Lucky In Love

by Deborah Coonts

  “I don’t have the names. But no one can see in the windows on this car—the tint is several shades past legal.” Paolo grinned, but lines of tension bracketed his eyes. .

  “Well then, pull right up to the front door. After that, I’ll make it up as I go.”

  After opening the second gate with the magic numbers, Paolo eased the car through. Two white pickups with yellow lights and emblazoned with the Spanish Trail logo sat like sentries forming a gauntlet through which only the worthy would pass. From behind their mirrored Ray-Bans, the guards watched us.

  “Are rent-a-cops supposed to make us feel better or worse?” I mused out loud, not really expecting an answer.

  “Mostly they are here to make the residents behave. And to write tickets for exceeding the twenty-five-mile-per-hour limit.”

  “I feel safer already.” I leaned forward through the opening. “The house we want is that big one at the end—the one with the party house out back, and the naked dancing girls in bronze relief on the front door.”

  As it turned out, we couldn’t have missed it. A crowd ringed the front of the house—men and women with cameras and huge telephoto lenses looped around their necks, jockeying for position. All that was missing from this sideshow was a snake oil salesman and a guy selling funnel cakes out of his van.

  Paparazzi were like ants—once they got the scent, they closed in on the target, angling for a kill. You could push them, squash them, or run them off, but they always found a hole in the fence to get back in. I guess the members of the Spanish Trail security force either understood their limitations or had been contractually excluded from hazardous duty. Either way, they couldn’t be counted on for reinforcement in case we got in over our heads.

  As Paolo eased the big car into the driveway, he honked to clear a path through the throng. Experience had taught him to never allow the car to come to a standstill, so he kept it rolling, pushing people out of the way with the front bumper if he had to. Disembodied faces with hands cupping their eyes pressed to the glass, trying to see through the dark film. I could see them, but hopefully, my identity remained obscured. My name and photo included in an unsavory article about alternative sexual practices would probably do little for my upward career mobility. Although, worse things had been said about me.

  Clearly someone had told the photogs they had to remain off private property, so they lingered at the fringes. Of course, we were in a gated community so it was technically all private property—but, in an Orwellian sense, apparently some was more private than others. Once we made it through the throng, we traveled the rest of the way up the curved driveway unmolested.

  When Paolo brought the car to a stop under the porte cochere, I slipped over to the driver’s-side door and let myself out. I didn’t try to shield my face in case someone had found a good vantage position for a photograph—no need to look guilty when I wasn’t.

  Tape covered the doorbell so I was forced to use the knocker, which, as expected, was a set of brass... knockers. D cups, if I could hazard a guess. I wasn’t amused.

  The door opened after the first... bang, and Phil Stewart, in all his sleaziness, ushered me inside. “You have to get those camera people out of here. My guests are peeved. While they don’t try to hide their identities, they don’t seek publicity either. And some of them would be less than thrilled to have their faces on the national news.” Phil had unnaturally black hair, a perpetual dark tan, evasive eyes, and a manner in keeping with his overall repugnance.

  He turned and I followed him through the marble foyer to the back of the house. The house was unexpectedly quiet. The last time I’d been to one of his parties, all manner of activities I’d rather forget had been going on in the pool and the hot tub—although I did rather like the naked mariachi band. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to do anything you wouldn’t want to see on the front page of the Review-Journal?”

  “Mothers say a lot of stuff they don’t mean.”

  Even with Mona being what she was, that hadn’t been my experience, but I wasn’t about to share a personal tidbit with the likes of Phil Stewart. “If you didn’t want the publicity, why’d you let the celebrity couple in?”

  He waved a hand at me. “I don’t watch reality tv. How the hell was I supposed to know they were pop-culture curiosities? I just thought they were a tv producer and a plastic surgeon from Texas.”

  “Wait.” I grabbed his elbow, pulling him to a stop. “Are we talking about a nice, clean-cut African American couple? Tall. Thin. Warm smiles.”

  A sardonic grin lifted on side of his mouth. “What? You think normal people don’t swing? Normal is so boooring. Needs some spice. Know what I mean?”

  When fringe folks use logic, it weirds me out—especially if I find myself semi-agreeing. I mean, who aspires to “average”? I got it. Phil’s lifestyle might be unpalatable, but his logic was unassailable, which scared me. “Who’s that?” I pointed to figure skulking behind the bushes at the edge of the pool. As I watched, a hand parted the branches and a face peered through... a face I knew. With two angry strides, I reached the sliding glass door, threw it open, and charged through. “Flash, what the hell are you doing?”

  She popped out of the bush as if she’d been Tasered. “It’s my job. What’s your excuse?”

  “Same.”

  “There has to be a better way to make a living.” Flash brushed the leaves from her sweatshirt and jeans as she stepped into the open.

  “Selling my organs one at a time springs to mind.” I motioned her inside, which was akin to inviting the fox into the henhouse. Flash might be my best friend, but she was also the primo investigative reporter in Las Vegas. But, as all good friends do, I had major blackmail material on her, so I wasn’t too worried about her spilling the beans on my wayward Couple Number Four.

  “Nice to have a plan B.” With her red hair piled on her head in riotous curls, she looked like a cute troll, to the extent that wasn’t an oxymoron. Overdeveloped and overdone, she screamed Vegas. She also screamed bimbo, but that would’ve been way off base. She was as sharp as a card-counter with a new shoe.

  “What’s she doing here?” Phil Stewart asked, coming late to the party.

  “Good question.” Hands on my hips, I used my full twelve inches of height advantage to look down on Flash. “What’s your angle?”

  “An inside piece on why folks pick the swinging lifestyle.”

  Phil looked interested. “Names and faces?”

  “If anybody wants the publicity, sure. Otherwise, not necessary. I’m just curious, that’s all. And if I’m curious, I figure other folks are, too.”

  “Any money in it?” Phil narrowed his eyes like a cat eyeing a canary. He didn’t know it yet, but he was in way over his head with Flash.

  “Look,” I interrupted. “I’m in a bit of a hurry here. Can you hammer out the details later?”

  Flash looked at me, her investigative radar on high alert. “Where’s the fire?”

  I’d trust Flash with my life, so I told her.

  “Wow,” she said with wide-eyed wonder, when I’d finished. “That would hit the highlight reel for sure.” She gave an appreciative whistle.

  “Yeah, best plays of the week.” I grabbed her elbow. “But not this week. You owe me for giving you the inside track on the gal who took a header off the hotel.”

  “You’re writing the rules today.” She gave me her trademark grin.

  “Thanks.” I turned to Phil, who was still clearly contemplating all the media opportunities. “Where is everybody?”

  “We had to move the party to the gym.” He motioned me down a hallway to the right. “This way.”

  I wasn’t about to admit I knew the way. The last time I’d been aware of a party in Phil’s gym, Dane had gotten sucked into some sort of grope-fest in the dark—he’d been a little hazy on the details.

  “If you take your happy little couple from Houston back to the Babylon, then maybe, without the photo op, the Spanish Trail swat te
am can round up the voyeurs and the party can go on as planned.” Phil pulled open one of the double doors to the gym and walked through. He let the door swing back.

  Bad man, bad manners. Hot on his heels, I blocked the door with a stiff arm and kept on motoring. Of course, the last time I’d been his guest I’d spilt blood and threatened him with all manner of unmentionables, so no love lost.

  One of the Bee Gee’s classics played over the speaker system, which struck me as funny. Something about bartering sexual favors to a melody sung by a guy who sounded like he hadn’t reached puberty... I don’t know. Maybe I needed a very long vacation.

  People clustered in small groups, talking animatedly, sipping the beverage of their choice—while they evaluated the other... opportunities. Casual sex made me queasy. I needed to find my quarry and boogie.

  “Hey, O’Toole!” A booming voice. Male. “You come back to give us a try?”

  I turned and found myself face to face with the Most Reverend Peterson J. Peabody, otherwise known as Jeep, primarily because they had the same body style. At four hundred pounds, give or take, Jeep had the whole wide-body thing going on, yet he was a swinger. As was the missus, a petite little woman who never said much but smiled all the time. Maybe I should have some of what she was getting. A shiver of revulsion chased through me. Jeep and I had met under perhaps not the best of circumstances—someone had slipped him a mickey and my staff had found him out cold, naked as the Lord had made him, sleeping it off under the stairs.

  “Jeep! How the heck are you?” I wrapped him in a bear hug.

  He did the same to me—nice man, nice manners.

  “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” I said, as I stepped out of his embrace.

  “Well, our last trip sorta got interrupted by the whole... mess. You know.” He looked a bit sheepish. “So, we thought we’d come back for what we came for.”

  I knew there was a really interesting pun in there, but I rose above it. Instead I blushed—being visual can be traumatizing, trust me.

  Phil, who had rushed off when Jeep had waylaid me, returned with my targets in tow. Melina, carrying her shoes in one hand while trying to shrug into her dress, looked... as calm as if she was rushing to a hair appointment. John glanced furtively over my shoulder, eyeing the prey as he buckled his belt. He shot someone a wink, but I didn’t turn to see who.

  “I hear you guys need a ride back to the real world.” I crossed my arms, trying to look stern.

  “We just thought we’d have some fun,” Melina said, sounding as if they’d just gone dancing or something. “Burn off some steam. Know what I mean?”

  I wished everyone would stop asking me that. I didn’t know what they meant, not exactly anyway. And I didn’t want to.

  “I think you’re spoiling everyone else’s fun.” That took the smile out of her eyes. I poked John in the chest, trying to get and hold his attention. “You two have got to come with me.” I turned to Phil, who was licking his lips over a sweet young thing talking to some cowboy dude in the corner. “Phil, focus. Is there room in your garage to move the limo in there?”

  “Of course. It’s a ten-car garage and I keep most of my toys in Jackson.”

  I plucked my phone from its holster and called Paolo. He answered on the first ring, and I gave him the details of my plan, short and sweet. After disconnecting, I bade farewell to Jeep and turned to Melina and John. “Come on, you two.” I turned on my heel and marched out of the gym with happy Couple Number Four following behind. Phil Stewart trailed us like a coyote hoping snatch a lamb. I pretended he was a disgusting relative at Christmas dinner and tried to ignore him. In fact, I tried to ignore all of this. The concept of marriage as an overlay to the swinging lifestyle made my head hurt. It didn’t do too much for my heart either, so I shut it out as best I could.

  Love... in all its bastardizations. Enough to makes us all hard-hearted cynics. I hated it when people messed with the magic.

  Paolo had just squeezed the limo into the garage and was closing the door when I peeked my head in. I shielded my guests in case a wandering cameraman had sniffed out the plan.

  “All, clear, Miss O’Toole.” With his hat tucked under one arm, Paolo opened the back door with a formal flourish.

  “Quickly.” I stepped aside and directed Melina and John to the limo.

  Without a word, they scurried to the car and dove inside. After securing them in the back, I rode shotgun. As Paolo took his place and put the car in gear, Phil Stewart punched the garage door button, releasing us to the outside world.

  “You two keep your heads down,” I hissed through the window to the back. “I think you’re safe behind the tinting, but right now is not the time to test my theory.”

  We made it through the gauntlet of popping flashbulbs and crushing crowds, going back through the east gate and out onto Tropicana, where Paolo picked up speed. As we moved with the traffic, I began to relax. No one seemed to be following us, so that was good.

  Propping my elbow on the ledge between the driver’s compartment and the back, I rested my chin on my arm as I eyed my charges. Both of them seemed unflustered, their smiles in place as they held hands. “I must admit, very little surprises me these days, but you two managed just that.”

  “Why? Because we’re the perfect couple?” Melina asked with a sigh. “Everyone says so, you know.”

  “That you’re the perfect couple?”

  “Yes,” John weighed in. “We’re tired of hearing it actually.”

  “You don’t agree with them?”

  Melinda shrugged as she glanced out the side window, then back to me. “I don’t really know. We certainly seem to agree on a lot of things.”

  “Yes.” John nodded. “Like the Hockney painting we acquired recently for our living room. What a coup!”

  “We practically stole it out from under a French investor. He was livid.” Melina settled back with a self-satisfied look.

  “Hockney.” I pursed my lips as I mentally reviewed some of his works I was familiar with. “What was it about the painting that called to you?”

  Melina and John looked at me as if I’d switched from English to Swahili.

  “How do you feel when you look at it?”

  “Feel?” They said in unison.

  Clearly communication was not in my skill set today. “Why’d you buy it?”

  “It made sense,” John answered.

  “A brilliant investment,” Melina added.

  “Do you like the painting?”

  Both of them shook their heads. “Not particularly,” John said, with a quizzical frown. “Why?”

  “Art is like love,” I explained, as if I really knew what I was talking about. “It should hit you on a visceral level. Of course, the purchase can be intellectualized, but the connection to the piece should be emotional.” I ignored all the puns in that statement. I had no intention of undermining my own beliefs—my hold on them was tenuous enough as it was.

  “Really?” Melina asked in a small voice. “Is that what love does?”

  “I’m no expert, but that’s been my experience.” I sort of rolled my eyes—me counseling anyone on the meaning of love was like a jackleg preacher proselytizing from a bible he’d never read. “What were you looking for at that party back there?”

  John chewed on his lip as he looked past me, over my shoulder. “I don’t know. Something that’s missing, I guess.”

  The three of us fell into silence, lost in our own thoughts.

  Love. What folly to try to intellectualize an emotion. “Do you mind if I ask you guys a question?”

  “Fire away,” John said as he leaned back, his face open, his posture inviting. Melina nodded her agreement.

  “Why are you getting married?”

  “One, we’re compatible.” John started ticking the reasons off on his fingers. “Two, we both are well educated, intellectually curious, and seem to see the world through a similar prism. Three, our families will stop bugging us. And four,
we’ll make beautiful children—if we ever find the time.”

  “Looks good on paper,” I agreed. “A sound intellectual decision. But something’s missing. Can you live with that?”

  “You never get everything you want.” John announced. Hurt flashed across Melina’s face.

  “But what you have, is it enough?”

  “Of course,” John announced, crossing his arms across his chest and narrowing his eyes.

  Melina still looked hurt. “I don’t know,” she added in a small voice.

  * * *

  Miss P was just disconnecting from a phone call when I pushed through the office door. “Do you believe in happy endings?” I asked, hoping she would restore my faith.

  As she re-cradled the phone she gave me a quick perusal. Today she sported vintage Versace—scalloped skirt, lace cami, and fitted jacket—a pair of sensible Ferragamos, hints of gold and diamonds at the appropriate spots, and a knowing look. “I will assume you are not referring to the kind of happy ending men buy from Miss Minnie.”

  Her short blond hair was gelled into pointed tips, which I thought sort of matched her personality. Tired of sitting and still a bit antsy, I parked one cheek on the corner of her desk as I glanced through the pile of messages. “Let me rephrase. Do you believe in happily ever after?”

  “Are you finding it hard to keep your head when all around you are losing theirs?” Miss P could cut to the heart of the matter even better than Mona, who was an expert at wading through my obfuscation. A peaceful look settled over her face, softening her features. “Love shows up when you stop looking.”

  Miss P had been resigned to a life of comfortable solitude when the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock showed up. Fifteen years her junior, a walking, talking Australian god straight off Bondi beach, and one of Las Vegas’s best private investigators, Jeremy had taken one look at Miss P and lost his heart. Despite all of his obvious assets, kindness was his best feature—proving once again that good things can come in pretty packages.