Keir O'connell's Mistress

CHAPTER TWO

CASSIE’S day had gone really, really well.

She’d worked a double shift to cover for one of the other girls who’d either come down with the flu or had a new boyfriend—nobody was quite sure which—but that was okay.

No problem. She could use the extra money.

The only thing was that she’d started the first shift tired after a tough, three hour exam, the final one before she got her degree in restaurant management. Cassie had taken the course on the Internet after signing up, mostly out of curiosity, two years ago. The work had been interesting and, to her surprise, she’d done well at it.

Soon, she’d start looking for a job as far from Vegas as she could get. She’d already decided on an employment agency, a place called TopNotch, because the gossip mill said TopNotch provided almost all management employees to the Desert Song.

If it was good enough for the Song, it was good enough for her.

By the time her second shift was drawing to a close, Cassie was totally exhausted. Her mouth felt stiff from constant smiling, her eyes felt tired from the re-circulated air washing over her contacts, and her feet…

No. She wasn’t going to think about her feet. Rule One in Cassandra Bercovic’s Survival Guide: dancers and waitresses should never think about their feet until they no longer had to stand on them. Once you admitted they hurt, you were in deep trouble.

She was already in trouble.

Cassie winced as she eased one foot just a little way out of its silken, stiletto-heeled prison. Her toes felt as if they’d been jammed into a ball, her arches ached and the soles burned as if a sadist had gone at them with a blowtorch.

She sighed, plucked an empty glass from beside a silent slot machine and put it on her tray.

Toe shoes had been the bane of her existence until she’d given up ballet the day after her seventeenth birthday. Back then, she’d thought bloody feet were only the province of ballerinas.

Talk about being wrong…

Okay. Enough of feeling sorry for herself. Her feet hurt. Big deal. The good news was that she was almost out of here. It had to be close to seven. There was no way to tell because there were never clocks in casinos. The only time that mattered was how long a guest spent at the slots or at the tables.

She knew the time, though. She’d asked Chip on her last stop to put in an order at the bar.

“Pushing 6:15 in the old A.M.,” he’d told her.

Thank God.

Cassie swallowed a yawn. One last circuit of the room and that would be it. The casino was almost empty at this hour. Only the diehards played between dawn and breakfast, and there hadn’t been too many of them this morning.

“Miss?”

She knew who it was before she looked. The sweaty-faced guy at the dollar slots. Rule Number Two of the Bercovic Survival Guide: you could count on a minimum of one pig turning up, each and every shift.

“Yes, sir?” she said politely.

“Gimme another orange juice. And this time, do like I said, okay? I want a double shot of vodka, not a single.”

“It was a double shot the last time, sir,” Cassie replied, even more politely.

The man glared as he slapped his empty glass on her tray. She shot a quick look at the tall paper cup that held his coins. Last time she’d come by, it was full. Now, it was almost empty.

“Listen, toots, I can tell the difference between one shot or two, and that wasn’t no two. I want a double. You got that?”

Cassie could almost feel her blood pressure soar but she’d been a waitress long enough to manage a smile.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back with your drink.”

Her smile turned into a scowl when she reached the bar.

“Pig,” she muttered as she slapped down her tray.

Chip grinned. “Nothing’s as much fun as the early morning players, Cass. You should know that by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Cassie sighed. “Another OJ, double vodka.”

“Comin’ up.” Chip reached for a clean glass. “Guy’s an asshole, huh?”

“You got it.”

“Well, the shift’s almost over.”

“How soon?”

Chip pushed back his cuff and checked his watch. “Five minutes to go.”

“Hallelujah! I’m so tired I’m liable to fall asleep standing up.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He cleared his throat. “Coffee would help, right?”

“I don’t know if anything will help. I’m totally wiped.”

“Trust me. You need coffee. Espresso, black, lot of sugar to double the jolt.”

“You’re probably right.”

“And some food,” Chip said, adding OJ to the vodka. “Which is why I figured we could go someplace for breakfast, say a little place just opened a couple of blocks off the Strip.”

Cassie sighed. “Thanks, but all I’m up for is going home, taking a shower and falling into bed.”

“Alone,” the bartender said, with an easy smile that made it okay, “right?”

Cassie smiled, too. Chip was a nice guy and if she’d been interested in getting involved, he’d have been a good choice—but then, when it came to men and to life, she’d never managed to make good choices. One thing she’d learned, though. When it came to life, you had to take whatever it threw at you.

Men, at least, you could swear off, and she definitely had.

If only she’d remembered that before Keir O’Connell had come on to her at Dawn’s wedding.

“Keir keeps looking at you,” Dawn had whispered when they had a moment alone after the ceremony.

“Don’t be silly,” she’d whispered back. “He’s probably just trying to remember where he’s seen me before.”

Dawn had laughed, just as she was supposed to, but it was true, Keir had been looking at her, the way a man looks at a woman, giving her those sexy little grins, leaning in closer than necessary to ask if she wanted anything from the buffet, and he’d been so gorgeous in his tux, so dangerous with those dark as midnight eyes…

“If you change your mind about breakfast…” Chip said, and Cassie looked up and smiled.

“Sure.”

“Ouch. Was ever a word said with less enthusiasm?”

“Chip, I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“Double ouch. That’s the great-granddaddy of all brush-off lines.”

Cassie blushed. “Honestly, I’m just—”

“Hey, I’m teasing. It’s okay. Can’t blame a guy for trying, right?”

“I’m just not dating anybody for a while. You understand?”

“Sure.” He put the double OJ and vodka on her tray. “Bet the guy who ordered this hasn’t tipped you yet, right?”

“Clever man.”

“He gives you any trouble, you need any help, just sing out.”

“Will do. Thanks.”

“Hey, no need. I live to serve.”

Cassie laughed, plucked a couple of cocktail napkins from the stack on the bar and brought the drink to the guy at the dollar slots. She dipped her knees the way you were supposed to, put a napkin beside him and the glass on top of it.

“Your drink, sir.”

“I hope you got it right this time.”

“Double vodka and orange juice, just as you ordered.”

The man picked up the glass, slurped half of it down while he fed tokens into the machine. Cassie started to walk away.

“Hey! You take this back to that bartender and tell him—”

Coins began to cascade from the slot machine. Music played, lights blinked, and the river of silver kept coming.

“Lookit this! I hit the jackpot.”

It certainly looked as if he had. Coins were still pouring out.

“You must of brung me luck, little lady.” Grinning, the man stuck a beefy paw into the shimmering explosion of silver. “Here. This is for you.”

Cassie lifted her eyebrows. “Why, thank—”

The words caught in her throat. He’d handed her two dollars. She narrowed her eyes, opened her mouth—and felt a hand close around her elbow. Inez, her replacement, marched her away from the machine.

“Do not,” Inez said through a toothy smile, “tell el puerco what you think of him.”

“Two bucks,” Cassie hissed. “That’s what he gave me, after four drinks and a couple of hours worth of nastiness.” She craned her head, looked back over her shoulder. “He must have hit for a thousand.”

“Six thousand,” Inez said, still smiling and still hustling Cassie toward the employees’ exit, “and he is the slime of the universe, but you want to keep your job, right?”

“Inez…”

“Remember the rules, Cass. Employees are always polite to guests.”

The rules. The Desert Song’s rules. Keir O’Connell’s rules, not Cassie Bercovic’s. If she told the guy what she thought of him, O’Connell would sack her.

Too bad the boss didn’t have rules that governed his own behavior.

“Here.” Inez took Cassie’s tray and handed her the small purse she’d left behind the bar. “Now, go home.”

“Once, just once, I’d like to tell a guy like that what I think.”

“Wait until you’re ready to quit. Then come into the casino and security will give you special dispensation to clobber the sleazebag of the night.” Inez grinned. “Okay?”

Cassie sighed. “Okay.”

“Until then…you’re rude, you’re crude, you lose your job.”

“I know.”

“Good, ’cause the big man’s serious when he tells that to employees. If you have a legitimate beef with some SOB, you take it to O’Connell and let him handle it.”

Inez was right. That was Keir’s policy, and wasn’t that amazing because if you wanted to talk about rude, crude sons of bitches, he was your man.

And why did she keep thinking about him this morning? She wasn’t going to do it again, except maybe to consider that as bad as the guy up to his wrists in silver was, Keir was worse.

“Okay,” Cassie said, with the stretch-the-lips smile she’d learned putting in six nights a week strutting across a stage with the Eiffel Tower on her head. “I’m going home.”

“You do that. Just leave Mr. Big Tipper to me.” Inez fluttered her lashes. “I’ll be so sweet when I talk to him that he’ll pass out from a sugar overdose.”

Cassie laughed and gave the other woman a quick hug. “Good night.”

“You mean, good morning.”

“Whatever. Have a good one.”

“Yeah. You, too.”

Cassie thought about taking the stairs to the basement locker room but she was just too tired and her feet really were killing her. Maybe it was these shoes. They were new, and the straps cut into her flesh.

She pressed the call button for one of the employee elevators. Sighing, she slipped one foot from her shoe and rubbed her cramped toes against the carpet.

Wearing three inch heels wasn’t fun, especially if you’d spent most of your life torturing your tootsies.

Rule Number Three of Cassandra Bercovic’s Survival Guide, Cassie thought, grimacing as she pressed the call button again. If you started doing pliés at seven and high kicks at seventeen, forget about high heels because your feet would be a hundred years older than the rest of you by the time you hit twenty-nine.

The problem was, Rule Number Three was pitched into the dust by Rule Number Four.

The Higher The Heels, The Better The Tips.

It was the truest rule of all, and she needed every penny she could come by if she wanted to hold out for the right management job. She didn’t know where she’d find it or when. Her only criteria was that the place had to be small and pretty, and light-years from Las Vegas.

Then she could trade in these torturous stilettos for a nice comfy pair of orthopedics.

The thought made her smile.

Sighing, she slid her shoe back on, stepped out of the other one and flexed her toes.

Except for the one jerk, she’d had a pretty good shift. Two shifts. Most people had been pleasant, the tips had been decent, and the only guy who’d tried to hit on her was so decrepit that she’d almost felt sorry for him.

Cassie glanced up at the unblinking lights on the panel over the cars. What was taking so long? That hot shower and soft bed were calling to her…well, maybe she’d wait on the bed part. She’d sign on to her computer, see if, by some miracle, her grade was waiting in her e-mail in-box. And there was something she wanted to check on, a question she was pretty sure she’d gotten right on the exam but she wanted to look it up and be sure.

Tired or not, she preferred going online early in the day, while things were still relatively quiet in her apartment complex. It had been tough, getting into the habit of hitting the books after you’d been out of school for almost a dozen years, especially when you’d been such a miserable failure while you’d been there the first time.

Maybe that was why she hadn’t told anyone she was taking the course. This way, if she flunked out, nobody would know except her. She might have told Dawn, who was her best friend, but she’d sensed that Dawn had enough trouble of her own without having to worry about offering encouragement to a terrified student.

And then Dawn had fallen head over heels in love and she’d plunged into planning a beautiful wedding at Gray’s uncle’s ranch in Tex—

Cassie stiffened.

Uh uh. She wasn’t going there again. Forget Texas. She’d wasted enough time the past month, going over what had happened, what she’d said, what Keir had said, trying to figure out how she’d ended up in that garden, letting him make a fool of her.

Actually, it wasn’t was all that difficult to understand. The romantic setting would have softened even the most dedicated cynic. Add buckets of champagne, dreamy music, the no-way-out-of-it amount of time the maid of honor was expected to spend with the best man…

The best man. What a joke. The worst man was more like it, and where was that damned elevator?

Cassie banged on the call button.

She missed Dawn. All those late-night chats at the kitchen table, the two of them pigging out on pizza or takeout Chinese. If Dawn were still here, she’d not only have told her about the restaurant management course, she’d have told her about Keir O’Connell, too, how he’d gone slumming, how amazed he’d been when she’d stopped him from making love to her…

…how relieved.

Cassie’s mouth thinned.

Oh, his face when she’d told him to stop. All she’d meant was that things were moving too fast but Keir had blanched under that all-year tan. He’d let go of her so quickly that she’d almost fallen.

“Cassie,” he’d said, his voice hoarse. “Cassie, I’m so sorry…”

What he’d meant was, What the hell was I doing?

She knew, because she’d seen that look on men’s faces before, when she was a showgirl. You met someone, you hit it off, things were fine until the guy asked what you did for a living.

“I dance,” she’d say.

“Where?” he’d say.

From there on, it was all downhill.

By the time she’d been desperate enough to strip, she’d known better than to talk about it.

She wasn’t either a showgirl or a stripper anymore but it didn’t matter. She was still Cassie Berk and some things never changed…and where was that miserable elevator?

To hell with it. History was history. With a little luck she’d be out of Vegas soon enough. No more hearing the ping of the slots, even in her sleep. No more guys thinking she was smiling just for them. No more turning her feet into aching, leaden weights.

Best of all, no more seeing Keir.

He was away. On vacation, everybody said, as if it were a miracle the great man would do such a thing.

She’d already known he was going away.

“I’m taking some time off,” he’d told her as they sat alone at one of the little umbrella tables, smiling at each other because smiling had seemed a good thing to do right then.

He’d said her he was going to New York and then he’d hesitated as if he were going to tell her something else, and just for a minute, for the tiniest bit of eternity, she’d thought maybe, oh maybe he was going to say, “Cassie, come with me…”

The light panel blinked to life; the elevator doors slid open. Cassie was trying to jam her foot back into her shoe when the doors began to slide shut.

“Hey!”

She lunged forward, hobbled into the car and stepped on some plywood sheets one of the maintenance guys must have left on the floor. One heel sank into the wood.

“Idiot,” she mumbled, as the elevator doors closed.

She grimaced, tried to jerk her foot free, but the heel was wedged into a knothole.

“Major idiot,” she said, and jerked her foot out of the shoe. Tongue between her teeth, she bent over and began working the shoe free. It wobbled under the pressure of her hand and she knew she’d have to be careful or she’d snap the stupid heel off. It wasn’t just high, it was also thin, sharp and unstable.

Too bad she hadn’t been wearing this pair of torture devices at Dawn’s wedding. If she’d planted a heel like this in Keir’s instep, he’d still be limping.

“Dammit,” she hissed, “would-you-let-loose?”

The shoe didn’t budge. Maybe it had better sense than she did. If she hadn’t budged, hadn’t gone into that garden with him…

How could she have made such an ass of herself? She’d spent her life living by Rule Number Five, or maybe it was Six. Who cared what number it was? The rule was what mattered.

Never Make It With The Boss.

It was the most important rule of all, it let you avoid a whole mess of trouble, and she’d almost broken it. And what about the rules he’d broken? All those sexual harassment things that said employers were not to hit on their employees.

What about that?

She’d been foolish but no question, Keir was to blame for what had happened. Coming on to her, when he was her boss. Maybe he did it all the time. She’d never heard even a hint of gossip but when men who looked like he did—tall, broad-shouldered and altogether gorgeous—they set their own rules.