costume, like the valet out front, this one with a permanent-marker mole sitting on the top of his cheekbone. I wondered if I should tell him I could make that really permanent. I did, after all, have my needles and ink with me.
“May I help you?” he asked, with a distinct French accent.
I wondered if he’d been imported for this very purpose.
I felt like a moron, but I leaned forward and whispered, “Minnie to see Mickey.”
His face lit up like one of the chandeliers. “Yes, yes, miss.”
I felt someone touch my arm and stared straight into the face of another costumed Frenchman offering to take my case. I clutched it a little tighter. “No, thanks,” I declined. “I can carry it.”
For some reason I felt that if I handed it over, I might not get it back, and I didn’t want anyone here knowing what was inside, since I was on this Top-Secret Mission.
The Frenchman waved me into a special elevator, separate from the bank of elevators that would bring regular people—well, incredibly rich regular people—up to their rooms. The elevator was also mirrored, and I began to feel like I was being watched again, although this time it was definitely just me watching myself. And maybe hotel security. Cameras were everywhere, even if you didn’t see them. A little disconcerting.
The doors slid open at a floor that was undesignated. The French footman—because that was what he looked like—stretched his arm out and turned up his hand, indicating I was to disembark. So I did.
The doors shut behind me, with the Frenchman behind them, and I stood alone in what I assumed was the Marie Antoinette Suite.
The pale yellow wallpaper was speckled with tiny pink roses and interrupted with elaborate white molding, the chandelier balanced delicately over yet another orchid spray on yet another marble table. I was uncomfortable and began to understand why the French had a revolution.
I took a couple of steps and peered around, seeing no one.
“Excuse me?” I said into the silence, venturing a little farther into a living room area. A grand piano sat next to a long floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gardens, and beyond them, the Strip. It would be a great view at night, especially with all the lights.
I moved into the suite step by step, saying, “Excuse me?” as I went.
Still no answer.
The adulation that rushed over me when Jeff had said this guy’s name and the thought that I would get up close and personal with his ass were quickly dissipating. He could only be crazy. How else to explain “Minnie” and “Mickey”? And this cat-and-mouse in the suite? Would he have done this to Jeff? Was this some sort of sick misogynistic thing?
I moved through the bedroom and saw the open bathroom door. All the lights were on. I still didn’t hear anything, though.
I was going to see his naked butt anyway, so I decided against shyness and poked my head into the bathroom. I was tired of this and just wanted to get to work.
I realized, though, that my easy five hundred wasn’t going to be so easy.
He lay slumped over the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub, his head lolled on its side, an eye staring up at the ceiling. There was no water in the tub, and I was pretty sure he was dead.
But it wasn’t the celebrity I’d been expecting to see.
I had no idea who it was.
Chapter 18
I didn’t want to put my fingerprints anywhere, so I hit the elevator button with my elbow. I had a minute or two before the doors opened, and I took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm down. I immediately thought of Jeff Coleman and how he’d sent me over here. Did he know about this? Had he set me up?
I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I was having a hard time with that.
The elevator finally arrived, and I again hit the lobby button with my elbow and felt the drop in my gut. When I stepped out, a footman—a different one this time—was waiting. He was frowning.
“Is there a problem, miss?”
“You might say that.
“May I help you?” he asked, with a distinct French accent.
I wondered if he’d been imported for this very purpose.
I felt like a moron, but I leaned forward and whispered, “Minnie to see Mickey.”
His face lit up like one of the chandeliers. “Yes, yes, miss.”
I felt someone touch my arm and stared straight into the face of another costumed Frenchman offering to take my case. I clutched it a little tighter. “No, thanks,” I declined. “I can carry it.”
For some reason I felt that if I handed it over, I might not get it back, and I didn’t want anyone here knowing what was inside, since I was on this Top-Secret Mission.
The Frenchman waved me into a special elevator, separate from the bank of elevators that would bring regular people—well, incredibly rich regular people—up to their rooms. The elevator was also mirrored, and I began to feel like I was being watched again, although this time it was definitely just me watching myself. And maybe hotel security. Cameras were everywhere, even if you didn’t see them. A little disconcerting.
The doors slid open at a floor that was undesignated. The French footman—because that was what he looked like—stretched his arm out and turned up his hand, indicating I was to disembark. So I did.
The doors shut behind me, with the Frenchman behind them, and I stood alone in what I assumed was the Marie Antoinette Suite.
The pale yellow wallpaper was speckled with tiny pink roses and interrupted with elaborate white molding, the chandelier balanced delicately over yet another orchid spray on yet another marble table. I was uncomfortable and began to understand why the French had a revolution.
I took a couple of steps and peered around, seeing no one.
“Excuse me?” I said into the silence, venturing a little farther into a living room area. A grand piano sat next to a long floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the gardens, and beyond them, the Strip. It would be a great view at night, especially with all the lights.
I moved into the suite step by step, saying, “Excuse me?” as I went.
Still no answer.
The adulation that rushed over me when Jeff had said this guy’s name and the thought that I would get up close and personal with his ass were quickly dissipating. He could only be crazy. How else to explain “Minnie” and “Mickey”? And this cat-and-mouse in the suite? Would he have done this to Jeff? Was this some sort of sick misogynistic thing?
I moved through the bedroom and saw the open bathroom door. All the lights were on. I still didn’t hear anything, though.
I was going to see his naked butt anyway, so I decided against shyness and poked my head into the bathroom. I was tired of this and just wanted to get to work.
I realized, though, that my easy five hundred wasn’t going to be so easy.
He lay slumped over the edge of the Jacuzzi bathtub, his head lolled on its side, an eye staring up at the ceiling. There was no water in the tub, and I was pretty sure he was dead.
But it wasn’t the celebrity I’d been expecting to see.
I had no idea who it was.
Chapter 18
I didn’t want to put my fingerprints anywhere, so I hit the elevator button with my elbow. I had a minute or two before the doors opened, and I took a couple of deep breaths to try to calm down. I immediately thought of Jeff Coleman and how he’d sent me over here. Did he know about this? Had he set me up?
I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I was having a hard time with that.
The elevator finally arrived, and I again hit the lobby button with my elbow and felt the drop in my gut. When I stepped out, a footman—a different one this time—was waiting. He was frowning.
“Is there a problem, miss?”
“You might say that.
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