Lucky Bastard (2 page)

Standing in front of me, with a finger under my chin, he lifted my gaze to his. His eyes were dark, troubled. His expression serious. And he was
way
too close for comfort.

While I was wise to his charms, I wasn’t immune. I wanted to step back, but his hand on my arm held me.

“Lucky,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m going to need your help.”

For a moment time stopped. The empty room crowded around us. I stared at my friend and for the first time truly saw.

Red scratches on the side of his face—one deep enough to draw blood that had dried to a dark crust. A tortured look in his eyes. The stern slash of his mouth. The slight tremor to his hand as he quickly stuffed it into the front pocket of his jeans.

The touch of his skin on mine was unexpectedly cool.

Oh God, what
had
he done?

We both jumped as my former lover Teddie’s voice shattered the silence singing “Lucky for Me.” My phone! Dang! And why had I chosen that song as my ringtone? It skewered my heart every time I heard it.

The jump-start surge of adrenaline pegged my heart rate. My hand closed over the offending device, jerking it from my pocket. I shot Dane what I thought might resemble a rueful look. “Self-flagellation.” I flipped the thing open. “What?”

“Lucky?” The delicious French intonation, the voice as smooth and rich as a homemade hollandaise, could only belong to one person: Jean-Charles, our new chef and, if he had his way, the new man in my life. But once burned, twice shy, I was riding the brakes. “I am thinking you are not sleeping,” he continued. “I did not awaken you, then? Yes?”

“No.” For some reason, or perhaps for a multitude of reasons, I seemed to be struck monosyllabic at the moment. His voice suffused me to the core with warmth. Taking a deep breath, I struggled to apply pressure to those brakes. But they’d gone all mushy… along with my brain and other body parts that I won’t mention. Apparently my self-control had thrown in the towel as well. Toss a handsome man with empty promises in my path, and I’d take the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Swallowing it whole, I’d lose my heart only to have it handed back to me on a platter. I knew the drill. Why couldn’t I just grab some local hunk and have wild, meaningless sex like everybody else?

Unfortunately I apparently lacked the moral fortitude to be immoral.

“
Non?
You were sleeping then?”

“No. I mean yes, you did not awaken me.” Exactly when did I lose the ability to speak proper English? “I’m sorry, I’m a bit muddled at the moment.” I scrunched my eyes shut and tried to block out the scene around me—Dane’s stricken face, the dead woman on the car. Turning my back to them, I conjured a mental picture of the Frenchman in a vain attempt to recapture a sense of normalcy. “Are you just now heading home?” I attempted to infuse a casual warm tone to my voice, but I wasn’t sure I pulled it off.

“Yes, I am driving on the Fifteen.” A car horn sounded then faded as I heard Jean-Charles’s sharp intake of breath. The American form of offensive driving was a skill the Parisian had yet to master. He’d spent most of his adult life in the great cities of the world where owning a car was not only superfluous, it bordered on the insane—New York parking fees regularly equaled the rent for a studio. I shuddered at the thought of him at the wheel while on the phone.

“A late night then?” I chatted as if I hadn’t a care in the world. They say compartmentalizing is one of the first signs of mental illness.

“
Oui,
the restaurant, it was very busy. These Americans, they like food,” Jean-Charles said with classic European understatement. Another car horn sounded, this time answered with a muttered Gallic epithet, which made me smile.

“The American way: Treat each meal as your last,” I said, finding my equilibrium.

Jean-Charles had opened a gourmet burger joint in the shopping area of the Babylon called The Bazaar while he perfected the menu and finished out the space that would be his signature restaurant.

“Precisely! So many, many burgers,
pomme frites,
shakes. And I am working on the new dishes for the Vegas Last Chef Standing. My kitchen here, she is, how do you say it? A poor stepchild?”

“Found wanting in every way?”

“Yes, this is it. I need my kitchen at Cielo.”

“We are at the mercy of the contractor, you know that. He is working.”

“Perhaps you can do something?”

“Wave my magic wand?”

Silence stretched between us. “I have made you angry.” His voice held a note of defeat.

“No. I’m just…” I looked at Dane, his face pulled tight, the woman on the Ferrari, still dead. “It’s just not a great time.”

“For this I am sorry. Perhaps tomorrow would be better?”

“Right now, it’s not looking so good, but we’ll talk about your kitchen soon, I promise.”

“You must help me, you see, I am also nervous.” Jean-Charles said the words haltingly, as if confessing a major sin—one he couldn’t believe he’d committed. “This is a very public stage. My reputation and that of your hotel, hang in the balance. This is not only a competition with my fellow chefs, the media is turning it into a circus.”

“Vegas and reality television—the perfect storm of bad taste.”

“Yes, well, with your help, I will adjust and we can make it better. However, right now I am, how do you say it? Wrecked?”

“That will do.” For some reason I enjoyed his struggle with American slang—sometimes his choices made the tawdry charming.

“I am looking forward to sleep.” His voice sounded tired as he deftly changed the subject. “But I could not end the day without hearing your voice.”

I felt like a ping-pong ball being smashed from one side to the other. On one side I was the potential romance, on the other, the hotel exec standing in his way. How this game would play out—and which me would win—was anybody’s guess. “I’m glad you called.”

“Yes, but why are you awake?” He sounded as if the thought that normal people were asleep at this hour had just occurred to him, which was probably accurate.

“I had to answer my phone.” I know, I know, playing fast and loose with the truth. Not good. But, to be honest, I was having a real hard time with reality right at the moment.

***

After finishing the conversation, I reluctantly hung up then repocketed my phone, taking my time to savor the sweet taste of a very real fantasy. Turning, I glanced at Dane. He still looked like hell, maybe worse. Underneath it all, he looked…guilty. Which doused my French glow pretty nicely.

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I hissed, my temper flaring again. Add playing games to the long list of things that piss me off. Dane was a master.

“I wish I knew.” His face remained a blank slate, a study in self-control.

“Cowboy, you know… ” I was reaching for something to say, measuring my words, trying to resist closing my fingers around his neck, when the doors opened. Instinctively I turned, squinting through the darkness. Like a Hollywood version of a near-death experience, figures moved toward me silhouetted by the bright light behind them.

There was someone here near death, but it wasn’t me. So I wasn’t too alarmed.

“Lucky?” Romeo called, his voice hushed as if he had wandered into a church and was afraid to awaken the dead. He needn’t have worried.

At the sound of the detective’s voice, Dane stiffened. Stepping back, he straightened, throwing his shoulders back. With practiced ease, he arranged his features into a bland, impenetrable mask.

The man could be as stupid as a bull thrown in with the cows.

Lying to me would land him in the doghouse. But lying to the police would move him up the food chain to the Big House…if I didn’t kill him first.

And he wanted my help?

He acted as if he’d find my name under the word
doormat
in the dictionary. Just another bit of proof to my all-men-are-pigs theory. Yes, it’s a sad commentary that the survival of the human species rests solely on the low expectations of females.

Been there, done that, bought the tee shirt. But, thankfully, I’d never done the nasty with Dane. One minor triumph, all things considered.

“Over here,” I called to Romeo. My voice sounded strangled, as if Dane had put both his hands around my neck and squeezed. Of course, if he did, it might save us both a ton of trouble.

Out of the darkness, Las Vegas’s finest young detective materialized in front of us, followed by a half dozen officers in uniform and three people in civilian clothes. With his rumpled beige raincoat, wilted shirt, a dark suit that hung on his thin frame, his tie knotted but hanging loose around his neck like a noose ready to be tightened, Romeo looked as if he hadn’t seen a decent night’s sleep or a good meal in a month of Sundays—something I suspected was closer to the truth than I’d care to think.

His sandy brown hair, mashed down on one side, held the evidence of a recent wetting and combing. A cowlick stood at the crown of his head like a defiant thistle. The hint of sleep lingered in the corners of his cloudy blue eyes. One cheek held the imprint of something, his hand perhaps, or the corner of a stack of papers—remnants of a quick catnap.

When we’d first met, Romeo couldn’t hide his emotions. Each one would march bold and unbidden across his face, much to his chagrin. Now he eyed our dead girl with the blank, businesslike stare of someone who had seen more than his share of the bad things in life.

A fact that broke my heart just a little.

I watched and listened as Romeo instructed his men to secure the scene. He supervised them until, apparently satisfied, he turned to me. Pulling a spiral-bound pad from his inside coat pocket, he flipped it open, then wetted the end of a stub of pencil on his tongue. Glancing between Dane and me he said, “I should separate you two, go by the book. But with our history, why bother?” He turned, focusing his words on me. “You’re probably eight steps ahead of me already anyway. You gave me the overview on the phone, so just give the rest to me straight, okay?”

“When have I ever not…” I trailed off. Better not to open that can of worms. So, I did as he asked—straight as I could. As I talked, trying to remember every detail, even the seemingly unimportant ones, the young detective scribbled, his brows furrowed. “The call from Dane came in at…?”

Dane started to answer.

Romeo silenced him with a frown. “You’ll get your chance, Cowboy.”

I raised my eyebrows at my detective friend. Like a spark, a hint of humor flared in his eyes then quickly faded. The kid was growing into his badge. Somehow, I didn’t feel like celebrating. One more cockeyed optimist thrown under the reality bus.

Scrolling through my phone directory to the most recent calls, I said, “Two forty-two.”

Romeo made a note. “This dealership is a concessionaire, right?” He glanced up from his notes. At my nod he continued, “I need to know who owns it, and who has access.”

“Frank DeLuca owns the place. Give me an hour to get you the rest.”

“DeLuca?” Romeo’s brows snapped together making him look older than twelve and somehow a bit more serious. Perhaps he ought to think about that as a permanent look. Could they do that with Botox?

Stress and panic had clearly fractured the few functioning brain cells I had, letting loose random thoughts to ping around my empty skull. Terrific.

“DeLuca? As in the pro poker player?” Romeo continued. “I went to Bishop Gorman with a couple of his kids.” A local Catholic high school, Bishop Gorman had educated the best and brightest of most of the old Vegas families.

“One and the same.”

“I’d like to talk to him,” the kid muttered as he made a note. “Although after that dustup with his daughter…” Romeo’s cheeks reddened as he glanced at me and shrugged.

“Nothing like having history in this burg, huh?” I said with a hint of resignation and a sharp nip of reality. “A lot of people live here, but it’s still a small town.”

“Tell me about it.” Weariness hung heavy in his voice. The kid looked barely old enough to drive. How much history could he have? “Would you happen to know where I might find Mr. DeLuca?” he asked, his pencil poised.

“You’re in luck. He qualified for the Sin City Smack Down.”

Romeo’s face creased with puzzlement. “Smack Down? Isn’t Mr. DeLuca a bit old for cage fighting?”

“Poker. It’s a poker tournament almost as important as the World Series of Poker. What rock have you been living under?” I felt like a creep the minute I said it—I don’t normally feast on unseasoned detectives. The hurt look flashing across his face didn’t help. “Sorry, I forget not everyone lives in my happy little corner of the universe. The Smack Down is the Super Bowl of Texas hold ’em and this weekend is the final table. The hoards descend today—the nine players who qualified, the media, celebrities wanting some face time, the hookers hoping to land a whale, and folks just needing an excuse to misbehave. Tournament play starts day after tomorrow. Each interminable moment will be televised to the world from Teddie’s old theatre.”

There, I’d said his name. Teddie. I held my breath waiting for a reaction. Nothing happened. My pulse remained steady. My heart didn’t constrict to the size of a raisin. Wow. Maybe I was over him. As I let my breath ease between my lips, the ache in my chest returned. Okay, maybe not
completely
over him.

“Oh.” Romeo chewed on his lip as his eyes turned toward the ceiling, and his brain shifted gears. “No cameras in here?”

“It’s the only place in the hotel without internal monitoring, if that’s what you’re getting at. Look around,” I swept my arm toward the showroom. “There’s nothing in here but some expensive Italian iron. Nothing much to pocket and take home. So, only the external door alarms, the front door into the Bazaar as well as the exterior doors, are wired into hotel security.” As the detective opened his mouth to speak, I silenced him with a raised finger. Flipping open my phone, I pushed to talk. “Jerry?”