Lucky Catch

by Deborah Coonts

  “Really? Well, they overstate, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  I stepped around my desk and headed toward the door. Grabbing Brandy by her elbow, I pushed her ahead of me into the outer office. “Change in plans,” I whispered so Mr. Livermore couldn’t eavesdrop. I handed her Mr. Livermore’s card, then gave her quick instructions and sent her on her way. Returning to my office and the insurance guy, I conjured a smile. “I’ve sent my assistant to try to find the Bouclets. Perhaps you’ll let us know where we can find you when we have things arranged?”

  Mr. Livermore settled back in his chair. “Oh, I’ll wait.”

  I stepped to the side and extended my arm. “Okay then, but I’d prefer you wait in our vestibule.”

  “Fine.” He seemed unconcerned as he moved by me into the outer office.

  As I grabbed my Birkin from Miss P.’s bottom desk drawer, I said in a conversational tone, “Why don’t you call the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock, ask him to get his butt over here . . . now.”

  Her eyes widened a tad, but she did as I asked. After a hushed conversation, she recradled the phone. “Five minutes.”

  Mr. Livermore stood with his back to us as he looked through the wall of glass to the lobby below—he didn’t seem to be paying us much attention.

  “Great. I’m just going to step down the hall to powder my nose. I’ll be right back, but have Jeremy wait for me, okay?”

  I didn’t say good-bye to Mr. Livermore. Of course, he thought I’d be right back.

  Jeremy was as good as his word—I’d only cooled my heels for a minute or two in the hallway when the elevator dinged and he pushed through the doors before they had fully opened—which was a feat as his shoulders were at least an ax handle wide. “Hey.” I caught him by the elbow before he’d gotten up a head of steam.

  He whirled around and took my breath. Several inches taller than my six feet, with golden hair matched by gold flecks in his brown eyes, and dimples to top it off, Jeremy was two hundred and twenty-five pounds of solid Aussie muscle—a total dream . . . and he belonged to Miss P. Fifteen years her junior, he was also the prefect example of cougar bait—a fact I used to get her goat on occasion. “She used our secret word. She’s okay, right?”

  Purposefully, I had chosen my position in the hallway to be able to see both office doors. No one had come or gone. “Would I be standing here if she weren’t?” He took a deep breath and the concern that had bunched his shoulders fled, allowing them to drop into a somewhat normal position.

  “Here’s the deal. There’s this guy in my office, he claims to be from our insurance company. A rather major truffle has gone missing.” I waved away the questions I saw clouding into Jeremy’s eyes. “Not important right now, but here’s what’s interesting. First, the guy said the legal department sent him to me, so I could find two employees he wants to question. That would never happen in a million years.”

  “The legal beagles don’t trust you to find a couple of blokes who work here?”

  I gave him a withering look. “They would never let anyone question any of our employees regarding a claim against this hotel without one of the legal staff present.”

  “Ah.” Jeremy piped down and let me continue.

  “Second, the guy said the legal department sent him to me to find Jean-Charles, but also Desiree.”

  “Desiree?”

  “Jean-Charles’s sister, just off the plane from France. Our lawyers wouldn’t have any idea who she was or why she would be here. So, those two anomalies raised my antennae. I’ve sent Brandy off to question the legal staff, and then to query our insurance provider regarding Mr. Livermore.”

  Jeremy looked pretty impressed. “And you want me to hang around and keep the staff safe, is that it?”

  “For now.” I put a hand on his arm and wiped the gloat off my face—it’s not often I can impress Vegas’s primo private investigator. “Be careful. I know this seems silly at the moment, but we’ve got two dead bodies already.”

  With that, he bolted down the hall and disappeared into my office.

  Ah, love . . .

  I paused for a fraction of a second, bound by the rope of a perfect memory . . . Teddie.

  If only.

  Chapter Twelve

  As requested, the Ferrari waited, engines warming, at the curb in front of the Babylon. After handing the valet who held the door a twenty, I folded myself into the car. When I was settled, he carefully eased the car door shut, not even trying to hide the drool in the corner of his mouth. Men and fast cars . . . If keeping them interested was only as simple as taking them for a ride.

  Before I had time to ease the car in gear, the passenger door flew open and a body fell into the seat. My heart rate spiked. Then my blood boiled.

  Teddie.

  “Get out,” I growled.

  Ignoring me, he pulled the door closed. His Old Spice washed over me, weakening my defenses. I was beginning to believe he knew the effect and wore the cologne on purpose. He looked at me and motioned forward. “Let’s go.”

  Today, he still sported his just-tight-enough 501s, but a collarless white cotton shirt replaced the Harvard sweatshirt. He’d knotted a sweater around his neck against the cold—on anyone else that would have looked a bit too GQ. Fresh-faced, clean-shaven, his hair gelled and spiked, he looked . . . wonderful. Damn him. “What are you waiting for?” He acted all innocent, which he was darn good at.

  “For you to get out of the car.”

  He eased his shoulders around—hard to do in the tight space. “Look, I get it. You don’t want to see me, talk to me, touch me, listen to me. So, how about you let me help you?”

  “With what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re in such a hurry for.”

  I cocked my head. “To find Jean-Charles.”

  “That’s cool.” He reached to put a hand on mine, but when I flinched, he pulled his hand back. “Look, truce, okay? Can we at least try to be friends?”

  “I told you when we opened this can of worms, we could never go back.”

  “I know you did. I didn’t believe you then, and I don’t believe you now. So, let’s give it a go, see who’s right. What do you say? I got a ten-spot says you’re wrong.” He looked at me with a penetrating, challenging, clear-blue gaze.

  I tickled the paddle shifter, putting the car in the appropriate gear; checked that my path to the Strip was clear; and hit the gas.

  Teddie didn’t say another word until we’d flown up the 15, taken the overpass to the 95 at speeds not normally seen on the highest ramp of the Spaghetti Bowl, then accelerated toward the exit to the Summerlin Parkway. To his credit, he didn’t hold on—of course, he was pretty familiar with my need for speed. “Where’s your buddy, Dane? I haven’t seen him around.”

  I let my breath out in a long exhale between my lips. “He went home for a bit.”

  “Really?” Teddie pursed his lips, presumably while he processed that. “I thought he was kind of sweet on you.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to tell him the whole sordid, sad story, so I concentrated on driving, which he should’ve been happy about. Speeds over a hundred mph deserved at least a modicum of focus.

  He let the Dane matter go. “I’ve been doing a bit of research on that chip.”

  “The RFID chip?” I tossed that between us with feigned confidence.

  He took the bait, snorting and shaking his head. “Staying ahead of you is going to take my A-game, and I’m a bit rusty.” Leaning his head back, with a smile curling his lips, he said softly, but loud enough to be heard over the steady thrum of the engine, “God, I’ve missed you.”

  I’d missed him, too—the easy camaraderie, the closeness, but I’d never tell him, not in a million years.

  I didn’t even want to admit it to myself.

  * * *

  The Grape Spot occupied the top rung of the local culinary ladder on Vegas’s northwest side. Great food, great atmosphere, special wine list, and cool vibe, what was not to like? And, this
time of year, the fire pit on the patio would be wonderfully warm and welcoming—the lanterns in the trees providing the perfect ambience. Of course, we were a bit early for the whole romantic ambience thing . . . thankfully. Lunch would be the next meal on the schedule—and the only thing that made lunch romantic was Champagne. I wasn’t going there today.

  Tucked into a nondescript office park on the north side of Charleston, The Spot, as the locals referred to it, was difficult to find, even for those of us in the know. I almost blew by the turn but spied the tiny sign tucked low next to the busy street. Cranking the wheel over hard, the Ferrari nimbly following, I just made it without leaving too much rubber on the road . . . or Teddie in my lap. He managed to grab the handhold at the last minute. Easing down the short street, then into the parking lot, I smiled at the disappointment on the valet’s face as I rumbled by and selected my own space far from the maddening crowd.

  As we walked up the steps toward the entrance, Teddie trailed a step or two behind. Before going through the doors, I looked to my left. The perfect patio was just as I remembered—an oasis sheltered from the sun in the lee of the building, beautifully designed with several subtle levels and nooks and crannies hidden by flowering shrubs. Individual tents shaded several larger tables, like private dining grottos worthy of the most exalted Sultan. Above it all, trees provided a cooling canopy and an inviting playground for a variety of birds.

  Woven in the branches, providing a warm ambience and subtle light when the glow of the sunset receded, were a series of lanterns, each hanging at a different height, and each unique in its design.

  All of them made from stained glass.

  A young woman stepped out to greet us. Impossibly thin and undeniably beautiful, she wore her long, black hair straight, her dress tight, her eyes blue, and her lips pink. “May I help you?”

  “Is Max here?”

  Her eyebrows lowered, but her frown didn’t even crinkle her flawless skin. “I’m sorry?”

  “Max Danzer, your executive chef.”

  Her yes widened with understanding. “Of course. I’ll check. And you’re Ms. O’Toole from the Babylon, right?”

  I nodded. “We’ll be waiting right over there.” I pointed to a cozy two-top with a white tablecloth and a candle that had yet to be lighted. “Could you send a waiter over?”

  She disappeared and I turned to Teddie. “I’m feeling the need for a Viognier. Wine, the new breakfast beverage.” My empty stomach growled in protest, but I ignored it.

  “Works for me.” He held the chair for me. “However, I’m feeling the need for something with a bit more kick than that.”

  My favorite server, Marcello, with his ready grin and dancing eyes, greeted us. After we gave him our order and he rushed off to do our bidding, I settled back, lifting my face to the sun’s caress. I jumped a little when Teddie’s hand closed over mine as it rested on the table between us. The effect he had on me was undeniable, and something I was going to have to learn to deal with . . . or reconcile myself to.

  “Remember when we used to come here? The fire pit in the winter, a blanket covering us, my arms around you?”

  I didn’t want to remember, or at least I didn’t want him to know how often my thoughts drifted back, or what they did to me. “Of course I do.” Like I said, I’m not a game player.

  “Yeah, me, too.” His voice sounded wistful and sad, which matched my sentiments exactly. The mad was gone.

  I sneaked one eye open a crack. Teddie also lifted his face to the sun, eyes closed, drinking it in. Absorbing, embracing the pain, I let my eyes traverse his face. For a brief moment in time, I’d had it all . . . then it was gone . . . he was gone.

  Now, he was back. I looked at our hands overlapping—our hearts had been like that. Could we go back? Was it possible to regain trust? To recapture the joy? Yes, it would be different, but could it be as good? Or better? Could we be friends? That was the part I missed the most.

  I snapped my eyes shut, closing out the glimmer of hope.

  Right now, I had simpler problems, like a double homicide and a missing lover.

  I heard a chair scrape back and pulled my hand from under Teddie’s. Opening my eyes, I caught Chef Danzer glancing at me with a concerned but semi-bemused expression. “Hey, Max.” I gestured toward Teddie. “This is Ted Kowalski.”

  He shook Teddie’s outstretched hand and gave him a nod, then his eyes flicked to mine. “I sure hope you’re looking to hit me up for a job. I could use someone with your skills to work on some PR and branding stuff for me right now. The restaurants are on the uptick, and I’d like to keep that momentum going,” he said to me.

  “How’s the new location?” The Spot had just opened a hip little place at the Fashion Show Mall. I think they called it the Spot on the Strip. With windows overlooking the Strip, it was a regenerative respite to ease the pain of power retail therapy. But it was also hard to lure the locals to the chaos of that stretch of road that defined the city.

  “Catching on, and with this thing Jean-Charles is planning, well, it’s got me enthused.”

  Without a word, Marcello set a glass of wine in front of me, a shot of Patrón in front of Teddie, and a bottle of Pellegrino with a glass and a plate of lime wedges in front of his boss, then backed away.

  “What thing?” I scooted my chair closer to the table.

  Max leaned back, his hands in front of him, palm-down on the table. “We were working on a promotional thing. Some off-menu items that those in the know could ask for by name. Sort of a hidden menu tour.”

  “Like a foodie treasure hunt?”

  “Exactly.” He gave a rueful laugh. “You know how Vegas folks are—they’re so used to the lure of the new on the Strip, that us local guys have to work to keep their attention.”

  “You’re an institution around here. Heck, the happy hours here are legendary.”

  He smiled. “Gotta innovate to stay ahead.”

  “The treasure hunt for only those who know is a great idea.” I glanced at Teddie, who was trying to be patient, let this play out. Turning back to Max, I continued my casual questioning. “And your menu items, did Jean-Charles ask for anything specific?”

  Max shrugged. “The choice of dish was mine, but he asked that we order our ingredients through his sister, which was fine. I used her for the high-end stuff, anyway. She’s the best in the business.”

  I leaned back. It was a brilliant idea, actually. “How many restaurants were involved?”

  “I’m not really sure.” Max poured himself a dose of Pellegrino, then squeezed a lime, dropping the wedge into the glass. “A few names had been bandied about, but it was Jean’s project. I trusted his taste—we have the same objective.”

  “And that would be?” I sipped the Viognier—it didn’t disappoint. The Grape Spot had an amazing wine list—great quality, yet good value.

  “Raise awareness of the fine dining options off the Strip.” Max took a sip of his Pellegrino, then added a few drops more of lime juice—chefs and their penchant for perfection.

  “Have you received any orders from Desiree Bouclet recently?”

  Max nodded. “Just this morning.”

  “They wouldn’t happen to have had a tracking chip in them, would they?”

  “Curious you should ask.” The chef’s eyes fixed on mine. “They did, actually. Why?”

  I brushed his question aside. “Could I have the tracking thing?”

  Max pushed himself to his feet. “Hang on just a sec, I think there were two shipments, each with its own chip. I’m sure we haven’t thrown them away yet.”

  Teddie and I sat lost in our own thoughts and the beautiful day. A slight breeze tickled the leaves, making them dance. Pretty soon, they’d succumb to winter and would fall, but they would bloom anew in short order—that was one of the great things about Vegas: winter passed in a blink.

  Max returned quickly. He extended his hand. “Here.”

  In his palm were two rectangular plastic tags.
>
  With an index finger I poked at them, then picked one up and looked at it from both sides. “RFID?”

  He didn’t appear surprised that I could trot out that nomenclature. “You’d be surprised what kind of info can be saved on those little things. Way beyond my level of comprehension, but they work. Jean-Charles was telling me about a new technology he was working with that makes these things economical even for us little guys. They can even get power from the reading wave and then transmit info from another sensor such as a thermometer. Pretty amazing stuff, really.”

  I felt a grin lift the corner of my mouth. “May I keep these?”

  The chef shrugged. “Sure. I didn’t read the things—I have no need for any data on them—the shipments weren’t particularly expensive or temperature sensitive. I just did it for Jean.”

  I took a last sip of wine, leaving half of it. Somehow, that made me feel a little less . . . alcoholic. “Oh, one more thing. Were your shipments okay? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

  His brows crinkled as he once again fixed me with a stare. “They were short. I figured stuff was on backorder, although the invoice was for the complete shipment.” He narrowed his eyes and hit me with a pointed look. “What is all this about?”

  I feigned a cavalier attitude. “I have no idea. Teddie and I were out here on another mission, and Jean-Charles asked us to stop by to pick these up.” The lie slipped so easily off my tongue.

  I seemed to be picking up all sorts of bad habits.

  * * *

  With the tags burning a hole in my pocket and Teddie’s presence scratching the scab off the hole in my heart, I drove more sedately on the way back to the hotel. Even though the temps were a bit chilly, I put the top down on the Ferrari, discouraging conversation. Fragments of thoughts flew across my synapses with dizzying speed facilitated by fatigue and fueled by worry. The liquid diet wasn’t making matters any better.

  Solid food was next on my list. Right after getting rid of Teddie.

  Teddie stared straight ahead, one hand holding tight to the armrest, his face pinched in thought. I’d ask him what he was thinking, but men hated that question . . . or so I’d been told, more than once. Besides, I’d lost faith in his veracity of late, so even if I asked, I wouldn’t learn anything I didn’t already know. Asking would just make me seem interested, which was a weakness Teddie would exploit.