Heron's Landing. JoAnn Ross
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dog he’d rescued of having a tapeworm.
They shot the breeze while Quinn served up drinks, which in this place ran more to the craft beer he brewed in the building next door. A few minutes later, the swinging door to the kitchen opened and out came two layers of prime beef topped with melted local cheddar cheese, bacon and caramelized grilled onions, with a slice of tomato and iceberg-lettuce leaf tossed in as an apparent nod to the food pyramid, all piled between the halves of an oversize toasted kaiser bun. Taking up the rest of the heated metal platter was a mountain of spicy french fries.
Next to the platter was a take-out box of plain burger. It wouldn’t stay warm, but having first seen the dog scrounging from a garbage can on the waterfront, Seth figured Bandit didn’t care about the temperature of his dinner.
“So, you’re eating in tonight,” a bearded giant wearing a T-shirt with Embrace the Lard on the front said in a deep foghorn voice. “I didn’t see that coming.”
“Everyone’s a damn joker,” Seth muttered, even as the aroma of grilled beef and melted cheese drew him in. He took a bite and nearly moaned. The Norwegian, who’d given up cooking on fishing boats when he’d gotten tired of freezing his ass off during winter crabbing season, might be a sarcastic smart-ass, but the guy sure as hell could cook.
“He’s got a dinner date tonight at Leaf.” Quinn, for some damn reason, chose this moment to decide to get chatty. “This is an appetizer.”
Jarle Bjornstad snorted. “I tried going vegan,” he said. “I’d hooked up with a woman in Anchorage who wouldn’t even wear leather. It didn’t work out.”
“Mine’s not that kind of date.” Seth wondered how much arugula, kale and flowers it would take to fill up the man with shoulders as wide as a redwood trunk and arms like huge steel bands. His full-sleeve tattoo boasted a butcher’s chart of a cow. Which might explain his ability to turn a beef patty into something close to nirvana. “And there probably aren’t enough vegetables on the planet to sustain you.”
During the remodeling, Seth had taken out four rows of bricks in the wall leading to the kitchen to allow the six-foot-seven-inch-tall cook to go back and forth without having to duck his head to keep from hitting the doorjamb every trip.
“On our first date, she cited all this damn research claiming vegans lived nine years longer than meat eaters.” Jarle’s teeth flashed in a grin in his flaming red beard. “After a week of grazing, I decided that her statistics might be true, but that extra time would be nine horrible baconless years.”
That said, he turned and stomped back into the kitchen.
“He’s got a point,” Quinn said.
“Amen to that.” Having learned firsthand how treacherous and unpredictable death could be, with his current family situation on the verge of possibly exploding, Seth decided to worry about his arteries later and took another huge bite of beef-and-cheese heaven.
THE BRIDE WAS BEAUTIFUL, as all brides are. It was, of course, easier when you had unlimited funds at your disposal. The white couture gown, flown in especially for the event from Paris, was a cloud of diamond-white tulle, embroidered with seed pearls and Swarovski crystals. The Belgian lace veil was attached to a diamond tiara that was a duplicate of the one worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
As chief concierge of the butler floor at the Las Vegas Midas Resort Hotel and Casino, Brianna Mannion had arranged for a stylist to ensure perfect hair and nails for the bride and her seven attendants, all in poufy pastel taffeta gowns that would never be worn again.
The groom, while not as flamboyantly attired, nevertheless was handsome in a black tux. His concession to glitz was the crystal-studded bow tie designed to coordinate with the bride’s gown. There’d originally been plans for him to wear a top hat, but when he’d steadfastly objected, the bride’s harried mother had thrown up her hands in defeat.
“Well, I did want our princess to marry an alpha male,” she’d said to the bride’s father. Who, Brianna noted with a bit of trepidation, was pouring his third Scotch since arriving at the wedding preparation suite. Typically the suite was a women-only zone, but this was far from a typical wedding and since the bride’s mother (who had a strong alpha streak herself) had insisted her husband be there for the preparations, he’d apparently caved rather than risk a scene.
Because the Midas prided itself on the extreme level of privacy afforded to its guests, this particular suite had its own high-speed elevator that opened onto the ballroom booked for the event. Although it took four trips, Brianna managed to herd the party down the sixty-five floors to the ballroom, which took some logistics when a trio of bridesmaids, having lost patience during their styling, had begun nipping at each other. Fortunately, she was able to calm things down before the pink, yellow and aqua taffeta started getting ripped apart.
The ceremony, presided over by the top Elvis impersonator in the country—no mere local Elvises (Elvi?) need apply—amazingly went off without a hitch. And although the reception might have gotten a little rowdy, both the wedding party and the guests invited to this special occasion all seemed to enjoy the tiered white wonder of a wedding cake created by the Cordon Bleu–trained top chef. But it was the gilt doggie bags filled with a variety of gourmet dog biscuits dusted with edible twenty-four-karat gold that proved the hit of the party.
After escorting the happy couple up to their honeymoon penthouse suite that adjoined that of the bride’s parents, Brianna finally blew out a long breath of relief.
The good news was that the wedding of the tech mogul and his wife’s award-winning King Charles spaniel to a male belonging to a distant member of the British royal family (the first high-end dog ceremony Brianna had arranged) had gone off without a hitch. The bad news was that if word got out of its success, it might not be her last.
She’d just returned to her desk, which, like everything else in Midas, was heavily gilded, when a guest she recalled from yesterday came marching toward her. Unfortunately, the man’s lobster-red complexion, furious scowl and steam she could practically envision coming from his ears were not encouraging signs.
“I have a complaint,” he bellowed as he approached the desk. Like she couldn’t hear him from three feet away?
“I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brianna pasted on her most conciliatory, caring smile. “What can I help you with?”
“The concierge from yesterday was terrible. I want her fired.”
“May I ask why?”
“Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”
“Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”
He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”
“Bombay Spice.”
“Yeah. That one.”
“You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.
“It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.
Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.
“I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,”