Lucky Bastard Read Free Page A

not awaken you, then? Yes?”
    “No.” For some reason, or perhaps for a multitude of reasons, I seemed to be struck monosyllabic at the moment. His voice suffused me to the core with warmth. Taking a deep breath, I struggled to apply pressure to those brakes. But they’d gone all mushy… along with my brain and other body parts that I won’t mention. Apparently my self-control had thrown in the towel as well. Toss a handsome man with empty promises in my path, and I’d take the bait, hook, line, and sinker. Swallowing it whole, I’d lose my heart only to have it handed back to me on a platter. I knew the drill. Why couldn’t I just grab some local hunk and have wild, meaningless sex like everybody else?
    Unfortunately I apparently lacked the moral fortitude to be immoral.
    “ Non? You were sleeping then?”
    “No. I mean yes, you did not awaken me.” Exactly when did I lose the ability to speak proper English? “I’m sorry, I’m a bit muddled at the moment.” I scrunched my eyes shut and tried to block out the scene around me—Dane’s stricken face, the dead woman on the car. Turning my back to them, I conjured a mental picture of the Frenchman in a vain attempt to recapture a sense of normalcy. “Are you just now heading home?” I attempted to infuse a casual warm tone to my voice, but I wasn’t sure I pulled it off.
    “Yes, I am driving on the Fifteen.” A car horn sounded then faded as I heard Jean-Charles’s sharp intake of breath. The American form of offensive driving was a skill the Parisian had yet to master. He’d spent most of his adult life in the great cities of the world where owning a car was not only superfluous, it bordered on the insane—New York parking fees regularly equaled the rent for a studio. I shuddered at the thought of him at the wheel while on the phone.
    “A late night then?” I chatted as if I hadn’t a care in the world. They say compartmentalizing is one of the first signs of mental illness.
    “ Oui, the restaurant, it was very busy. These Americans, they like food,” Jean-Charles said with classic European understatement. Another car horn sounded, this time answered with a muttered Gallic epithet, which made me smile.
    “The American way: Treat each meal as your last,” I said, finding my equilibrium.
    Jean-Charles had opened a gourmet burger joint in the shopping area of the Babylon called The Bazaar while he perfected the menu and finished out the space that would be his signature restaurant.
    “Precisely! So many, many burgers, pomme frites, shakes. And I am working on the new dishes for the Vegas Last Chef Standing. My kitchen here, she is, how do you say it? A poor stepchild?”
    “Found wanting in every way?”
    “Yes, this is it. I need my kitchen at Cielo.”
    “We are at the mercy of the contractor, you know that. He is working.”
    “Perhaps you can do something?”
    “Wave my magic wand?”
    Silence stretched between us. “I have made you angry.” His voice held a note of defeat.
    “No. I’m just…” I looked at Dane, his face pulled tight, the woman on the Ferrari, still dead. “It’s just not a great time.”
    “For this I am sorry. Perhaps tomorrow would be better?”
    “Right now, it’s not looking so good, but we’ll talk about your kitchen soon, I promise.”
    “You must help me, you see, I am also nervous.” Jean-Charles said the words haltingly, as if confessing a major sin—one he couldn’t believe he’d committed. “This is a very public stage. My reputation and that of your hotel, hang in the balance. This is not only a competition with my fellow chefs, the media is turning it into a circus.”
    “Vegas and reality television—the perfect storm of bad taste.”
    “Yes, well, with your help, I will adjust and we can make it better. However, right now I am, how do you say it? Wrecked?”
    “That will do.” For some reason I enjoyed his struggle with American slang—sometimes his choices made the tawdry