Lucky Catch

A Lucky O’Toole Vegas Adventure

Book Five

FOR BOB

L
ove
and lust—two four-letter words men often confuse.

More specifically, a certain man . . . the man standing in my doorway.

Teddie.

My heart tripped, then steadied.

Thinner than I remembered, he still had that tight ass, those broad shoulders, spiky blond hair, soulful baby-blues, and a sippin’-whiskey-smooth voice that could warm me to the core, despite my best efforts to douse the fire.

Teddie.

Despite serious reservations about turning a platonic friendship into something . . . not platonic . . . I had let him lead me into the deep, dark waters of love. And being an all-or-nothing kind of gal, I’d done a half gainer off the high dive and things had not gone swimmingly.

He left.

And now he was back.

As I looked at him and tried to compose myself—it just wouldn’t do to let him see the splash his return made—I wondered how I’d ever get my heart back. The empty hole in my chest echoed with longing, leaving me winded.

My office phone jangled, giving me an excuse to avoid Teddie for a few moments longer. I grabbed the receiver. “Customer relations, Lucky O’Toole speaking. How may I help you?”

“We have a problem.” Detective Romeo with the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department started in without preliminaries—not a good sign.

“What’s this
we
shit, Kemosabe?” I tried to make light. Apparently, I failed miserably.

Romeo’s tone hardened. “Dead body. Back lot. Somebody wrapped her head in plastic and killed her with a Saf-T-Smoke. You’re going to want to see this one.”

“She got smoked with a Saf-T-Smoke? Dang.” I rubbed a hand over my face. “I never want to see that kind of thing. You know that.” I looked up and locked eyes with Teddie, who stared at me, his eyes dark and troubled.

“Trust me on this one.” Romeo took an audible breath, then let it out slowly.

“Okay. Give me fifteen minutes. I’ve got to take Christophe Bouclet back to his father.”

“I’ll meet you there. This one’s bad.”

As if they all aren’t bad. “Meet me where?” My only answer was the hollow echo of a disconnected line. Romeo had hung up—he knew how much I hated that little bit of rudeness.

Men.

I narrowed my eyes at a prime example of the Y chromosome set standing in front of me.

Teddie knew me well enough to take a step back. “Romeo?” he asked with a forced lilt to his voice.

I set the receiver back in its cradle, but refused to let Romeo and Teddie get me all worked up. Problems, I could handle—as the vice president of Customer Relations at the Babylon, Las Vegas’s most over-the-top Strip property, problems were my job. And, if I can say anything about myself, I’m good at my job.

Now, to the most immediate problem. “Teddie, why are you here?”

Ignoring my glower, he continued with the manner of an old friend stopping by to reminisce. “Your office door was open,” he began in a casual tone, as if the earth still rotated on the same axis. “I expected to find you in your old office. What are you doing back here in this construction zone? Not VP digs. Congrats on the promotion, by the way.” Teddie paused when his eyes came to rest on the young boy in my lap who clutched a crayon and concentrated on the drawing in front of him. I saw questions lurking in Teddie’s eyes. Thankfully, he didn’t voice them, choosing instead to give me a tentative grin.

A dagger to the heart.

A frown was the only response I could muster as my pulse pounded in my ears and I struggled to remain outwardly calm.

“This early in the morning, I expected to see your staff out front,” he continued, oblivious to the fact this whole situation was fraught with possibilities of homicide. “But the desks were empty. Since you and I are . . . friends . . . I didn’t think you’d mind me wandering back here to find you.”

What was I going to say? “Get the hell out” seemed a bit extreme. And “no, we’re not friends” would have been too hard to admit. Offering to shoot him the next time he wandered in unannounced also seemed a bit aggressive. Maybe. I opted to duck-and-weave. “If I minded, would it matter?”

Teddie’s smile dimmed and he jammed his hands in his pockets as he shifted from one foot to the other, his shoulders hunched around his ears.

I took a deep breath and blew at a strand of hair that tickled my eyes. “To be honest, you were the last person I expected to darken my doorway this morning. Weren’t you just in Prague or Moscow or someplace half a world away?”

“I quit the tour and jumped a plane.”

Taking a step inside the doorway, he was brought up short by the look on my face. His arms wide, pleading, he said, “I had to see you.”

I wasn’t buying it. He always was a bit of a drama queen which, now that I thought about it, went with the whole female impersonator gig—I’d just never noticed it before—or it had never bothered me before.

Ever the performer, he adopted just the right tone—pleading without the whine. “You won’t take my calls. You won’t answer the messages I send you. You haven’t even acknowledged the song. What did you expect me to do?” He let his arms fall to his sides.

“Expect?” My voice was flat, hard, pounded thin by the hammer of his insensitivity. And the song he mentioned? Every time I heard the thing, he bludgeoned me anew. Didn’t he understand that? “Teddie, I expected you to stay gone.”

Hurt flashed across his face as we stared at each other and time slowed to a crawl. He looked like he wanted to explore the subject further, but wisely altered course. “Got a new friend, I see.” He nodded toward the boy.

Christophe squirmed under Teddie’s scrutiny, then leaned back and looked up at me. While I counted to ten and prayed for self-control and a noninflammatory response, I bent down and gave the boy a kiss on the head. He smelled like baby soap, and with good reason—last night we’d used a gallon of the stuff.

That was before I’d spent the night with his father.

“Christophe Bouclet.” My eyes found Teddie’s, then skittered away and back again. Knowing me, I had “guilty as sin” written all over my face. But, he’d left. So why did I feel guilty?

Life had just gotten way more than complicated.

I had absolutely no idea where to start or what to do. To be honest, I wasn’t 100 percent sure that, once started, I wouldn’t finish by grabbing Teddie by the neck and squeezing the life out of him. As it turned out, I needn’t have worried. My cell phone sang out at my hip, saving me from a long future making license plates at the invitation of the great state of Nevada. Actually, it was Teddie doing the singing. In a weak, masochistic moment, I’d installed as my ringtone a snippet of a song he’d written not only for me, but about me as well. Yes,
that
song . . . the one he’d mentioned and I’d avoided. He’d titled it “Lucky for Me.”

Apparently, he loved irony.

At the first few notes, Teddie gave me a knowing look. I hastily reached for the device and silenced it with a stroke of my thumb. I gave him a steely stare, challenging the assumption I saw in his eyes. Never wavering, I pressed the phone to my ear. “O’Toole,” I barked.

“How do you make a thousand turkeys disappear?”

“What?” I held the phone in front of me and squinted at the display, trying to bring into focus not only the tiny digits, but life as well. The number belonged to Jerry, the voice belonged to Jerry, but the question came out of left field—even from the Babylon’s head of Security. “Jerry, this really isn’t a good time.”

“Tell me about it.” He chuckled. “I got turkeys down here—the real things. A thousand of them.” Chaos in the background filtered through the connection. “You know anything about them?”

I glanced up at Teddie—turkeys seemed to abound today. And to think, Thanksgiving was still a few days away.

“Lucky, girl, are you there? We could sure use your help.”

As the Babylon’s chief problem-solver, turkeys like the one standing in my office doorway were my specialty. However, my expertise did not necessarily extend to the feathered variety.

I put the phone back to my ear. “I’m here, but I’m confused. Where are you? And, just for clarification, what kind of turkeys are we talking about?”

Jerry replied in a rushed voice, “The basement, Level Two. Your mother . . .”

The light dawned. “Oh God, she didn’t.”

“She did.” This time, he burst out laughing. “Mona, she is some piece of work. Better get that woman down here. And tell her, if she plans on feeding the hungry on Thanksgiving, she’d better bring her double barrel and a shitload of buckshot.”

“Some people are alive solely because it’s illegal to shoot them.”

Jerry laughed. “Your mother . . .”

“. . . is their fearless leader,” I said, finishing his thought. “But you aren’t seriously considering turning a pregnant woman loose in the basement with a loaded shotgun, are you? Remember what she did to the sheriff?”

“Any other ideas?” Jerry’s voice sobered a bit.

“Fresh out.” I glanced up at Teddie—a frown creased the skin between his eyes as he watched Christophe, who was working intently on his drawing. “And since answers on this end seem to be in short supply, I’m invoking one of my three vice president lifelines and am phoning a friend. That would be you, by the way.”

“But I called you,” Jerry reminded me.

“A mere technicality. Mother is your problem. I’ll get her down there. You figure out what happens next. If you kill her, just let me know where to send flowers.” I terminated the call before he could guilt me into more. My vintage Versace suit and Loubous were hardly turkey-taming attire. And I didn’t really trust myself around Mona right now, especially with a gun within easy reach.

Today was Monday . . . in every way.

My eyes met Teddie’s and my heart tightened. Would I ever be over him? Christophe stilled in my lap.

“It’s okay, sweetie.” I gave the boy another hurried peck on the top of his head. “Ignore the man in the doorway. He’s leaving.” With both hands under Christophe’s arms, I lifted him as I slithered out from under him, then deposited him back in the chair. “And so are we.”

The boy wiggled his legs underneath him. Kneeling, he bent back over the picture he had been drawing when we’d been so rudely interrupted. “I’m drawing a picture of you and Papa and my happy-face pancakes.” He gave me a look designed to melt my heart. God help womankind in another ten or twelve years. “See?” He pointed to one figure. “You have Papa’s shirt on.”

I sighed. Like I said, a Monday in every way. “That’s wonderful, dear. It was fun, wasn’t it?”

“Tomorrow we will make pancakes again?” A demand framed as a question—his father had the same habit.

Allergic to authority, real or implied, I don’t know why it didn’t irritate me. Maybe it was the French accent. Who knew? I smiled and ruffled his hair. “Of course. Now, I’ve got to take you to your father.” I rounded up wayward crayons and stuffed them back in the box. Then I eased the paper from his grasp and carefully tucked it into a drawer. “Let’s finish this later, okay?” Turning, I presented my back. “Climb aboard.”

He jumped in exuberance, his legs encircling my waist. Holding a bit too tightly around my neck, he choked off the air. I loosened his arms and settled him on my hips. “Good?”

He nuzzled in, his mouth next to my ear.
“
Oui
!”

“We’re off, then.” My eyes, full of challenge and probably a bit of hurt, met Teddie’s as I moved to brush by him. I could see in his face the warning had registered. He opened his mouth to speak. I put a hand to the center of his chest to move him out of the doorway—the connection hit me like a sucker punch. I struggled to keep my composure. “Don’t.”

Clamping his mouth shut, Teddie did as I asked and stepped aside.

I let my hand drop. Why had I touched him? I knew every curve and angle of his body by heart. Closing my eyes, I could remember the feel of him, as real and immediate as if we’d never stopped. But we
had
stopped. Well,
he
had stopped. Apparently my heart, not to mention other parts, hadn’t gotten the memo. Pulling air into my lungs in a vain hope that some would find its way to my head, I opened my eyes and gave a half-smile to the man who had stolen my heart. Then I eased past him, careful not to touch him again.

My old office, which was adjacent to my new one but lacked the whole construction zone motif, was empty, as was the outer office. The bird still slept under the nighttime cage cover. I’d never been so glad to find my staff absent and Newton, my foul-mouthed Macaw, muzzled for the moment.

Teddie followed me.

“Go away.” I threw the words over my shoulder as I burst through the outer door, then turned and hurried down the hallway toward the elevator.

“Giddy-up!” Christophe shrieked.

Teddy was hard on my heels. “We need to talk.” He reached for my elbow.

His hand fell away as I stopped. Taking a deep breath, I turned. Christophe fisted a hand in my hair.

“What do you want, Teddie?”

“Is that boy the new French chef’s?”