My Ex-Boyfriend's Wedding

by T. Sue VerSteeg

  "When did you get in?" Britton asked, twirling her hair with one hand, holding a martini with the other.

  "Just a couple of hours ago," I answered, craning around her to see where she'd gotten the drink from. I could definitely use one.

  "Well, we'll totally have to catch up. Lunch tomorrow?"

  I shifted my feet. "Actually, I'm not staying."

  "What do you mean you're not staying?"

  "I...have to get back to work." Which was true. While the owner of Mission Arts had told me to take as much time as I needed, we had a show this weekend. I was already starting to get antsy about leaving my artists in someone else's hands.

  "Oh. Right. Work," Britton said, wrinkling her nose up at the four letter word.

  She sipped at her drink, letting her eyes wander around the room, an uncomfortable silence falling between us. I'd only met Britton a couple of times. In fact, since leaving for college, I'd only been to Tahoe a couple of times. Work, life, and schedules had gotten in the way. Two-and-a-half years, I decided as I stood there, coveting Britton's drink. That's how long it had been since I'd stepped foot in the penthouse. Not that anything had changed. The walls were still covered in the same flocked, fleur-de-lis wallpaper and spotted with museum-quality paintings. Imported Persian rugs covered polished hardwood, the chandeliers dripping from the ceiling with crystals from the Liberace collection. The penthouse was exactly the same, the casino exactly the same. Even Britton was the same. With possibly the exception of her lips, which seemed a little fuller.

  "I had them done."

  "What?" I asked, blinking at her.

  "My lips. I saw you staring at them. I had them done. Restylane."

  "Oh, I, uh…"

  "It's awesome. Lasts for like six months without a follow up. You should totally try it."

  I wasn't sure if I'd just been insulted or if this was Britton's brand of small talk.

  But before I had a chance to respond she completely changed gears. "God, it's not going to be the same without him around here," she said, taking a generous gulp of her martini.

  "He was a presence, wasn't he?" I agreed.

  Britton sniffed loudly. "It was just so sudden, you know?" she said, cocking her head at me. "One minute totally lively, the next, like, gone."

  I felt that odd lump in the back of my throat again and squashed it down. "Was he sick?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No. I mean he was, like, totally healthy. Energetic, strong, virile as hell…"

  "Okay, that's enough." The last thing I wanted to hear about was my dead father's virility.

  Britton teared up. "I'm just gonna miss him so much, Tessie."

  And then she hugged me. Not a dainty air-kiss thing, but a full-bodied hug that threatened to spill vodka down the back of my little black dress.

  I awkwardly put my arms around her shoulders, patting her back. I glanced around the room, trying to catch someone's eye for help.

  Unfortunately, the eye I caught was dark, beady, and belonged to someone I recognized only too well. Buddy Weston, owner of the Deep Blue casino across the street. He was short, stocky, and wore a gaudy, teal silk shirt and matching tie beneath his blazer, both of which shimmered under the chandelier's lighting.

  "Ladies," he said, approaching us.

  At the sound of his voice, Britton detached herself and turned around to face him. Immediately her eyes went from tearful to suspicious, narrowing beneath her false lashes as her jaw tensed. "What the hell are you doing here, Weston?"

  He raised an eyebrow at her, one big, bushy thing. "I came to pay my respects. Dick and I had our business differences, but we were peers of a sort."

  "Ha!" Britton blasted out. Loudly enough that I wondered just how many martinis she'd had since returning from the cemetery. "You tried to shut Dick down every chance you got."

  "Business. Nothing personal."

  "Easy to say now that he's gone," she shot back.

  Weston smiled tightly, a benign thing that didn't quite reach his beady eyes. "I guess we're all in a better financial place now that he is, aren't we, Britton?"

  Her eyes narrowed so far they were just tiny slits, her brows pulling down into angry slashes. "Exactly what are you implying, Weston?"

  "Nothing. Nothing at all." Buddy cut his eyes to a painting on the wall. "Is that a Vermeer? Lovely. Priceless. Yours now, no?"

  "Get out!" Britton shouted. Causing several heads to turn our way. "Get the hell out of our casino, and don't you dare come back."

  Weston smiled his tight smile at Britton again, any emotion behind it completely unreadable. Then he turned to me, nodded, and made his way toward the exit.

  Britton waited until the heavy double doors closed behind him before letting out a long sigh, declaring to the room in general, "God, I need another drink," and heading off toward the bar I'd yet to find.

  "Hurricane Britton strikes again," a gravelly voice at my elbow observed. Alfie.

  "In her defense, he's a jerk," I pointed out.

  Alfie nodded. "That he is," he agreed. Then he turned to face me. "It's nice to see you, Tessie. I wish it were under better circumstances."

  "Thank you," I answered, knowing that was as close to emotion as Alfie was likely to display.

  "How long are you in town for?" he asked.

  "Leaving tonight," I said, making the decision on the spot. I'd had enough of the Royal Palace.

  Alfie frowned. "I had hoped you'd stay for a few days. I have an appointment set up for you with your father's attorney tomorrow."

  "His attorney?" I asked. "Why?"

  "To go over the terms of your father's will."

  I bit my lip. While my father lived large, I had no idea what his actual net worth was. I guess I'd always figured most of what was in his penthouse belonged to the casino. He lived on site, drove company cars. It was a lifestyle, but I didn't know how much of it he actually owned. I couldn't keep my eyes from straying to the Vermeer hanging on the wall.

  "I don't want anything," I heard myself say, almost meaning it. The painting was amazing, and I would have loved to give it a good home.

  "It's not that simple," Alfie responded. Though something in the tightness of his voice made me think he wished it was.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean the pronoun Britton used just now to describe the casino wasn't entirely accurate." He paused. "When she told Weston to get out of our casino. It isn't ours or even hers."

  He paused again, and I felt an odd ball of anxiety instantly grow in my gut, the words ringing in my ears even as he said them.

  "It's yours. The casino now belongs to you, Tessie."

  CHAPTER TWO

  "What do you mean it's mine?" I asked, feeling a frown burrow between my brows as I studied the man across the table from me the next day.

  After Alfie's bombshell last night, I'd asked the exact same question of him. But all he'd tell me is that my father's attorney would discuss everything with me in the morning. I gave up, found the bar, ordered a very stiff drink, then reluctantly trudged downstairs to ask the clerk on duty at check-in for a room for the night. But apparently Alfie had already arranged that, too, and a suite was waiting for me. I'd tossed and turned all night in the thousand-thread-count sheets, wondering exactly what kind of mess my father was dragging me back into here.

  And this morning I was finding out, as I faced my father's attorney, Stintner, and Alfie across a huge glass table in my father's conference room, papers filled with legalese littering the surface.

  "You are your father's only child," Stintner explained to me.

  "Yes. I'm aware."

  "As such, the casino is yours."

  I shook my head. "Doesn't the casino belong to shareholders or a parent company or something? It's not like grandma's silver that can just be handed to me."

  "Of course." Stintner nodded. He had white hair, a slim frame, and a large nose and pair of Dumbo ears that seemed two sizes too big for his petite frame. "A shareholder conglo
merate technically owns the Royal Palace. However, Mr. King was one of the largest shareholders and chairman of the board of directors that ran the casino. He named you as his successor."

  "Successor?" I repeated, feeling that frown burrow deeper. "That can't be. Look, I run a gallery. Art, that's what I know."

  "Your father seemed to think otherwise," Stintner told me. "Believe me, he had several candidates to choose from, but he was adamant about naming you."

  I bit my lip, an odd mix of emotions rolling in my belly. The fact that my father had such faith in my abilities filled me with a warm sort of pride. At the same time, I knew that faith was totally misplaced. Sure, I'd been able to deal five-card draw, seven-stud, Texas hold'em, and high/low Chicago style poker all before I was old enough to drive. But that had been a long time ago. I hadn't even picked up a deck of cards in ages. And knowing how to play cards was a far cry from running a multi-million dollar a year resort.

  I'd grown up living in Berkeley, the child of a single, working mother. While we'd always had enough to eat and a decent roof over our heads, my summers at the casino had been my only glimpse into the lifestyles of the rich and spendthrift. I wasn't too proud to admit that overseeing an organization of this size, dealing in the sort of numbers they did on a daily basis, was way over my head.

  "Look," Stintner said, sensing my clear hesitation, "the fact is, like it or not, you are the chairman for the time being."

  "For the time being," I said, jumping on the words.

  The lawyer shot Alfie a look. "The board will obviously want to convene to discuss the future of the casino. At that time, if you so desire, you can withdraw as chairman and let the board appoint someone else."

  Withdrawing sounded good. In fact, withdrawing now rather than waiting sounded even better.

  "How about if I just resign now?" I asked. "How about I just go home and let you guys run the place until the board convenes, huh?"

  Alfie's eyes narrowed. Stintner cleared his throat loudly.

  "I'm afraid that's not a very good idea," he said. "Casino shares are likely to plummet when shareholders get wind of the fact we have no official chairman at the helm. Investors are nervous enough as it is, what with your father…" he trailed off.

  "Dying," I supplied for him. "It's okay, I'm aware he's dead."

  He cleared his throat loudly. "Yes, well. So are they. And they're not happy. The casino is in a very precarious situation right now."

  My head was spinning trying to process all of this. "So, let me get this straight. If I wait until the board convenes and appoints a new chairman, the investors keep their cool, and everyone is happy. But if I go home now, the casino risks going under?"

  Stintner nodded, his hair bobbing up and down. "Correct."

  I took a deep breath, closing my eyes as I imagined my father making these arrangements with Stintner in the first place. My mother never made a secret of the fact she hated the casino business and the shady lifestyle that went along with it. As a kid, I'd thought it was kind of cool. No bedtimes, no boring homework, and lots of flash. As an adult, the novelty had worn off quickly, the flash on the outside revealing very little of substance on the inside. I'd immersed myself in the art scene instead, creating my own niche in the world that now had very little to do with neon lights and all-you-can-eat buffets.

  Until now.

  "When can the board convene?" I asked.

  "Ten days," Stintner answered.

  Ten days. That was the longest I'd spent at the Royal Palace since high school. I cringed, thinking of the mess I'd be going back to in my own life after ten days away. I'd miss the show. My artists would think I'd abandoned them. Plus, there was my cat. I had a sad vision of him using every piece of furniture I owned as a scratching post in protest of being alone for ten whole days.

  But it was either abandon them, or my father's casino, his vision, his baby, and the hundreds of people who relied on it for their families.

  "Fine," I said on a deep exhale. "Ten days. But that's it. I'm out as soon as the board meets."

  Stintner visibly relaxed, the tension draining from his shoulders. Alfie was still expressionless.

  "So, what do I have to do?" I asked them.

  "Nothing," Alfie quickly cut in. "I'll run the day-to-day. You're just a figurehead. Like the queen. Just sit there and look official." He stood up, buttoning the top button on his blazer as he continued. "The board will convene on the ninth. Just try to stay out of trouble until then."

  I couldn't help my eyes rolling back in my head. Seriously, it wasn't like I was that fifteen year-old trying to sneak up to the slots anymore.

  But before I could clue Alfie in, he turned on his wingtips and marched out of the conference room, heading toward the elevators.

  Fine. I could do figurehead. Just ten days, then I could go back to my real life and leave the Royal Palace in the world of memories where it belonged. Alfie's delivery might have been abrasive, but I planned to do exactly as he suggested. Stay out of trouble and ride out the ten days until I could go home.

  To that aim, I knew the perfect place to start—the casino's spa.

  * * *

  I rode the elevators back down to my room and dialed down to the Princess Day Spa. I'd just gotten off the phone, confirming that they had an opening for a massage and pedi that afternoon, when a knock sounded at my door.

  I peeked through the peephole, not able to disguise the groan that slipped from my lips when I saw Britton's bleached-blonde self staring back at me.

  I briefly thought about not answering, but even as I entertained that thought, my cell buzzed to life on the nightstand, Britton's name coming up on the caller ID. I could run, but chances were I couldn't hide from her for ten whole days.

  Reluctantly, I opened the door to find her tapping one designer heel against the carpet, pink cell in hand.

  "Oh. Hey, I was just calling you. I thought maybe you were out."

  "Nope," I answered. "Right here. What can I do for you, Britton?"

  Which she took as an invitation to come in, flopping herself down on my double bed. "I need your help," she sighed. "We have an issue with one of the VIP guests."

  I frowned. "My help?"

  "Yeah. Ellie said you're in charge now?"

  "Who's Ellie?"

  "Penthouse housekeeping. She heard it from Buckie, the valet, who heard it from Tate at the front desk, who overheard Alfie telling Dave in security to keep an eye on you in the surveillance booth."

  Mental face palm. I looked up at the ceiling, half expecting Alfie to have wired my room with cameras, too.

  "So, it's true, right?" Britton pressed. "Ellie almost never gets a rumor wrong. Dickie left you in charge?"

  I paused before answering, suddenly wondering what my father had left Britton in his will. The lifestyle she'd enjoyed had come with the position of chairman's wife. Once the board appointed a new one, would Britton be ousted?

  Suddenly I sort of felt sorry for Britton. But if she was worried, it didn't show in her heavily-lined eyes, wide in anticipation of my answer.

  "Sort of," I mumbled. "Only technically."

  But that was good enough for Britton. "Fab. So, here are the deets: one of the guests just called to the front desk saying stuff was missing from his room. You need to go check it out."

  "Isn't this the kind of thing we have security for?" I protested.

  Britton nodded. "Yes, but the guests like a personal touch. Dickie always did that stuff himself. He said it smoothed feathers and loosened wallets faster."

  I'll bet.

  I glanced at the clock. I had two hours before my scheduled massage. "Okay, fine. I guess I could go try to smooth some feathers."

  "Cool! Let's go," Britton said, popping up off my bed.

  "Did you always come with my dad?" I asked as she led the way down the corridor to the bank of elevators.

  Britton shook her head. "No, but I figure you're a rookie. You might need some back-up."

  I looked
down at her outfit. Britton was dressed in gold stilettos, a pink mini dress, and about a dozen silver bangles. If this was my back-up, God help me.

  One elevator ride later we were on the tenth floor of the east turret tower. This was the wing where the hotel's whales, their high rollers, stayed. The hope was the luxury accommodations would keep them on the gambling floor and not out on the ski slopes. Usually it worked, too.

  Outside the door to room 1012 a guy in a black "security" jacket stood guard.

  "Hey, Johnny," Britton said, waving at him.

  He nodded. "Mrs. King." He looked at me and did a duplicate of the nod. "Ms. King."

  I'd never met the guy before, so I could only deduce that Johnny was on the same rumor circuit as the penthouse housekeeping staff.

  Either that or he'd already been watching me on Alfie's monitors.

  "Mr. Carvell inside?" Britton asked the guy.

  He nodded again. "Oh yeah. Not too happy, either."

  "No worries. That's why Tessie's here," Britton said, giving me a huge smile.

  I bit my lip. She had a whole lot more faith in my ability to smooth feathers than I did.

  Johnny opened the door to the suite for us, and Britton and I walked inside.

  The room took up roughly the space of four normal guest rooms, a sunken living room in the center, a kitchenette and wet bar to the right, and a doorway leading to a bed and bath on the left. The floors were hardwood covered in soft rugs, the furnishings modern and sleek, and the windows covering the back wall displayed a view of the snow-covered Sierras that rivaled any artwork the hotel's designer could have hung.

  Along the wall near the wet bar sat a large, mahogany armoire. Alfie, another guy in a black security jacket, and a man with thinning hair and acne scars wearing an expensively tailored suit stood next to the open cabinet.

  Alfie looked up when we entered, his eye twitching ever so slightly at the sight of me. I squelched the urge to tell him the feeling was mutual.

  "Mr. Carvell, I am so sorry this happened," Britton gushed, surging forward with her signature air kisses. "But rest assured we will get to the bottom of it. This," she said, beaming, "is Dick's daughter, Tessie. She's running the casino now."