Luck Be a Lady (Tahoe Tessie Mysteries)

by Halliday, Gemma

  "What? It's beautiful."

  I nodded in agreement. "For a black tie event and someone with an aversion to panties. I love my panties."

  "Touché," he mumbled.

  The third dress was gorgeous with dark blue fabric, modest skirt, and cute halter that tied behind the neck. Then I lifted the hanger, and it slid into two pieces. The dress was perfect for a cardio whore addicted to abdominal workouts. Britton would look fabulous in it, but so not me. Not that my stomach was bad, I just didn't much care to display it for all to see.

  I discounted the next three dresses on their neon colors alone, which left me with the last dress. Tiny capped sleeves gave way to a fairly low scooped neck, and blue-gray satin that made me smile.

  Tate bounced up and down, clapping. "That's the one I figured you'd choose. It actually has you written all over it." He reached in the bottom of the bag, pulling out shoes. Not just any shoes, mind you. Actual Christian Louboutins. (So different from the Krisjon Louisbitton version from China that I owned.)

  "Size seven, right?" Tate asked.

  I squealed like a little girl. Then I glanced at the tag on the dress, sporting a huge designer name with a price to match, and reality slapped me in the face. "I can't afford this. You'll have to send them all back."

  "The beauty of this proverbial buffet of clothing is you don't have to pay a dime. All I did was drop your name, and they said I could take whatever I thought you'd like."

  "They just let you take all of this?"

  "Well, I was escorted by a security guard, but he was cute. Win-win. Just send back what you don't like, and keep what you want, free of charge." He pulled out a receipt with all of the clothing listed, all zeroed out with a place for me to sign. "Evidently, ownership has some major perks."

  I flopped on the end of my bed with the silky dress draped across me, staring at the Louboutins Tate still proudly displayed.

  He carried the shoes over, tugged me into a sitting position, and sat next to me. "Just wear the outfit for tonight. You can take it back in the morning."

  Those words actually made sense and filtered past my mother's long-ago threats of burning anything I brought home from the boutique. It wasn't like I'd be the first woman to ever return a dress after the party she'd bought it for. I'd just make sure I didn't spill anything on it, right?

  He enveloped me in a hug and muttered into my hair, "You deserve to be pampered. Let's just pretend we are Cinderella and Prince Charming for the night. I'll even return my clothes tomorrow, if it will make you feel better."

  Tilting my head back, I smiled up at him. "I'm pretty sure Cindi and The Charmer wouldn't go watch naked men shake their naughty bits, but I get what you're saying." The distant look in his eyes told me he was either pondering my words or picturing the naked men dancing.

  "But," I told him, "if you're going to pull off Prince Charming, you'll have to brush up on your straight guy act."

  His spine stiffened, eyes narrowing into a sultry gaze. With a subtle nod of the head, he whispered, "'Sup?"

  Giggling, I reached a hand to his soft cheek. "Thanks, Tate."

  He winked and waggled his brow. "Now, go put on that cute little dress and work those awesome shoes."

  As I stood from the bed, he swatted my butt. I turned at the bathroom door and gave him my best glare. "Don't push your luck, my friend."

  "Just practicing my straight guy."

  "Most of them don't smack with their pinky out, just so you know."

  He shoved his hands behind his back. "Noted."

  The dress fit perfectly, other than the missing six inches or so at the bottom. It didn't matter how many times I tugged, the hem still hit mid thigh. I slid my feet into the soft leather shoes, and they molded to my toes. I stood, and it felt like I was walking on stilletoed clouds. When I returned to Tate in my room, his mouth dropped open.

  "Damn, girl." He grabbed my hands and spun me around. "I've never seen you look more beautiful." Tears welled in his eyes.

  "Stop it." I swatted at his arm. "I don't want to have to redo my makeup."

  He pushed a little matching leather clamshell purse into my hand. "Now, let's go ogle some hotties."

  I felt very self-conscious as we paraded through the lobby, partly because of the dress and partly thanks to the previous media frenzy. Luckily, the news crews were nowhere to be seen, but people still stared, whispered to one another, and pointed in our direction. Tate soaked up the attention, his chest puffing right along with his ego. While I blushed and turned away from most spectators, he nodded and did a Miss America wave. All he needed was a decorated float and a tiara.

  The crisp night air swirled around us as we crossed the street to the Deep Blue. The dark concrete building greeted us with flashing blue neon framing every possible angle. A mammoth television screen over the entry displayed a loud, pert blonde woman, touting hotel and casino amenities and drink specials. As we entered, an enormous aquarium nearly filled the open, atrium style lobby. Four stories tall, the tank housed several sleek, grey sharks. Brightly colored schools of fish shifted and darted from their every move.

  An awful, unnatural shimmer off to the side caught my attention. Weston was in his signature silk shirt, standing in the VIP section of the casino, surveying the tables as if presiding over his subjects. Tonight's offering was a poison green color. I briefly wondered if he wore them as a way to rival the neon in his casino.

  Tate tugged on my arm, pointing toward the growing line to our right, behind a long velvet rope. "We're going to get crap seats. Come on!"

  I patted his hand and pulled away. "Save me a place. I have to use the ladies room," I lied, one eye on that shirt, remembering the odd exchange I'd witnessed at the lounge the night before.

  After a dramatic sigh, he agreed, "Fine, just hurry up. Text if you can't find me."

  Nodding, I moved toward the restrooms. Then as Tate blended into the crowd, I switched course, making my way to the VIP section where I'd spotted Weston. The area consisted of a handful of tables, only distinguished as better than the non-VIP area by their shiny, gold embellishments and pricier buy-ins. The section was raised up a level from the main floor, separated by a waist-height blue neon wall and a rather large man with 'security' stretched across his broad chest. He barred my way as I tried to enter.

  "I'm sorry, Miss. This area is reserved for VIP guests only."

  I pointed toward the silky glare. "I just need a moment with Mr. Weston."

  Mr. Bulky blocked my every move in Weston's direction, his blank facial expression unchanging.

  "Please?" I purred, batting my eyelashes, adding a slightly pouted lip and wide doe eyes.

  His eyes narrowed, but I watched as he raised an arm to his mouth, chatting into a microphone somewhere in his sleeve. I readied myself to be tossed from the casino, hoping they didn't scuff my new shoes in the process. Instead, I was surprised to see Weston appear at Mr. Bulky's side.

  "What can I do for you, Ms. King?" He took a large draw from his cigar and spewed a billow of smoke in my face.

  I waved it away, trying to retain my professional composure. Once able to breathe, I asked, "What you can do is tell me what you were doing at the Royal Palace yesterday."

  He planted the cigar firmly in the corner of his mouth. "Whatever do you mean?" It bobbed with each word.

  "I saw you in the lounge. What was in the envelope you gave to my valet?"

  "Oh, that was just a tip for excellent service. Mr. Carvell asked me to deliver it, you know, since he didn't feel safe going over there himself." The cigar-less side of his mouth curled into a malicious grin, matching the rest of his creepiness.

  My gaze narrowed on him. "And the other guy?"

  Weston blinked at me. "Other guy?"

  "Joe Pesci."

  Weston's eyebrows formed a "V", a chuckle escaping his mouth. "Honey, I can assure you I have not been cavorting with movie stars."

  I shook my head. "Not the real Joe Pesci. The look-alike. They guy who g
rabbed the envelope from you."

  Weston's face transformed into a perfect blank. It was the spitting image of every poker player I'd grown up watching at my dad's tables. "I can't imagine who you're talking about."

  I had a pretty good idea he knew exactly who I was talking about. And the fact he was lying about it aroused my suspicions all the more.

  Frustrated, and fairly certain I would get nothing more from him, I shook my head and turned away.

  "By the way, you looked great on the news tonight!" he bellowed over the dinging machines.

  I stopped, anger churning inside me. I considered spinning around with a snappy retort but chose to keep walking, instead. Mainly because after the day I'd had, I was fresh out of anything resembling snappy.

  By the time I got back to the roped off area outside the show, only a few people milled about. The man running the door waved us away. "Sorry, the show is at capacity."

  Already beyond hacked off, I pushed my way to the front, and barked, "My friend is saving a seat for me."

  Staring at his clipboard, the doorman rolled his eyes. "At least be creative, sweetheart."

  "Sweetheart?" I seethed. "Listen here, douche-nozzle, my name is Tessie King and I—"

  But I didn't get any further as his eye popped up from his clipboard, recognition finally dawning in them. "Ms. King. Of course there's room for you. Let me show you to your table."

  I had to admit, I could get used to throwing my name around like this.

  The club pulsed with DJ mixed tunes, the lights flashing with the beats as we wound through groups of patrons. Heavy red curtains draped in front of the stage matched the rich tablecloths dotting the crowded room. Several spinning disco balls speckled the walls and people with twinkling lights.

  Tate bounced from his seat at a small table only two rows from center stage. Always the gentleman, he greeted me with a huge smile, pulled out my chair, and helped me get situated.

  He set an apple-tini in front of me and yelled over the music, "Drinks are on me tonight!"

  Had I not just passed a sign touting buy one-get one free, I'd have been touched. I gulped the green drink, then signaled the scantily clad waitress with a gesture toward my empty glass. Nodding, she disappeared in the chaotic crowd around the bar.

  I glanced around at the sea of women's faces. The occasional bored man blended in, with the exception of a few of Tate's friends, who came screaming toward our table. I found myself very happy for the loud music. They giggled, pointed, and squealed until the waitress returned with two drinks for each of us. Then Tate group-hugged his friends good-bye and sat down. The alcohol induced warmth spread through me as I sipped at my second, releasing some stress from the past few days just in time for the DJ to announce the show.

  A sexy male voice hummed over the loud speakers, "Without further ado, give it up for the Deep Blue Male Revue!" The heavy red curtains parted, revealing six men wearing bright yellow raincoats and hats. The song It's Raining Men filled the air, as each dancer tossed his hat into the audience. One landed on Tate's lap. Swooning, he clutched the floppy plastic to his chest, squealing at the top of his lungs.

  Women rushed the stage, varying in age from barely legal to barely breathing. Makeshift bridal veils covered in condoms and other novelty bachelorette pieces spotted the crowd. I pulled my other drink to my lips, very disappointed to find it empty and unsure if Tate or I had drunk it. With Tate desperately trying to make eye contact with the man who threw the hat, I slid his extra drink toward me. The men teased the crowd, slipping a shoulder out of their coat, flashing their shiny yellow G-string at anyone waving a dollar in their direction, grinding their hips to the beat of the music. They were all chiseled and beautiful, and as cheesy as the setting was, I was having a hard time not enjoying myself.

  I blame it on the apple-tini that my mind started to wander, irrationally putting one hot snowboarder with bright green eyes in those raincoat outfits. I had no doubt that his abs rivaled any that were currently gyrating in front of me. I bet he even had those kinds of moves. Athletes were agile like that, right? I felt myself go warm, suddenly imagining those kinds of moves horizontal. All of my teen fantasies about Rafe had always ended in an innocent kiss and declaration of undying love. But my rising blood-apple-tini level now had my mind running wild into a very not innocent territory about the guy I was not dating.

  I frowned, memories of the way I'd so vehemently protested to Agent Ryder that I was not coupled with Rafe suddenly invading my pleasant trip to fantasyland. Why had I done that? I mean, so what if the media thought I was with Rafe? Or if Agent Ryder thought it. I mean, it's not like I cared what Ryder thought. It was none of his business who I was or wasn't dating. I'm sure Agent Ryder didn't care. I mean, it's not as if he had any stake in my being single.

  Let's face it, between the two of them, those guys ran the bad-boy gamut. Rafe was a dark, devilish playboy. The kind of guy a girl thinks only she can tame. Ryder was a tall, built, mystery man. The kind of guy a girl thinks will open up just for her. Of course, the logical woman in me knew both statements were pure crap. Bad boys only led to bad breakups and bad ice cream binges where you spent hours crying to your cat about how you should have known better.

  You know, not that this had ever happened to me, personally.

  But even as I knew the truth of that situation, I couldn't help my mind sliding over Ryder's tussled look that afternoon. Tie askew, sleeves rolled high enough to show off tanned, toned forearms. Casual had looked good on him, I decided, sipping at my drink again. The way his hair had mussed when his hands ran through it reminded me of how it must look when he rolled out of bed in the morning. I pictured him as the kind of guy who slept in his boxers, bare chest, probably just a light, silk sheet covering his…

  Good God, was I picturing Agent Ryder in bed?

  I gave myself a mental shake, downing the rest of my drink as I focused on the show.

  A few girls got pulled up on stage, and Tate immediately turned a wide-eyed glance toward me, looking like a kid pleading for ice cream.

  I shook my head. "Oh, no. No way."

  But he ignored me, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the stage, knocking into several girls standing nearby in the process.

  "Sorry," I mouthed. Head spinning, I felt myself being hoisted onto the stage by a dark haired Adonis who immediately wrapped me in his arms, swaying me seductively to the music.

  Carpe Diem, right?

  I had enough alcohol spinning through my system that I tossed caution to the wind and moved along with him to the beat of the music. I was even a little sad when I felt Tate tugging the hem of my dress. His hands gripped my hips, and I fell back into his arms.

  His very strong arms.

  Sobering quickly, I turned around and, instead of finding my dancer-ogling friend, I looked up into the face of a very befuddled FBI Agent.

  Oh damn.

  Smoothing my dress back into place, I gave one more tug in a last ditch attempt at those extra few inches from the hem. Not that I had any dignity left to cover. "Agent Ryder," I muttered, looking everywhere but directly at him.

  He nodded in my direction, a grin tugging the corner of his mouth. "Ms. King."

  I cleared my throat, trying to shove down the image of him in boxers and nothing else, lying on silk sheets that I somehow could not shake from my brain now. That's it. I was never drinking apple-tinis again.

  "What are you doing here? I thought you were off the case," I said, hoping the dim lighting covered the blush taking over my features.

  I looked up to find Tate standing directly behind Agent Ryder, emphatically mouthing the word 'yum'.

  Agent Ryder leaned down and said, "I have other interests here."

  I glanced back and forth between the male dancers on the stage and him. Obviously hearing Ryder's admission, Tate began dancing behind him, mouthing 'he's mine'.

  "Other interests?" I cocked my head at the half-naked men on stage.

  Agent Ryder's
grin turned to shock. "No!" he said quickly. "Not that kind of interest. I mean, not here, here, but here."

  Agent Ryder was flustered. Cute. I couldn't help the grin transferring to my face now.

  He cleared his throat. "I saw you entering the revue. I followed you in. End of story."

  Tate's dancing came to an abrupt halt. Shoulders slumping, his face fell into a pout. I must have been staring, because Agent Ryder turned toward him.

  Tate stood tall, nodded at Ryder and muttered, "'Sup?"

  I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  After shaking Tate's hand, Ryder faced me again. "This isn't exactly staying out of the public eye."

  "Alfie chased the media away," I told him.

  "From the Royal Palace."

  "Oh." It was a good point, and one I hadn't thought of. I looked around the assembled bachelorettes and soccer moms gone wild. While I didn't see any news channel insignias blazoned on their shirts, it wasn't out of the question that those cell phones in their hands were filming me and not the hotties on stage.

  "What exactly are you doing here?" I asked, turning the focus back on him.

  He shook his head. "It's an official capacity."

  "I thought you were off the case."

  "Of your father's death, yes."

  I waited for him to go on, but he just stared at me. Or, more accurately, at my cleavage. "It's kind of low, right?" I admitted.

  He blinked his eyes up to meet mine. "What?"

  "The neckline. I know it's too low, but it's not my dress. See, I'm just borrowing it. I don't normally dress like this," I said, tugging my hemline again.

  I watched Ryder's Adam's apple bob up and down. "You should. You look…" he paused, his eyes sliding to my hemline. "…great."

  I felt my face flush, but before I could respond, Tate—clearly losing interest in the heterosexual Ryder—was grabbing my hand and pulling me toward the stage again.

  "Look, fresh meat!" he cried, pointing to a new crop of dancers on stage.

  I glanced back over my shoulder, but Ryder was gone, melting into the crowd and taking off on whatever "official" business had brought him here in the first place.