“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.
* * *
The 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.”
<
br /> 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.
I was content to wait—while I didn’t like overbearing people any more than the next guy, I appreciated a woman who walked into a room like she owned it, commanding attention.
After a quick tour, she stopped in front of me. “Are you with the hotel?”
I stuck out my hand, “Lucky O’Toole, Head of Customer Relations. I assume you are Ms. Salter?”
She took my hand in her long, thin cool one. I hoped my palms weren’t sweaty. “A pleasure. This is lovely. Thank you.”
I dipped my head and then motioned to Miss P. “This is my assistant, Miss Patterson. I can assure you, she is the oil in this machine. All of this is her doing. We both are at your service.”
Veronica Salter shook Miss P’s hand as well. So, she had manners to match the uniform. Done with the preliminaries, she turned to me as she worked off the other glove. “A manager who casts the glow on her employees. You and I will get along just fine, Ms. O’Toole.”
“Lucky.”
“Lucky, is it?” She arched one perfectly plucked eyebrow, and her lips curled into a grin. She was warmly pretty when she smiled. “Then you must call me Vera.”
“I can’t make any promises—generally such familiarity with our guests is frowned upon.”
“Honey, I am no guest. I’m a paid contestant in this dog-and-pony show.”
“Vera, where do you want all your shit?” The voice was masculine, but with a whiny quality that sent a shiver of distaste through me. “I mean, what?” he continued. “Am I one of those Roman slaves or something? What are they called?”
“Cretins?” Vera asked sweetly, a hint of honey dripping nicely from the two syllables.
I had to turn away and bite my lip. The man in question looked like Malibu Ken: blond hair, golden tan, buff bod, white shirt open one button too many, fitted slacks, and worn loafers with no socks. Well dressed, but lacking the polish of the well heeled. With his blue eyes, comfortable face, and broadness where he should be broad, he was male pulchritude at its finest—except for the pouty mouth.
“Cretins?” The man stretched out the word and scowled like a first grader struggling with phonics. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”
“Don’t think, honey, just put the stuff in the bedroom.” Vera glanced at me, a question in her eyes.
“Back there, through the double doors.” I pointed to the far end of the room. We both watched the man I assumed was Guy shoulder two trunks and head for the bedroom. I guess he’d beaten back the army of valets we had waiting in order to do his lady’s bidding.
“Don’t ask,” Vera said, turning her attention back to me. “I have a habit of picking poorly.” She glanced again at Guy as he maneuvered the luggage and his bulk through the double doors. The man-and-luggage mountain barely fit through the doublewide opening. “He is sweet, but not the right one.”
“You and I have more in common than meets the eye.”
“Really?” Her mask slipped a little, revealing the lonely lady underneath—she sounded wistful and a bit sad. “You are kind to say so.”
Somehow, squeezing her in a hug seemed inappropriate, so, fresh out of ideas or words, I remained mute where I stood.
“Mr. Handy is an actor—the latest in a long line,” Vera explained. She shrugged out of her suit jacket and handed it to the butler who had been lurking outside the door and who now rushed to her side. “He’s not even a very good thespian, but he can remember his lines. We had no idea we’d get this far.”
I wondered what she would do if she actually won.
* * *
Miss P and I left Vera and Guy to work out their arrangements—with the help of their personal butler and two bellmen. We hurried to check the last bungalow before the guests arrived. Bungalow Four was a mirror image of Vera’s bungalow, but with vases of riotous orange tulips instead of the roses.
I took a quick turn around the space while Miss P waited just inside the doorway. “Tell me about this couple.”
“Couple Number Four.” Miss P consulted her clipboard. “John Farenthall and Melina Douglas. He’s a plastic surgeon, and she is a newscast producer at the abc affiliate in Houston.”
“Plastic surgeon? Interesting.” I plucked a leaf that had turned brown from the stem of a day lily. “And Melina, what a beautiful name.”
“Thank you.” The voice, warm and smooth, startled me.
I turned to find myself staring at a tall woman—almost my height—dressed in a simple, bright-yellow shift, gold sandals, and a wide smile that lit her whole face. Her skin was the color of rich coffee with a dash of milk. She wore her hair cropped short, which accented her fine features and large, expressive eyes.
I extended my hand and once again made the introductions.
Pleasantries exchanged, Melina clasped her hands and held them to her chest as she wandered the room, her face holding a kid-at-Christmas delight. “This is lovely.”
“There you are, darling.” A voice boomed from the doorway.
Tall and lean, John Farenthall was the perfect matching bookend to Melina. His skin a rich mahogany and his eyes alight with a hint of mischief, his already warm smile deepened when he saw his future bride.
She extended a hand to him, which he stepped forward to take. “Isn’t this perfect?”
“I’ll say.” His eyes hadn’t drifted from Melina.
When she looked at him and caught his meaning, she ducked her head shyly. “Would you quit? Look.” She gestured around the room. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
He pursed his lips and nodded. “It’ll do.” Which elicited a giggle from his intended.
“We were conned into this, you know?” he said, turning to me. “Our families conspired against us, entering us in the competition. We never would’ve done it on our own.”
Melina stepped closer to him, snaking an arm around his waist as she looked at me. “With John trying to get his practice up-and-running and my eighty-hour weeks, our family despaired of us getting married. They threatened us with bodily harm if we didn’t play along.”
“Woe be it to anyone who crosses my mother,” John added, with a grin.
Melina looked a bit stricken at the mention of her future mother-in-law; when her happy-face slid back over her features, her eyes didn’t mirror the smile. “And here we are.”
“Well, welcome.” I eased toward the door, herding Miss P in front of me. “If we can enhance your stay in any way, please let us know.”
I took a deep breath and shook my head as I closed the door behind us, leaving John and Melina to themselves.
“Interesting cast,” Miss P remarked.
I shrugged in agreement. “Let the games begin.”
“Speaking of games, where do you want me to park Mr. Gold?”
“Put him in Room 30145.”
Miss P looked at me for a moment. “Buttering him up, are we?”
Chapter Two
Ella Blue usually spoke in exclamation points. Psychiatrist by day, mail-order clergyman by night, Ella presided over most of our formal couplings at the Babylon. Even with the noise of the shoppers in the Bazaar, the underlying happy music, and the cacophony of thoughts pinging around my empty skull, I could still hear her as I approached the Temple of Love. “This is Loely! Delphna, you are a dear. An absolute dear!”
Delphinia, the Babylon’s resident wedding planner, and I had a noon appointment. Otherwise I
would still be home asleep. Two hours of shut-eye. I groaned and rubbed my eyes as I paused outside the grand entrance to the Temple.
“I love these flowers.” I could picture Ella, her hands clasped, dancing around like a Valley girl in a Saturday Night Live skit. I never could tell whether her mannerisms were affectations or reflections of an intellectual deficiency. “Everything is so... so... perfect.”
Perfect—not the adjective I would use. Ella wasn’t exactly what the doctor ordered. There wasn’t enough coffee in the universe to jump-start my day, so I was trying to ease into it. Stepping into the darkness within, I paused to let my eyes adjust.
From the outside, the Temple of Love resembled a ziggurat—huge stairsteps of large sandstone blocks, with a grand entrance flanked by double wooden doors replete with a beam to secure them against an invading hoard. We hadn’t had to use it yet—although Rudy Gillespie and Jordan Marsh’s commitment ceremony would have caused a stampede had it not been held in the Big Boss’s apartment. But that beam might come in handy yet—I had a feeling the upcoming wedding that would finish off the tv show might spark a riot of shutterbugs eager to memorialize a fleeting pop culture moment.
The interior of the Temple was a vast space, uncluttered but for some reed mats covering the floor and subtle palms softening the corners—an empty room which the happy couple could furnish as they pleased. Flames under glass dotted the walls and provided a warm, welcoming glow.
Delphinia excused herself from Ella and rushed to meet me with a warm smile and a steaming mug of coffee clutched in both hands. To the casual observer, Delphinia was the personification of plain—until you looked into her eyes. Deep pools of violet, they were windows to an old, kind soul.
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