Lucky In Love (2 page)

My eyes went all slitty and Miss P took a step back. “Just the mention of that troglodyte’s name triggers my gag reflex. Why they picked him to host a show about love is beyond me.” I glanced around to make sure no one listened in—I didn’t need that sound bite to be flashed around the world. “Jerry is riding herd. I’ve authorized the use of lethal force, but I suggest we be there to meet the limos. Bloodshed would be bad for business.”

Mona leaned in as Miss P angled toward the Kasbah and its private
vip
entrance. “Ooooh, blood.” She shivered in anticipation. “The reality fans will eat that with a spoon.”

* * *

S
hrouded
in a carefully crafted myth of secrecy, the Kasbah served as the lap of luxury for the Babylon’s most well heeled guests. Accessed through a long hallway that led to a set of large bronze doors, the Kasbah was zealously guarded by the most unctuous on our staff.

“Sergio, is everything ready?” I asked as I breezed into the hallway and swept our front desk manager up in my wake. Sergio was our resident expert in kowtowing without being obsequious.

“Of course, Ms. O’Toole. You have but to ask.” Sucking up was also part of his repertoire. Given the fact that he had the body of a Greek god, the face of an angel, and silky black hair hanging across his forehead that set off his doe-eyes, I didn’t mind. Although he was a trifle fussy for my tastes.

Passing through a pair of double doors large enough to hold back an invading horde—and maybe even a rabid pack of paparazzi; we had yet to throw the crossbar, but you never knew—we entered a world of rarified air. Tall palms and shorter flowering trees flourished in the huge atrium, stretching their branches in salutation to the sun that streamed in through the bubbled glass ceiling high above. Following a path through a maze of individual bungalows, each one complete with a private pool and enough personal staff to keep even the most demanding sheik relatively content, we worked our way to the private drive-up entrance.

While the inner sanctum of the Kasbah had been quiet and serene, this entrance was anything but. Men shouldered cameras, and were trailed by minions managing the cables. Onlookers paused and craned their necks to catch a glimpse of whatever it was the group had gathered for. The small crowd had clearly reached the tipping point, adding to its mass like a positively charged atom gathering electrons, until the whole thing became unstable, an explosion waiting to flatten the surroundings.

Glancing over the mass of humanity, I saw Jerry’s bald head sticking up above the milling throng and I made a beeline for him. As Head of Security, Jerry was always my friend in time of need—and a great equalizer.

Pushing my way through the thickening crowd, I managed to snag his sleeve. “Status?”

When Jerry looked at me I could see the whites of his eyes. “Combustible, but the limos should be here any minute. We’ve got two couples per car.” He glanced down at a clipboard. “The first car, Couple Number One, will be Gail Fortunato and Rocco Traveneti. A couple of kids from Jersey now living on the Lower East Side.”

“At least they’re not from the Jersey Shore and don’t call themselves ‘the Circumstance’ or something.”

“I think you mean ‘the Situation.’” Jerry gave me a sheepish grin.

“Whatever. Don’t tell me you watch this stuff.”

“Keeps the wife happy,” he said a bit quickly, his gaze shifting from mine.

I filed the topic for future ribbing.

“The second couple. Couple Number—”

“Two, I get it.”

Used to my short fuse, Jerry didn’t miss a beat. “Couple Number Two is Walker Worthington and Buffy Bingle.” How he said that with a straight face, I don’t know.

“Bingle. I would’ve changed that name for sure.”

“Somehow that loses its punch coming from a gal named Lucky.”

“Point taken. But Bingle? I’d bet my next month’s salary she’s a scrapper with mean playground skills.”

“You’re the expert.” Jerry grinned at me. He knew I wore my rough-and-tumble upbringing as a badge of honor.

As advertised, a limo rounded the corner and then eased to a stop at the curb. Jerry and Miss P held back the crowd while Sergio and I stepped to the rear door of the car. Somewhere I had lost Mona, but I didn’t have time to worry about that now.

“Everybody outta my way.” The grating voice of Trey Gold, several decibels too high, echoed over the crowd. “You people, move!”

Reluctantly, they did as he ordered.

Red-faced, mopping his brow—which glistened despite his pancake makeup in an unnatural shade of orange—Mr. Gold pushed to my side. His jet-black hair, unmarred by even a hint of gray, and spiked with gel, clashed with the lines on his face. His cruel mouth curled in an imitation of a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Even in my low heels I had him by almost a foot. Although with his broad shoulders and well-camouflaged paunch, he most likely outweighed me—a fact which, swine that I am, gave me particular delight.

“O’Toole, glad to see you decided to put in an appearance. Just can’t resist seeing your mug on
tv
, right?” He wheezed as if the short push through the crowd had been almost more than he could bear. He dropped the mike he’d been holding close to his face down to his side. His fake smile disappeared. “This is my show, O’Toole. Don’t you forget it. Stay out of my way.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could get a word out, he reached an arm across my middle, pushing me out of his way. “Step back, girlfriend, and watch a master at work. You might want to take notes.”

“Girlfriend?” My voice dropped an octave or two, my eyes got all slitty. “I’d slit my wrists if I was your girlfriend,” I hissed.

Oblivious to everything but the seductive eye of the camera, Trey cranked up the wattage of his smile, turned to the cameras, and began babbling about the contest and the first couple as he reached for the door handle on the limo.

Seething, I was contemplating instruments of torture when Jerry grabbed my arm. “Later. Remember, we don’t get back . . .”

“We get even,” I said, finishing the familiar mantra. As I said the words, I felt myself relaxing. The Babylon was my world; I made the rules. Trey Gold was in my playpen now and he would get his comeuppance. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know where—I just knew for sure.

Glad that for once the spectacle wasn’t my responsibility, I crossed my arms and watched it unfold. Couple Number One had the stage. Mr. Traveneti stuck his head out of the limo first, and his body followed. He reached back and grabbed the hand of his future mate, Ms. Fortunato. I liked that.

Trey stuck the mike in Rocco’s face. “Welcome to Vegas. What do you think so far?”

As expected, Rocco was short and stout, with dark hair, dark eyes... Italian. And young. But his smile was warm and dimples creased his cheeks when he smiled. “It’s cool.”

Trey waited a second too long, expecting more, and then shifted the mike to Ms. Fortunato. “Gail, your impressions?”

Gail still squeezed Rocco’s hand—I could see her knuckles turning white—but otherwise she appeared unruffled at all the attention. Her red hair was unexpected, as was her peaches-and-cream skin and blue eyes. Trim and toned, wearing casual clothes and low heels, she matched Rocco’s height and his easy manner. “We’re still sort of in shock, you know?”

She and Rocco stepped aside, making room for Couple Number Two.

Stepping out of the limo first, Walker Worthington reeked of stuffy boardrooms and the Upper East Side in his three-piece suit and Windsor-knotted silk tie. With his gray hair trimmed almost military short, plus his hard eyes and taut mouth, he was not the reality contestant I expected. Before he could help her out, Ms. Bingle clambered out of the limo and bounced to his side. Blond, twiggy, and gawky, with carefully contoured Tetons, a pouty smile, and a vacuous gaze, everything about her screamed
perky
.

God help me.

Trey was a bit more reserved when he approached Mr. Worthington. Guess the buttoned-up big shot had a bite. “Impressions of Vegas so far?” Apparently Mr. Gold was a one-question wonder.

Walker’s eyebrows snapped into a frown. “All show, no substance.”

I leaned into Jerry. “At least he’s discerning.” I grabbed Miss P, who had been standing silent guard at my side this whole time, by the elbow. “Enough of this sideshow. Let’s make a last-minute readiness cruise through the bungalows.”

Even though I knew of at least five trips she’d made to check the preparations for our contestants, Miss P followed me without a word as I plowed my way through the crowd. People quickly shoved their way into the vacuum we left, erasing any evidence that we’d ever even been there.

* * *

T
he
Bungalows at the Kasbah were a permanent fixture on every list of the best hotel rooms in the world—they were oversized, opulent yet comfortable, with hot-and-cold running foot slaves. The price of admission included much more than wealth. Of course, our high rollers made it in—although the rooms were generally awarded based on a lottery of pecking orders. At a weekly meeting, our high-end casino hosts each listed which of their players would be in town, how much they regularly kept in play, and what their limit was, and then the head of the department made the room assignments. The players with the most potential profit to the hotel got the best room with the best perks. Fairly mercenary, I admit, but while the Babylon might be a playground, it was above all else a business. And as a business, it was profit or die—especially in the highly competitive world of separating the rich and famous from their money.

The key was to provide just enough pleasure and perception of freebies—or comps, as we referred to them—to keep the gamblers at the tables. All was negotiated, generally up front. A player would agree to gamble for so many hours, putting a specific minimum of action through the house. In return, we would offer discounts on losses, free use of the airplane and the Ferraris, fourth row center tickets to the best show in town—everything, constrained only by the limits of imagination and the legal system. Although I’d heard whispers of the latter being exceeded at some hotels, I’d never done it myself—and woe to any of my staff that put the hotel on the line by overstepping.

Adding insult to injury, this contest had thrown the pecking-order thing out the window. I had exerted my executive privilege and commandeered the very best of the Bungalows, which did little to endear me to the staff as well as some of our Kasbah regulars. Bruised egos would have to settle with opulent digs on our thirtieth floor—the über concierge floor. While the rooms didn’t match the bungalows, the service was every bit as spectacular—the floor even had a private chef and a twenty-four-hour kitchen, all at no cost.

We stopped in front of Bungalow Five. “Who’s in here?”

“Veronica Salter and Guy Handy.” Miss P rattled the names off without consulting her clipboard—apparently these two were memorable. Guy Handy sounded like a stage name for a stripper in a gay club, but I was wise enough to keep that observation to myself.

“Any special requests?” I asked as I stepped into the room and wandered, looking for imperfections. I fingered a fold in the heavy damask drapes.

Miss P snorted, politely. I hid my smile.

“Vichy water,
sin gas
; Belgian truffles, 70 percent cocoa; Louis
xiii
.” She paused as I whipped my head around. “No, not the Black Pearl,” she said, in answer to my silent question. “Just the regular 1500-dollar-per-bottle swill plus Steuben brandy glasses—the tear drop pattern. A case of Château Lafite”—she glanced down again—“nothing younger than 1985; Irish linens; and Turkish towels, heated, of course.”

“Of course.” I ran my fingers across the top of the mahogany desk. Dust-free and spotless. “How did you find the tear-drop Steubens? The barware part of that pattern was discontinued before I was born.”

“eBay.”

“You deserve a raise.”

“You just gave me one.”

“You deserve another.”

“You expect me to argue?”

“That would be overachieving.” With one arm I circled her shoulders as we walked toward the door. A huge vase of unusual flowers caught my eye, and I abandoned Miss P. “Blue roses? Rare. I’m assuming another special request?”

Miss P nodded. If she was put out, she hid it well.

“Interesting.” I turned the vase a quarter-turn, then stepped back. “Better?” At Miss P’s nod, I once again circled her shoulders. “Did you know they signify unattainable love?”

“Really? I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

“My mind is a steel trap for worthless information.”

“A walking, talking encyclopedia of little-known facts—next Trivial Pursuit game, you’re on my team.” A hint of a grin sneaked out as Miss P stopped to inhale the fragrance from the fresh-grown roses. “Unattainable love, you say? Probably a good thing, considering.”

“Yes, I’d say someone is a wee bit high-maintenance, or just enjoying the power trip.”

As I stepped back to allow Miss P to proceed me through the door into the common area, a well-heeled woman burst through. Tall, austere, her dark hair pulled back from her face and secured at the nape of her neck in a Tiffany hair clasp, the same one I had given several members of my staff last Christmas. Dark suit, gray cami, an oversized Breitling in no-nonsense stainless steel, black Loubous—the Glorias with the crystal heels that I lusted for—cheekbones so sharp they could cut meat, and dark eyes that never stopped moving. She peeled off one white glove finger by finger as she strode around the living room of the bungalow. I hoped she hadn’t heard my assessment.