Play Me (2 page)

The fact that he doesn't even see her anymore, that this has become nothing but a pissing match between the two of us with her as the unfortunate bystander, grates on me. If he was messing with me, I could take it. But she obviously can't, and by trying to help I've only made it worse.

It's my only excuse for what happens next. After all, I'd had every intention of keeping this peaceful when I came over here. But when he leans over, his eyes locked on mine, and licks a long, wet stripe up the girl's cheek, the temper I work so hard to keep control over explodes.

And I rack him with my drink tray.

What the fuck am I doing here?

It's a question I've been asking myself at least five times a day, every day, since I got here and it's a question I anticipate asking myself—at least at this point—five times a day every day for the rest of my life.

It's a depressing thought, one that has me raking a hand through my hair and fighting the urge to walk out of this office, out of this casino, out of this whole damn town. But that's not an option. Not for me. Not right now. No matter how out of place I feel. I reach for control, remind myself that it was my decision to come back. My decision to be here right now, working to improve the casino's bottom line and save the jobs of everyone who works here.

The intercom on my father's desk—my desk—buzzes and his secretary—my secretary—​says, “Sebastian, Todd Waters needs five minutes.”

I wrack my brain, trying to remember who the fuck Todd Waters is. I've been back here five days after being gone for ten years and nothing is like I remember it. Not the employees, not the casino, not even my father, who has become a sick, wasted shell of the man he used to be.

I'm not sure what it says about me—or him—that I like this version better.

“Send him in,” I tell Linda, turning away from the window and moving back toward the desk I never thought I'd ever have to sit behind. The desk I've never
wanted
to sit behind.

The moment Todd walks in the room, his face clicks into place. Daytime Manager, Casino Floor, High Roller Relations. I'm shitty with names but I never forget a face. He's one of hundreds of people I've been introduced to in the last few days, but I remember liking him. Thinking he seemed not only competent but also like a pretty decent guy.

“I know you're still settling in,” he begins before he even reaches my desk, “and I wanted to give you a few more days before I started beating down your door, but we've got a situation that I think needs either you or your father to smooth it over.”

My dad is in no shape to smooth anything over and we both know it. A victim of a series of mini-strokes in recent months, neither his speech nor his mental faculties are up to the job right now. Especially after his latest incident.

Which is, of course, the main reason I'm here, trying to run a casino I have no interest in running, when I'd much rather be back in Boston acting as CFO of one of the largest children's charities in the world.

“That's what I'm here for,” I tell Todd, gesturing for him to sit in one of the chairs on the other side of my desk. He does, and not for the first time since getting here, I'm struck by how much shorter they are than my father's own chair. A ridiculous piece of psychological warfare, meant to make his visitors ill at ease and make him feel like a king.

I've got no time—or interest—in power plays like that, though, and I make a mental note to have the chairs switched out before the end of the day. It probably shouldn't be a top priority for me—not after looking over the books and seeing how badly my father has managed to screw over the Atlantis in the last few years—but fuck it. I can have more than one priority.

“What's going on?” I ask after Todd's settled and so am I.

“There was a situation last night with one of the whales. He and one of the cocktail waitresses got into it and she ended up hitting him in the balls with her drinks tray.”

Well, I have to admit, that's a new one. Or at least, one I haven't heard before. I stare at him, nonplussed for a moment as I wait for him to continue. When he doesn't, I finally ask, “So, did she at least tell you why she did it? Was he hassling her?”

“I haven't spoken to her—this happened on night shift before I got here. But probably. She's a real looker, so she gets messed with more than most of the waitresses. But she's always been pretty even-tempered before last night.”

“So what set her off, then?”

“That's just it, I don't know. David fired her after the incident—told her to come back today to collect her last paycheck—and that should have been the end of it. I hadn't even heard about the incident until the whale called me, screaming his head off. I just got out of a meeting with him. He's pretty pissed off and he's threatening to sue if he isn't compensated for his physical and mental distress.”

It's all I can do not to roll my eyes. “His physical and mental distress?”

Todd presses his lips together and I get the impression he's trying not to snicker. “Yeah.”

“Aren't we already compensating him? Comped high roller suite, comped everything else?”

“We are.”

“So who is this guy? What does he want? If the waitress has already been fired, I'm not sure what he's looking for.”

“His name is Petrov Rubinov. He's a Russian billionaire, made his money on the black market, smuggling diamonds, weapons, girls.”

My stomach turns and again I wonder what the fuck I'm doing here. I've spent years working with charities to help end human smuggling and the underage sex trade and now here I am, comping one of its worst offenders. Is it any wonder I feel so fucking dirty all the time?

“Have you pulled the film?” I demand, because there's no way this creep is getting anything from me, especially if he's the one in the wrong. I want to know exactly what happened before Todd arranges a meeting so that I can “smooth things over.” As if that's ever going to happen.

“They were pulling it when I headed up here. It should be in your inbox by now.”

I turn to my computer, refresh my browser so I can see my most recent emails. Sure enough, there's one from security labeled “Rubinov footage.”

I click on it, then gesture for Todd to come around the desk and watch with me.

There are two different video clips, one that's five minutes long and one that is twenty-four minutes. I click on the five minute one first, then watch as Rubinov walks his fingers up the thigh of a pretty redhead about twenty years his junior. From the way she's shoving at his hand and looking around for help, she doesn't look like she's enjoying the attention.

Angrily, I note the way she makes eye contact with the dealer—and how the dealer very deliberately looks away. “What the hell was that?” I demand.

“I don't know.” Todd sounds as pissed off as I feel. “David and I have different styles of running things, but neither of us are okay with customers being harassed. Even by the high rollers.”

The fact that he has to qualify it that way only makes me more annoyed. I grew up in Vegas, in a casino about two blocks up the Strip and then in this one. I went to Harvard, worked in high-finance fund-raising. I know how this rarified world works. How money gives men a false sense of control, makes men think they can have anything they want.

That doesn't mean I have to like it.

Twenty seconds later, a cocktail waitress—
the
cocktail waitress, I assume—comes into view. She's dressed in the short navy skirt, crisp white blouse and fishnets that all the cocktail waitresses here wear and I can tell right away that Todd is right. The woman really is a looker.

She's gorgeous actually, and for a minute I'm so busy staring at her that I lose track of what it is I'm supposed to be doing. Her dark hair is shoulder length and tied back in a ponytail that only emphasizes her stunning bone structure and long, delicate neck. She's got dark eyes, plump lips, olive skin. She also has an angry flush to her cheeks that only makes her more attractive.

As does the control over herself—and her temper—that I can tell she's exerting.

Interested now, as much in her as in the situation, I watch the way she moves, the way she holds herself. She's tall even without the high heels she's wearing, at least six foot with them, all long legs and curvy hips and an ass that looks like a million bucks in that skirt. And she carries herself like she knows she's too good for this job, too good for this place.

Shit. Is it any wonder all the rich letches hassle her? For most of the guys she comes into contact with on a daily basis, self-denial isn't exactly a concept they're familiar with. Hell, I'm a pretty straightfo​rward, always-be-respectful-when-it-comes-to-women kind of guy and all I can think about is testing that control, seeing how far I can take her before she loses it completely.

But even as I'm thinking it, she does lose it completely​—though not in the way I've spent the last couple minutes imagining. Instead, she pulls back her tray and racks the guy, her long, curvy body moving with perfect precision. The unexpected​ness—even with Todd's warning—snaps me out of my momentary stupor and I start the clip over. I watch it again, this time paying attention to what's going on instead of how much I want to test the waitress's control.

It only takes about thirty seconds for me to figure out that she's doing her best to get Rubinov to stop hassling the other woman. Another thirty seconds has my temper simmering and by the time she racks him, I'm furious that I hadn't been there to do it for her.

The guy's a bastard of the first order.

I play the footage one more time, just to make sure I've caught every nuance of the situation that I can. Then I play the longer video, watching as the waitress goes over to security, nodding toward Rubinov and the girl.

So she did try to report it, did try to get help. And the security guard turned her away. The knowledge makes the anger simmering in my veins burn hotter and higher. They stripped her of control, left her out there alone with no alternative but to do what she did. And then fired her for it.

No. Absolutely not. Maybe that's how things went on my father's watch, but he's not in charge anymore. I am. And that's not how things are going to go around here.

“Where is he?” I ask Todd after the video finally plays out.

“When I left him, he was in his suite, waiting for your apology. It's room 2857.”

“My apology, huh?” More like my foot in his ass, because that's the only thing—the last thing—this bastard is getting from me or the Atlantis. “Looks like he's going to be disappointed.”

I push back from the desk, stand up. “I want to know the second Ms.—what's the waitress's name?”

“Aria. Aria Winston.”

“I want to know the second Aria Winston comes to pick up her paycheck. Have HR send her up to me, will you, please?”

He nods. “Absolutely.”

“And I want a meeting with all the heads of daytime staff today. I want to ensure everyone from floor security to the check-in staff understands that turning a blind eye to that kind of harassment is not acceptable and will not be tolerated.” I glance at my watch as we head out of my office. “Let's say eleven o'clock.”

I pause at my secretary's desk. She's in her fifties, smart, shrewd and from what I understand, completely loyal to my father. I've yet to decide if she's transferring that loyalty to me—maybe because she hasn't decided yet, either. I hope she does. I like her and think she makes a really strong addition to this office.

“Linda, I need you to make a meeting happen in one hour. Every head, director, and manager of every area of the casino during the daytime is to meet in the conference room. Please let them know that attendance is not optional. Then set up the same thing for the nighttime managers. Let's do that one at nine, okay?”

“Absolutely. What should I tell them it's about?”

“Don't worry about it. I'll fill them in.”

Twenty minutes later—after making a couple phone calls that turned out to be quite enlighteni​ng—I'm standing outside of Rubinov's door, waiting for him to answer. Of course, it takes a couple of minutes—cl​assic power play of the weak and narcissist​ic—and when he does finally open up, he's dressed in one of the hotel's robes and nothing else. Just to make sure I understand how unimportant I am to him. Just to make sure I understand how important he is and how he's got control of the situation.

Too bad no one ever taught him that those who have real control, real power, never have to flaunt it.

It's a mistake most rich men make and one I swore long ago that I never would. I grew up watching my father play these power games. I know all about how they work and maybe, if I wasn't so pissed off, I'd be willing to show Mr. Rubinov just a little of the respect he thinks he's due. But I am pissed off and I don't give a shit about how important this fucking bastard thinks he is. He doesn't get to assault women in my hotel and then come crying for compensation when he gets called on it.

“I was expecting you half an hour ago,” he says as he makes his way to the luxurious couch positioned to look out over the Strip. It's a view I've grown up with and one that ceased to awe me a long time ago—but it's one that visitors to Las Vegas never seem to get enough of. Although in the daytime, it doesn't look much different from any other city—provided you don't count the pyramids and water fountains, the replicas of the Eiffel Tower and the Empire State Building.

I very deliberately don't apologize, just as I don't wait for him to ask me to have a seat before I claim one for myself. His nostrils flare and I can tell from the look in his eyes that he's not happy, but then, I'm not here to make him happy. Just because I have no interest in petty power trips doesn't mean I don't know how to control a situation when I want to.

Rubinov picks up a glass of water, vodka—I don't know or care—and tosses the contents back in one long gulp as he waits for me to open the conversation. He has a long wait coming—he wanted this meeting, he can talk first.

The silence stretches between us, taut as one of the high wires at the Cirque du Soleil show that's headlining the Atlantis right now. Rubinov shifts uncomfortably as the silence grows, but I don't move, don't speak. I barely blink as I keep my posture deliberately relaxed. And wait for him to crack.