A plot bunny that jumped into existence after watching Ocean's Eleven and Casino Royale. Or something.
Disclaimer: I do not condone any of Belle or Jefferson's cons. 'Tis not very legal, or so they tell me.
Jefferson sniffed the air with a pompous twitch of his nose, fondled the brim of his favourite velvet top hat and strode towards the Baccarat bar. Tourists and temporary hotel guests stared at him as they passed. Let them, he thought with a smirk, this is what a high roller looked like: sober, impeccably dressed and pockets heavy with tigers and barneys. None of that drunken twaddle, 'I heart Las Vegas' shirts and measly white $1 chips.
"No suit? What a shame," said a creamy voice by his ear.
A slow smile spread across his face. He didn't even turn around as the woman brushed passed him, walking in the opposite direction. No point, she'd have disappeared into the crowd by now. He wondered if she'd play roulette or the craps tonight. The ghostly whiff of her perfume lingered for a moment, and then was lost against the other, sharper, smell of alcohol. Adrenaline and sweat pervaded the room with a familiar musk. Not even its vastness could hide that slightly tangy, unpleasant odour.
He reached into his pocket and retrieved the slip of paper his partner had dropped:
9
"Ah, Bellagio, how I've missed you," he murmured, tucking the note away and hopping up the three steps into the exclusive Club Privé. A hanging chandelier of glass and fairy dust fell in a curtain around the glittering bar. A wall of mirrors screened the better endowed guests from the chaotic hysteria that was the main floor.
"Sir Jefferson," a woman in a showy black dress handed him a crystal-cut glass of clear liquid. She'd adorned her face with a silky smile, as smooth as it was empty. "Your usual."
He lifted the Swiss rye vodka towards his lips, made a show of smacking them in appreciation and winked. "You know me too well, Regina."
She tipped her carefully coiffed hair towards him with a flash of teeth and sauntered away to serve another whale.
That's what he was, Sir Jefferson Wonders the Fifth. A whale. A high roller. A big player. He felt the heavy comfort of his pocketful of chips again and made his way to his normal table, depositing his satin suit pants into a cushioned seat with a sigh. He placed his glass and his opening bet in the same practiced motion. The dealer smiled in recognition, made some comment on the freshness of the night and dealt him his cards.
Placing a neat pile of black rimmed, orange striped clay discs – tiger chips – upon the green felt, he glanced to his right at the men already at the table. Satisfied that they were extraordinarily ordinary, Jefferson grunted and sat back, fiddling with one of his tigers. $100. Let the games begin.
OOO
Miss French chuckled as she brushed past her accomplice. His bright purple waistcoat had been drawing curious eyes. Of course, she chided to herself, of course he wouldn't wear one of the perfectly non-descript black suits he owned. Of course, Jeff just had to have all the attention.
The cocky bastard.
Throwing her hands deep into the pockets of her own baggy second-hand jeans, French strolled from table to table, letting the noise of the place wash over her in comforting waves. She inhaled the intoxicating air, glanced up at the pretty little chandeliers and the almost imperceptible 'eye-in-the-sky' security cameras. Resisting the urge to throw them a teasing wink, she approached an area of the main floor that was particularly loud.
The craps pits.
As the hollering neared, a small, predatory smile spread over her lips. She widened her eyes theatrically, gently shook some of her hair into them and wandered over like an inquisitive, if slightly intimidated, puppy. The players barely noticed her approach, in her simple white shirt, rolled up cuffs and scuffed knees. She'd even stopped herself from washing her hair for a few days just to complete the look of a sweaty and exhausted traveller, enjoying the sights of the big city and a little unkempt from her adventures.
She edged near the rails, shoulders carefully slumped. A new bout of hollering erupted as the dice were thrown. French was quick to fake a wince and back several steps away.
"Oh, so sorry," she muttered at the man she'd tumbled into. The English accent rolled effortlessly off her tongue.
The man tore his eyes away from the table to nod at her, then doubled back, having spotted her glowing smile. His eyes softened, losing some of their manic enthusiasm for the game and he even went so far as to offer her a hand to steady herself. She took it with a practiced blush. "Thank you."
"Uh," he waved her off, "Hey, are you new to the game?" French glanced askance at him and nodded shyly. "Oh, you, wanna, learn? It's easy. Here I'll show you."
He led her closer to the raucous men and found her a place at the table. Careful to explain all the basic rules over the top of the conversation, he helped her place a pass line bet of a single red $5 chip. As he turned away to watch the roll, she couldn't swallow a grin as an image of the $10,000 tucked behind the mini bar in her hotel room came to mind.
"Ah, so she is enjoying herself," he nudged her gently in the shoulder. "My name's David, by the way."
She extended a hand and thought to accompany it with one of her gentler smiles, "Belle French."
"Ah, la belle, la beauté," David laughed at his own failed French pun. "Oh look! You're even!"
He leaned down to pick up French's $5 earnings, having equalled her initial bet.
As he did so, quick as a viper, she reached out a hand under his chest and lifted two of his chips from his stack. He straightened himself with a big grin and placed an honestly earned chip onto her meagre pile along the rail. She feigned excitement.
"Thanks David," tucking his two chips into her pocket, as she blinked at him innocently, "So, where do we go from here?"
"We can put in an odds bet, if you're game."
French bit her lower lip and stared off into space, pretending to consider how much she wanted to sacrifice, when in fact she discreetly checked the location of the two floormen who would be roaming the tables. With a slow, trembling hand, she betted another $5. At David's encouraging smile, she placed the chip into the centre and watched as the dice was rolled again.
"A four! $10!"
He leaned over to retrieve her chips once more. With another inconspicuous swipe, she stole some more off his rail. Feeling confident this time, she risked three chips between her first and middle fingers. She deposited them with their brothers. At David's glorious smile, French felt a tiny pang of guilt. Here was a nice, if drunk, man who was just being friendly and she was shamelessly stealing his hard-earned money out from under his nose. Literally. She dared a glance at the pit boss. He was looking away.
Shaking off her glimmer of guilt, she reached across the rail once more. David had arched his neck back over his shoulder to demand another drink from a friend. Not taking her eyes off his face, French felt for two $25 chips this time, silently berating her own cockiness, and only just put them away when David turned back around. He saw her enquiring eyes.
"My fiancée," he said with a wink, "Mary Margaret."
French followed his pointing arm in polite curiosity, muttering congratulations as she eyed the small dark bob that weaved through the crowd looking to hail one of the waitresses wandering around and offering complimentary drinks. "How long have you known each other?"
"Three years," he drawled, then leaned in conspiratorially, "You wouldn't guess how we met, Belle. Can you believe that minx stole from me?"
He guffawed. French raised an eyebrow, suddenly much more interested in the rather coquettish looking girl, "How...strange."
"Yeah, a girl thief," he laughed again, "Who would believe it. Who would believe it..."
Any of her lingering feelings of guilt evaporated in puff of smoke and narrowed eyes. You'd better believe it, she growled defensively in her head. If there was one thing she didn't take kindly to, it was underestimating her sex. She patted her growing bounty and smirked from behind strands of her hair. Beside that lump, she felt her cheap, disposable phone and slid it out.
It was 8:48pm.
"Hi, Gaston," she said cheerily, speaking into a phone that wasn't even unlocked. Mouthing an apology to David, she stepped away from the table and continued her one-sided conversation. Her eyes darted around the arena, saw a floorman to her right eyeing her in disapproval and approached the stony pit boss instead. The man drew together two dark eyebrows and began to tell her that using cell phones was prohibited on the floor. French grimaced and flipped the phone shut with a snap. Brushing her fingers through her hair, she batted her eyelashes once.
"Excuse me," she glanced at his name tag, "Leroy. I was wondering who I should report some suspicious activity to."
He frowned an unshaved muzzle and grudgingly waved her to continue.
"I think I saw a man swapping his table with loaded dice," she pointed to David's table, her finger accusingly directed at his back. As if on cue, he lept up and fisted pumped the air. Even from this distance she could hear him say, "Take that Bellagio! Ha HA!"
Leroy's face darkened even further and he muttered something into a walkie talkie and told her in no uncertain terms to keep back as this was going to get messy. French was still for a fraction of a second, then she darted around the tables and took a different route from the guard. At the corners of her eye, she saw the floor people shadow their boss's footsteps and advance on the innocent David.
"Oh, excuse me!" she mumbled, knocking into an engrossed player she passed. He threw her a disgruntled look, wiping the spilt drink off his chips and swore in her direction. She lifted her shoulders in apology then quickly hurried away, his sunglasses now upon her own face. "Idiot."
The hair elastic around her wrist pulled up her wayward locks and she noticed a discarded jacket and bag at the foot of a distracted patron. Dropping her phone, she ducked under that table, shrugged on the leather, quickly fumbled through the purse and took out the tube of lipstick. Hurrying towards David's table, she applied the cosmetic, buttoned up her new prize to the neck and slicked a wetted finger over both her eyebrows.
"Don't move!" Leroy yelled, tackling David to the ground as he won another bout of money. The table and those around burst into madness. The extra two men pounced and held him down. Amongst the shrieks and pleading yells, French slipped to the discarded rail, the guests swarming around her to get an eye full of this new novelty. Knowing the grabbing hands and clicking camera phones that sprung up at her shoulders would hide her hands from any watching security, she quickly ran around the table and swept the unattended chips into her stolen purse.
"I didn't do nothin', sir! I swear, I swear!"
French took the dealer's stick, scooped the cubes towards her, pocketed the real ones and replaced them with her own pair of loaded die – all in one fluid stroke.
"What are you talking about?" David said, two men yanking him to his feet by his armpits. He looked straight at French but failed to recognise her in her new disgusie. "I wasn't cheating! I was having a good night! Just a lucky night! Come on, this isn't fair!"
Leroy growled. He stormed towards the table and picked up French's counterfeits, lifting them to the chandelier lights. Very clearly, the shaved edges of the cube showed they'd been tampered with. A hush settled around the crowd, followed by frenzied whispering as David was dragged haphazardly away.
Mary Margaret was left staring after her partner in shock, the drink still in her hand. Confused and disorientated, she didn't notice as a woman in fashionable dark glasses brushed past her and dropped two casino dice into her jacket pockets.
Said woman then walked away, her pace unhurried and head held high, her lips now painted a cherry red, her purse and pockets filled with a healthy $6085 worth of chips. Absentmindedly, she wondered if Jeff was missing her yet.
OOO
Sir Jefferson had his hands folded carefully over his fuchsia waistcoat, a second glass of vodka at his table. His fellow whales were not so relaxed as he. More had joined since he'd sat down and now two even wore mirrored sunglasses. Silently he scoffed, this wasn't poker, who did they think they were?
As his pretty little brunette dealer gave him his two cards, Jefferson lifted then a fraction and took a careful sip to swallow his frown. Only a three and a five. How terribly disappointing. In fact, this whole night had gone quite frightfully. He had started with $5000, his usual for a Friday night, and after an hour of careful play, had only raised that amount to a mere $8000. Quite a poor effort for an entire 60 minutes of work, he whined.
Glancing at the diamond-studded Montpellier upon his wrist, he smiled slowly. It was 8:58pm. The smile grew to horrendous proportions and made him look quite mad, he was sure. Suddenly, the three and five didn't look so terrible. He surrendered them, of course, and waited for the next round.
Right on cue, a woman in an even showier pink peplum dress than his cocktail waitress Regina, appeared at his shoulder.
"Ah, my dear, you look ravishing," he lifted his glass to her, eyes sparkling as he noticed a pair of sunglasses atop her head and a new black leather coat swung over her arm. "How was your evening?"
French lowered herself into a seat beside him, crossed her bare legs with a dramatic sigh and said, "I went to watch a show at Caesar's. Horrible soprano, I felt like the windows would shatter."
The dealer gave Jefferson's partner a warm smile, "You saw the opera. You didn't enjoy it?"
"Emilia de Ravin had such an awful vibrato," French said in a perfect New York twang, "'Italian trained' my ass. I nearly walked out at intermission but you know, Jefferson darling, I ran into Gaston and we spent Act Two catching up."
Jefferson faked a frown, "That flounced-up Frenchman?"
"Oh shush," she hit him with the back of her hand and simultaneously opened a purse he had never seen, just low enough beneath the rim of the table that the dealer would not have a clean view of it. Nor the eyes in the sky. "He's really not that bad once you get over just how...French he is. No offence, of course, sweetie."
The French dealer only grinned at the snark aimed her way, "Will you be playing, Lady Bella?"
"Oh no. But," she pretended to fumble around in her purse, though Jefferson could see with a grin, that it contained nothing but chips, "Ah, here we go, some chips we forgot to cash in from last time."
The dealer bit the side of her mouth and watched with a mild expression as several large piles were added to his own generous stacks. Quickly, with the finesse of an experienced worker, she counted that it added up to a round $6000. Of course, only a whale could forget to cash in that amount of money. $6000 would pay off all her credit cards. Without waiting for permission, accustomed to Sir Jefferson's tastes, she traded the many lower valued chips for 6 bananas – yellow and white striped $1000 discs.
"Ah my lovely," Jefferson drew the socialite to his side for a sloppy kiss, "We must bet it all!"
"Oh dear, really, that's..."
"No, no! You're tired, I'm tired. Let's get this over with!" Jefferson pushed his pot forward, all $12,000, as if it was nothing to him.
The dealer shook her head in soft disbelief and asked the other patrons how they would like to proceed with their hands.
As she was otherwise occupied, Jefferson gave French a rather more demure kiss on the cheek, whispering, "Nice timing Bee, I was getting bored."
She snorted, "You know I told you 9."
"Doesn't stop me from being bored," he withdrew with a shrug and another peck. In the palm of his right hand, carefully hidden, were his two trump cards. He hoped they wouldn't be too sweaty or bent from having been kept hidden a whole hour. The pit boss who managed Club Privé, a voluptuous woman with rosy cheeks, had come up to the table and was carefully watching proceedings. Jefferson gave her a beaming smile and nodded at the large pile of chips he'd betted on a whim.
"Madam Superior," the dealer greeted.
"Just a matter of course," she eyed Jefferson and French carefully, but seeing nothing except a young, wealthy couple – probably an heiress and the son of some minor European royal family – she simply watched from the sidelines.
Their dealer alighted upon them and dealt two cards. Jefferson lifted them a fraction and saw that it was a simple ten and six. Not horrible, but nothing spectacular, certainly not enough to warrant a $12,000 bet. Enquiring eyes upon him, Jefferson placed his hand above his cards and made a small shaking motion. He would stay.
The men to his right revealed their hands: two threes, a Jack and a four equalled a 20; an eight and a Queen equalled 18; the third man surrendered; and finally, an eight, an ace and a Queen equalled 19.
Jefferson had his two false cards kept carefully hidden and flipped over his ten and six. Moving impossibly quick, he palmed the dud hand and made the switch. In the space of a second, with a graceful flick, a new pair was revealed.
"Ace and Jack," their dealer said, glancing at her boss, "Very impressive."
He gave a bark of laughter at the disgruntled faces and slammed a heavy hand upon the man closest to him. Instead of using his right hand, within which his palm now held the original cards, he reached astride his own chest to pat the guy with his left.
"My luck had to change, ain't that right?" He downed the rest of the vodka in a triumphant gloat, knowing that the House would have to have a blackjack as well to draw even with him. Of course, when their soft spoken dealer turned over her cards, they were a Queen and ten. Only a 20.
He gave another belt of laughter and French had the decency to roll her eyes a little. Their $18,000 winnings were silently passed towards them. Madam Superior had nothing to say. She'd watched him carefully, and even with a decade of experience, had missed the sleight of hand.
"Bad cards all night and then she arrives," Jefferson said lightly to French, a complete lack of subtlety, "My lucky charm. My beautiful lucky charm."
French suppressed another roll of her eyes. The cameras would be focused on their table. Winning large amounts of money triggered alarm bells. Even for whales. The eyes in the sky would be zoned in on them. Probably closing in on their faces, scrutinising from every angle. She just hoped Jefferson's lack of discretion would be seen as realistic ecstasy.
"We should do it again!" he roared at his own joke and made to push his chips across the table.
Standing in alarm, French acted as the frustrated spouse and pulled him back into a firm embrace. "That's enough, dear."
He pouted, "But you're my lucky charm, things are changing, darling, I can feel it! Just once more!"
At their close proximity, she could see, in the flicker of his eyes, that it was just an act for the cameras. Her mouth forming a gentle, though stern, curve, she gave him her careful counsel that $30,000 was a good haul for one night. Jefferson seemed to physically deflate. French had to give him kudos for his acting. He really was something else. The other men looked at him in a mixture of envy and scorn. Their dealer smiled blandly, Regina the waitress was glancing over disinterestedly at who was just another customer richer than her and the sullen Club manager had nothing to say. French could see exactly what they saw – a man too foolhardy, conceited and stupid to think of any scam.
It had to have been dumb luck.
"Alright, alright. Astrid, doll, could you exchange this for me?" he waved at the huge piles of chips. Then accepted, with a melodramatic, but perfectly in character sigh, a large wad of freshly pressed bank notes.
Tugging him down the steps of Club Privé, French continued to keep in character, putting on her shades and strutting through the floor like she owned it. Her dress was clutching at her thighs and swaying with the steps she took in red stilettos. At her arm, Jefferson was engrossed in counting the notes, shameless greed upon his face. The other guests looked at them with equally hungry stares. French wandered past the craps area, their hollers having returned to normal volume after the mishap of the night. Strolling straight past Leroy, who very obviously did not think she was the same person, she made it out of the wide-spread doors into the lobby.
It wasn't until they were in the back of a taxi, driving down the Strip, that either she or her partner spoke.
"So," he said, staring out of the window and up at the gold-lighted buildings, neon signs and all around glamour.
She kicked off her shoes and rolled down the windows. As they sped up, leaving behind the glaring brightness of the main street, she tossed the now empty purse out the window, watching the reflection of their driver's eyes in the mirror and making sure he did not see the action. The wind whipped at her hair, pulling at the careful bun she had fixed in the bathrooms. Closing her eyes carefully, she breathed the frigid night air through her nose, loving the almost painful feel of its freshness. No more hazy casino, no more drink-tainted air.
"What do you want to do now?" Jeff asked her, falling into his usual American voice, instead of the Welsh tongue 'Sir Jefferson' would speak in.
She had her head leaning back against the seat and turned it to look at him, still at that reclined angle, "Sleep."
"And tomorrow?"
Sighing, she twisted away, welcoming the wind once more.
"Bee?"
"Mm?"
"Let's take tomorrow off," he said softly, a hand placed awkwardly on her thigh.
She looked down at it, resting against her flesh and felt it tremble lightly. Funny how they could act like a couple, yet when the mask dropped, he could be so shy. Giving him a grateful glance, she rolled up the windows and nodded, in her own Australian lilt, "Thanks."
In comfortable silence, they pulled up to a cheap, two-star motel on the wayside, paying the fare with cash from their heist. They watched the cab disappear, making sure it was well out of sight before hailing another. Instead of stepping into the motel, they jumped into this new cab and ordered it to drive back the way they had come.
"Caesar's Palace, please," Bee said in a falsely cheery tone.
In the backseat again, Jeff carefully unbuttoned his outrageous waistcoat and folded it in half, placing it in his businessmen's leather tote. Bee French put her pinched jacket with it and quickly took off her dress. Underneath, she was hardly naked, having put on a full, tan-coloured body stocking that was both warm and modest. She flipped the dress inside out and removing some pins and making a few adjustments, she slipped it back on. Now it was a red number, and looked like an entirely new ensemble.
Shaking out her bun and pulling off the glasses, she tied her hair back in a casual, high ponytail. Jeff was now in a blue polo shirt. He'd removed the obnoxious golden clasped belt buckle and giant watch. His only accessory now was a large black camera slung over his neck. With a wet wipe, his theatrical eye make-up disappeared. Bee's bright lipstick too, which she replaced with a nude colour, using a small compact mirror.
So they changed in silence, becoming two new faces once more. He handed her a pair of ballet flats, and she placed her red shoes with his top hat upon the pile of clothing. Tucking everything back into his tote, they sat back into a comfortable pause.
The lights of the strip came back into focus, not merely a distant glow. They stopped in front of the domineering Palace entrance and stepped out, watching the car drive away again before walking away from the luxury, across the boulevard to a much smaller compound.
The Flamingo was glowing with pink signs and decorations. But in actual fact, it was just a rather square and unsightly grey building. Bee stepped off the elevator on the third floor, a simple goodnight to her partner in crime. There wasn't much of a view here, and she didn't bother with paying for the resort access. Feeling tired, as always, she stuck her card into the door and collapsed onto the bed without changing – her half of their money clasped in a closed fist.
Jeff rode all the way up to the sixteenth level. He, on the other hand, had paid for access to everything, and a great view to boot. Sure, it was nothing compared to what he could get if he stayed at Caesar's or even the Bellagio they'd just stolen from. But he and Bee had both decided that big-shot hotels asked too many questions, offered too much room service and had too many cameras stashed around everywhere. Here, there was one camera per corridor and no one came through your door unless you specifically asked for it – none of that complimentary linen-changing and chocolates.
Sliding in his own card revealed a darkened, modestly furnished single room with a large king bed. Upon the bed were a bundle of blankets and covers and a head of messy blonde hair. He tip-toed as carefully as possible towards her but alas, she stirred as soon as he drew near.
Her weary eyes blinked open, "Hello Daddy."
"Hey, Gracie," he dropped to his knees beside the bed, stroking her hair and placing a gentle kiss upon her forehead. "Did you have fun exploring today?"
She nodded and looked over at where still-damp pink swimmers lay on the sofa seat by the balcony. He laughed softly, "Been swimming in the pools, I see."
"Dad?"
"Mhmm..."
"Can we go visit the chocolate factory tomorrow?" she said drowsily, her voice heavy with sleep. "I saw it on one of the brochures in the lobby. It's not very far...and it's not expensi – "
"Of course," he said quickly, hating that his ten year old daughter was thinking about the price of things. "As soon as you wake up. Anything you want tomorrow."
"You're not working?" she murmured, her eyes dropping closed. "That's good. I like when you're not working..."
Blinking back tears, he placed another kiss upon her head, lingering there, before stripping quickly and getting in beside her. Grace quickly rolled over, curling into a ball. He wrapped two arms tightly around her, felt her tiny heart beat softly through her Minnie Mouse pyjamas and pressed his lips upon her crown.
OOO
Bee finally managed to peel her eyes open and wander groggily to the shower at around 11pm that night, having drifted into a dreamless but shallow sleep in her clothes. Feeling sticky with sweat and uncomfortably parched, she jumped into the water and swallowed the liquid that poured from the showerhead. The taste made her gag and quickly reminded her that non-bottled water was a no-no in Vegas. Through the clear glass of the stall, she kept an eye on the bundle of money on the sink top, as if it would just disappear.
Brrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg. Brrrrrrrrrriiiiiinnnngggg.
"Oh damn," she cursed, hopping out of the water, banging her knee against the toilet and tumbling into the main room, looking around for the ringing.
Brrrrrrriiiiinnnngggg.
"Hello?" she said breathlessly, forgetting to use an accent, rubbing her kneecap and running back into the bathroom to grab a towel to wrap around her shivering self.
"Ah, this is Miss French, I presume?"
She dropped the towel in shock. Not wishing to let the pause draw too long, she quickly replied in the affirmative and dove to her bags, ripping at zippers and buckles for her other phone. Her hands found the blackberry and she quickly turned it on, with her iPhone nestled between cheek and collarbone.
"I believe you paid a visit to my hotel this fine evening," the slow drawl continued.
"Uh huh," she muttered, texting furiously with only one hand, "Um...who is this?"
"My name is Gold von Furstenberg," the man said pointedly.
Bee stopped in the middle of typing and gulped.
The voice added unnecessarily, "I own the Bellagio on Las Vegas Boulevard, dearie."
Bee was overwhelmed with sensation, shock was first and foremost but dismay and anger soon began to battle inside her mind, bringing on a furious migraine. Then there was that unpleasant shudder that ran down her spine. It wasn't exactly fear, or dread, but rather a feeling that this was a long time coming. How long had she and Jeff been playing the con game now? Seven, eight years? Yes, this definitely felt like Lady Fate – that bitch.
"Oh, of course," she said calmly, the New Yorkian back firmly in place around her tongue, "How can I help you?"
He gave a short laugh, a breathy sound, "I think, madam Belle, we may need a little talk."
Sending the text with a final: we are fucked, she threw her head back and bit her lip to contain the scream of frustration. Better keep up the farce as long as she could, "What seems to be the matter, sir?"
"Oh, I think you know very well, my dear," he said with a hint of malice. "Tomorrow, at eight in my lobby?"
Bee struggled to find what to say. That was one appointment she was not going to keep.
As if he sensed her dubious intent, Gold said softly, almost hissing, "Don't worry dearie, you can keep my money. What I speak of is a matter of...employment."
She sat back on her hunches, still dripping wet and devoid of clothing, "I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Well," he laughed again, this time almost a giggle, "As you probably know, I am a wealthy man, Miss French." At her silence, he continued, "and wealthy men have many enemies. I may be in need of your services."
She continued to listen, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. He added one more drop of enticement, "I will pay you. The casino rakes it hundreds of millions every year. I assure you, dearie, a deal can most definitely be struck."
He emphasised his final word with relish. She could almost imagine his reptilian grin. Still, no amount of money could tempt her to stay. Gold had to know that. Their cover was blown. It was time to leave, time to leave now. Preferably tonight. To Monte Carlo. Or Macau. Some other gambling hotspot far from here. Far from him.
"Still uncertain? Well let's see. If you do not agree to at least a meeting, one tiny little meeting, with me, then I will push charges against, and mind you I will win, this poor man you have condemned with your clever little trick. Hmmm?"
Bee felt her insides turn. David. Damn that man, of course she wouldn't put it beneath Gold to exploit her weaknesses.
"He is the least of my concerns," she said with forced disinterest.
"Ooh," Gold crooned, "But you see, you do not know all. David gambles in an attempt to win enough money to pay his mother's debts. My dear, the old lady is in trouble, what with this recession and all. She is without welfare. If her son were to, oh I don't know, go to jail – or worse, be fined up to $100,000 and go to jail...well then, the bank will foreclose on her house. She will be on the street, with no family left at all."
She gritted her teeth. He was lying.
"If you think me telling you little falsehoods, dearie, you need only listen to David explain it himself. Lord knows he's been whining to me these last two hours."
A silence seemed to stretch for aeons. Her blackberry buzzed. Jeff replied with a simple: Plan B. Pack your stuff. Meet me outside in five.
She set down the phone with Gold on the other end and typed out a quick text, heart heavy.
No. You go on ahead. I have to deal with this. Meet in Dubai?
"You're his only hope, my dear Belle," he sang. She hated the way he teased out her name and accented the 'L'.
Jaw tight and set, she ignored Jeff's incoming call, "Tomorrow. 8 o'clock. If this is a set up..."
"If," he interjected, "this is a set-up. I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it. You're just going to have to trust me."
His cackles echoed in her head and she slammed the phone against the opposite wall, where it shattered and fell to the floor with a thud. It wasn't until she was explaining the circumstances in a hopeless voice to Jeff, staring at the insides of her broken iPhone, that she realised he had called her private number. As Jeff attempted to convince her to abandon the rendezvous, this time, the shiver of sensation that flooded her skin was most definitely fear. A deep and dark fear. For not only did she feel like she had walked into a trap, Bee French felt that she had been watched for weeks, and lured there.
Like she had been baited and now was caged.
Jeff had been right. Jeff had warned her. She had promised that this one wasn't personal. She'd promised, and she'd lied. And now she had thrown them both in the deep end. Stepping back into the shower, Bee swallowed the vile tasting stuff and wished she'd just drown.
OOO
"Ah, madam Belle," said a voice whose back was to her.
She approached cautiously, wondering how he knew it was her when other early-morning tourists were also milling about. Bee stared at the suited back, the cane at his side. He was a surprisingly small man and very slight too, with a mop of brown hair and a voice just as poisonous as she remembered.
"Gold."
He turned slowly and gave her an appraising sweep of his eyes, lingering at all the wrong places. She wanted to strangle him, wanted to punish him for looking at her so blatantly and yet could only just master enough of herself to suppress a shiver and keep her face blank.
"My, you are still a beauty," he said softly, hobbling over, "David was right about that much." He gestured his hands up and down her body, "Not even your tattered clothing could hide that from him. Then again, David always did have a thing for pretty women."
Bee registered his words just as David strolled up beside Gold. He looked very well for someone she could have sworn was completely hammered last night. Why wasn't he doubled over a toilet bowl somewhere? In fact, his gold-brown hair was gleaming, the marks of a wet comb still visible. A freshly pressed white shirt flattered a well built chest and arms. She growled.
"You bastard."
Gold lay a hand upon the taller man's shoulder and smirked elfishly, "You should have listened to your instincts dearie, and did they not scream for you to flee, hmmm?"
"You. Are. A. Bastard," she turned her eye on David, "So that was all a lie? The craps table? The mother?"
David didn't even have the grace to look ashamed, he simply lifted his free shoulder in a devil-may-care toss, "Well...I do have a mother."
Without another thought, Belle launched herself at him. Muscles that had been tensed and taunt since Gold's unwelcome call the night before now unfolded in relief, leaping on him and clawing for his eyes. As she neared, she scooped Gold's cane from out underneath him, causing him to topple and proceeded to beat David with the handle as she straddled his chest, winded and shocked.
Bashing his head and neck and shoulders, she barely registered people pulling her away. Leroy was one of them. She gawked at him. "You too?!"
The guard simply gripped her tighter, beard seeming to turning darker. "How did you know?" she hissed at Gold, who retrieved his stick and walked up towards her. He was barely taller than she, yet, held back as she was, he seemed to tower, eyes crackling with power.
"I know everything," he spat, "Did you really think you could get away with robbing me in front of my very eyes? Don't be silly, girl."
A bead of pride blossomed inside of her, she spat back, "I've done it once before."
"Ah yes, and your mistake was thinking you got away with it," he leaned in so close she could see the pores upon his hooked nose, "You didn't."
Her chest heaved as she matched his soulless stare with her own. She hoped she was drilling into him as much as he was digging into her own soul. Finally, he moved back, throwing in an aristocratic lift of his chin. He clicked the fingers of his left hand and pointed to David's battered body on the marble tiles. Two more security men hauled him to his feet, half-dragging him away. She looked after his rag doll form with a sadistic turn of her lips, eyes flashing and sorely wishing she had crushed his skull. Such thoughts were unlike her, but having stared down Gold von Furstenberg, she seemed to have gained a measure of steel.
He leaned across the concierge desk and muttered, "Take her to the 1-bedroom Penthouse Suite."
The horrified worker who was still staring at the place David had lay bleeding was afraid to even look at Gold, or Bee. "But...but...sir, there's someone already staying there!"
"Then get rid of them, Ruby!" Gold smacked a hand down on the table, making the girl jump. Bee almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
"Ok," she tapped shaking fingers against a state of the art computer set up, "Ok...ok...it's free. Um...but housekeeping hasn't cleaned it yet, I don't know if you want her..."
Gold turned around with a wolfish smile, "She's used to getting her hands dirty, isn't that right my dear?" A wave, and her two captors almost lifted her off her feet, moving her towards the elevators. She glanced back.
"What about employment? I thought this was to decide whether or not I would work for you!"
He called back to a look of amusement, as the lift doors closed on her stormy face, "You delude yourself if you think you ever had a choice in that!"
OOO
The reason I chose Bellagio was because, if you Google it, it always seems to be the one that's getting cheated (recently $1.5 million). I found it funny given that Mr Gold seems to be robbed a lot...