“Sounds like an interesting family. Any siblings?”
I shook my head. “What if we’re not any good together? No way could I have sex with him then go back to being buddies. So, where would that leave me? No boyfriend, and, worse—no best friend.”
“Well, all I know is relationships take courage,” Miss Patterson announced bravely. The irony of that remark was apparently lost on her. I stifled a smile.
“My courage seems to be in short supply,” I responded truthfully. I played with one of the paperweights on my desk. A cockroach encased in Lucite containing flecks of gold—my golden cockroach trophy—a gift from the employees after Mr. Ballantine’s first extortion attempt. Creepy, but I liked it. “You make all this sound like some high-stakes poker game.”
“Not a perfect analogy, but it’ll do,” said my expert in love. “Both require calculated gambles.”
“I suck at poker.” Not to mention love. I put the cockroach trophy back on my desk where it secured a pile of papers, from what I don’t know.
“You are one of the best poker players I’ve ever seen.” She smoothed her dress nervously. “I know you can handle a relationship with Theodore—you just have to want to. Lucky, he’s the kind of guy gals like me dream about.”
Me, too, but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
“To quote a wise and wonderful friend of mine, ‘That’s the thing about dreams—they’re scary when they come true.’ ”
“You’re paraphrasing.”
“And you’re avoiding yourself,” Miss Patterson announced. How come she knew me so well?
“One of my better skills.”
Miss Patterson shot out of the chair at the sound of the outer office door opening.
“Anybody here?”
Why did such a simple question sound so intoxicating in an Australian accent?
“Back here,” I said, then whispered to Miss Patterson, “Your knight is here, and I hope he didn’t bring his white horse or that dress won’t work at all.”
She giggled, all traces of her nervousness gone.
We both turned as the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock walked in.
“Your timing is impeccable,” I said, glad for the interruption. Too much introspection on an empty stomach.
When he caught sight of his date, he stopped dead in his tracks. I recognized the expression on his face—I’d seen it before. This afternoon. On Teddie’s face. When he looked at me.
Jeremy reached for her hands and tenderly held them in his.
Suddenly shy, Miss Patterson looked down.
“You look fabulous!” Jeremy didn’t even try to hide his delight.
Miss Patterson raised her eyes to his and flashed a megawatt smile. “Thank you. So do you.”
Good girl. “Mr. Whitlock, treat her well, and I expect you to have her home at a reasonable hour.”
They both grinned like high school kids on their way to the prom.
“Yes, Mother,” they said in unison, then laughed.
They turned to go, Jeremy keeping hold of one of Miss Patterson’s hands.
“Have fun, kids. Be good. And, if you can’t be good, be careful.”
The door smothered their giggling as it shut behind them.
FRESHENING my own makeup had taken a bit longer than I realized—all this girly-girl stuff sure took time, and Teddie was waiting. I hurried as I tossed my cosmetics in my bag, flipped off the lights and closed and locked door behind me.
I took the stairs.
As I hit the lobby, my heart was thudding faster than a quick trip down the stairs would warrant. No mater how much I wished to deny it, Teddie had quite an effect even when he wasn’t there. The memory of his touch alone sent a river of warmth washing through me.
Damn.
I burst through the front doors and came face-to-face with Teddie coming the other way.
My heart tripped even faster at the sight of him. Any more of this and the sucker would probably leap right out of my chest.
“Whoa, there.” He grabbed me arm. “Where’s the fire?”
“Wasn’t I supposed to meet you at home?”
He hooked his arm through mine, holding me tight against his side, as we turned to walk out the front drive. “Yes, but I didn’t want you to walk by yourself, so I started out to meet you.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“The truth of it is, my actions weren’t completely altruistic—I had an ulterior motive.”
“Really?”
“I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”
WARM and sensuous, the night enveloped us as we strolled the length of the long curved drive. Magically, a few brave stars pierced the dome of light above Las Vegas. I’d never noticed them before.
A sleek, black limo waited at the end of the drive.
“Your chariot awaits.” Teddie opened the back door with a flourish.
“We only have a few blocks. The walk will do us good.”
“We’re not going home.”
“What happened to movie night?” I slipped inside the cavernous darkness of the big car.
“Change of plans.” Teddie settled in next to me, his shoulder warm against mine. Holding my hand in his, a self-satisfied grin splitting his face, he announced, “We’re going on a real date—our first.”
A date? A bolt of excitement shot through me. “Where are we going?”
A finger to his lips, Teddie made a shushing sound. “Relax. I’ve taken care of everything.”
I rested my head on his shoulder, closed my eyes, and let go.
LIKE a butterfly in a cocoon, safe and quiet, I lost all sense of time and place, aware only of Teddie next to me, the warmth of his hand in mine, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
A soft kiss to my forehead, then Teddie whispered, “We’re here.”
“I don’t want to move.”
“I’m sure André would serve us out here, but it’s not quite the ambiance I was hoping for.”
My head still on his shoulder, eyes closed to the world, savoring the moment, I sighed, “André’s.”
A throwback to another time, André’s had been the place to go when Las Vegas served up glamour rather than glitz. Squirreled away on a nondescript street in a seedy section of downtown, the restaurant still reeked of movie stars, clandestine affairs, and well-dressed ladies and gents who thought a proper dinner wasn’t complete without a touch of beluga and a fine Bordeaux.
Bejeweled with twinkling white lights, trees stood like soldiers on guard beside the entrance. Through a small courtyard and a weathered wooden door, André’s exuded the warmth of a good friend’s home.
A small man with discretion etched in every feature, the maître d’ greeted us warmly. We followed him through several small rooms filled with the hush of diners enjoying an exquisite meal, to a cozy, private space in the back.
One table robed in white and decorated with silver and crystal occupied the small room lit only by candlelight. Subtle, sexy music wafted from unseen speakers. A waiter, gloved hands and a white cloth over one arm, pulled out a chair with an expectant look in my direction.
Once Teddie and I had taken our places, the waiter disappeared, leaving us alone.
“You don’t mind skipping popcorn and South Pacific, do you?” Teddie still held my hand, and he squeezed it.
“This is our own enchanted evening.”
Everything about André’s was perfect, from the upholstered walls, to the plants tastefully arranged to provide privacy without being claustrophobic, to the personal attention and the five-star food.
All of the momentous occasions in my life had been celebrated within the confines of these small rooms—my high school and college graduations with my mother, my various promotions with The Big Boss.
And now, my first date with Teddie.
“How did you choose André’s?”
“You mentioned once it was your favorite place.”
“Don’t they close shortly?”
“Not tonight.”<
br />
A waiter appeared holding a bottle of wine as if he bore gold to the king.
Teddie and the waiter went through the wine dance—sniffing corks, testing the bouquet. Teddie caught my eye and winked as he listened to the litany of attributes particular to his chosen vintage.
Tonight, his eyes seemed bluer than I remembered as they danced with delight, his smile brighter, his lips—that kiss had changed everything.
I no longer had a libido problem—I had a Teddie problem.
Raising his glass, Teddie said, “To beginnings.”
THE next two hours passed in a flurry of activity as waiters filed in with wonderful dishes, each one an exquisite work of art. Teddie had ordered everything in advance, relegating me to pampered delight.
We ate. We laughed. We talked. We got to know each other in a subtly different way.
The restaurant was quiet, our appetites sated, when the waiters cleared the table and disappeared.
Music played softly in the background.
“Dance with me?” Teddie rose and extended his hand.
I let him pull me to my feet. “Don’t the waiters want to go home?”
“Lucky, let it go.”
As the first strains of “Till I Loved You” wafted around us, he pulled me close.
Like two pieces of the same puzzle, we fit together—my curves filling his hollows.
Cheek to cheek, heart to heart, we swayed to the music, as Barbra Streisand sang a song of friendship growing into love.
OUR footsteps echoed in the empty lobby of the Presidio as Teddie and I strolled through, hand in hand. Even Forrest had abandoned his post. I had no idea what time it was, and I didn’t care.
“What a perfect evening.” I leaned into Teddie as we settled into the elevator and he pressed the button for my floor. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Teddie shifted my hand to his other one, then circled my shoulders, pulling me tight to him.
“I’ve never been treated like that before,” I said from somewhere near his shoulder.
The doors opened to my living room. For once the bird didn’t shout an obscene greeting.
“Want to come in?”
Teddie shook his head as he turned me to face him. “You’ve had a long day, and have another one facing you tomorrow.”
Both hands framing my face, he kissed me.
I stepped into him and lost myself as he deepened his kiss.
After lingering, he finally stepped away.
“Sweet dreams, Lucky my love.”
Chapter
FOURTEEN
The soft light of early morning slipped into my bedroom, seeping around the shades, bathing everything in the golden promise of a new day, and gently rousing me from a fabulous dream.
Teddie. André’s. The night came flooding back to me in waves of joy.
The dream wasn’t a dream at all.
I smiled at the memory.
Stretching, I luxuriated in the soft caress of fine linen sheets and the downy comfort of my feather mattress, then I sat up and swiveled my feet over the edge.
My room looked the same—gleaming hardwood floors, whitewashed walls graced by a few brightly colored pastels of desert scenes. The thick rug felt the same under my toes—I wiggled them, enjoying the feel.
Everything was the same—yet different.
Like a soaking rain in the forest, the hint of love brought a sparkle to the day. The colors were brighter. The air shimmered with the sun’s energy, as if the world—no longer muted by the mundane—held untold promise.
While the world sparkled at this ungodly hour of the morning, I did not. I needed caffeine.
Reality washed over me as I padded to the kitchen.
Teddie really was serious. He didn’t want to be just my friend anymore—he wanted more, much more, and sooner rather than later. Even though he had been restrained last night, his full-court press belied the lip service he’d been giving to the whole one-letter-at-a-time thing. He was leaping letters on his way to Z.
I punched the button on the coffee machine, and the grinder whirred as its blades bit into thin air. Damn, I’d forgotten to fill the thing last night. I busied myself with serious coffee preparation.
Warm cup cradled in my hands, I stared out at my city as the sunlight pushed the darkness of night over the mountains.
I loved Vegas—the city of dreams.
People came here to escape a life defined by all their previous choices—a brief respite from the burden of reality. For a scant moment in time, they were no longer a used car salesman from Dallas, a plumber from Chicago, or a factory worker from Detroit. They could be anything they wanted to be in the fantasy world of Vegas—handsome, virile, beautiful, rich . . . in love.
Like boulders pushed ahead of the flood, my thoughts came tumbling back. I was powerless to stop them. For me, Vegas wasn’t a fantasy world—it was my reality—a carefully constructed box with me on the inside and everybody else on the outside.
Teddie was banging on the door—a door hanging on one hinge.
Did I have the courage to let him in? Could I keep him out?
I took a sip of the warm brew and felt the caffeine jump start.
Who was I kidding? Like fine sand, the illusion of control slipped through my fingers, and triggered a distant memory—my mother, the specter of pain behind her eyes, announcing in a tired, resigned voice, “We can’t pick who we fall in love with, little one. Love picks us.” I didn’t remember the conversation or what had triggered it. Too young to understand my mother’s pain, the memory haunted me for years.
Would love pick me?
Would it bring the pain it had brought to my mother?
Was that really what I was afraid of?
The shriek of my alarm startled me as it echoed through the apartment. I’d forgotten to turn the thing off. Spilling coffee as I went, I trotted to the bedroom and silenced the offending device with one slap.
Enough thinking.
Time to face the day.
AS twin jets of warm water pummeled my body, kneading the tension from my neck and shoulders, I swiveled my head from side to side—no pain—a minor miracle. Turning the temperature to cold, I forced myself to stand there. The jolt added to the coffee jump start.
Adrenaline and caffeine—my drugs of choice.
After scouring myself dry, I wrapped myself in a thick, Turkish terry-cloth towel. Unfortunately, through the years I had developed an appreciation for the finer things in life. Sometime ago, a boyfriend had announced that I was officially “high-maintenance.”
I took that as a compliment.
I set to work doing battle with myself. The makeup I could handle, but the hair eluded me. The front part was easy, but without three hands, the back was impossible. That was the problem with styled hair—Linda’s creation was fabulous, but I could never duplicate it. All that money to end up feeling somehow inadequate and slightly disappointed.
Still, it was a vast improvement over my former shoddy self.
My dressing room beckoned—all five hundred square feet of it. Larger than my first apartment, it was lined with closet doors on two walls. Another wall held a full-length mirror, angled so I could see my rear view—on the off chance I could stomach it. Shelves of shoes rounded out the fourth wall.
An unrepentant clotheshorse, I’d been collecting designer clothes a piece at a time, as money allowed, for practically forever. Today I was in the mood for something flirty and fun, and a maybe a little bit naughty.
Escada. And I knew just the piece.
I twirled in front of the mirror. A pretty beige suit, with a delicate fitted jacket and a swing skirt. A sheer bright orange cami underneath. Bronze Dolce & Gabbana peep-toes, a cascade of David Yurman silver and gold, and I was set.
I fed the bird, my thoughtfulness rewarded with a “Get lost bitch,” grabbed my Birkin, and, surrounded by a balloon of happy memories—all thanks to the kind Mr. Kowalski—floated out the door to m
eet the day.
THE sharp point of reality punctured my balloon the minute I walked through the front door of the Babylon.
“Ms. O’Toole! Could I have your assistance, please?” The hint of panic in Sergio’s voice matched the look on his face. With frantic waving, he beckoned me to the front desk.
“How can I help?”
He gestured to a woman standing in front of him. “This is Ms. Hetherington. She is staying with us—”
“This man won’t help me,” the woman interrupted. “I have a problem and I need it fixed. Now!”
The woman, dressed in black from head to toe, smacked her gum as she talked. She didn’t smile. I wasn’t sure she could. A study in too much plastic surgery, her face was pulled as tight as a canvas on a frame. The heavily applied makeup didn’t help.
She motioned to a Loius Vuitton trunk open at her feet. “Honestly, I can’t see why this is so hard!” Hand on hip, she looked from me to Sergio and back again, then pointed to the contents of the trunk. “Smell that.”
Bending low, I was assaulted by the unmistakable stench of cat urine.
“Whoa!” The ammonia made my eyes water. “How did that happen?”
“The cats, of course.” She rolled her eyes, apparently put out at having to deal with me and my double-digit IQ.
“Whose cats?” My voice took on a flat tone. She didn’t notice.
“Mine, of course. Two Bengals and a long-haired Siamese.” She blew a bubble with the gum then smacked it loudly. “I thought they’d be fine, but I guess they got nervous or something.”
“You packed your cats?”
“Well, yeah,” she said, sounding like a teenager in desperate need of a parent to draw some boundaries. “What else was I to do? The airlines wouldn’t let me carry on more than one—even in first class.”
“Where are the cats now?”
She waved her hand indicating the lobby. “Somewhere out there. I don’t know. They ran when I opened the trunk.”
“Sergio, get hold of Jerry. Tell him to find those cats. They’re probably hungry and if they get into the baby ducks swimming in the Euphrates—” I stopped. I could visualize the carnage—feathers flying, blood in the river, children screaming—traumatized for life. “Just tell him it’s really important.”
Wanna Get Lucky? Page 21
