Raising the Stakes

“Yeah.” Keir nodded. “Me, too.” He moved into the small office, peered at the open appointment book on the desk and raised an eyebrow. “Initiation by fire, I see. Prince Ahmat from Suli-Bahr,” he added, when she looked blank. “Don’t tell me you haven’t been filled with stories about the guy.”

“You mean that he generally brings all seven wives with him and that each wife must have different flowers in her rooms? That he only drinks Cristal champagne from a Baccarat flute? That two eggs, cooked for precisely three minutes, two slices of whole-wheat toast, unbuttered, and a pot of coffee—”

“Kona coffee,” Keir said, deadpan.

“—a pot of Kona coffee, must be delivered to his suite at 7:58, not 7:59 or, heaven forbid, eight on the nose?” Dawn batted her lashes. “No. Nobody’s told me a thing.”

Keir grinned as he started for the door. “Give me a call when he gets here. And stop worrying. I mean it. I don’t anticipate any problems but just in case you run into trouble—”

“Holler. I know.” Dawn touched the tip of her tongue to her bottom lip. “Keir? Thank you for giving me this job. I promise, I won’t let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t but I didn’t `give’ you anything, Carter. You interviewed well, and your pit bosses wrote terrific recommendations—not that they didn’t all say they kind of hoped you’d change your mind and go back to dealing cards.”

“Tell them they’re sweet but I think I’m going to like it here.”

“If I tell those guys they’re sweet, I’ll never live to see tomorrow. Seriously, I hope you do like it here. I think it’s the right place for you.”

“Me, too. Oh, and Keir, would you do me a favor? Tell your mother I’m glad to see her getting back into the swing of things. I’d have told her myself the other day but she swept by the desk so quickly—”

“I’ll tell her. And just remember what I said. You’re going to do fine.”

Keir walked down the hall and through the door that opened onto the area behind Reception. The front desk supervisor was on the phone. She smiled and waved and he lifted a hand in salute as he stepped out from behind the counter and onto the deep blue carpet that covered the hotel’s vast lobby.

It was crowded, which was always good, but the lines at the reception desks were too long. He did a quick count and made a mental note to meet with his manager and discuss adding staff to the day shift. The Desert Song prided itself on treating all its guests with courtesy, not just the VIPS, and that included not keeping them waiting in line longer than three minutes. His father had instituted the policy and called it part of the hotel’s hospitality. His mother had added her own touch by occasionally strolling through reception and personally welcoming guests to the Song.

She was back to doing it, despite Keir’s concerns that she was pushing her recovery. The Duchess had been the family’s rock-hard core since his father’s death more than six years ago. Her heart attack had shocked the hell out of them all, his sisters and brothers, the staff, even guests who had been coming here for years

. After four months, the doctors said Mary Elizabeth O’Connell was doing just fine, that she’d be as good as new. Keir wanted to believe them. It was just that he couldn’t get past how she’d looked in the intensive care unit of the hospital that first week, her skin pasty, her breathing labored, her body hooked up to all those damned tubes and lines.

Keir knew his mother was getting old but somehow, he’d never imagined her dying.

But she’d come through it, fighting for life with the tenacity that was in the O’Connell blood. Now she was on a new regimen. Plenty of exercise. A diet purged of fat. No liquor. No smoking. No living, she said, and grumbled she’d been sentenced to purgatory. Lately she showed signs of chafing at the bit. She’d begun showing up on the casino floor and in the hotel lobby, chatting with the staff, charming the guests and greeting Keir’s suggestions that she take it easy with snorts of derision.

“Taking it easy is all I’ve been doing,” she’d told him. “Any more of it and I’ll turn into a vegetable.” She’d given him a wary look. “Or is this a polite way of telling me I’m stepping on your toes, now that you’re in charge?”

“You know better than that,” he’d said and meant it. “You’re the boss. You always will be.”

It was true. He’d been running the casino prior to her illness but the Duchess held overall command of the Desert Song. It was an arrangement that sometimes chafed. Keir had been on the verge of making plans to move on when she’d had the heart attack.

“You’ll take charge,” she’d whispered to him as she lay ill, “not just of the casino but of the whole place,” and he’d said yes, of course he would and he’d thought, just for a moment, about the dozen things he wanted to change but he’d done none of them. It was an old battle, Keir contending that innovation was the key to success and his mother contending that things that worked should not be changed. She was wrong. He knew it, but he’d never have done anything she wouldn’t like, not while she was ill.

Promoting Dawn to a highly responsible desk job was something the Duchess had not only approved but suggested one evening when they’d discussed the day’s business over drinks. Under the new rules, Keir had the drink and Mary Elizabeth had club soda—and unfailingly reminded him, each and every time, that she hated club soda.

A few weeks back, he’d tried a diversion and mentioned that one of the Special Services people was quitting. His mother had asked the reasons. She’d always taken a special interest in the staff that worked the hotel part of the Song, right down to the check-in clerks. They were, she said, the hotel’s first opportunity to impress its guests. Keir had grinned, assured his mother that the girl was leaving the Song because she was pregnant, not because she was unhappy with the hotel or the hotel with her.

“Good. And who are you replacing her with?”

“Well—”

“What about Dawn Carter?”

It had seemed a good suggestion. Dawn was hardworking. She learned fast. She had a pleasant way with people and she was easy on the eyes—not his type but a man would have to be blind, not to notice. Good looks were definitely a bonus when it came to dealing with pampered VIPs, and to hell with what the PC Police said. It was one thing to be politically correct and another to be stupid. Keir had never been stupid, which was why he also suspected there was more to his mother’s suggestion than the obvious. It struck him that the Duchess took an inordinate interest in the Carter girl.

“What about her?” he’d said lazily, and waited for a reaction. It had come, quick and hard.

“For goodness’ sakes, Keir, can’t you see that the girl is bright? She’s pretty and personable. All in all, perfect for the job.”

“Maybe.”