Sandra Marton - Keir O'connell's Mistress

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?”