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  Her eyelashes did the flutter routine again. "No way!" she gushed. "Who ever thought that Tornado—" She paused, clearing her throat, a slow smile creeping into place before she reworded her barbed statement. "Who would have thought you would be owner of a cute little place like this?"

  "Excuse me?" I heard Tate bristle, suddenly appearing at my side. Apparently he'd heard the call of the she-devil voice too. The bright spot in my first memory of LeAnna's taunts was that was also the day I'd met Tate. His mother worked in housekeeping at the Royal Palace, and he'd "accidentally" nudged LeAnna into the pool head first, knowing she was only torturing me while on hiatus from taunting him. We'd bonded over our tiny victory, becoming fast friends and spending every second of our summer vacations together from that point on.

  I put a calming hand on his sleeve and shot him a look that I hoped told him not to go for the jugular, as tempting as I knew it was.

  LeAnna shrugged. "Oh, honey, I just meant that compared to the places in Vegas that my Gerald has taken me…well, this is a darling little hotel you've got here." She waved her arm around her, and I felt Tate tensing beside me again. His face was so red, I was beginning to worry he might bust something internally.

  "Anyway," she continued, "how did you get saddled with this place? I thought you were into arts and crafts or something?"

  "Fine art," I shot back through what was becoming an increasingly tight smile. "I curated at a gallery."

  "Ooo, fancy!" LeAnna punctuated the comment with the sarcastic wink.

  I felt my eyes narrowing. "Until my father passed away and left me the casino."

  LeAnna's haughty face dropped for a moment, genuine emotion peeking through. "Oh. Wow, sorry. That sucks."

  "Thanks."

  LeAnna shifted on her spiky heels, clearly more comfortable with thinly veiled sarcasm than sympathy. "Well, good to see you again. I should go find Gerald…" She trailed off, pointing vaguely in the direction of the card tables.

  "Try the poker room," I said, once again proud of my customer service skills and that I didn't add there was a good chance he'd be passed-out drunk there.

  She shot me one last saccharine smile before she turned and I was forced to watch what had been my favorite Michael Kors dress walk away.

  "If she wasn't such a class A bitch, I'd feel sorry for the girl," Tate clucked, finally relaxing beside me. "What is Mr. Taylor, like, eighty?"

  "Well, don't feel too sorry for her. I know how much that dress costs."

  "Amazing what a good sugar daddy can do for your wardrobe, right?" Tate winked at me.

  I opened my mouth to respond with an equally snarky comment—the kind every childhood nemesis deserved—when a chirp from Tate's phone interrupted me.

  He fished it out, and the smile tumbled from his face as he read the text message.

  "It's Britton. Code Black."

  * * *

  I trailed behind a distraught Tate all the way to the elevator, where he turned and waved me on urgently. "Hurry up! How can you not take Code Black seriously?" he scolded.

  I keyed my code for the penthouse into the elevator and waited the few Muzak-filled seconds for the carriage to take us to the top of the Royal Palace's East Wing. We entered the penthouse to find a very nervous Britton pacing the living room, twisting the same bleached blonde curl around her finger over and over.

  In addition to being my current roommate sharing the large penthouse suite overlooking the crystal-blue waters of Lake Tahoe itself, Britton was also my father's young widow. Which, yes, made her my stepmother. I'll admit that fact had bothered me to no end when my father had first announced he was marrying a twentysomething former cocktail waitress whose cup size seemed to rival her IQ. In my mind, Britton had gold digger written all over her. However, since my father's passing, I'd come to realize that I'd been a bit hasty in my judgment of Britton on several items. First of all, she might be blonde, but she was a lot smarter than everyone gave her credit for. And secondly, Britton had actually loved my father and, if I had to guess, was still mourning the loss.

  "What took you so long? Hashtag urgent!" Britton squealed as soon as we walked in.

  Well, mourning in her own unique way.

  "Didn't you get the Code Black?!" she added, scaring my cat, Captain Jack, back into my bedroom. He was nothing more than a fluffy black-and-white blur. "I expect her to ignore my Code Black," she balked, pointing a perfectly French-manicured finger at me.

  I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

  Then she honed in on Tate again. "That's why I sent you the message." She waved frantically toward the dozen or so designer dresses draped on the back of the sofa. Her voice returned to the high-pitched squeal as she cried, "I'm meeting an old friend for a girls' night, and I have to look perfect. It's been, like, forever since I've seen her. I don't know what I'm up against."

  "What do you mean 'up against'?" I asked, fingering a gorgeous black dress in shimmering silk. If I got a vote in this fashion crisis, I'd go for that one.

  Britton's panic level rose along with her pitch as she explained. "The woman is loaded and knows fashion like no one else I've ever met." She turned to Tate and pointed toward the pile of designer garments. "I need to make sure I'm wearing the latest-and-greatest style dress I own. Like the ab-fab best."

  "What's wrong with the number you've got on?" I asked, eyeing her charcoal-gray sleeveless dress. Well, aside from the fact that it was so formfitting that it left absolutely no room for anything else, including most of her cleavage, which I had a sneaky suspicion my father had paid for. Seriously, if the dress had pockets, you'd be able to count her change.

  All I got back was a blank stare. I wasn't sure if that was because of her Botox treatments or just a statement in and of itself. Finally, she turned toward Tate and whimpered.

  Tate sprang to attention, nodding briskly before turning back to the dresses. He gently searched the pile, scanning tags, hemlines, and necklines before turning to her and assessing the one she wore. "Tessie's right. I'm pretty sure you're wearing the latest."

  "Pretty sure?" she yelped. "You must be totally sure. God, I need a drink."

  Now that was something I agreed with. I rubbed my temples, dreaming of those appletinis as I watched Tate scour the web on his phone while Britton paced behind the sofa.

  My phone jingled from my pocket, and I was extremely happy to attend to anything other than what was unfolding before me.

  That is until I took the call.

  "Tessie King," I answered.

  "We have a situation at the high-roller blackjack table," came the deep, gravelly voice of my director of operations and security manager, Alfonso Malone, or Alfie, as I'd always known him.

  "Define situation."

  "We got a whale passed out."

  I closed my eyes and thought a dirty word. Oh, the glamorous life of a casino owner.

  * * *

  I stared down at my "whale," or high-rolling client, who, true to my earlier predictions, just happened to be LeAnna's beloved hubby. He was passed out cold, his butt slowly sliding out of the leather chair and his Armani-clad torso sprawled along the edge of an empty high rollers' blackjack table. A trail of drool pooled under his cheek. For a split second, I was conflicted about who I felt sorrier for: him or LeAnna.

  I quickly came to my senses. Him, of course.

  Nudging his shoulder gently, I bent down to speak directly into his ear. The noise of the slot machines, his advanced age, and the Cabernet-induced coma drowned out my first few attempts to rouse him.

  "Mr. Taylor," I repeated, growing louder with each try.

  His eyes fluttered open, a grin stretching across his weathered face into the slobber puddle before he pushed himself into a sitting position. "Well, Ms. King, are you trying to kiss me?" he chided.

  I used a cocktail napkin to dry his face. "You caught me," I fibbed.

  I'd had to wake him up so many times during his stays at the Palace that I was running out of new exc
uses to get him back to his suite to sleep off the booze.

  Almost running out. "I saw LeAnna stifling a yawn a few minutes ago," I lied, only feeling the teensiest bit guilty. "I think she needs you to escort her back to your room."

  "Really?" he asked, his tone disbelieving.

  I nodded somberly.

  "You're a terrible liar, kid." He lifted a shaky hand, pointing one finger toward the Golden Chalice bar that sat just beyond the card tables.

  LeAnna's designer-clad form stood next to a slightly younger version of her husband. I heard their giggles carrying across the casino floor as she seductively brushed her breasts against his arm.

  I rolled my eyes before turning back to Gerald's knowing glance. "Sorry."

  He shrugged. "Thanks for trying." He signaled for a passing cocktail waitress. "Gin and tonic, please. Light on the tonic." He dropped a fifty on her tray.

  "Right away, Mr. Taylor," she gushed.

  After releasing the girl with a slow wink—which she graciously tolerated due to the cash now crushed in her clenched fist—he turned back to me.

  "Are you sure about that gin and tonic?" I asked, trying my best to think of some way to politely dissuade him from inducing another drool-worthy moment.

  He gave me a watery-eyed smile. "You're kind to want to look after an old man like me."

  "Oh, you're not old, Mr. Taylor," I quickly shot back. "Ruggedly mature," I added, coming up with a positive spin.

  He chuckled and patted my hand. "Believe me, my dear, some days I think I'm much too mature." He shot a glance back at his wife again, the smile dropping from his face, replaced by the sadness that had his jowls hanging in a very un-rugged way. "My wife informed me early this evening that she thinks she's pregnant." He grabbed his nearly empty glass and tipped it to his thin lips to polish off the last few drops.

  "Uh, wow. Um, congrats?" I tried to picture LeAnna as a mother, but the only image that came to mind was a reptile eating her young.

  "You can save those congrats." He paused. "Unfortunately, I'm going to have to break it to my dear wife that my doctor disagrees with her. At my last visit with him, he told me that I'm sterile."

  I choked on a laugh, which I poorly attempted to turn into a cough. For once I actually felt sorry for LeAnna. Though as I looked down at Mr. Taylor's sad face, I had much more sympathy for him than the cheating gold digger he'd been blind enough to marry. "I, uh, I'm sorry." As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew they were inadequate for the situation. But unfortunately, how to comfort a man faced with proof his wife had been cheating on him wasn't in the Hospitality 101 manual.

  "I suppose I should have said something when she told me," he went on. "But it was all a bit of a shock. Could you imagine?" he scoffed.

  I nodded…then switched to shaking my head. I wasn't quite sure if I was supposed to be agreeing or not. Luckily, the cocktail waitress reappeared with Mr. Taylor's gin and tonic, which, at this point, I was willing to concede him.

  Mr. Taylor took a healthy gulp and then continued his monologue. "Chronic pancreatitis. The doctor said it's probably a result of too much…" He trailed off, looking at the glass in his hand. "Well, that I should think about cutting back on the wine. But in my case, it's already resulted in an inability to father any more children. When he told me, I didn't know how to break the news to my wife, but I suppose that conversation will be a bit more awkward now, won't it?" He attempted a smile as he took a generous gulp form the glass.

  I nodded sympathetically, my eyes scanning the casino floor now for a nice escape from the beyond-awkward conversation. A card counter situation? An underage kid on the gambling floor? Even a maid in need of a hand cleaning up after a sick spring-breaker's beer binge would have been welcomed.

  "You know, I secretly always wanted another child," he said, his eyes gazing off into the distance. "My son was such a joy to watch when he was young. Children really do breathe life into you, you know? I had such big dreams for my boy." He cleared his throat, bringing himself back to the present. "But I suppose he's destined to be an only child now."

  "How old?" I asked.

  Mr. Taylor chuckled. "Oh, he's been grown for a while now, though sometimes you wouldn't know it by the way he acts. Fact is, he's even older than…" He trailed off, pointing his now half-empty gin glass toward LeAnna at the bar. He watched her giggle and rub up against the unsuspecting stranger again before they headed in the direction of the craps table together.

  I honestly tried to dig deep and pull up some kind of pity for LeAnna. Hand to God. But I'm sure it was buried right next to her apology for calling me Tornado Tessie, which would undoubtedly require a jackhammer and backhoe after all this time.

  Mr. Taylor crunched an ice sliver then muttered, "She really is a sweet girl."

  LeAnna's voice carried above the casino noise, "I'm your lucky charm tonight, baby!"

  Oh yeah. A real sweetie.

  Mr. Taylor released a long sigh. "Unfortunately, she's really sweet to most men." Then he stood and assured me, "Don't worry. I've only got one more little drink in me tonight before I retire to our suite. I promise to at least keep myself in line." He waved a dismissive hand toward his wife.

  I smiled at him before he turned to leave, knowing I'd be called to another part of the high rollers' gaming area to wake him again before his stay at the Royal Palace was over. I'd seen Mr. Taylor's one little drink turn into several, which usually turned into a scene like I'd just witnessed—him passed out, drooling on some table or other. However, for the time being, crisis was averted, so…

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Tate's number. "Tell me your Code Black is contained. It's so appletini time."

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning I was awakened bright and early with another call from Alfie, whose gruff voice jarred me out of a lovely dream about hot snowboarders.

  "Situation on the Battle Buffet set. Now," he barked. Then he hung up.

  I glared at the bright-green numbers on my alarm clock beside my bed, blinking back at me with an angry 6:02 a.m. Ugh. I thought a few choice words then roused Captain Jack from his perch at the end of my bed to do a quick shower, makeup, and hair routine. I tossed on a soft-pink blouse, a pencil skirt in heather gray, and a pair of black high-heeled boots to cap off the outfit before making my way to the pending disaster on the set.

  In just two days the Battle Buffet show was set to begin taping the final rounds of competition, where the celebrity chef would whittle his final six contestants down to one lucky winner over the course of three rounds of competition. The show would be taping one round per day in front of an audience, who had paid handsomely for their tickets to the event. Everything culminated in a huge, live grand finale on Sunday. In addition to the regular tickets sold to the show, Rafe had come up with the idea to add on a special invitation-only VIP package, which included seats in a plush, exclusive section of the auditorium right in front of all the action, and a cocktail party and gourmet dinner prepared by the celebrity chef on the evening before the finale. While I'd initially had my doubts, when the VIP packages had sold out almost immediately after the invitations had been issued, I'd given him a well-deserved pat on the back.

  I firmly held on to the idea of just how much revenue this event was bringing in to the casino as I pasted a smile on my face and entered the kitchen stage to contain whatever situation was brewing.

  Immediately I could hear someone slamming kitchen utensils. Sigh. Calming a celebrity temper tantrum wasn't exactly my idea of starting the day off right. A never-ending cup of coffee at the Java Joust and a few glazed donuts might have at least softened the blow.

  I cleared my throat as I watched a slim man in a black chef's jacket shout what I could only assume were French curses at a pair of bubbling pots while pouting like a spoiled toddler. "Uh, Mr. Dubois?"

  The curses came to a screeching halt as he threw a pan into a sink in the center of the set, the sound of clanging metal echoing off the high c
eilings of the Palace's auditorium long after it'd come to a rest. He turned his narrowed gaze toward me, his nostrils flared. In a heavy French accent, he shouted, "Chef Dubois. It is always chef!"

  His dark hair was camera-ready perfect, as if it received daily salon treatments, sporting just one small streak of white down the side in what I assumed was an attempt to be edgy, rather than nature's hand. His brows were neatly trimmed, and a slight dusting of stage makeup covered his forehead. Beneath his black chef's coat he wore deceptively casual jeans and sneakers. From the bright white of the shoes, I had the feeling they'd never been worn outside a soundstage. He was only slightly taller than I was, which made him perfectly suited for the magic of television angles and a Napoleon complex. He reminded me of a cross between Bobby Flay and Pepé Le Pew.

  I took a deep breath. "Excuse me. My mistake, Chef Dubois," I enunciated.

  Regaining his composure just a tiny bit, he added, "Anyone who has even seen a commercial for one of my award-winning cooking shows knows that." He turned away, straightening his starched coat and muttering, "Imbecile," his thick accent making the single word sound even more insulting.

  I smacked on my the customer's always right smile. "I'm told you have a problem?" I prompted through clenched teeth.

  I glanced around at the beautiful kitchens the crew had built in our auditorium that was usually used for flashy stage shows and the occasional midlevel band when we could book one. While I'd only seen Battle Buffet a few times on television myself, I had to admit that this seemed to be an almost perfect match for the show’s usual soundstage. Top-of-the-line appliances, sparkling new mixers, pots, pans, and even a few gadgets that I had no idea how to use littered every surface. Was that a liquid nitrogen tank?

  While Chef Dubois had his own large kitchen at one end, there were six smaller prep areas for the competing chefs—each one nicer than my penthouse kitchen. All of the plumbing had been installed so the sinks and appliances worked and drained properly, and each station was stocked with the latest in upscale cookware and utensils. I had absolutely no idea what Dubois's problem was.