’s not that. I just—I never thought about having to deal with—with men as part of the job.”
“Dealing with men is always part of the job,” Cassie had replied, with a look that suggested Dawn had been born under a cabbage leaf. “Listen, guys are idiots. And some places I’ve worked, well, the management’s made up of idiots, too. But not here. You develop a line of patter, you know, stuff about having a boyfriend who’s six-foot-six, or a sick mother waiting at home, whatever works for you, and if you’ve still got a problem with some bozo, you tell Keir. Or security. Dan Coyle’s guys will handle it.”
Becky had offered similar advice when she’d started training in Special Services. And, sure enough, on her second day a VIP had asked, very politely, if she’d like to come up to his suite and join him for champagne and caviar. Dawn had thanked the man and demurred in such a way that he understood that drinking with guests—more to the point, sleeping with guests—wasn’t part of the plan. Not the hotel’s, and definitely not hers.
“Carter? Good morning.”
Dawn swiveled her chair around. Keir O’Connell was lounging in the doorway, arms folded, taking up most of the space, which was only reasonable when a man was that tall and that broad-shouldered.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Just fine.”
Keir grinned. “Liar.”
“No, no. It’s true. I’m fine. I’m…” Color flooded her face. “You didn’t ask me how I was feeling, did you?”
“Nope.”
“You only said good morning,”
“That’s what I said, all right.” He smiled. “So, you’re a nervous wreck, huh?”
“Me?”
“You, Carter. And don’t panic. I couldn’t tell by looking at you.”
“Why would you? I don’t feel—I don’t feel…” Dawn blew out a breath. “Okay. I’m nervous.”
“Yeah, I figured. You don’t need to be.”
“That’s probably what the executioner told Marie Antoinette.”
“He probably told her exactly what I’m going to tell you,” Keir said, laughing. “The crowd’s going to love you.”
“I hope.”
“I know. Trust me, Dawn. You wouldn’t have gotten this job if I didn’t think you could handle it. Oh, before I forget…my mother said to tell you to break a leg.” He smiled. “But not literally.”
“Oh, that’s nice of the Duch—of Mrs. O’Connell. Thank her for me.”
“Sure. She’ll probably stop by at some point, just to say hello and see how things are going.”
“She’s really better, then? Her heart—”
“Is healing just fine.”
Dawn smiled. “I’m glad to hear it.”
“Yeah.” Keir nodded. “Me, too.” He moved into the small office, peered at the open appointment book on the desk and raised an eyebrow. “Initiation by fire, I see. Prince Ahmat from Suli-Bahr,” he added, when she looked blank. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been filled with stories about the guy.”
“You mean that he generally brings all seven wives with him and that each wife must have different flowers in her rooms? That he only drinks Cristal champagne from a Baccarat flute? That two eggs, cooked for precisely three minutes, two slices of whole-wheat toast, unbuttered, and a pot of coffee—”
“Kona coffee,” Keir said, deadpan.
“—a pot of Kona coffee, must be delivered to his suite at 7:58, not 7:59 or, heaven forbid, eight on the nose?” Dawn batted her lashes. “No. Nobody’s told me a thing.”
Keir grinned as he started for the door. “Give me a call when he gets here. And stop worrying. I mean it. I don’t anticipate any problems but just in case you run into trouble—”
“Holler. I know.” Dawn touched the tip of her tongue to her bottom lip. “Keir? Thank you for giving me this job. I promise, I won’t let you down.”
“I’m sure you won’t but I didn’t `give’ you anything, Carter. You interviewed well, and your pit bosses wrote terrific recommendations—not that they didn’t all say they kind of hoped you’d change your mind and go back to dealing cards.”
“Tell them they’re sweet but I think I’m going to like it here.”
“If I tell those guys they’re sweet, I’ll never live to see tomorrow. Seriously, I hope you do like it here. I think it’s the right place for you.”
“Me, too. Oh, and Keir, would you do me a favor? Tell your mother I’m glad to see her getting back into the swing of things. I’d have told her myself the other day but she swept by the desk so quickly—”
“I’ll tell her. And just remember what I said. You’re going to do fine.”
Keir walked down the hall and through the door that opened onto the area behind Reception. The front desk supervisor was on the phone. She smiled and waved and he lifted a hand in salute as he stepped out from behind the counter and onto the deep blue carpet that covered the hotel’s vast lobby.
It was crowded, which was always good, but the lines at the reception desks were too long. He did a quick count and made a mental note to meet with his manager and discuss adding staff to the day shift. The Desert Song prided itself on treating all its guests with courtesy, not just the VIPS, and that included not keeping them waiting in line longer than three minutes. His father had instituted the policy and called it part of the hotel’s hospitality. His mother had added her own touch by occasionally strolling through reception and personally welcoming guests to the Song.
She was back to doing it, despite Keir’s concerns that she was pushing her recovery. The Duchess had been the family’s rock-hard core since his father’s death more than six years ago. Her heart attack had shocked the hell out of them all, his sisters and brothers, the staff, even guests who had been coming here for years
. After four months, the doctors said Mary Elizabeth O’Connell was doing just fine, that she’d be as good as new. Keir wanted to believe them. It was just that he couldn’t get past how she’d looked in the intensive care unit of the hospital that first week, her skin pasty, her breathing labored, her body hooked up to all those damned tubes and lines.
Keir knew his mother was getting old but somehow, he’d never imagined her dying.
But she’d come through it, fighting for life with the tenacity that was in the O’Connell blood. Now she was on a new regimen. Plenty of exercise. A diet purged of fat. No liquor. No smoking. No living, she said, and grumbled she’d been sentenced to purgatory. Lately she showed signs of chafing at the bit. She’d begun showing up on the casino floor and in the hotel lobby, chatting with the staff, charming the guests and greeting Keir’s suggestions that she take it easy with snorts of derision.
“Taking it easy is all I’ve been doing,” she’d told him. “Any more of it and I’ll turn into a vegetable.” She’d given him a wary look. “Or is this a polite way of telling me I’m stepping on your toes, now that you’re in charge?”
“You know better than that,” he’d said and meant it. “You’re the boss. You always will be.”
It was true. He’d been running the casino prior to her illness but the Duchess held overall command of the Desert Song. It was an arrangement that sometimes chafed. Keir had been on the verge of making plans to move on when she’d had the heart attack.
“You’ll take charge,” she’d whispered to him as she lay ill, “not just of the casino but of the whole place,” and he’d said yes, of course he would and he’d thought, just for a moment, about the dozen things he wanted to change but he’d done none of them. It was an old battle, Keir contending that innovation was the key to success and his mother contending that things that worked should not be changed. She was wrong. He knew it, but he’d never have done anything she wouldn’t like, not while she was ill.
Promoting Dawn to a highly responsible desk job was something the Duchess had not only approved but suggested one evening when they’d discussed the day’s business over drinks. Under the new rules, Keir had the drink and Mary Elizabeth had club soda—and unfailingly reminded him, each and every time, that she hated club soda.
A few weeks back, he’d tried a diversion and mentioned that one of the Special Services people was quitting. His mother had asked the reasons. She’d always taken a special interest in the staff that worked the hotel part of the Song, right down to the check-in clerks. They were, she said, the hotel’s first opportunity to impress its guests. Keir had grinned, assured his mother that the girl was leaving the Song because she was pregnant, not because she was unhappy with the hotel or the hotel with her.
“Good. And who are you replacing her with?”
“Well—”
“What about Dawn Carter?”
It had seemed a good suggestion. Dawn was hardworking. She learned fast. She had a pleasant way with people and she was easy on the eyes—not his type but a man would have to be blind, not to notice. Good looks were definitely a bonus when it came to dealing with pampered VIPs, and to hell with what the PC Police said. It was one thing to be politically correct and another to be stupid. Keir had never been stupid, which was why he also suspected there was more to his mother’s suggestion than the obvious. It struck him that the Duchess took an inordinate interest in the Carter girl.
“What about her?” he’d said lazily, and waited for a reaction. It had come, quick and hard.
“For goodness’ sakes, Keir, can’t you see that the girl is bright? She’s pretty and personable. All in all, perfect for the job.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? Maybe?” His mother had bristled. “Don’t be silly. She is and you know it. Why not talk with her and see if she wants the position?”
Keir had given Mary Elizabeth a brisk salute. “Your wish is my command, your ladyship.”
“Keir.” His mother had reached for his hand and clasped it in hers. “I don’t mean to tell you what to do.”
“Of course you do, Ma,” he’d said with a gentle smile. “But you’re right. The girl’s perfect for the job. I’ll talk to her this afternoon.”
Dawn had leaped at the opportunity though, just for a minute, when he’d said she’d be in a highly visible position, something had clouded her eyes.
“Is that a problem?” he’d asked carefully.
“No,” she’d said quickly, “not at all.” Then she’d smiled a little too brightly for comfort. “It’s just that I’m not used to being, well, visible. Nobody really notices me now. They’re all too busy watching the cards.”
“Are you concerned about clothes? I should have mentioned that the hotel provides a clothing allowance to Special Services employees.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” Still, she’d hesitated. “I’ll only deal with VIPs. I mean, that’s the policy, right?”
“Right,” he’d replied, while his brain clicked away at what he’d seen in her eyes again at that last question. She was afraid. He wasn’t a betting man—damn near growing up in a casino had taken care of any interest in gambling—but he’d have been willing to bet a bundle on that. She was afraid, but of what? Or was it, of whom?
Keir looked over at the elegant alcove where VIPs could use a special phone to ring for assistance. Dawn was standing at the French Provincial desk tucked into the alcove, her smile bright, her strawberry-blond hair swept back neatly from her face. She was talking to a man in flowing robes. Keir recognized him as Prince Ahmat’s personal secretary, meaning that the prince himself would be coming through the doors any minute accompanied by a small army of wives and servants. He made a mental note to check back in a couple of hours and see how things were going, but he got caught up in the usual problems that went with running a place the size of the Song and it was a little after noon before he made the circuit through the lobby again. The Special Services alcove was empty so he strolled into the behind-scenes office. Jean was at the desk, just hanging up the phone. She looked up, saw Keir and smiled.
“Hi, boss.”
“Jeannie. How’re things going?”
“Oh,” she said, sighing dramatically, “the usual.”
Keir grinned. “That bad, huh?”
“No, seriously, no problems so far.”
“Great. Dawn made it through the morning okay?”
“She did just fine. A little nervous, but fine. She checked the prince in, got all his wives settled, and I figured she ought to take her lunch break a little early, give herself a breather.”
“Good idea.”
“I told her to have lunch someplace other than the Song. Sort of escape the pressure cooker for a bit, you know?”
“Makes sense.” Keir rapped his knuckles lightly on the desk. “Okay, kid. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. Tell Dawn I’m glad her morning went well.”
Jean shot a look at her watch. “You can tell her yourself, if you want to come back in fifteen minutes or so.”
“I have a meeting. Besides, I just thought I’d see how she was doing. If you say she’s doing fine, that’s cool.”
Jean gave him a thumbs-up. “Cool is the word, boss. Definitely cool.”
* * *
Hot was the word. Definitely hot.
One oh six already, according to the disgustingly cheerful DJ who’d announced the temperature just before Dawn’s car and radio died without warning. She’d been in the right hand lane on Las Vegas Boulevard, waiting at a red light. When it turned green, she put her foot on the gas, the engine coughed convulsively, and that was that.
“No,” she’d said softly, “no, no, no…”
Yes, yes, yes. For the past five minutes, she’d tried every trick she knew to make the engine turn over but nothing worked. She was stuck with cars piling up behind her, horns blaring, drivers giving her the finger as they swerved around her.
Idiots!
Did anybody really think she’d stopp
ed here on purpose? That she’d been driving along and suddenly decided, hey, why not see what it’s like to block traffic? That she’d willingly sit inside a car with its windows sealed tight—and a curse on the head of the guy who’d invented power windows! Did those honking idiots think she was as crazy as they were? She wasn’t—but another few minutes inside this sauna on wheels and anything was possible.
Dawn thumbed a trickle of sweat from her forehead. She’d be a mess by the time she got back to the Desert Song, her suit creased, her makeup melted, her sprayed-into-submission hair an unruly tangle. That was assuming she managed to get back to the hotel in this lifetime, which was starting to seem unlikely.
And what would she do about her car? She couldn’t just leave it here. Well, she could, if she wanted some wandering car thief to get lucky, or if she was in the mood to let the city tow it away to never-neverland. Forget the thief. Nobody would be dumb enough to want to steal a wreck. The city, on the other hand, would be happy to take the car and demand hostage money she didn’t have.
“Dammit,” she said through her teeth, and slapped her hands against the steering wheel. Day One of her new job and she was totally, completely, irrevocably up the proverbial creek without a paddle. Even if she left the car here, the seven dollars in her wallet wasn’t about to pay for a cab ride back to the Song.
The sweat was pouring off her and if there was any breathable air left, she couldn’t find it. Okay. Dawn slipped off her jacket, folded it neatly and laid it on the back of the passenger seat, behind Space Cadet Teddy.
“I know it’s hot,” she said to the button-eyed bear. “But we’ll be at the hotel in no time.”
Teddy didn’t look as if he believed her. Smart bear, she thought, and she put on her sunglasses, undid her seat belt and stepped out into the oven that was Las Vegas in early June. A horn honked behind her as she slammed the door. She jumped, looked up in time to see the white-haired driver of a big Buick shake a fist as his car squeezed past hers.
“Thank you for your concern,” Dawn muttered, and popped the hood. Great. A tangle of wires, hoses, and strangely shaped hunks of metal. The only thing she recognized was the transparent container of blue windshield washer fluid. Cars were alien territory. Harman had a thing about women and automobiles. He’d only taught her to drive because he said it was beneath a man’s dignity to shop for the groceries. Still, people whose cars broke down always peered under the hood and Dawn thought—well, hoped—something obvious would pop out at her, some cable connection that all but shrieked Reattach me! when she saw it.
Raising the Stakes Page 8