The Housewife Assassin Gets Lucky

by Deborah Coonts

  “Well, we usually stop short of making any accusations where the members are concerned, but the dealer would like some assistance, yes. The man in question is beating the odds by a large margin.”

  And killing the house. “He’s a member, then?”

  “Yes.” I could almost hear the wrinkle to her nose in distaste.

  “I assume security is rolled in on this?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They have been watching, but nothing so far.”

  “Have you been able to identify any accomplices to the man in question?”

  “Bathrooms are empty. The other players are known and not doing anything that would raise suspicion.”

  A lone wolf. “On my way.” I tested my feet, still steady, then headed for the door. A pause in front of the mirror confirmed I didn’t look any better than I had yesterday, probably didn’t smell any better either, but I would have to do. I pressed the housekeeping button on my way out—cold food congealing in my room when I returned would not be appealing. A text pinged my phone as I strode toward the elevator. Jean-Charles again. I hadn’t answered his first text. And since I still didn’t have anything to tell him that wouldn’t piss him off, I ignored this one as well.

  Delaying our come-to-Jesus-moment would only make it worse. But, right now, I was maxed out and just didn’t have the fight in me.

  Identifying the table in question proved easier than I’d thought. The other gamblers had abandoned nearby tables and now stood in a ring three people deep, each person jockeying for a view. With a few whispered pleases and excuse mes, I wormed my way through until I wedged myself next to the dealer, keeping him between me and the guy with the hot hand who was seated to the dealer’s left five seats down. “Hey, Adam,” I whispered, my mouth close to the dealer’s ear. “Looks like you’re the center of attention tonight.”

  A thin, dark-skinned, earnest-eyed young man with a penchant for numbers and a calm, efficient manner at the table, Adam Kalb had been with us for several years, practically since the day we’d opened the club. I’d hired him myself and I hadn’t been disappointed.

  He smiled but didn’t turn as he centered his attention on the game. “Yes, ma’am. This particular gentleman does run hot and cold, but he’s super-heated tonight.”

  Hence the reason he’d pushed the button to gain some special scrutiny from Security and management. “Anything overt that hit your radar?”

  His mouth turned down at the corners. “Not that I could see.”

  A cheer went up as the man won yet again.

  “I think I’ll dig a little deeper, see what kind of snakes I can find.”

  This time Adam flicked a side-glance my way. Dark, soulful eyes betrayed his concern. “Be careful, Miss Lucky.”

  His warning struck me as a bit over-the-top. The guy was a card sharp mining for dollars, well, pounds, at my establishment. Not the best way to be invited back. Everyone in the casino was an invitee and, as such, they could have their invitations revoked on a whim. The card counters were shown the door. The cheats were prosecuted. The key was figuring out which one we had tonight. I backed out of my tiny human parking place and repositioned myself halfway down the table on the dealer’s right.

  A man sat opposite me, chips piled in front of him, his blue eyes aglow with the thrill of the chase. His blonde hair was cut short—the gel was unnecessary, but an interesting insight. Tonight, he wore a white dinner jacket, a hand-tied red bow tie, and a tilt to his lantern jaw. Did men get to wear white after Labor Day? I couldn’t remember, but he did look out of season if not out of place. A James Bond wannabe. London clubs were full of them. But he did have the look that everything in life was a wager, a weighing of the odds. Intriguing, but way overdone.

  He glanced up quickly, then away, then back again almost as quickly, this time for a longer look. I met his gaze and gave a welcoming half-smile. He took the bait, motioning me around the table.

  I eased into the seat next to him which another gentleman, tapped out and ready to repair to the bar, had vacated. “I’m Lucky.”

  He pressed a gentle kiss to the back of my hand. Warm. Sensual. Guess he blew right by the ring on my left ring finger. “No, it is I who counts myself lucky.” He managed to say that with a straight face. Clearly his skills exceeded mine, which triggered a warning bell.

  “My name is Fleming. Dominic Fleming.” He even used the Bond. James Bond inflection.

  I narrowed my eyes slightly, hoping to bring him into focus. The whole shtick was designed to disarm me with charm, I could see that. Despite it having the opposite effect, I figured playing along for a bit wouldn’t hurt. “You are having a good evening, so far?”

  “It just improved greatly.”

  I painted on a smile and prayed someone would turn him off…or break his nose. “Tell me, how is it you have such luck tonight?” Cheating, most likely. He had cards hidden somewhere—the trick would be finding them.

  “If you’ll let me buy you a drink, I’ll tell you.” He motioned to the dealer to cash him out as if I’d already agreed.

  The guy was getting on my last nerve. I waited while the dealer counted the chips then handed Dominic his receipt. He held the back of my chair, then pulled it out as I rose allowing me to exit from the table easily. Maybe he was no gentleman, but he was certainly going through the motions.

  He headed toward the lobby.

  “The bar is the other way.”

  “I’d rather run naked through Hyde Park than drink the swill they stock here.” He gave me a smile that only partially hid a leer. “I have proper refreshments in my room.”

  So, when exactly did I lose the upper hand here? I followed him onto one of the newer elevators. He pushed three.

  My floor—a curious bit of synchronicity. He stopped halfway down the hall. “Here we are.”

  With a view of the brick wall of the adjacent building, his room wasn’t nearly as posh as mine. Add in the heart-shaped bed with a mirror over it and I’d swear we were back in Sin City. “I didn’t know…” I decided silence was safer, so I bit down hard on the foot I’d already stuck in my mouth. He was clearly a man with lots of money and no taste. “Mr. Fleming, what do you do exactly?”

  He gave me the once over. “Win.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  Either he missed it, or he was blinded by some personal Double-0 Section fantasy. “You look like a bubbles kind of lady.”

  “Bottled bubbles, yes.”

  “I assume Krug is sufficient.” He bent to reach into the fridge, giving me a nice ass shot. Acceptable.

  I watched him carefully to make sure he didn’t offload any cards he might have had up his sleeve.

  When he handed me my flute of bright bubbles, I jumped in before he could work his angle. “So, tell me.”

  He looked bemused. “What?”

  “How you were able to take so much off the house tonight.”

  He held his glass to the light. “They say the best winemakers capture light in a bottle when they craft Champagne.”

  “I prefer to think happiness. I live in a world filled with light.”

  A slight purse of the lips preceded an almost imperceptible nod followed by a taste. “Nice.” He raised his glass. “To happiness.”

  I raised mine then tested my bubbles, letting them linger on my tongue. Little explosions of happiness. “So, how’d you do it?” No way was he distracting me with all the genteel manners, the suave accent, and the tight ass. Okay, maybe a little, but he tried way too hard to be taken seriously.

  “Take money off your house?”

  So, he knew who I was. Idle fancy or something more? “Yes, my house.”

  “You think I cheated.” As he took another sip, his expression remained impassive—not even a hint of offense clouded his baby blues. “How?”

  “Well, no identified accomplices, so changing out cards, I should think.”

  He opened his arms wide. “Then they should be somewhere on my person. You’re welcome to look for the
m.”

  A game. I could see it from the glint in his eyes. Regardless, I had to call his bluff. “Take off your jacket.”

  The corner of his mouth ticked up as he did as I asked, shifting his flute from one hand to the other. On the crook of a finger he extended the jacket.

  I checked the pockets and the lining. No cards. I laid the jacket on a wing-backed chair by the window. No way was I going near that bed.

  “What next?”

  I stepped in close to him, which made him shiver as he leaned in. The warmth of his skin radiated through the thin cotton of his shirt as I ran my hands over his torso. Six-pack? Check. Nice pecs. Check. Lats that flared just enough. Yep, those, too. Muscles roped down each arm. Unlike his personality, his body was drool-worthy…and not hiding any cards. I leaned back.

  He raised an eyebrow—there was challenge in the invitation.

  Circling him with both arms, I dipped two fingers inside his waistband, and ran them along the inside. Still no cards. Reaching the front, I dipped further.

  A sharp intake of air, followed by a warm chuckle.

  I looked down to hide my smile. He was enjoying this distraction even more than I’d hoped. Squatting, I ran my hands down his legs then lifted each cuff, checking his socks. “You’re clean.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the glint of something gold shoved under the bed. While I made a fuss of straightening his pants legs and making sure the cuffs were crisp and placed, I took a harder look.

  The purse!

  The white and cream Hermès Kelly bag! I wasn’t dreaming. The lady I’d seen at the elevator wasn’t a figment. She was real.

  And she’d been here!

  “I’m blessed with a gift for card play.” Fleming’s declaration brought me back.

  I couldn’t let him know I’d seen the purse. I forced myself to calm and plastered on a smile as I let him help me to my feet. “And not for foreplay, I’m afraid.” I had to get out of here. I turned on my heel and made for the door.

  He darted around me. For a moment I thought he’d try to block my exit. Instead, he held the door open. “Until next time.”

  He hadn’t spilled a drop of the Champagne.

  I could feel him watching me, so I turned toward the elevators—I for sure didn’t want him to get a bead on which room was mine.

  Knowing I shouldn’t, I glanced back as I waited for the elevator.

  He raised his glass and gave me a wink.

  What game was he playing? And what had he and the woman wanted with Aziza?

  Forty hours. That’s all I had left to figure this out, solve the murder and save life as I knew it.

  As the elevator slowed, I braced myself for energy and excitement, an intoxicating mix. When the doors opened…nothing. Oh yeah, London. Julie still manned the front desk. “Pay Mr. Fleming his winnings, but please encourage him not to play too often.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Just call me Lucky. Ma’am makes me feel old.”

  She stood there blinking rapidly. I got it. To a twenty-year-old I was Methuselah.

  “What do you know about Mr. Fleming?”

  Julie’s face flushed—the pink of anger that drew her mouth into a thin line. “He’s quite the flirt, and rather indiscriminate. We get a lot of complaints about…” Her face flushed crimson.

  Remembering the heart-shaped bed with the mirror above it, I shuddered. “I bet. He keeps a lot of money in play?”

  She nodded. Keep enough money working for the house and management would turn a blind eye, even indulge a member’s proclivities. But, I had my limits. “Any idea how he makes it?”

  “Imports, or so he says.”

  Carrying the whole Bond thing to the absurd. “Right.” We shared a smile—Bond, a common thread through generations of women. “Who’d he come in with?”

  Julie glanced around, then leaned across the counter, her voice hushed. “Princess Maja of Sweden. She’s rather fond of red leather.”

  My mystery lady favored Chanel and Hermès.

  My stomach growled. That half-bowl of pasta had evaporated. “If anybody needs me, I’ll be in the kitchen conning someone into cooking me something decent.” Jean-Charles would know just what to fix. Teddy would know how to make me laugh. And I wasn’t sure I wanted either of them. Teddy couldn’t be trusted—he’d broken my heart once already. And Jean-Charles had a full life, one I’d have to fit into rather than the other way around. So far, he hadn’t struck me as a meet-in-the-middle kind of guy. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure I had any compromise in me either.

  Life, it always exacted a price for a gift.

  At the far end of the casino, under the overhang of the Security mezzanine, I pushed through a set of swinging double doors and walked right into the middle of an argument.

  Nigel Ahern was nose-to-nose with a man of Middle Eastern descent, if I had to guess. Both were red with anger. Nigel had set me up to deal with Dominic—he hadn’t gone home. But I’d deal with him later.

  “Where is my rug?” Nigel said—clipped word darts.

  “Exactly, where is my rug? You called me to pick up three, but there are only two.”

  “There were three here earlier today.” Nigel’s implication was clear—the man had stolen it.

  A head taller than both of them, I inserted my rather large body between them. “Gentlemen.” I wormed my hand next to my chest, then extended it as best I could toward the man I didn’t know. “I’m Lucky O’Toole, owner of this establishment.”

  He looked at me through tiny slits for eyes. “You’re the boss?”

  “Yes.”

  He turned away from Nigel, a look of haughty triumph on his face. “Then you are who I will do business with.” He wiped his hand on dirty trousers. “I am Mr. Dehkordi. People just call me Dek.” He pressed a hand to his chest. “Like my father before me, and his father before him, I am the best Persian rug man in all the land. I come every month to take the rugs to clean them, sometimes more often if necessary. Earlier, I received a call to pick up three rugs tonight and return them tomorrow. This is very difficult. The rugs are delicate works of art. But I will do this because you are such a long and good customer. When I get here, there are only two.”

  “There were three.” Nigel injected his venom into the conversation.

  I looked at the rugs—two tubes of carpet rolled for pick up. Then I looked around the rest of the kitchen area, then peeked around the corner to the butler’s pantry. “What’s that?” I pointed to a metal door maybe four feet square, the handle on the bottom.

  “What?” Nigel was having trouble following my shift.

  “That.” I pointed again.

  “The dumbwaiter.”

  Not something we had in Vegas. “Where does it go?”

  “The Royal Suite.”

  A dumbwaiter. A missing rug.

  I knew how the killer had gotten into the Royal Suite and how she’d gotten Aziza’s body out.

  12

  Donna

  “Why won’t Dominic pick up?” I grouse to Jack.

  It’s almost nine o’clock in the morning. In the past few hours the rest of the team has gotten numerous texts from Ryan, increasingly alarmed that Dominic has yet to call in.

  I’m dialing our British operative’s cell phone for the fifth time. This time, however, I’m not hanging up until I get him on the line.

  To face me, Jack rolls over on the bed to give me his full attention. “Your guess is as good—or as bad—as mine.”

  “By ‘good,’ do you mean that he may still be in bed with the O’Toole woman?”

  Jack laughs. “You’d have to ask her if it was ‘good.’ It’ll give you gals something to dish about.”

  I stick my finger in my mouth and feign a gag reflex, then retort, “I have many questions for Lucky, but Dominic’s so-called prowess is not one of them—”

  “A pity, Old Girl—since it’s all too obvious you’d welcome a bit of spice in your drab little housewifely life.” Thro
ugh the phone, Dominic’s voice is cool and clipped.

  It’s also loud enough that Jack can hear him too. While my face flushes, Jack purses his lips to keep from laughing aloud.

  I shush him before putting the phone on speaker. “It’s about time you picked up,” I chide Dominic. “Ryan is practically apoplectic with worry!”

  “He need not be,” Dominic retorts sulkily. “I was just catching up on some…sleep. Everything is under control.” He sounds a bit put out.

  Jack and I exchange worried glances. “How was your encounter with Ms. O’Toole?” Jack asks.

  “My winnings at the baccarat table caught her attention, and she accepted my invitation to join me for a drink in my room,” he responds airily.

  “Talk about ideal circumstances,” I reply.

  “So, did Lucky reveal anything to you?” Jack asks. “And by that, I don’t mean the obvious.”

  “What Jack is asking is did you get anything out of her?” I ask.

  Jack smirks as he adds, “As opposed to putting anything into her.”

  “Crikey, Craigs! Get your minds out of the gutter!” Dominic, usually the punster, actually sounds disgusted. “If you must know, nothing was, as Jack so vulgarly puts it, ‘revealed’ by her…or for that matter ‘put into’ her.” His sigh drips with disappointment. “Instead, she gave me quite a dressing down.”

  “Not in the usual way, I take it?” Jack does nothing to hide his glee.

  “I only wish!” Dominic sounds practically wistful. “Admittedly, I was manhandled a bit by Ms. O’Toole. Unfortunately, it was only a pat-down to assure I hadn’t cheated at the baccarat table.”

  “Did you?” I ask.

  “My darling Mrs. Craig, I keep secrets, or I discover them. But I never reveal them.”

  I’m sure it’s Dominic’s pomposity that has Jack rolling his eyes. “What happened next?

  “Oddly enough…nothing.” The word sticks in Dominic’s throat. “From the look on her very beautiful face, she certainly appreciated what she felt—literally, if not emotionally. But the moment the pat down was completed, she…well, she just took her leave!”