Lucky In Love (3 page)

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.

* * *

M
iss 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?”

E
lla 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.

“Vanilla nut cut with milk, just the way you like it.” At my raised eyebrow, she continued. “Miss P called. She said you weren’t... up to speed today.”

“That’s one way of putting it.” I smiled as I took the proffered mug. My body practically vibrated in anticipation. Caffeine, a drug of necessity—thank god it was still legal. “I left a warm bed and a hot guy so I’m not feeling all that magnanimous, I’ll admit. So forewarned is forearmed.”

She lowered her eyes and colored a bit.

One sip of coffee and my whole body sighed. “You will be rewarded by the gods, thank you. Now, come, show me what you’re thinking for the wedding.”

Apparently unwilling to be cast out of the spotlight any longer, Ella pounced. “
Lucky!”

I winced. “Too many decibels, Ella. Can you please use your inside voice?” I took one of the three chairs that Delphinia had pulled together in front of the altar/dais/podium/whatever—the place where the minister would stand. Minister that would be Ella. With her over-the-top personality, she was just Vegas enough.

She collapsed in a heap into the chair across from me, her full skirt billowing like a parachute giving up the wind. As if beating glowing embers scattered on a breeze, she patted down the fabric. Finally, she came into view—all four feet, eleven inches and ninety pounds, including several pounds of strawberry blond hair that cascaded in a magnificent wave down her back and well past her butt. Batting her green eyes at me, she looked stricken.

“Isn’t it a bit early for you, Ella? Aren’t we cutting into your couch time?” I savored another sip of coffee and felt a few brain cells come on line.

“
Oh,”
she waved a delicate hand. “I’ve cleared my calendar for the next few
days
. Can you
believe it?
They hired me as an
expert
on the
Forever Game
. I’m to give some insight into what makes a couple, you know,
compatible
. We’re looking for the couple most in
love
!” She clasped her hands together and wiggled like a puppy. “Isn’t this
fun
?”

All of this came out in a mellifluous accent carefully steeped in the cauldron of the Deep South—if I remembered correctly, some tiny burg outside of Birmingham, the name of which always eluded me. Why did a Southern accent sound stupid on men—but sound like mint juleps, cool linen, and gentrified manners when dripping off a female tongue? I had a feeling I wouldn’t like the answer. It probably had something to do with stereotypes and expectations that would flip me to the pissed-off position, so I didn’t waste the tiny dollop of energy I had thinking about it.

“And of course I’m going to
preside
at the
wedding
!” Ella emoted, punctuating her words with grand gestures. “That’s why I’m here, actually. What will
you
be providing for the
production
?”

“Local color,” I said, with a straight face.

Delphinia, who had taken the chair next to mine, also kept a bland expression, but her eyes sparkled as she refilled my mug from a coffee pot I hadn’t noticed on a side table.

Ella’s forehead creased into a frown. “
oh
. Well, that’s just
great
, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I’m lucky that way.”

“You
do
know that your sarcasm is a defense?” Ella announced in an unexpectedly quiet voice. “We should have a session on that.”

So, she did have an inside voice. Who knew? I looked at her over the top of my mug as I drained the steaming brew. “In my line of work, an offense is rarely available, so a defense is vital.”

“You always have a quip.”

“A substitute for an answer when I don’t have one. But, I really don’t want to go there.”

Ella pouted as she looked down, picking at a thread sticking out from the bottom buttonhole in her perfect little cashmere cardigan—in a dusty rose that just missed clashing with her hair color. Her shoes matched her cardigan.

How did one do that? Better question—why? I preferred being a fashion casualty—that way no one had any expectations. “Thank you, though.”

That perked her up. Southern women and their manners: comfort in insincerity.

Delphinia cleared her throat. “I thought perhaps I would start, then Ella can have her say.”

* * *

T
he
meeting took a bit longer than I’d budgeted, and I was hurrying with my goodbyes when Teddie’s voice boomed from the doorway. “Lucky, woman, are you in here?”

Delphinia glanced at me, a question on her face.

“The hot guy.”

“Oh.” Interest sparked in her eyes, turning them an interesting shade of purple.

“Come, we can all say hi.”

Teddie remained outside, lurking as if afraid to enter into the House of Matrimony. I chose not to be worried about that—to be honest, I wasn’t all that comfortable there either.

Ella bolted in front of Delphinia and me. She waggled her fingers at Teddie, “
hi
, handsome.”

Teddie bussed her cheek as expected. “Ella, you look competitive, as always.”

“Oh, you say the
nicest
things.” Ella swatted his arm.

“And you,” Teddie said, turning his attention to me. “You look good enough to eat—a feast for the eyes and food for the soul.”

Now it was my turn to color as he grabbed me, dipped me over bended knee with a flourish, and then righted me. Pulling me close, he wrapped me tight and kissed me—slow and purposeful, like he really meant it.

My knees went weak. My breath caught. Nothing like a distraction to keep me focused.

When Teddie had made his point and air once again filled my lungs and blood reached my brain, I let Delphinia engage Teddie in a bit of small talk while I tried to marshal my elusive composure—something near impossible when Teddie was close by.

With pleasantries exchanged and quick goodbyes said to Ella and Delphinia, Teddie grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the hotel lobby. “Come on. Hurry.”

“What?” I laughed as I let him pull me along. “Is Hugh Jackman stripping in the lobby?”

“If he was I sure wouldn’t tell you.” Teddie slowed his pace a bit. “They’re taping the first segment of the game show—the initial interviews. They asked me to be the Vegas celebrity judge.”

“Since you’re such an authority on long-term relationships,” I teased, with just the teensiest hint of sarcasm.

“Hey, I’m staying a chapter ahead of the class.”

“I guess that makes you an expert.”

* * *

B
y
the time we hit the lobby I’d taken two phone calls, and messages were cueing up faster than fans waiting for Lady Gaga tickets. Clearly, I was out of fun time. Teddie didn’t seem too broken up about me not being able to play. He was harder to read than ancient hieroglyphics, even with the friggin’ Rosetta stone. Lately, though, he’d been stuck in “me” mode—one of the curses of the chromosomally challenged. To be honest, I found it really tiresome, and a bit insulting. As if my responsibilities didn’t matter. Perhaps I was being petty. Perhaps not. Frankly, I didn’t have the time to tackle that Gordian knot.

Nor the patience. Today, crossing the lobby was like trying to fight my way downriver during spawning season. Two-by-two, hand-in-hand, couples streamed in through the front entrance, making a dash for the casino and Teddie’s theater beyond, where preparations were underway for the game show taping. No one stopped to gaze in awe at the thousands of blown-glass hummingbirds and butterflies that swooped across the high ceiling, nor at any of the other awe-worthy features. A river of humanity flowed past, effectively cutting me off from the stairs to the mezzanine and the relative serenity of my office.

My phone rang just as I was timing my leap into the throng, risking bodily harm in the name of five-star service. I glanced at the caller—my office—then pushed to talk. “Make a note. When the time comes to renegotiate my compensation package, I want to add hazardous duty pay as a benefit.”

“It’s too early for whining,” Miss P stated, as if it was a rule written somewhere.

“It’s never too early for whining, but there are times when it may be way too late.” I switched my phone to my right ear as I ducked into a small alcove, and stuck my finger in my left. Why had no one thought of inventing a noise-cancelling cell phone? “What can I do for you?”

“Have you seen Rocco Traveneti and Gail Fortunato?”

“Couple Number One? No. Why?”

“They’re a no-show for the taping. Trey Gold is starting to panic.”

“Can security shed any light?”

“Jerry said he lost them in the Bazaar.” If Jerry lost them, they had skills.

“I was just there at the Temple and I didn’t see them—not that I was looking—but I’ll head back that way, see if I can pick up their trail.” I turned to scan the lobby. “Keep security on the lookout. The eye-in-the-sky is our best bet. This place is a zoo.” The eye-in-the-sky was our system of highly sophisticated cameras monitored by security. Of course, the casino was the most closely watched, but we had feeds from all corners of the property.

I reholstered my phone and considered my options. The entrance to the Bazaar was just to my right, between the entrance to the casino and Reception. For once I was glad my progress had been impeded. After negotiating along one wall, I retraced my steps and once again ducked into the Bazaar. The crowd was thin. I popped my head into a few shops, but no luck. A bit too glitzy for New Jersey tastes, I thought.

Now where would two kids from the Garden State choose to land?

Trey Gold caught me in front of Samson’s, the Babylon’s beauty salon where females of all shapes and sizes could be primped, polished, and attended by in-the-flesh facsimiles of the Biblical hero. “You!” He stepped into my space—we would’ve been nose-to-nose but for a rather serious height discrepancy in my favor. He smelled like cheap gin, or bad cologne. “This is your fault.”

“Most likely—along with the balance of trade deficit, inner-city blight, poverty in Africa, and all the rather unsavory uses for a Saturday Night Special, which, by the way, conjures something altogether different here in Sin City. No doubt about it, I am a one-woman wrecking crew. You’d be well advised to steer clear of me.”

A few strands of his helmeted hair had broken free and ran across his forehead. His countenance, still an unsettling orange, held not a hint of the fury I could see in his eyes. His breathing was shallow and rapid, and he didn’t look well—the same as before, but not well. He stared at me a moment through red-rimmed eyes. Then, like a puppet whose strings had been loosened, his posture, rigid with righteous indignation, sagged. His shoulders started to shake.