Not willing to call room service to clean up just yet, I went into the bedroom, where I fired up my laptop and started doing my research. I had a lot of work to do, and only four days left until the charity gala I was going to attend.
Even if I wasn’t yet invited.
And even if I knew exactly whom I wanted to meet there, but had no idea yet how to get close to him.
Hello, Winston. It will be good to finally know you.
Defense Attorney Blake:What was your opinion of the defendant while she stayed in your hotel?
Jenny Ashbrook:She was a very nice person. I’d never seen her drunk, or high, or doing ... you know, inappropriate stuff. And believe me, as a Las Vegas hotel receptionist, I see a lot.
Defense Attorney Blake:Did she dress provocatively or hang out with a lot of men?
Jenny Ashbrook:No. She was always elegant and classy, and almost all the time by herself. No one called for her or asked about her, that I knew of. Of course, that changed after that article came out and everyone found out who she was.
8
Jack
The next morning, I found a fresh copy of theLas Vegas Sunoutside my door, neatly folded and banded. I picked it up but didn’t open it until I was downstairs at the lobby café, seated at a table with a cappuccino in front of me.
Only then did I open the newspaper, excited as I always was on such occasions. Scanning the first page left me disappointed. It wasn’t there. Something or another about a Supreme Court ruling had taken the spotlight. A local judge by the name of Antunez had sentenced a nineteen-year-old defendant to life without parole for a murder committed in self-defense. The case had stirred up a storm of local controversy, painting Antunez as a stringent figure who wielded his gavel with an iron fist, unyielding even in the face of mitigating circumstances. The article captured my attention, and I frowned while reading it, unwillingly seeing myself in the teenage defendant he’d so harshly sentenced.
But as soon as I turned the page, I saw what I was looking for and smiled—a crooked little smile I reserved only for myself—forgetting everything I’d just read about Antunez and that hapless teenager.
The title readElusive Socialite Returns. The photo I’d chosen the day before was large and printed in color. I looked good in it, partially hiding my face but letting enough of it be seen, my sunglasses still onmy head, my facial expression one of self-assured intent. It was a half profile that would make me recognizable to many people once they’d seen the article. Not to any facial-recognition software, though.
It was perfect.
I skimmed through the lengthy piece, learning that Olivia Taylor had returned to her hometown after being gone for a few years, a possible—albeit partial—heiress to a gambling conglomerate on the other side of the Strip. Not much was said about where she’d lived before returning home, but there were several mentions about her charitable contributions of the six- and seven-figure order of magnitude, as well as her advocacy for several renewable-energy, environmental, and social issues, and her volunteering time for certain initiatives that aligned with her interests.
I couldn’t help a smile.Well, if they said so in the paper, then it must be true.
Slowing the pace of my reading, I flinched at the embellished wording of the last few paragraphs. It sounded a bit cheesy and over the top, but then again, written media often had to be, to keep eyeballs glued to paper instead of phone screens.
While her exact plans for the future remain under wraps, those close to Taylor hint at several high-profile clean-energy projects in the pipeline. “Olivia is just getting started,” says another insider. “Her vision for Las Vegas communities is bold and transformative. We can expect great things from her.”
The stunning 27-year-old Taylor, known for her impeccable fashion sense and gracious demeanor, was recently spotted at the luxurious ARIA hotel, where sources say she will reside until her new home is ready. Her family refused to comment.
Families always did.
Tony had earned his bonus. He had a way with words and no shame whatsoever. Best money I’d spent in Vegas yet.
Folding the paper, I set it on the table and smiled. Soon enough, the hotel receptionist was going to be taking down messages for me and handing them over in neat little stacks of yellow notes. Invitations to charity galas, art exhibitions, fashion shows, and movie premieres. Private parties and high-stakes card games. Interviews and talk shows, too, but I couldn’t do that. The extent of my exposure had to stay local, as much as that was possible. The last thing I needed was some syndicated interview to pop up on Seattle channels on the one night Avery Sinclair had nothing better to do than watch TV.
Finishing my cappuccino, I sent Tony the promised amount with a thank-you note. Within seconds, he replied, “Call anytime, Princess.”
It made me laugh.
That laugh died the moment I lifted my eyes from the phone screen, however. From a few tables away, a dark-haired man stared at me with cold, piercing eyes. Both his hands were wrapped around a venti paper cup. The simple gold wedding band on his finger glinted in the filtered sunlight. He was dressed plainly in a black T-shirt and jeans. When he realized I’d noticed him, his eyes didn’t veer away, as the casual onlooker’s would’ve. And he didn’t smile like a man looking for a hookup would’ve smiled. No ... he held my gaze firmly, the silent menace in his stare chilling my blood.
Just like a cop would’ve done.
Letting me know he was there to watch every move I made.
Abandoning the newspaper on the table, I stood and started walking quickly toward the exit, keeping my head lowered. The article was bound to draw out some freaks, too; it had happened a few times before.
I rushed across the hotel lobby, glad I’d had the sense to wear sneakers instead of heels, and stepped outside into the bright sun. I turned left and walked past The Shops at Crystals mall, whose large reflective windows helped me see behind me without turning my head.
