Too Hot to Handle Read online

  "Once I walked in on him and his friends having a burping contest," Jessica told her. "They were guzzling bottles of root beer to make themselves burp better. All of a sudden, Steven burst out laughing and brown foam came spewing out of his mouth and nose. He was declared the winner," she added dryly. "Is that the kind of guy you want in your life, Lila?"

  Lila crossed her arms and pursed her lips. "Thanks for the advice and support, friend," she replied hotly. "But you just don't get it, do you? I'm going through a living nightmare. My house was burned down. I lost everything. At least Steven is there for me when I need him. Which is more than I can say for you right now."

  Jessica's jaw dropped. "Just hold on one minute!" she shot back indignantly. "I have been there for you from the very beginning. Who was it that helped you put together a new wardrobe?"

  Lila snorted. "I don't need new clothes right now. I need to feel safe."

  Jessica ran her tongue over her teeth as she considered her words. "I'm sorry for what you're going through, Lila," she said truthfully. "And I want to be a friend who'll stand by you no matter what. But until you get over my brother, you can count me out."

  "Fine!" Lila snarled as Jessica stormed out of the room. "I don't need you anyway!"

  "Home, sweet home," Devon mumbled dryly as he drove north on U.S. highway 93 Tuesday evening. The neon lights of Las Vegas were up ahead, gleaming brilliantly in the night sky.

  Thoroughly exhausted, Devon considered checking into a motel along the road. Although he'd stopped to rest during the grueling trip from Ohio, he'd rarely gotten more than two or three hours of sleep at a time.

  His stomach growled, reminding him that he'd been living on vending machine food and sour coffee for days. The idea of a hot shower, some takeout Chinese food, and a night's sleep seemed incredibly appealing. He could wait until morning to start searching for his uncle.

  But as Devon drew closer to the city, a restless feeling stirred inside him. He was tired of having his life strewn about in pieces, and longed to get things settled once and for all.

  Of course, it would have been much easier if his father's will hadn't stipulated the part about having to find a guardian. Devon would have been overjoyed to make a cross-country trip and settle down anywhere that might appeal to him.

  Devon pushed the thought out of his mind. Face the facts, he ordered himself. He had to live with a guardian for four more years. I can handle that, he thought. After all, he'd survived seventeen years with his parents in Connecticut.

  Devon stopped at a gas station on the outskirts of town to fuel up and to check the oil in the motorcycle. He was surprised to see a bank of slot machines along the wall when he went inside to pay for his gas.

  The clerk, a tall woman with a shaved scalp, tattooed face, and silver chains looped from her ears to her lips, flashed him a big smile. "Try your luck, sugar?"

  Devon shook his head—and tried not to stare at the dragon and bloody sword on her cheek. Then he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass counter and flinched at the gruesome reflection. His hair was sweaty and plastered down from his helmet. His chin was covered with dark stubble, and his blue eyes were glassy and unfocused. I'm no prize either, he thought, snickering.

  Devon went out to the bike and retrieved his shaving kit. In the rest room, he splashed some cold water over his head, combed his hair, and shaved. "Not great, but at least not gruesome," he muttered as he inspected himself in the small mirror over the sink. His eyes were still bloodshot, with deep circles around them. But shaving the dark shadows off his angular features made him appear a hundred times more respectable.

  Devon shrugged on his black leather jacket and gathered his things. He returned to the bald clerk and bought a street map of Las Vegas. At the telephone booth in the parking lot, he searched through the phone book for his uncle's name. He didn't find it.

  Devon dropped the directory, letting it dangle at the end of its chain. He'd planned on finding his uncle's address and just showing up at the door What if he doesn't even live here anymore? Devon worried. He'd found a Christmas card from Pete dated years earlier in his father's desk. The envelope had been postmarked from Las Vegas, Devon's only clue to his uncle's whereabouts.

  Devon chewed the corner of his lip as he considered his next step. It was possible that his uncle lived in Vegas but didn't have a phone or didn't have a listed number. Seizing on that hope, Devon quickly picked up the receiver and called directory assistance.

  "I'm sorry, the number for Peter Whitelaw is unpublished," the operator told Devon, confirming his theory.

  Devon hung up and ambled back to his bike. He felt frustrated but hopeful. At least he knew his uncle was still in Las Vegas . . . somewhere.

  "I'll just have to comb the entire city," Devon muttered under his breath as he started the engine. He decided to check out the casinos, one by one. Filled with newfound determination and energy, Devon roared out of the parking lot.

  Within minutes, he was cruising along Las Vegas Boulevard, which was commonly known as the Strip. All around him, lights swirled and pulsed in a dazzling array. Tubes of colorful neon lights flashed the names of the casinos and hotels. Marquees flaunted their big-star entertainment.

  This is a carnival! Devon thought, gawking at the sights. Las Vegas hardly seemed like a place where real people lived.

  Devon left his motorcycle in a parking garage and hit the pavement on foot. After five days on the road, it felt great to be walking.

  The first casino on Devon's route was the Luxor Hotel. The building was shaped like a pyramid, with giant cats at the entrance, all ablaze in neon colors. A huge spotlight blazed upward from the peak.

  The interior of the casino was decorated in shades of orange, blue, and gold. Devon's gaze moved slowly across the large, open area. The air was charged with excitement, punctuated by the occasional clanking noise of coins dropping from the slot machines.

  Devon made his way over to the bar and ordered himself a glass of club soda. "I'm looking for a guy named Pete Whitelaw," Devon told the bartender.

  The man's expression remained bland as he pulled a hose from under the bar with one hand and scooped up a glass full of ice with the other. He aimed the nozzle and filled the glass with club soda. "Wish I could help you," he said, adding a twist of lemon to the drink.

  Devon paid for the soda, adding a ten-dollar tip. "I don't suppose Pete comes in here occasionally, does he?"

  The bartender pocketed the money. "Occasionally, maybe."

  Devon plunked another ten-dollar bill on the bar.

  The man eyed it suspiciously before picking it up. "Is Pete in trouble again?"

  Devon flinched. In trouble again? he repeated silently, wondering just what kind of trouble Pete was known for being in. "I'm his nephew," he told the bartender. "I'm looking for him about a . . . family matter."

  The man nodded. "If I see him around, I'll let him know."

  At the Excalibur Hotel, across the street, Devon questioned a dealer at one of the gaming tables. A woman sitting at the table burst out laughing. "That snake is your uncle?"

  Devon turned to her. Dressed in red spandex and tons of jewelry, she could have just as easily been in her early twenties as in her late fifties. It was hard to tell with all the makeup plastered on her face. "Do you know where I can find him?" he asked her.

  "I wish I did," she said, her voice slurred. "I'm looking for him myself."

  "When's the last time you saw him?" Devon asked, his hopes rising. "Do you have his address?"

  She laughed again. "Pete is a very slippery man."

  Devon rubbed his hand over his chin. "That's the picture I'm getting too."

  The woman leaned back and gave Devon an intense, up-and-down stare. "You're a hunk," she said.

  Devon cracked up at that. This place is so bizarre! he thought.

  The woman winked her fake eyelashes at him. "Honey, you tell that snake uncle of yours that Della is looking for him too," she said. "And I'm still waiting for the five hundred he owes me!"

  "Great," Devon muttered sarcastically under his breath as he walked away. Clearly the image he'd formed of his uncle was right on target. The man sure seems to be earning his title of black sheep of the Whitelaw clan, Devon thought.

  Hours later, Devon felt ready to give up for the night. He was dizzy from hunger and lack of sleep, and he felt as if his head were spinning like a top. He staggered into the front lobby of the Starscape Hotel, barely able to focus his eyes.

  This is the last one, he decided. Devon promised himself a hot meal and a motel room for the night after he'd checked out the Starscape.

  Devon asked one of the waitresses in the casino if she knew his uncle. The woman gave him a non-committal smile and told him to wait.

  A moment later, a man wearing a blue velvet jacket came over to him. "I'm Mr. Benjamin, the floor manager," he told Devon. "Would you mind stepping into my office?"

  Devon eyed him warily. Did I break a law or something? he wondered. Or is Uncle Pete so bad that anyone looking for him automatically gets in trouble?

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, Devon shrugged and dragged himself to his feet. "Sure, why not?" he mumbled, silently adding, I've come this far already.

  Devon followed the manager through a service hallway. Unlike the glitzy decor of the public areas, this part of the casino was scaled down to plain drab. The walls were painted muted beige and the floor was covered with brown utility-grade carpet.

  Mr. Benjamin ushered Devon into a small, cluttered office and sat down behind the green lacquered desk. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to the cushioned chair in front of the desk.

  Devon sat down cautiously. He felt the same way he had when he'd been sent to the principal's office in second grade for li
fting his teacher's wig from her head while she was kneeling down. "What's this all about?" he asked defensively. "I was only checking around to see if anyone knew my uncle."

  "Here at the Starscape Hotel, we take pride in making our customers feel at home," the manager replied. "Security is important to us. Many of our patrons are celebrities or prominent members of the business community."

  Devon sighed wearily. It seemed his search for Uncle Pete would be a lot harder than he'd thought. "Listen, I really wasn't trying to make anyone nervous. I'm just trying to find my uncle."

  "I see," Mr. Benjamin murmured. "Is your uncle employed at the Starscape?"

  Devon shrugged. "I have no idea."

  "I see," Mr. Benjamin murmured again. "You're looking for an uncle but you have no idea . . ." He stopped and folded his hands on the desk. "Describe this uncle of yours."

  "I can't," Devon admitted.

  Mr. Benjamin nodded slowly. "I see."

  Devon exhaled a gust of breath. "I know this sounds totally suspicious, but I'm telling you the truth. My name is Devon Whitelaw and I'm looking for my uncle, Pete Whitelaw, who I'm sure lives in Las Vegas."

  "Would you mind stepping into the waiting room for a moment?" Mr. Benjamin asked abruptly.

  Devon rolled his eyes but complied with the man's request.

  In the outer office, Devon sprawled out on one of the leather couches. He could hear Mr. Benjamin on the phone but couldn't make out the words. Is he going to have me arrested for trying to find Pete? Devon wondered. He was too tired and discouraged to care anymore, and wished he'd postponed his search until morning.

  A few minutes later, the manager came out of his office. Devon sat up straighter and looked at him expectantly.

  "Let's go," Mr. Benjamin said brusquely.

  "Where?" Devon asked, his heart pounding suddenly.

  Mr. Benjamin held the door open for Devon, then locked it behind them. "To the eleventh floor," he answered.

  Devon blinked. Suddenly the mysterious treatment made sense. Pete was probably a regular patron at the Starscape, and everyone had been trying to protect his privacy. I found my uncle! Devon thought hopefully.

  They rode upstairs in a private elevator. Devon felt excited and nervous as he was ushered into a small but lavish room. A bar was set up along the wall, and a bartender and two waiters stood unobtrusively to the side. This must be where the high rollers play, Devon presumed.

  Three women and five men were seated around a table, playing blackjack. Almost afraid to look, Devon forced himself to study their faces. His gaze went immediately to the man sitting next to the dealer. The guy had a strong, square jaw, cleft chin, and brown wavy hair. There was a serious glint in his slate blue eyes as he stared at the cards in front of him. That's my uncle! Devon thought, amazed at the family resemblance.

  In the next instant, his guess was confirmed. Mr. Benjamin went over to the man Devon had picked out and whispered into his ear. The man glanced over at Devon with a masked expression, then excused himself from the game.

  Devon watched him get up and cross the room. Pete was tall and lean, and moved with powerful ease. There was something in his uncle's eyes that Devon could relate to—a driving, restless hunger, and a spot of vulnerability.

  I know this guy, Devon thought. We're family!

  Uncle Pete looked Devon over, obviously sizing him up as well. "So you say you're my nephew." His voice was arctic, without a trace of welcome or interest.

  "That's right." Devon looked him in the eye and reined in his sappy hopes. I'm not home yet, he thought.

  Chapter 3

  Devon's stomach rumbled hungrily as he looked over the menu in the casino restaurant. "The steaks are pretty good here," Pete offered. "But I'd stay away from the seafood. Chef K.C. Rae is on duty this evening."

  Devon glanced at his uncle over the top of the menu. "What does that mean?"

  Wearing a pin-striped silk suit, diamond cufflinks, and a gold watch, Pete blended in well with the glitzy Las Vegas atmosphere. "K.C. is a great cook, but she has no sense of timing when it comes to fish. She'll serve it up with raw slime in the middle or as dry as an old sponge."

  Devon chuckled. "I take it you eat here often."

  "I get comped for dinner and shows in most of the casinos on the Strip," he replied. He raised his glass and signaled a nearby waiter for a refill.

  "Comped?" Devon asked, bemused.

  Pete shrugged. "As in complimentary. It's part of the game in Las Vegas. The casinos make most of their revenue from gambling, and each person who walks in the door is a potential gambler—but only while they're in the building. So the management does everything possible to keep that person from leaving, especially if he or she is a regular customer. A smart player can get all the complimentary meals and free show tickets he wants."

  Devon nodded thoughtfully. Clearly his uncle was just that—a smart player.

  A waiter brought Pete another drink and took their orders. Following his uncle's advice, Devon ordered a steak.

  "I'm sorry about your parents, kid," Pete said gruffly after the waiter left. "How did you know where to find me?"

  "Family gossip," Devon replied.

  His uncle laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. "Great answer. I can almost believe you're my long-lost nephew." He raised his glass to Devon, then took a long drink.

  "I am your nephew," Devon insisted.

  Uncle Pete narrowed his eyes. "What college did your father and grandfather graduate from?" he asked in a challenging tone.

  "Yale," Devon answered smoothly. "My mother went to Smith."

  Pete downed the rest of his drink. "What was your grandfather's nickname?"

  Devon glanced away as he considered the question. He thought back to when his grandfather Whitelaw was alive, but couldn't remember any mention of a nickname. "I don't know," he admitted finally.

  Uncle Pete smirked. "OK, next question. Let's see . . . where did your parents meet?"

  "In Newport," Devon replied. "At a party or something."

  "It was at the yacht club," his uncle clarified.

  Devon shrugged. "That's close enough," He was beginning to enjoy the contest.

  The interrogation continued as their dinner was served. "Where did the Whitelaws come from?" Pete asked. He handed his empty glass to the waiter and told him to make it a double.

  Devon's mouth watered as he cut a piece of meat and speared it with his fork. "England," he answered.

  Pete pursed his lips and nodded. He'd also ordered a steak, but he made no move to eat.

  "The Whitelaws settled in Virginia, but moved to Connecticut just before the Civil War," Devon continued. He took a roll from the breadbasket and slathered it with butter. "My father's great-grandfather was an abolitionist, so he moved his family and his business to the North."

  Uncle Pete sniggered. "That's what they told you, huh?"

  Devon swallowed the last of the roll and reached for another. "Isn't it true?"

  Pete's blue eyes twinkled with a cold glint. "The old man was an enterprising opportunist who followed the scent of money. He made a quick fortune selling substandard equipment to the U.S. military."

  Amazed, Devon stopped chewing. His father had drilled him on the noble honor of the Whitelaw family since Devon was a toddler.

  "I'll bet no one told you that the Whitelaw fortune more than tripled during Prohibition," Pete said.

  Devon shook his head. "Bootlegging?"

  "And other nasty things," Pete replied.

  "Like what?" Devon asked, intrigued.

  Pete swirled the amber liquid in his glass. The ice made a tinkling sound. "Blackmail, for one. My grandfather owned several warehouses that he rented to bootleggers for exorbitant fees . . . and they had to keep paying even if they decided to quit the business. Otherwise, they'd end up in jail." He raised his eyebrows and gave Devon a sharp look. "You don't believe me?" he asked.

  Devon sat back and stared at him. "It's such a wild contrast to everything I've been told."

  Pete grinned knowingly. "I was fed the same squeaky-clean version as a kid. It wasn't until I did my own digging into the family records that I discovered the whole truth. Believe me, I was just as shocked as you are." He chuckled. "I felt like a kid who'd just found out there's no such thing as Santa Claus."