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Alec watched the clerk at the check-in desk of El Dorado’s luxury hotel aim a come-here gesture toward the lobby.
He turned sideways to see a solidly built man in his early thirties who had all the earmarks of a bodyguard answer the wave.
“Mr. Rodriguez?” the man asked after dodging a pair of tunnel-visioned tourists who had clearly just arrived for a weekend junket.
“Yes.”
“May I see some identification?”
Alec pulled out his wallet and showed his driver’s license.
“Please open your jacket.”
He held open his sports jacket, displaying the pale blue button-down shirt underneath. For all this guy’s bulk, with his long eyelashes and chin dimple, he was way too pretty to be merely a bodyguard.
The man patted Alec’s sides, ankles, and the small of his back in a quick and efficient search. “Please come with me.”
Alec followed him to the elevator bank where the man inserted a key in the panel beside the last set of burnished steel doors and pushed the call button. A moment later, the doors opened. Alec and the bodyguard stepped inside. The key was reinserted and the button for the top floor pushed.
At the top floor, the doors opened onto a hallway. He counted four doors. Conservatively, he estimated each suite at three thousand square feet. This was luxury. With maid service.
The bodyguard tapped on the last door.
Beautiful was an inadequate word to describe the woman who answered. She was of mixed race—he’d known that from the bio Linny sent him—but her pictures didn’t do her justice. A pale cocoa, her skin was just dark enough to betray her African-American heritage. Her black hair was pulled back tight to her skull in the style ballet dancers favored. She had full, red lips and perfectly arched eyebrows over exotically tilted, chocolate brown eyes that made him think some sort of Asian blood though her bio claimed her mother was Polynesian.
A man would have to be three days dead to not turn and stare as this woman crossed the room. The only discordant note was the coolness in her dark eyes in the first moment she looked at him. It was a look he associated with women who’d gone rancid from disappointment. Usually with men. The look was disconcerting in a woman on the happy side of thirty.
Then her gaze flickered from him to the pretty-boy bodyguard and the look was gone so quickly, Alec almost thought he’d imagined it. Her fingers brushed the bodyguard’s wrist. “Thank you, Bernie.”
He smiled faintly and dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning for the elevator.
Which came first? Alec wondered. The bodyguard or the affair? Because he was pretty damn sure they’d had one.
She shifted her attention. “You must be Alec.”
“I must be or Bernie wouldn’t have let me up here.”
“Sorry about that. Until everything is settled, I feel safer knowing someone’s looking out for me.”
“I understand.” It never paid to let an interviewee think you were judging them.
She invited him in. He couldn’t help watching her walk as she lead him toward a conversational grouping of furniture. She wore black tights under wrinkly, electric blue leg warmers and a loose-fitting, low-cut, fluttery top in a swirly pattern of blues and greens that fell to mid-thigh. Her feet were bare, revealing toenails painted hussy red.
There was no question in his mind about why Sebastian had put a ring on her finger. Having a woman like her on his arm was like telling the world not to let his age fool them. He was more than a man who got what he wanted; he was a man who got what everyone wanted.
It wasn’t until she turned to gesture toward a loveseat that he pulled his gaze away and noticed the view of the Vegas Strip outside the floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the far wall. He could only imagine how it would look at night with all the lights of the city twinkling beneath his feet.
“Nice place you have here,” he said, proud that he could sound so casual.
Liz smiled coolly. “I like it.”
She gestured again, inviting him to sit. He chose the polar white love seat that faced a red accent wall with a large black Japanese symbol. “That’s striking.”
“Isn’t it? It’s the symbol for joy.”
“Very uplifting.”
“Are you making fun of me, Mr. Rodriguez?” Her tone held mild amusement.
“Not at all. We can always use a reminder to count our blessings.” And she had plenty of blessings. Millions if she inherited everything from Sebastian. Not that money bought happiness, but she’d feel better crying in a Mercedes. And speaking of blessings, he put the file he carried on the coffee table and opened it. “We should probably start with this.”
She sat down next to him.
“This is the same agreement we sent your lawyer,” he said. “There are flags marking where your signature is required.”
She flipped through the pages, signing or initialing as required. When she finished, he pulled the cashier’s check from his wallet and handed it to her. She rose and put the check beside her purse on the dining room table. When she returned, she stopped at the bar in the corner of the living room. “I think this calls for a celebration. I have some very nice wine.”
Since she was already reaching for a bottle, he said, “Sure.”
“I’ve decided that I don’t want to let other people define my special occasions,” she said as she opened the bottle and poured a glass. “Sebastian and I should have celebrated finding each other every month—maybe even every week—instead of once a year. So now, I plan to celebrate at every opportunity.”
At that rate, she’d be a lush inside of three months.
“Do you mind if I record our interview?” he asked, setting his voice recorder on the coffee table.
“Not at all.” She brought the glass to him, setting it and the bottle on the table in an obvious invitation to refill it as he chose. A glance at the label—Masi Amarone with all the smaller print in Italian—told him she’d be an expensive lush. Not that he expected her to celebrate with Boone’s Farm. At heart, he was a beer and bowling kind of guy, but he knew a little about wines, and a sip convinced him he’d never tasted anything that compared. It was smooth but with a complex character of dark fruit, cocoa, and wood. He didn’t even want to guess at the price tag on a bottle of this.
She returned to the bar and filled her own glass with something light colored from the mini-fridge behind the bar.
“You’re not drinking wine?” Alec asked.
“Not for a while. Alcohol . . . makes me weepy this week.”
She could be telling the truth. She had, after all, just lost her husband. Or she could be trying to convince him she’d married Koblect for something other than his money.
She sat on the other end of the loveseat and picked a piece of chocolate from an open box on the table. A little nudge in his direction. “Try one of these.”
Slightly larger than a CD case, even opening like one, the box contained six long fingers of something sparkly set in a starburst formation with a gap where two pieces had been removed—one of which was in Liz’s hand. She bit off the end then sipped her drink and moaned softly.
“What is it?” Alec asked as he picked one up.
“Swiss chocolate. Delaffe’s.”
He assumed that was a brand name. “What’s this sparkly stuff on it?”
“Edible gold.”
He nearly dropped it. The satisfied smile on Liz’s lips told him she hadn’t missed his fumble.
“Try it with the wine. They’re heavenly together.”
He wondered which was more expensive, the wine or the chocolate.
She leaned back into the corner on the other end of the couch, the hand that had held the chocolate, empty now, flung across the back. One foot was tucked underneath her, the other leg crossed over her knee, putting her foot with her shiny red toenails just inches from his leg. “So where would you like to start?”
He started with her bio. Born in San Diego, moved to Las Vegas at eight because her father, a construction worker, found work there. She’d started dance lessons—ballet and jazz—at ten. Graduated from Bonanza High School and auditioned for a show at the Aladdin. She worked there three years when El Dorado announced it was holding auditions for a showgirl revue. She tried out and won a spot.
Her personal life hadn’t been quite so tidy. At twenty, she’d met a security expert who also worked at the Aladdin. Eight weeks and one whirlwind courtship later, she’d married him. The marriage lasted six months.
How coincidental was that? Her ex-husband worked casino security. Not at El Dorado, of course, but there were bound to be similarities between the casinos.
“I don’t want to talk about him,” she said. “It’s not fair. He didn’t sign up for this kind of notoriety.”
Alec allowed her to bypass it for the moment. He’d dig for the information about her marriage on his own and, depending on what he found, decide if he should press for more.
She’d met Sebastian at a retirement party for an upper-level manager. She’d gone as the date of one of the men in the manager’s department.
“Sebastian made some off-hand comment over by the punch bowl that I took offense to. Mostly because I was in a bad mood, having discovered my date was a misogynistic pig who thought showgirls were easy. Telling Sebastian he was a jackass got his attention. People didn’t do that to him often. Three months later, we were married.”
“You didn’t learn not to jump in fast from your first marriage?”
“If he’d been anybody else, I’d have waited, but Sebastian could be persuasive,” she said with a wink. She shifted slightly, her toes lightly brushing the fabric of his Dockers at his thigh.
It might have been intentional, but it was also deniable. He didn’t want to look foolish by assuming it meant anything, so he forced himself to ignore the distraction and focused on what she’d said.
What had she said? Oh yes, Sebastian. Persuasive. Of course, he was. People didn’t rise to that level of power and money if they weren’t. But it was also true women didn’t often get a shot at men with Sebastian’s kind of money. Cynic that he was, Alec was willing to bet she hadn’t wanted to risk Sebastian losing interest if she put him off.
“Was Sebastian faithful?” he asked
She smiled as though she’d won a bet with herself. “You’ve heard the rumors. You know he wasn’t.”
Leaning forward, ostensibly to pick up another piece of chocolate, she angled her body, giving him an eyeful of her deep cleavage. Not that he didn’t appreciate the view. He just didn’t like feeling he might be prey.
“And it’s not like I expected him to be. He wasn’t faithful to any of the women before me. Why would I expect him to change?”
“That didn’t upset you?”
“Do you know why women get so upset when men cheat?” She took a bite of chocolate, eyeing him as she chewed, as though she didn’t expect him to get the answer to her little quiz.
“I always figured they felt betrayed, but I expect you’re going to say something else.”
“Smart man. The reason is we feel we’ve been made a fool of. When we ‘cleave only unto him,’ we expect him to do the same.”
“Are you saying you cheated, too?”
“Is it cheating if you have an open marriage?” Her smile felt like a velvety invitation.
He refrained from returning it, but inside he was doing cartwheels. This story was going on the cover. People loved reading about the decadence of the rich and famous. Circulation would go through the roof.
Cleo was going to hate it.
The smile almost escaped.
“I haven’t shocked you? You don’t want to burn me at the stake?”
“Should I be shocked?”
“Most people are judgmental about an arrangement like ours.”
“It’s not my job to judge.”
“Touché.”
“So he slept with who he wanted and so did you. No jealousy?”
“I didn’t say that. Sebastian roared a bit at first, but he had a fair streak. He liked not having to be accountable for every minute. He had Nancy Bales for that. And he liked that I didn’t cling to him or expect him to entertain me all the time. He had enough of that in his third marriage.”
Sebastian’s third marriage. Candy. Somehow Alec wasn’t surprised.
“I won’t say it didn’t take us a while to figure out that sharing certain details was counterproductive,” Liz continued, “but the arrangement kept us from feeling guilty when we looked at each other.” She took a sip from her glass. “Guilt’s a destructive emotion, you know.”
“Did you know who Sebastian’s other partners were?”
“Sometimes. It’s interesting, though. About six months after we were married, Sebastian told me, when he’d cheated on his previous wives, he’d get enamored with the other woman and want to end his marriage. That didn’t happen with us. When you don’t have to sneak around, you don’t confuse sex with love.”
“And yet you were a week away from being divorced.”
She was trying to maintain a calm demeanor, but the hand lying on the back of the couch, so relaxed a moment before, betrayed her when it drew in on itself, the fingers curling into her palm. “No. We weren’t. It was a game we played. We’d fight and act all mad at each other, do crazy things, and then we’d make up.”
“A week’s calling it kind of close, isn’t it?”
She leaned forward as though wanting to make him understand. All he really understood was that he could see the swell of her breast.
“But that’s where the excitement lies,” she said, her eyes glittering dangerously. “Seeing how close to the edge you can take it.”
“Okay.” It wasn’t something he really understood. Not if you truly cared for the person you were with, but as he’d already told her, it wasn’t his place to judge. “So you both slept with whoever struck your fancy.”
“Within reason, yes.”
If you agreed to an open marriage, what became unreasonable? Alec felt his poker face slip the tiniest bit.
“We both had a veto list,” Liz said.
He gave her points for addressing his unspoken question. “Do you mind my asking who was on it?”
“Off the record?”
“Sure. Why not?” He turned off his voice recorder.
“The casino’s upper management. My ex-husband. Those were Sebastian’s vetos.”
And according to Willa, Liz hadn’t abided by the list. He was tempted to ask about Archer Davis, the executive who’d flirted with her only to get fired, but it wouldn’t get him anything useful. Besides, he’d already called the home office and someone—probably Jackson—would be checking out Mr. Davis and any alibi he might have for the night of the murder. “And your list?”
“His exes. His administrative assistant.”
“Nancy Bales?”
“Yes.”
“Was Annaliese Carson on the list?”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment before answering. “Yes.”
Interesting. He turned the recorder back on. “Where were you when you heard about Sebastian?”
“I’d worked the eleven o’clock show the night before, so I was sleeping in. Bales called and woke me with the news.”
“You must have been shaken.”
“I thought it was a joke, which is kind of funny because Bales isn’t known for her sense of humor. Even once I realized she was serious, I didn’t believe it. Not really. I insisted on seeing him though they didn’t let me until he was at the morgue, but I knew I wouldn’t really accept it unless I did.”
Alec opened his mouth for another question, but Liz wasn’t done. In a softer voice, she said, “Have you ever identified a body?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know if it’s this way for everyone, but . . . it didn’t look like Sebastian. He had this spirit—this animation—that made him larger than life. Once that was gone, he looked different. Older. Unimpressive. Like someone else.”
Alec gave her a few moments of silence simply because it seemed like the thing to do.
She shook herself out of it. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a downer.”
“That’s all right. You’re entitled.”
She gave him a rueful smile. “I am, but most people don’t think so. They all think I married Sebastian for his money.”
Alec didn’t think being a gold digger and being sorry one’s husband was dead were mutually exclusive, but it would be counterproductive to point that out.
“I wouldn’t think you’d have needed to identify the body. Surely there wasn’t any doubt.”
“It wasn’t for them. I did it for me. And in spite of everything, I’m glad I did. I knew they were going to do an autopsy, but now―” She stopped and it took him a couple of seconds to realize she was simply breathing in an attempt to keep her voice from breaking. Finally, she continued, “In cases like this, I’m told it can be some time before they release the . . . the body. There will be a memorial on Tuesday and a private funeral . . . later.”
Because now the body was evidence of a crime.
“Would you object to a photographer at the memorial?”
“No. I don’t think I would. I’d be okay with a video, too. Especially if people talk about Sebastian. I’d like to have a copy of that.”
“Not a problem.” It was time for a change of focus. “You went to school with Annaliese’s daughter.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Well, I can’t say you don’t do your homework.”
He smiled at the acknowledgement, but he wasn’t going to admit his source for that tidbit. “Did you know Annaliese as well back then?”
“Know her? No. Cleo and I didn’t run in the same circles, so I was never invited to their house. But I was aware of her mother. She’s not the kind of woman who fades into the background.”
He let his lips twitch. “So I’ve heard. What did you think of her?”
“We all knew she was a showgirl, so she was automatically exotic. Most of us girls found her fascinating. Like a movie star or . . . a movie star who’d made skin flicks early in her career that you could find on YouTube.”
Her analogy told him as much about Liz as it did about Annaliese. “She was a little scandalous then,” he said.
“But in a delicious sort of way. Whenever she showed up at school, we’d speculate about her life. Talk would start. A lot of it was founded on nothing more than someone saying, ‘I’ll bet she has kinky sex.’ The next thing you know, the kids would be whispering details about sexual exploits that weren’t grounded in anything but someone’s imagination. We also hated her a little because she’d appear and the boys’ tongues would hang out. Just walking down the hall, it was like she left this trail of pheromones. We couldn’t compete and we didn’t like it.”
“She took all the attention away from you.”
“Yeah, she made all of us feel like little girls playing dress up.”
“That must have made things rough on her daughter.”
“I suppose it did.”
He waited a beat to see if she would say anything more about Cleo. When she didn’t, he asked, “So when you went to work at El Dorado, was Annaliese still a showgirl?”
“No, she’d retired from performing by then and was choreographing.”
“Is that a typical career path after retirement?”
“There is no typical career path. A lot of women have married by then and find something more family friendly. Some stay on the fringes—choreography, costumes, stuff like that. Some move on completely. There’s one ex-showgirl who writes novels.”
“They any good?” Alec asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t read too many novels.”
Alec wasn’t surprised. She seemed more like a People magazine type of girl.
“I’ll bet you read books,” Liz said.
“Now and then,” he said, unwillingly thinking about the last book he’d picked up and where that had led. He forced the thought away before the memory woke his cock up.
“It must have been some book,” Liz said.
“It was nothing special.”
“Now why don’t I believe that?” Liz mused as she casually swirled the liquid in her glass.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you believe it?”
Her eyes laughed at him. “Because you smiled and there was something in your eyes.”
Damn.
She’d been sitting with her legs crossed, the upper one pointed his way. A little stretch on her part, and her toes brushed his slacks again. “I don’t suppose it could have been Fifty Shades of Grey,” she said, her tone light and teasing.
Even if it were, he’d never admit it. Not after that move with her foot. Cleo’s romance wasn’t a better option and he couldn’t remember the title anyway, so he opted for the last book he’d finished. “Sorry to disappoint you. It was about a Supreme Court case.”
She looked amused. “That seems a bit high brow.”
He shrugged. “It’s background for an idea in development. I also read a paper about the latest sleep research.” He hoped that made him sound boring. And maybe he was because he actually found both of them fascinating.
“Are you sure you work for a tabloid?”
“They sign my paychecks, so yeah, I’m pretty sure.”
“What’s the last thing you read for pleasure?”
The cover of Cleo’s trashy romance flashed in his head, but he shoved it away again. “You mean besides Playboy? Which, of course, I only read for the articles.”
They exchanged smiles until her toes found his thigh again. Whoops. Mentioning Playboy had been a mistake. “Actually, the last thing I read for pleasure was Supereconomics.”
She wrinkled her nose.
He got why. Most people thought economics was dull. He wasn’t one of them. A significant amount of his YouTube time was spent watching Milton Friedman and Thomas Sowell expound on why capitalism worked better than any other system.
He needed to get them back on track. “I assume the police questioned you.”
“Of course. They always look at the spouse first, don’t they?”
“Statistically, the spouse is usually the guilty party.”
She laughed. “If I were the type of woman who would kill her husband, my first husband would have died years ago. But I’m not a black widow.” Another light brush against his thigh.
He met her gaze and saw invitation but not real interest. If he succumbed, he’d be a conquest and not even a notable one in her memoirs. Normally, that wouldn’t bother him, but today it did, though he didn’t want to examine why too closely.
He cleared his throat and tugged at the knee of his slacks, pulling flat the material she’d bunched with her toes. “I’m flattered, but I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
“That’s a rather dull attitude.”
“It’s not because I’m not tempted”—he smiled, hoping to convey regret about the need to resist temptation—“but I’ve seen what happens when a reporter writes an article about a woman he slept with that she wasn’t happy about.”
Liz gave him a cat-ate-the-canary smile. “And where did you hide?”
“Oh no. It wasn’t me, thank God. And fortunately, the man in question was out with the flu that day.” If he hadn’t been, Jackson would still be singing soprano. The woman had meant business. “One look in her eyes, and I promised myself I’d never risk that situation.”
“Well, we don’t have to worry about that, do we? After all, the contract I just signed says I have veto power over anything in your story.”
Either she had a very poor lawyer—which he doubted—or she hadn’t listened to him closely enough. The Word’s standard contract for this type of story gave her the right to correct any factual errors before the story went to print. There was a world of difference between the rights she had and what she thought she had. But it wasn’t his job to correct her.
“I’ll feel safer if we table any fraternization until after the article is on the newsstand. If you’re happy with it and you’re still interested . . .” He knew she’d assume he was open to an encounter at that point, but he was pretty sure she’d take back her offer once she saw what they printed.
For a moment, he wondered why that didn’t bother him more. She was an attractive woman. One he’d have happily slept with a month ago. Now, in spite of his initial attraction, she’d lost a lot of her appeal.
She lost even more when she pretend-pouted.
He in turn pretended not to notice. “So do you inherit it all?”
She sighed but followed his lead. “No. Sebastian has two kids. They’ll each get a nice chunk of change. And there are some other bequests.”
“But I assume you’re going to do okay.”
“Yes, I will.” But she looked away, and he wondered if she was as sure as she professed to be.
“So he didn’t change his will after he filed for divorce?”
Her lips parted as though to deny it, but she paused then said, “I guess I’ll find out on Monday.”
“Oh?” he asked as though he didn’t already know when the will would be read.
“Yes. Formal readings of the will are a Hollywood myth. They’re not done in real life, but the drama of it appealed to Sebastian.” She reached for the wine and refilled his glass. “And I suspect he wasn’t sure his kids would show up at all if the will didn’t stipulate it as a prerequisite to distributing his estate, so they’re flying in tomorrow for a formal reading.”
And the memorial on Tuesday. Had she arranged it that way, hoping Sebastian’s children would attend because it would look better?
His cynicism was showing again. Why wouldn’t they have scheduled the memorial to coincide with their trip? It was the considerate thing to do.
“So whose attendance is required besides his children?”
“Invitations have been extended to all his ex-wives as well as anyone with a specific bequest. They don’t all have to be there, however, but according to the terms of the will, there needs to be a quorum.”
“Have you met his children?” He checked his notes. “Ben and Lisa.” Both were in their mid to late thirties.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure,” Liz said in the politest I couldn’t care less tone.
They discussed Sebastian’s relationship—or lack thereof—with his children. Liz was careful not to say anything negative. He wasn’t sure he should fault her for being happy they hadn’t been part of his life. Grown children often didn’t approve of their father marrying a woman a decade younger than they were.
“So you were a showgirl before you married Sebastian and you quit when you got married. But then you went back to it. Why?”
“I missed it. And Sebastian liked seeing me on stage. I used to only work a couple of shows a week, but after we filed for divorce, I went back to a full schedule. That was part of the game we were playing.”
Alec kept his face neutral, so he wouldn’t betray his skepticism.
“Did you know Annaliese had a relationship with Sebastian when you started seeing him?”
She dropped her gaze and fingered the hem of her shirt. “I knew he’d had a relationship with her, but I didn’t realize it was an on-again-off-again thing.” She met his eyes then. “You need to understand. There were a lot of people around us. People who worked for the casino, people who wanted things from Sebastian, people who thought I could sway his favors, but the people I thought were my friends? They acted differently once I married Sebastian. In a way, I understand. I have a temper. And not the kind where I get over it quickly. I hold grudges.”
She took a deep breath before continuing. “And there I was, suddenly in a position to get just about anyone fired. I shouldn’t have been surprised when everyone started tiptoeing around me, thinking twice about telling me things that might upset me, but I was.”
In spite of what a bitch everyone said she could be, Alec felt sorry for her. She’d just lost her husband and, if he believed her, she didn’t have any confidants to talk to. That had to be about as lonely as a person could get.
Unless it was an act.
Which he hadn’t ruled out.
He’d spent four hours with Liz, trying to figure her out. When he left her suite, he felt as though he hadn’t scratched the surface. She had more faces than Eve with her Multiple Personality Disorder. Was she really the grieving widow? Even her not-so-subtle come on wasn’t proof of anything. If she and Sebastian had the open marriage she claimed, she had no reason to see anything she did as being disloyal to his memory.
And different people grieved in different ways. A brave face didn’t necessarily mean the person wasn’t hurting underneath. Or that they were.