Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries)
Read Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries) Online
Authors: Gemma Halliday,T.Sue VerSteeg
What the critics are saying about
Gemma Halliday's
books
:
"A saucy combination of romance and suspense that is simply irresistible."
- Chicago Tribune
"Stylish... nonstop action...guaranteed to keep chick lit and mystery fans happy!"
- Publishers' Weekly, starred review
"Maddie Springer is like the west coast version of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie plum - only more stylish!"
- LG Book Club
What the readers are saying about
Gemma Halliday's
books
:
"Do you like Janet Evanovich, James Patterson, Sue Grafton, J.D. Robb, or Stephanie Bond? Then you'll LOVE Gemma Halliday's High Heels series!"
- Nikki
"One part Fashion Police's Joan Rivers, one part Janet Evanovich's Stephanie Plum, and one part Agatha Christie cozy - which all add up to pure fun."
- Jessica
"Laugh out loud fun! Lucy and Ethel have met their match."
- Alexandra
LUCK BE A LADY
by
GEMMA HALLIDAY
&
T.SUE VERSTEEG
ebook Edition
Copyright © 2013 by Gemma Halliday
http://www.facebook.com/gemmahallidayauthor
Cover art by
Lyndsey Lewellen
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to your online retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
SNEAK PEEK OF SPYING IN HIGH HEELS
This book is dedicated to my dad and mom, Clark and Kathy VerSteeg. Thanks for always being there, no matter what. I love you both. And, since release day falls on your special day, Happy Birthday, Mom!
Also, a few words of thanks. First and foremost, thank you, God! Jeremiah 29:11
Gemma, thank you for this fabulous opportunity, the chance to help breathe life into Tessie and her entourage. I find it odd to say this as a writer, but words just aren't enough. You are in for a huge hug one day. Start preparing now.
All of the people at Ozarks Romance Authors, I'm so proud to be part of such a talented group of writers.
Ursula Gorman, Trula Wyatt, Trisha Kiefer, Cassandra Curtis, and Casey Nichols, thank you so much for always being there to critique, beta read, encourage, or whatever I need. You are fabulous.
And, last but certainly not least, thank you, Super Hubby! My Stephen, you've been a rock and cattle prod (Not at the same time…usually) through my entire writing career. I love and adore you.
~ T. Sue
A huge thank you to all of the people who helped make this book shine, including Susan Thompson, Michelle Seeds, Tim Stout, Lyndsey Lewellen,
Jackson Stein
, and, last but never least, T. Sue VerSteeg. You crack me up, girl.
~Gemma
CHAPTER ONE
When I was ten, my dad taught me how to play blackjack. I'd proudly shown him my fourth grade report card bearing the A I'd earned in math, and he'd said, "Nice work, Tessie. Now let's put those skills to good use." He'd taken me upstairs to the VIP blackjack tables in the back of his casino, set me up with one of his dealers in a crisp, white shirt, and taught me the art of counting to twenty-one. I heard him bragging later to his director of operations what a quick study I was. In two hours, I'd cleaned him out of $600 in chips.
That was almost twenty years ago, but it was still one of my most vivid memories of him. Though, to be honest, I didn't have a whole lot of memories of my father to choose from. Mom and he split when I was just two, and she'd promptly moved me south to Berkeley and away from the high-rolling life my father had carved out for himself here. I'd grown up only seeing him every other Christmas and during summer breaks. Our relationship wasn't what you'd call close, but it wasn't strained either. I guess I'd always looked at Richard King more like one would a fun uncle than a father figure.
Which is why I was surprised at how hard it was to keep tears from running down my face as they lowered his casket into the ground. I sniffed, my nose starting to run as much from the cold as the grief, as I tried to look anywhere but at the polished mahogany surface in front of me.
Across the grass, still spotted with melting snow, stood my father's widow, Britton. Britton was blonde, thanks to her stylist, busty, thanks to her plastic surgeon, and at least twenty years my dad's junior. She was dressed in all black, a skin-tight Donna Karen dress underneath a faux fur that engulfed her petite frame like a giant gorilla suit. While I enjoyed my designer shoes as much as the next girl, Britton took the notion of fashion to a whole new level. One that was bedazzled, bling-ed, and bleached within an inch of its life.
Beside Britton stood Alfonso Malone, or Alfie, my father's Director of Operations and head of security. Tall, grim, and not someone I'd want to meet in a dark alley. A scar ran across his cheek, his nose lay at a crooked angle, and his voice held a deep gravel that spoke of a hard life before donning the expensive suits he wore to be my dad's right-hand man. He had a comforting arm around Britton, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the casket, almost as if he was examining it for proof my dad was really in there.
Surrounding them was a slew of people dressed in black who I didn't know. Not surprising, considering it had been some time since I'd seen my father. A year? Two? I couldn't remember now. To be honest, the allure of the blackjack tables had long ago faded for me. While I'd inherited my father's blue eyes and strawberry blonde hair—leaning just a little more to the strawberry than blonde—he'd failed to pass on his love of high-stakes games. Especially ones that favored the house.
I shifted, my feet going numb from the cold in my black pumps as the priest said his final words over the casket. Mourners began to disperse, nodding sympathetically in my direction, patting Britton on the shoulder, awkwardly shuffling back to their cars in their overcoats and boots, trying not to slip on the icy mud.
In the winter, Tahoe was a magical wonderland, the pristine snow on the evergreens and jagged mountains brilliant enough to take your breath away. In the spring, the snow melted to reveal enough mud puddles to make a kindergartener squeal with delight. This was March, and the town was just starting to lose its magical sheen.
"Hey, Tessie," I heard a deep voice say behind me.
Even before I spun around to face him, I knew who it belonged to. Rafe Lorenzo. Pro snowboarder, sponsored by my father's casino, minor local celebrity, and my first crush.
"Rafe," I said, turning away from the casket to face him.
"I'm so sorry, Tess," he said, emotion etched on his face.
I nodded. "Thank you," I responded, trying to adjust my eyes to the adult version of the first boy I'd ever doodled my name in hearts with.
When I was a teenager, Rafe had been in his early twenties, just coming into his own on the mountain, and charming enough that my father had threatened to take out his knees if he ever so much as held my hand. Not that the threat had kept me from fantasizing about just that. The same daredevil charm and charisma that had made him such a lucrative ambassador for my father's resort also made for a dangerous temptation to a girl whose adolescent hormones were running amuck.
While Rafe still wore his dark hair a little too long, letting it curl at the ends around his neck, his face was leaner and more angular now than it had been. A few faint laugh lines tickled the corners of his eyes, but his skin was the same warm, Mediterranean tan I'd remembered. And his eyes, staring at me now with genuine concern, were the same brilliant green and rimmed in long, black lashes that I'd gotten lost in as a teenage romantic.
I strongly reminded myself what good practice I'd had at keeping my hormones in check since then.
"You look great, Tess," Rafe observed. "You haven't changed a bit."
My cheeks heated despite the biting wind. "Thanks," I mumbled. "You too."
"Bullshit. I totally look ten years older," he replied, though the corners of his mouth turned up, deepening those laugh lines at his eyes.
I felt a small grin pulling my lips in response. It felt good. I realized it might have been the first time in days that I'd smiled. "Has it really been ten years?"
"At least. Last time I saw you, you were heading off to art school, planning to make your mark as the next great American painter."
"That was a long time ago," I agreed, feeling the smile drop from my face. "I curate now. A small gallery in San Francisco. Mission Arts."
"Don't tell me you've given up painting?"
I shrugged. "Turns out being a starving artist isn't actually as glamorous as I thought."
He chuckled, the sound warm, rumbling, and totally incongruent with our grim surroundings. "Well, I'll have to check out your gallery next time I'm in The City."
The fact that we both knew it was a hollow threat pulled an awkward pause over the conversation. I shifted in my pumps again. Rafe ran a hand through his thick hair.
Finally Rafe broke the tension by asking, "So how are you doing? You okay?"
I nodded, stealing a glance at the casket again. "I will be," I replied by rote. I'd fielded this same question at least a dozen times since getting the news via Britton's text message that my father had suddenly passed away. The past two days had been a blur of last-minute travel arrangements and subdued murmurs of sympathy from strangers. Or, in Rafe's case, resurrections from my past.
Rafe shook his head, his hair skimming the collar of his wool coat turned up against the cold. "Heart attack," he said, eyes cutting to the closed casket, too. "Who would have thought any part of Richard King was weak, let alone his heart?"
I nodded in agreement. Shot execution style, I might have expected in his line of work. Possibly dumped in the frigid waters of Lake Tahoe. But my father succumbing to something as mundane as a heart attack? I could almost hear him rolling over in his freshly-dug grave at the thought.
"You coming back to the casino?" Rafe asked. "Britton's hosting a wake of sorts in the penthouse."
"Oh, I, uh, I'm not sure..." I trailed off. I watched Britton get into a town car, the other guests filing into their vehicles. Honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was replay the same awkward sentiments of sympathy with a roomful of people who all knew my father better than I did. What I wanted to do was go back to my rental car, crank up the heater, and listen to old Sinatra songs—my dad's favorite—as I made the drive over the hill and home to San Francisco.
