Not-So-Secret Baby. Jo Leigh
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tossed aside. His pillow still held the impression of his head. So small.
And, in the middle of the bed, an envelope. Her hand shook so hard she could hardly pick it up.
When she finally did, it was a note telling her when to be at the Cedar City airport. It wasn’t signed. But then, it didn’t have to be.
THE VEGAS STRIP tried to be glamorous during the day, but it didn’t succeed. Like an aging actress without her makeup, all the flaws came to the fore in sunlight. The sun-baked sidewalks, the desperate bids from the small casinos, begging gamblers to come for the ninety-ninecent, foot-long hot dogs and stay for the video poker.
Nick Mason hated the place. Hated the thousands of lights, the electronic billboards with the perfect pictures and snazzy ads. He hated the heat of the place, which, according to the morning news, was almost one hundred, and it wasn’t even nine. If he’d had his way, he’d live in the mountains. Aspen, maybe, or Boulder. Somewhere green with thick trees and lots of water. He’d have himself a nice little cabin that had no address. Where he could walk to the nearest stream to catch his dinner.
This town wasn’t real. Yeah, okay, so there was Henderson and Summerlin, where there were grocery stores and dry cleaners, but there were poker machines in every damn market, in every gas station, in every drugstore. The ubiquitous machines lent an air of desperation to the most mundane of tasks. Just ask the housewife who spent five hundred bucks on that gallon of milk. Or the bank teller who’d lost the rent…again.
He’d been here too long, that was the problem. Living a nighttime life. If you were a player in Vegas, you slept during the day. Nothing important ever happened before sundown. Which could help explain his crappy attitude. He’d gotten to bed after four this morning, then Todd had called to tell him to make a pickup at the Henderson Executive Airport.
Normally he wouldn’t have to do anything so plebian, but Todd’s driver had gotten some bad sushi at one of those $3.99 buffets downtown and was riding it out at the Sunrise Hospital. As always, Nick had said, “Yes, sir,” keeping his voice even and his attitude go-to. Playing the part as if his life depended on it. Which it did.
He’d started working for C. Randall Todd three years ago. It had taken him all that time to gain a position of trust in the organization. Everybody who worked for Todd had to prove themselves worthy. The tests weren’t for the weak. Despite the fact that Todd’s business practices were impressive enough to pass the rigors of the Nevada Gaming Commission regulations, the man himself was a throwback to the old Vegas. No one double-crossed Todd. Not twice, at least.
Nick himself had done his time as Todd’s hatchet man. No one had ever ended up dead, but they’d been hurt something wicked. It turned his stomach to think about it, so he didn’t. Simple.
Enough. He had to get showered, put something in his stomach and get down to the airport on time. He threw the covers aside and hit the floor for his push-ups. One hundred. Every morning. No exceptions.
When he finished counting, he headed for the bathroom. Part of his incentive for completing his push-ups in good time was this little trick: no john until he was through. Some days were easier than others.
As he went through the rest of his morning routine, he wondered who was coming in. Todd hadn’t told him and he hadn’t asked. But it must be a hell of a whale to call out the boss’s private limo.
He remembered the first time he’d heard talk about whales. It was his second week in Vegas and he was so green he disappeared in front of the MGM Grand. Sweet, Todd’s majordomo, had been talking about this whale and that whale, and it had been everything Nick could do not to ask what the hell was going on. That night he’d done some research and discovered that “whale” was the designated slang for a high roller. A really high roller.
The minimum they had to bank was five million, at least at Todd’s hotel. Granted, Xanadu was as ritzy as it got in Vegas, but most of the major hotels had similar limits. Whales cost big money. But there was one basic fact about Las Vegas: casinos were not in the business of making gamblers rich. Anyone who thought different ought to check out the trailer parks on Main. Most of the decrepit mobile homes had doors. Some had windows. Not many.
Whales, on the other hand, had money to burn. At least, that’s how they acted when they came to his turf. It was like something out of an old Russian novel how these people got treated. It started with the private jet, the limo, the personal butler, the multimillion-dollar private suite complete with grand piano, twenty-four-hour massage service, personal swimming pool, personal chef. The list went on and on. If one of Todd’s whales wanted a purple elephant, he’d get one.
But there were whales and there were whales. This one, the one coming in at noon, had to be a mark in the billions, because Todd was stingy with his toys. Xanadu had a fleet of ten stretch limos for the customers. Todd’s personal limo put them all to shame.
Personally, Nick hated driving the monstrosity. It was huge, longer than a normal stretch, and white. Inside and out. He especially hated the button in the back that let the passenger speak to the driver. The reverb crap on the mike altered the sound so it sounded like the voice of God telling the peon behind the wheel to stop at the Indian smoke shop to pick up cigarettes.
He was, of course, expected to act like Jeeves, which unfortunately wasn’t that much of a stretch from how he was expected to act around the boss. Although Todd wasn’t particularly hung up on the words. “Sir” was good, but not essential. “Very good, sir,” was over-the-top. The important thing to Todd was that when he said jump, his employees already knew how high. Todd didn’t give second chances.
Nick put on his lightweight black suit, the one that made him look more like a mortician than a chauffeur. His shirt was silk, the tie Hermès. When you worked for C. Randall Todd, you dressed the part.
He took a final look in the mirror, satisfied that he would pass muster, then he headed out. He lived on the fortieth floor of the hotel, the floor below the really expensive suites. It had taken getting used to, living in a place like this, but it had its advantages. Housekeeping was one. He just had to make sure he put everything important in his room safe. There was no doubt in his mind that Todd had the staff search the rooms on a regular basis. Paranoia was the word of the year around Xanadu, and Nick was just as guilty as anyone else. Todd’s basic belief was that everyone was out to get him, including his own family. Probably why he was as successful as he was.
The man was worth billions. And not only from his gaming and hotel interests. He was also incredibly powerful in the military surveillance business. That little sideline had begun fifteen years ago, when Todd’s first hotel had hosted an arms show.
The El Rio had been his maiden venture into the world of Vegas, but the relatively small hotel had outlived its usefulness and was scheduled for destruction. As with everything else in Sin City, the event was being made into a spectacle. Like the Dunes, the Sands and the original Aladdin, the El Rio was going to be imploded. On the Fourth of July, no less.
In its place, Todd planned another luxury hotel, this one smaller but even more exclusive than the Xanadu. It would make the Belagio look like a Motel 6.
Nick got to the elevator and pressed the button, his gaze moving from the ornate flower arrangements on the antique tables to the mirrors on the walls. He did look as though he was about to get into a hearse. At least he wasn’t required to wear a damn hat.
The elevator doors opened and he got in, expecting a long, slow ride down. There were express elevators in the hotel, but not from his floor. He amused himself by counting the stops on the way to the lobby. Six. He always left about ten minutes early to accommodate.
Finally he reached the basement level. He’d go to the employee’s lounge and grab something to eat. Then he’d be on his way. He wanted the airport run over quickly so he could get back. Todd had canceled one important meeting this afternoon with Steve Wynn, but he hadn’t canceled his appointment with Rafe Shaharid, one of his major customers. Everything about the meeting was legal, at least on the surface. But Nick had a feeling there was something more going on.
He had