The double wooden doors bracketing the entrance to the Burger Palais stood open. Delicious smells of onions sautéing, bacon frying, and grass-fed beef sizzling over a charcoal fire beckoned all those who passed. Salivating in earnest now, I ducked through the doorway. The hostess stand was empty, so I breezed on in. With knotted wooden floors, exposed brick walls, green leather chairs, and banquettes and checkered table cloths, the place was elegantly casual, invoking the customers to relax and enjoy—or so said Jean-Charles, and I wasn't one to disagree. Brass sconces exuded a subtle light, adding to the welcoming ambiance. An ornate wooden bar from Scotland arched from the right-hand side of the dining room. Dotted with stools, also in green leather, it called to me. Another medicinal libation sounded like what the doctor ordered. However, since I had no idea what or how much the staff at UMC had plied me with, I decided to forego, at least momentarily. Besides, drinking alone had such negative connotations—not that that got in my way very often.
Instead, I angled to the left, toward the kitchen. Behind a wall of glass, a variety of culinary types carried out their tasks to the rocking sounds of Coldplay. Standing behind gleaming stainless steel workstations, replete with requisite shelving behind and refrigeration below, they juked to the music as they sliced and diced. If I tried that, I'd be minus a few digits in no time.
Casting my glance wider, my heart fell. Rinaldo, Jean-Charles' right-hand man worked the grill—Jean-Charles' normal position. A mountain of a man with curly black hair, a round face topping at least three chins, and hands the size of salad plates, he beamed when he saw me. Motioning toward the back of the kitchen with his spatula, he raised his voice to be heard above the music. "He's back there. But he's not real sociable—something about bad crabs."
I bit off the obvious reply as clearly in poor taste.
Apparently my appearance finally registered with the big man as his eyes grew worried, wiping the smile out of them. "Hey cutie, you okay?"
"Dodged a bullet."
"Seriously?"
"No, that was just a shallow attempt to get attention and sympathy."
And sidestep the question
, I thought, but I didn't say that part. Apparently it worked as he moved aside to let me pass without further elaboration.
Using the term 'office' to describe Jean-Charles' workspace was a bit optimistic. A battered, wooden, French schoolboy table tucked into a corner and a three-legged wooden stool hardly qualified, at least in the American vernacular of office excess. Functional with a bare bulb on a flexible metal stand clamped to the side of the desk, the only piece of envy-worthy equipment was a brand new 24-inch iMac. With the French being the world's arbiters of cool, it made perfect sense my chef would be a Mac man.
His back to me, Jean-Charles hunched in concentration as he straddled the stool, his feet hooked in the legs. He didn't notice me until I bent and placed a kiss just below his right ear. Pulling air in through his nose, he straightened. "Ah, Lucky. How did you know I've been missing you?"
I couldn't resist nibbling on his ear, taking delight in his shiver before I stepped back. "I didn't know, but I was hoping."
Still seated, he turned on the stool to face me. Grabbing me, he pulled me onto his lap, then leaned back to get a good look.
I tried not to let him see that he took my breath. Even with a pair of cheaters resting on the end of his nose, his blue eyes going all serious and dark as they roamed over my face, his full lips thinning into a line of concern, and weariness deepening his laugh lines, he was by far the best dish in the house. Looping an arm around his neck, I wove my fingers through his hair which, to my delight, he wore a trifle long. A medium brown with a slight curl, I found playing with the tendrils that drifted over his collar irresistible. His thighs, long and lean, felt solid under me. His chest was a hard, comforting backdrop to lean into. What was it people said? Never trust a thin chef? I wondered if that meant only his culinary skills or his character also. One way or the other, I didn't care.
With the back of the fingers of his right hand, he touched my cheek. Then he ran his thumb lightly over the cut on my forehead before kissing it. "You will tell me about this day."
"Yes." I maneuvered my weight off his lap, fearing that if I stayed there any longer, I would cut off blood flow in his legs. "Perhaps over dinner? Although I've been told you are dealing with bad crabs."
I tried to keep my expression passive, but I must've failed.
"
Oui
, but why are you looking at me this way, like it is some joke?"
"Oh, it's one of those American slang things." I grabbed his hand, pulling him up. I didn't step back. Instead, brazen hussy that I am, I stepped into his embrace. "I'll explain it another time." Why did having his arms around me feel better than anything I could imagine? Well, almost anything, and that involved him as well, but we hadn't gone there…yet.
"I will prepare your favorite, if you will open a bottle of wine." He released me momentarily, then grabbed my hand leading me through the kitchen. Apparently the word had gone out that the captain was on the bridge—someone had lowered the music. "There is a very nice Malbec that I've been saving for us. I think it will go nicely with sliders prepared as you like." He glanced back at me. "How do you say it?"
"Fully loaded?"
"This is it, yes." He took the spatula that Rinaldo proffered. With a practiced glance at the few orders listed on the screen inset in the backsplash, he dove in. "The wine is—"
"I know, in our cabinet behind the bar."
He smiled but didn't look at me, his concentration now captured by the task at hand. With Jean–Charles, food was serious business.
We were so compatible that way.
***
Dinner had passed in easy chatter and the comfort of the developing warmth between us. Even though I think he knew that I'd only given him the high points, Jean-Charles had let me off easy. I mean, what was there to say, really? I was in a building when a bomb exploded. Wrong place, wrong time.
The sliders had been as advertised—fully loaded and delicious. I'd stopped counting after my third, but I had taken notice when we'd popped the cork on the second bottle of wine. That had been two glasses ago.
Jean-Charles leaned across the table, capturing my hands in his. "This city, it is more dangerous than they say."
I gave him a sheepish shrug. "It just seems that way. I have a particular knack for sticking my nose where I shouldn't."
His face clouded. Idioms were indecipherable to him—I kept forgetting that.
"If there's trouble, I usually can find it," I added.
"You will have to fix that." He looked serious.
"Right after I solve global warming, bring peace to the Middle East, and a stable economy to the EEU." A glow suffused me as I looked at our entwined hands, then I shot him a rueful half-grin. "Besides, finding trouble is one of my best things. God knows I have far too few skills to abandon even one."
"Then you will be careful. I do not want to lose you." He leaned closer. I met him halfway. A jolt of fire, the kiss singed every nerve ending and seared every synapse. Reveling in the connection, I lingered, savoring. As he pulled away, little aftershocks chased through my body, then coalesced into a ball of warmth somewhere deep inside.
Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes. I felt a smile tug at the corner of my mouth. Then my heart stopped as my phone sang out at my hip. Actually, it was the Black Eyed Peas singing
I've Got a Feeling
. Either way, the shock was a cold jolt of jump-juice to the heart. I grabbed the thing and pushed-to-talk. "What?"
"Lucky?" My father didn't sound happy. "I'm at your place. We need to talk.
Now
."
Chapter Three
"Christ Almighty," I said as I burst through the door to my apartment on the top floor of the Babylon's west wing. "Why have you been so hard to find? Where have you been?" All the lights were off, but I could see my father standing at the window, silhouetted by the lights of the Strip streaming through the wall of glass. "And why the hell are you standing here in the dark?" I stopped a few feet from him.
He didn't turn. Instead, he stood there as still as a statue. He didn't respond. Unsure what to do, I considered checking his pulse—after all he wasn't exactly a spring chicken.
Finally he rescued me from my quandary. "Will you get me a drink?" he asked. His voice, low and emotionless, had a hard edge to it. "Then join me."
"With your recent health scare, do you think drinking is a good idea?" He didn't answer, not that I expected him to. I didn't know what to think as I walked to the far wall and pressed a panel. The wall slid back exposing a fully stocked bar. I decided on a fifteen-year-old single malt for him and club soda with lime for me—I'd exceeded my legal limit already. Besides, keeping my wits about me would probably work in my favor. While I didn't know what he had to tell me, I knew it couldn't be good. Pouring the drinks into Steuben double old-fashion tumblers, I added a couple of cubes of ice, then returned to his side with drinks in hand.
He took his glass without question or acknowledgement, then took a long sip. "The Glenmorangie?"
"Hmm." I took a tentative sip of my soda, then wrinkled my nose at the tickle of the bubbles. Although I'd tried, I never had developed a taste for tasteless beverages. Was that even possible, I wondered? The lime helped, as did the bubbles. But still, they just effervesced the boring.
The ice tinkled in my father's glass as he lifted it to his lips. "The eighteen?"
"No, the fifteen. A bit more fire-in-the-belly action. I like that from a Highland dram."
That got a snort out of him. "Lucky, I swear, you're the best son a man could have."
"As a card-carrying member of the boy's club, I'll take that as a compliment."
"As well you should." He cleared his throat after another sip. "You may be tough and know your way around, but there's folks tougher than you."
"No doubt." The lights of the Strip flashed below us, an ever-changing neon display that could be seen from the International Space Station, or so I'd been told. To me, they were magic, a tangible reminder of all that is Vegas—the fun, the food, the shows…the money. And where there was money, like bloodhounds on a scent, the bad guys lurked in the shadows. But I didn't linger on that—they weren't part of my Vegas. At least not until they started detonating bombs around town. "You gonna tell me about that note you got?"
Startled, he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. "It's nothing. I can handle it."
"But it's upset you. I can help."
"Not this time." His tone held a subtle warning. I didn't care.
"When the shit really hits the fan, you can count on family. Isn't that what you tell me?" The stern set of his jaw told me I was being stonewalled, big time. I didn't like it. All it did was ramp up my worry-meter. "Mother—"
"Your mother and her hormones." My father bit off each word like a rabid dog tearing into a carcass. "She's seeing boogiemen in every corner."
"Boogiemen…an interesting word choice. And do I need to remind you that
you
wanted to talk to
me
?" I analyzed his profile as he turned to stare out the window again. Tension hunched his shoulders slightly, bunching the muscles underneath his jacket. The skin stretched tautly over his cheekbones, his mouth drawn into a thin line. His chin set at a defiant tilt, inviting someone to take a swing. Mona was right; something
was
going on. And being a man who solved his own problems, the Big Boss wasn't going to give it up. So like him. I'd have to outflank him somehow. "So, you think I should be scared of Boogie Fleischman?" I wiggled my glass, trying to work up an enthusiasm for a non-alcoholic beverage. It wasn't working. "Boogie's gotta be like, what…seventy?"
"Careful."
"Hey, he may be tougher than me, but I'm sure I can outrun him."
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught my father fighting with his smile."Lucky, I swear..."
"Go right ahead if it feels good, but I'm too old to change." My arm circled his shoulders and I gave him a squeeze. "Okay, just for you, until this thing blows over, I'll check the women's bathroom before I sit down…for a meal."
"Small comfort." He handed his empty glass back to me. "I'm trying to give you a warning."
"Did anyone ever find Boogie's stash?"
"His stash?" I had my father's interest now.
"I'd been told that back in the day, the bomb makers all had hiding places for their…ingredients."
"That stuff'd be damn old by now." My father's eyes snapped to mine as realization dawned.
"Precisely." I lifted the glass with an eyebrow raised in question. "Another?" At his nod, I headed toward the bar but kept talking. "So did they find his stuff?"
"Not that I'm aware of, but I wasn't in that loop."
I almost snorted in disbelief but decided it wasn't consistent with my strong desire for self-preservation.
"Lucky, this just adds more weight to my warning."
"A warning. I heard you. But really, you know as well as I do, I couldn't do my job if I had to be afraid of every reprobate wishing to knock me down a peg. Truthfully, fear isn't my strong suit—I come by it naturally."
When I returned to his side, my father took his glass and sipped. He swished the scotch around his mouth before swallowing. "I'm trying to tell you this time is different. Boogie being back. The bomb. Just stirs up a bunch of old grudges—wrongs to be righted."
"Great, a bunch of old farts all tilting at windmills." I threw back the rest of my drink, then almost choked. I'd been prepared for whiskey, not fizzy water. "Just what we need for the Fourth of July."
"You really aren't going to take this seriously, are you?" My father sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice.