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He touched the dark skin under one eye, then released it and watched the color flow back into his white fingerprint. GQ was always recommending products for issues like this, products that would inevitably be declared useless by Consumer Reports. He wished for a miracle cream—tubs of it if the stress continued at this level when he took over the Blackstone Firm. Enough for all the years he stayed in charge.
Which would be until his father either died or didn’t know the difference anymore when his beloved business closed for good.
Thirty years from now, possibly.
When Daniel himself would be nearing retirement age.
He straightened and shot himself a disdainful look for being so vain. He had no time to worry about it, anyway. He had a spoiled actor to corral.
Shrugging on his suit coat, he walked to the elevator—a short walk rather than the mile-long trek some vacationers endured in these massive hotels, because he’d made friends with the staff many trips ago—pressed the button for the casino, rode down dozens of floors, and stepped into the cacophony. Slot machines beeped and sang cheerfully. Gamblers laughed and clapped each other on the back. Skirting them all, he headed for the high-roller gaming tables, where the employees still smiled but the clientele grew serious.
He spotted Colton right away, despite the disguise. Colton was average height but broad from working with a personal trainer for the past seven years, ever since he first became the fourteen-year-old heartthrob of a teen sitcom. His UCLA sweatshirt didn’t hide his shoulders any more than his trucker hat hid his highlighted blond hair. He wore designer shades in the dim and flickering light of the slot machines, which could only mean he was a professional gambler, a star, or a wannabe.
But even if he hadn’t looked the part, his entourage at the blackjack table would have given him away: his bodyguard standing behind him, arms crossed, with a conspicuous earpiece that probably wasn’t even turned on; his driver, who’d transported everyone from L.A. and deposited them safely in Vegas, and wouldn’t serve a purpose again, except as a drinking buddy, until the Hot Choice Awards were over five days from now, when he would drive them back home; and a call girl. The woman sat next to Colton at the table, placing her cl**vage in his line of sight as he looked to the dealer and signaled for another card.
Daniel paused beside a sparkling bank of slot machines and surveyed the rest of the casino floor. He counted three security guards posted around the vast room, back near the walls, making themselves known in their cheap suits and speaking occasionally into real microphones attached to real earpieces. Two different groups of tourists seemed to have recognized Colton and discussed approaching him, which was why the security guards were there, and why, if Daniel had been consulted, he never would have let Colton out in public in Vegas. Not when the whole country knew he was here for the Hot Choice Awards. And not when he was insulting his ex-girlfriend on the Internet and pissing in fountains.
A couple of other men sat at the table with Colton, both tourists. One was dressed almost exactly like Colton in a sports cap and a sports T-shirt. He even looked a bit like an older Colton, all blond muscle, but without Colton’s soft and pampered features. This guy looked like he opened beer bottles with his teeth. The other man, skinnier and balding, wore a loud Hawaiian shirt.
There was nothing inherently suspicious about tourists sitting at a Vegas table with a celebrity. Stars liked to mix with real humans once in a while.
But as Daniel watched, Hawaiian shirt man, who was sitting on the other side of the call girl from Colton, touched her shoulder. This surprised Daniel. They definitely hadn’t seemed to be together. Daniel had a lot of experience browbeating pimps away from his clients. This guy didn’t give off a pimp vibe.
Sure enough, the touch that passed between Hawaiian shirt guy and the woman had been a signal. Without taking her eyes off Colton, the woman leaned back in her chair until her br**sts were no longer blocking him. Hawaiian shirt man pulled something out of his back pocket.
Before Daniel realized what he was doing, he was moving across the floor toward the table. He didn’t shout because that would draw attention to himself rather than the paparazzo pulling out the camera and the woman backing away to give him a clear shot. Daniel hoped Colton’s bodyguard would see the man before he got his photograph and escaped through the casino. The guy might not make it outside, but all he needed to earn his pay from the tabloids was to upload his photo. The casino would ban him and perhaps have him arrested for taking a photo on their property. Too little, too late, if the photo was already out in the world by then.
A photo of Colton losing a hundred thousand dollars, with a prostitute.
Daniel rounded the table. The bodyguard would see the photographer any moment. The security guards would come to assist. Daniel only had to get a hand between the camera lens and Colton. He reached out.
Colton perceived Daniel’s reaching arm and the camera. He half stood and awkwardly swung up his fist from behind him. The photographer leaped sideways off his stool.
Daniel had enough time to cringe at what was coming but not enough time to duck out of the way as Colton’s meaty fist connected with his eye. The impact launched him backward. His body met something solid that grabbed his arms—probably the bodyguard, finally doing his job.
Daniel pressed down the almost overwhelming urge to fight, to jerk out of the bodyguard’s grasp and slug him, then go after Colton. Long years of practice hadn’t rid him of that instinct but had given him superhuman strength to suppress it. Before he could see or clear his head of the throbbing, he said in as commanding a voice as he could muster, “I’m Daniel Blackstone. I just arrived from New York to handle PR. Get this guy’s camera before he can upload.”
Released from the bodyguard’s grip, he stood blinking, half wishing the bodyguard still propped him up. He struggled to stay upright while bringing the suddenly too-bright casino lights back into focus. The security guards had come forward to help the bodyguard manhandle the photographer and the call girl. The gawkers stared from behind an imaginary velvet rope, unwilling to join the fray but eager to find out what trouble Colton Farr had gotten himself into now.
Daniel had to hustle Colton out of there before more cameras were produced. He stepped around the table to where Colton, fists on his hips, scowled over his driver’s shoulder at the photographer. Daniel said softly, “I’m your new PR specialist. Come with me.”
Colton looked Daniel up and down, assessing. His gaze lingered on Daniel’s eye, which was probably bruising by now. Colton’s lip curled. “I’m down a hundred thou. I was just getting my mojo back. I’m not going anywhere.”
Daniel felt his own fists clenching down by his sides. He’d thought his impulsiveness had been shamed out of him by his father many years before. But at the moment, it was all he could do to keep from slamming this smug as**ole square on his nose job. He quashed the startling thought that he wasn’t going to leave Vegas without doing just that.
But not now. Now he had a public relations disaster to avert, whether or not Colton wanted to cooperate. He gave Colton his coldest stare as he said, “You called me, Farr. I have plenty of other business. Come with me, immediately, or I will take the next flight back to New York and bill you for my wasted time.”
Colton stared back at Daniel for several seconds while Daniel calculated what his own next move would be. He didn’t have a friend in the place, and his dizziness was progressing into vertigo. The only tool he had, really, was the illusion of control, which was somewhat difficult to sustain with a black eye developing.
Colton turned to his bodyguard, whose foot was resting on the photographer’s head. “We’ve got to talk shop. Can you take care of this?”
“Sure thing,” the bodyguard grunted.
Daniel spoke to security. “Even if you don’t see the picture, get the camera. And tell the casino to ban the photographer and the prostitute, or Mr. Farr is checking out.” The Bellagio had asked Colton to vacate after the fountain-pissing incident last night. But some casinos were pickier than others. This one was happy to be associated with any star, even a tasteless and mentally unstable one.
Impressed with Daniel’s confidence, but not sure whether they were supposed to be taking orders from him, the bodyguard and security guards nodded at him.
Daniel wasn’t satisfied. He would have preferred a “yes, sir.” He wasn’t satisfied with his own handling of the situation, either. The other tourist, the one who resembled a battle-hardened Colton, might have been involved in the conspiracy to snap Colton’s photo, too. But he’d disappeared. Daniel had lost track of him. And there was only so much Daniel could ask of himself under the circumstances, with his eye throbbing and threatening to fall out of his face. He turned to usher Colton toward the elevator.
Colton stayed planted to the spot. Daniel thought he knew why. Colton’s ex-girlfriend, Lorelei Vogel, was also a guest at this hotel. Colton had been furiously feuding with her online since their all-too-public breakup a few weeks ago, but that only gave away how invested he was in the failed relationship. As long as she was staying here, he wouldn’t want to leave.
Daniel put his hand on Colton’s shoulder—trying not to flare his nostrils in distaste as he did so—and assured him quietly, “The casino will take care of this, and you’ll still be here tomorrow.”
As if in answer, from behind them came the sounds of a scuffle, several chairs turning over, and a shrieking call girl.
“Don’t look,” Daniel advised Colton, afraid that his client’s image could still get snapped by a curious passerby, and the headline on the cover of the tabloid would be COLTON FARR INVOLVED IN CASINO BRAWL WITH PROSTITUTE. The article inside would explain that Colton was involved only tangentially, but nobody would read the article. They would only glance at the headline and photo in the grocery store checkout line and reach a verdict about Colton.
And turn the channel when the Hot Choice Awards aired Friday night.
Daniel managed to prevent that catastrophe, at least. He steered Colton all the way into the elevator, growling, “Don’t turn around,” as the doors slid shut behind them.
2
Feigning her usual confidence, Wendy strode out of the conference room and stopped to talk with one of her assistants. “I’m on the Lorelei Vogel case, so I need access to all those files on the server, please. And tell the travel office I’m flying to Vegas this afternoon. Have them text me the deets.”
“Vegas!” the young woman exclaimed. “You are so lucky!”
“I feel lucky.” Wendy walked through the wide room of cubicles, toward her own office. She consciously quieted her high-heeled footsteps as she approached the open door of Tom’s office. She loved Tom like a younger brother, but if he wrapped his arms around her and hugged her close in the hallway to comfort her, she would lose what little composure she had left. She hoped he wouldn’t call out to her as she sneaked past.
“Hey, Wendy.” He had senses like a Navy SEAL.
Reluctantly she peeked into his office. He sat with his elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands. As she appeared, he turned his head slightly to shift his mischievous blue eyes from his computer screen to her. Tom had been hired a couple of summers before, fresh out of college and four years younger than Wendy and Sarah. At the time, her overall opinion of him had been twofold: that his still-in-college girlfriend was very, very fortunate, and that he was a complete mess.
Fearing for his job safety, Wendy had tried to impress on him the importance of looking professional at work. He’d responded to her suggestion with as much alacrity as Sarah had, which was none. Today he wore a wrinkled blazer over a rock band T-shirt, and he hadn’t shaved. In fact, he never seemed to shave, which was impossible. He must have shaved sometime or he would have looked like a member of ZZ Top. Wendy called him Scruffy. Sarah argued that Scruffy sounded like a border collie, but Tom was more of a German shepherd. He looked friendly, he acted playful, but he had a dangerous air about him. When Wendy talked about him like he was a little brother, Sarah pointed out that he was like a little brother who had been to prison.
“What happened at your meeting with the bosses?” he asked Wendy. His eyes widened as he saw her expression. “Wendy, I—”
She shook her head. She shouldn’t need to be comforted by him, when she was supposed to be his mentor. She just needed to get to Vegas and perform a miracle. She fled past Sarah’s office to her own and quietly closed her door.
She stood in the small space beside her desk with her hands pressed to her eyes, trying to remember whether there was anything hidden in her office that would incriminate her or any of her clients if the bosses fired her while she was in Vegas. Looking around the office would do no good because on the surface it was clean and pristine, with her huge bulletin board sectioned into the clients she was responsible for and their current whereabouts—though she hadn’t yet updated Brad’s column to read six feet under. Disentangling the nightmarishly junky drawers of her desk and filing cabinet would take years. Even she didn’t know what was in there. But she didn’t think she was in possession of anything that would get anyone in trouble, now that Brad McCain was dead.
A knock sounded in the hall—on Sarah’s door, not Wendy’s. “Come in,” Sarah called. Then, through the thin wall, Wendy could make out only the murmur of Sarah’s and Tom’s hushed voices. But she knew Tom was telling Sarah that Wendy had had a bad meeting. Sarah would knock on Wendy’s door any second.
Wendy didn’t want to recount the meeting to Sarah. Then she really would cry. She sat down at her desk, hoping she could give Sarah the impression that she was busy with work. She opened the top drawer and quickly closed it again. The mess was depressing. She truly was a neat person, but the appearance of neatness was more important than neatness itself. And maintaining that appearance sometimes meant she raked everything on the desk into the drawer. Repeatedly. And then she got sent to Nashville or Paris and never got a day for spring cleaning. Usually the disorder didn’t bother her, but at the moment it seemed overwhelming.
