“She didn’t leave with them?” Romeo asked in his detective voice.
“No, I talked to her after the paramedics had taken away the body.”
“Terrific,” Romeo said. “Now we have two disappearing magicians.”
Chapter Five
“DO you own a gun?” Dane’s voice sounded from the doorway.
“It depends. Who do you want to shoot?” I didn’t look up from the pile of paper I was still working on, despite another hour invested.
“I’m serious.”
“What would I need a gun for?”
“It might come in handy—you never know. That guy last night didn’t seem to have too much trouble breaking into your building.” Dane sat on the couch and stretched his long legs in my direction.
I tried not to stare.
“Your place would be even easier.” Dane gave me that look, as if he knew what I was thinking.
It made me a little hot and bothered which, lately, wasn’t at all unusual.
“We established that fact already, thank you.” I’d never thought of gun ownership before. Always a Pollyanna, I’d had a sense of security in my apartment—a false sense, apparently.
“You should really think about protecting yourself.”
“A gun seems like overkill, don’t you think?”
“Sarcasm, the defense of last resort.”
Dane really was too clever for my own good.
“I know this guy,” he continued, eyeing me with those unsettling green eyes. “I could hook you up.”
“Whenever someone has told me ‘I can hook you up,’ it has always turned out badly.”
“If you’re trying to sidetrack me, it won’t work—I have a one-track mind.” Dane said, his face a mask.
“The curse of the Y chromosome.”
Momentarily at a loss for words, he shot me a dirty look.
Two points for the home team. I resisted a victory smirk.
“Seriously, let me take you to the shooting range. You can get the feel for handling a firearm, then we can go from there.”
“Shooting at something does sound appealing.”
“Great.” He slapped his thighs as he rose to go, then threw me a look as my words registered. “I’ll pick you up in front of your place. I’ll be the one wearing a flak jacket. Is eight o’clock tomorrow too early?”
“In the morning?”
“It’s best to get there early. You wouldn’t believe the number of folks interested in firing fully automatic weapons.”
“It’s fun to be naughty.” I slapped my hand over my mouth the minute the words escaped.
“I wouldn’t know. I’m a good boy,” he deadpanned.
“My ass.” I threw up my hands. My mouth could get me in more trouble…
Dane laughed. I wish he’d quit doing that. At least he was a good sport, letting me hang myself with my own rope.
“I’ll meet you out front at eight, although I can’t promise I will be even marginally functional,” I said. “And for the record, I don’t want some wimpy, girly gun.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Would that be a technical term?”
I felt like sticking my tongue out at him, but didn’t. I was in over my head as it was.
He turned to go.
“Oh,” I said, stopping him. “A chance to squeeze off a few rounds with an Uzi would be… cathartic.”
He gave me a long look over his shoulder, but didn’t ask for more. I liked that. Damn.
As I watched his perfect backside disappear out the door I wondered exactly when I had lost the ability to say ‘no’ to Dane.
***
Signs of life in the outer office stilled and the phone stopped ringing by the time I signed the last piece of paper on my desk. Being a people person, I had initially been overwhelmed by the mountain of office work that came with my job. At first, I thought I would use the “Goodwill” method to handle it all—let it accumulate, then get rid of anything I hadn’t touched in a year. That worked until the piles of papers began drifting to the floor… and until Miss P took to filling my chair with the offending missives.
With far too much glee, I took the whole stack of signed documents and deposited it in my first assistant’s chair. Two could play this game.
Giddy with the thrill of victory, I retrieved my Birkin and stepped to the mirror in the tiny bathroom to make necessary repairs. After touching up my lipstick and combing my hair, I stowed the tools of the trade and took stock of my reflection. Not bad, but still nothing any poet would write a sonnet about, if they even did that anymore. Once I had been the inspiration for songs Teddie had written, but now he followed the beat of a different drum—and I hadn’t heard that song in a while.
Teddie’s call last night had been the first in a long time—okay, it’d been five days, seventeen hours, and thirty-two minutes… but who’s keeping track? When he first left, I’d tried reaching him, but any attempt rolled to voice mail. After a while I quit—his explanations for being out-of-pocket didn’t ring true and I desperately wanted to avoid any hint of desperation. The truth of it was, with time and distance, while I missed him in my bed, I missed talking to him most of all. Once upon a time, we’d been best friends.
Now I didn’t know what we were. Why I kept the home fires burning, I don’t know. Loyalty? Inertia? The spine of a jellyfish? Who knew? The whole thing clouded my days as if someone painted my vision with broad strokes from a bucket of gloom—which was so not me.
Even I was getting tired of myself.
Grabbing the plans for the new restaurant and tucking them under my arm, I took a quick look around. Back from dinner, Miss Patterson burst through the outer door just as I clicked off my office light. Her glowing face, her lilting laugh, an odd distracted look in her eye, told me the Beautiful Jeremy Whitlock was in range.
Hot on her heels, he filled the doorway—all six foot two, two hundred and something pounds of delicious Aussie. Golden brown hair that matched his eyes, broad where he should be and not where he shouldn’t, with dimples to set a girl’s heart aflutter, Jeremy had taken a shine to Miss P and never looked back. Since their first date, they’d been stuck together like two hard candies in the summer sun until they’d almost melted together, impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.
“Hey Lucky! Maybe you can tell me.” Jeremy said when he caught sight of me.
Over his shoulder Miss P shook her head, her eyes wide and scared, her smile vanishing.
“Tell you what?”
“My lady’s birthday is coming up, but she won’t tell me which one. Do you know?”
“Yes.”
He rubbed his hands with glee as he winked at Miss P. “So, which is it?”
“If Miss P doesn’t want you to know, do you really think I will tell you?” I brushed past him as I said to Miss P, “Forward the phones to Security, close up, and head home. I’ll be off-property, but close by. If anything comes up, I can be reached on my cell.”
“Can’t you give me a hint?” Jeremy gave me his best hangdog look as he put himself between the door and me.
“Silly man,” I put a hand to his chest and moved him aside. “I wouldn’t betray a friend if the fate of the free world hung in the balance.”
He shot me those dimples. My heart fluttered. God, save me from myself.
I checked my cell—the battery was charged, the power on, no missed phone calls, no voice mail (What else was new?)—then dropped it in my pocket. “I gotta run. If I don’t hurry a certain Frenchman will lace my dinner with arsenic, and I won’t see tomorrow.”
Tardiness offended Chef Bouclet, especially when he was cooking.
***
At the stroke of seven, the elevator disgorged me on the top floor of the Athena. I followed an empty hallway covered with threadbare carpet, past walls plastered with grimy wallpaper dotted with lighter squares that marked where artwork had previously hung. At the far end of the hall, the double doors to the former flagship restaur
ant stood open. The restaurant had been “Closed for Renovation” since the chef walked out almost a year ago.
Now a vast empty cavern—dingy and worn, the carpet torn, the hardwood floors scratched and bare, the light fixtures old and broken—the space held none of its past glory. However, with high ceilings and 180° views of the Strip through its walls of glass, it held promise.
I followed my nose and the sound of whistling—the tune sounded strangely like “La Vie en Rose”—which led me straight to the kitchen. Jean-Charles Bouclet, his back to me, whistled as he jiggled pans, and peeked under lids.
“You better be nice to me or I will report you to the French Ministry of Culture,” I teased, then delighted at the hand-caught-in-the-cookie-jar look on Jean-Charles’s face. “I thought true Frenchmen disdained that silly tune as American-inspired drivel.”
“I am whistling it for your benefit,” he replied, a smile breaking his face as he wiped his hands on the cloth hanging from his waist and rushed to greet me.
He was most definitely très magnifique. Trim and tall enough, a few years older than me by my best guess, Jean-Charles carried himself with regal bearing. His soft brown hair curled over his collar and his blue eyes sparked with his every emotion. His smile, albeit infrequent, could take a girl’s breath. Tonight he wore his chef’s attire, which covered what I knew to be a godlike physique and a nice ass. And then there was that accent.…
He took my hand and lifted it to his lips, surprising me. We’d not crossed the business formality barrier before. My hand pressed to his lips, he raised his eyes to mine, catching them for a moment. Even though I was prepared for his act, my pulse leapt. When his skin touched mine, something shifted inside me. Clearly, my body had lost any discernment whatsoever—starved for attention, now any male would do. Even one who was shallow, and transparent, using his considerable charms to get his way.
Typically French, Jean-Charles elevated seduction to an art form. Like a birthright, he wore the manner of a man accustomed to females dropping at his feet, offering him their souls—and everything else.
That was so not me. And he was so not my type. I repeated this last phrase over and over in my head in hope that I would actually believe it. Unfortunately, men like Jean-Charles were everybody’s type—at least for a weekend.
Culinary wunderkinder are like magicians—all sleight of hand and illusion—their celebrity status hinging on their ability to make us believe we are fools if we can’t recognize their genius. Jean-Charles Bouclet had the formula down pat. On a good day, I found the whole prima donna thing silly. On a bad day, I found it irritating. Today had not been a particularly good day.
“You are beautiful,” Jean-Charles said, looking as if he actually meant it.
“Thank you.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t trust you when you’re being nice. If you’re trying to butter me up, it won’t work.”
“Why would I spread you with butter?” His eyes, a delicious shade of robin’s- egg blue, widened with innocence.
“You wouldn’t, not if you know what’s good for you. It’s a saying that means you are being nice to get something you want.” I couldn’t tell if he was playing me or not. I didn’t like to be played.
“Ah,” he said, but he didn’t respond to my implication.
Still holding my hand he led me to a small table next to the gas stove. Patting a stool he said, “Sit.” He poured a bloodred wine from a decanter into a pencil-stemmed glass as I took my position on the stool as ordered.
Leaving the plans rolled up for now, I set them on the floor at my feet, next to my Birkin. “Whatever you are cooking, it smells delicious.”
“But of course.” He turned his attention back to the various pots and pans. Using the towel to protect his hand, he lifted lids and tossed contents of sauté pans. “Did you know they have a farmer’s market here? It is open all year,” he said in a pleasant, conversational tone as if he were talking about the weather rather than girding for battle.
“Civilization finds Las Vegas, the last outpost?” At his frown, I turned off the sarcasm. If he wanted to be civil before first blood was drawn, I could rise to the occasion. “No, I didn’t know. I don’t cook.”
“Food is one of the pleasures of life,” Jean-Charles announced with that approachable arrogance the French mastered and made uniquely their own. “Perhaps I will educate you to its pleasures.”
The innuendo irritated me, but I had my answer: He was playing me. I pointed to the stove. “Tell me what you’re cooking.”
Jean-Charles’s mouth formed a thin line. “Cooking is such a common term. Your mother cooks. I create.”
He obviously didn’t know Mona. Her only experience with a kitchen was to walk through it on the way to the garage. “Sorry,” I said, not feeling the least bit remorseful. “What are you… preparing?”
His frown indicated he didn’t find that word any more appealing, but he let it go. “This new hotel… Cielo, non?” He paused and gave me that Gallic look, quizzical yet confident.
“Cielo, yes. A Spanish word meaning ‘Heaven,’ ” I confirmed unnecessarily—the man spoke five languages. “Cielo, as the refurbished Athena will be known, will be Vegas’s first green property, completely environmentally friendly.”
“So I thought.” The chef nodded, his mouth still set in a firm line. “I have done many restaurants. All are wonderful, but you give me a problem.”
“I’ve been told I’m good at that.”
“I would believe that, yes. But this problem I have is what will be this wonderful restaurant I will make here, in this, how do you say it? This green hotel?” When he said the word green, his face contorted as if he’d taken a bite of lemon.
“The idea of eco-friendly may not be palatable, but I assure you it is timely. And don’t think our guests will be reduced to rubbing two sticks together to heat their bath water. A stay at Cielo will be a luxurious, indulgent experience. I’m counting on you for food to match.”
“Your Big Boss has much faith in you.” Jean-Charles cocked his head as he looked at me. “I do not think it is misplaced. You are a force.”
“Remember that,” I said in all seriousness.
“I cannot forget.” Jean-Charles’s eyes snapped with sudden anger. “You disgraced me in front of my staff.”
“You disgraced yourself—I merely cleaned up the mess.” Our first duel had been over broken crockery and a temper tantrum.
A moment passed, then he gave me that Gallic shrug and a disarming smile, breaking the tension, but he had given me a glimpse behind the mask. “Perhaps you are right, but let’s not talk of such things now.”
“You were telling me about your idea for the concept of this restaurant?”
“Oui. To be consistent with your earth-friendly theme, I want to build this restaurant around locally grown, organic produce and locally raised, natural beef and poultry. The seafood will be flown in fresh, of course.”
“You do know we are sitting in the middle of a desert?”
“A trifling matter.” He dismissed my comment with a wave of his hand, as if swatting at a pesky gnat.
“If you throw enough money at it,” I growled, mostly for my own benefit. The line in the sand had been drawn.
“Try your wine, it has breathed long enough,” Jean-Charles suggested, shelving the battle for later.
When it came to wine, I didn’t need to be asked twice. Grasping the stem of my glass, I lifted it, peering into its maroon depths, then swirled it and watched the legs of the wine trail into the glass. I took a sniff, then a taste, letting the lush liquid linger on my palate and the elegant bouquet fill my nostrils before finally swallowing.
“There are only two wines in the world,” I said in answer to Jean-Charles’s raised eyebrow. “A fine wine from Bordeaux and everything else. What is this? I’ve not tasted it before. It’s balanced, subtle yet complex, with a knockout nose—full-bodied with a hint of fruit. Black currant, maybe. Absolutely divine.”
“A ten year old bottle of Chateau Lafite-Rothschild. And you described it perfectly.”
Chateau Lafite-Rothschild! A wine served to royalty. An elixir of the gods! Jean-Charles had broken out the good stuff— the heavy artillery. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or to run for cover.
“It exceeds its reputation. You were saying?” I prodded.
He stared at me for a moment, as if his thoughts had flown. “What?” he said.
“The farmer’s market? Organic? Natural beef? Fresh seafood?”
“Yes, yes.” He refocused. “The farmers market will be a good resource. I’ve worked out deals with various vendors already. What they can’t get locally, they bring from California.”
“Your menu will change with the seasons, then?” I took another sip of wine and groaned in delight, eliciting a delighted grin from my chef.
“Perhaps weekly, even daily, depending on what I can get.”
“You’re making it very hands-on. How will you handle that when you move back to New York?”
Our contract required he design the restaurant, develop the menu, train the staff, then conduct quarterly inspections once he had everything running smoothly. The assumption had been he would return to New York and his namesake restaurant there.
Bending down, Jean-Charles used the towel to pull open the door of the oven. Incredible aromas billowed out. “I’m not moving back.”
“You’re not?” My glass halfway to my lips, I stopped. I thought my heart skipped a beat—the ultimate mutiny. Surely I imagined it.
“I find life here interesting.” The chef gave me a wry smile and a half shrug. “I am liking the burger restaurant—Americans have curious palates.”
While waiting for his space in the Athena, Jean-Charles had opened a gourmet hamburger restaurant, to resounding applause, in the Bazaar at the Babylon.
“You don’t find Vegas culturally bereft?”
“Perhaps, but this city has other treasures. We can be… friends, oui?”
So Damn Lucky (Lucky O'Toole Vegas Adventure Book 3) Page 8
