Too Hot to Handle Page 4

  Devon gritted his teeth as an unbidden memory flashed across his mind. For years he had woken up on Christmas morning filled with childish hope. Then he'd see the limp, empty stocking he'd hung over the fireplace the night before, and his heart would break. Devon had tried leaving cookies out to bribe Santa. One year, he'd gone so far as to leave celery and lettuce for the reindeer. But always, his pathetic offerings would still be there in the morning, exactly as he'd left them.

  Except when Nana was around, Devon reminded himself. Holidays had been special when Nan Johnstone had worked for the Whitelaws. Devon thought back to those few Christmas mornings when he'd found the cookies gone and his stocking stuffed with candy and silly trinkets. Then Nana took off, and I grew up, he thought bitterly.

  Devon stabbed a chunk of his baked potato with his fork. "I never believed in Santa Claus," he said.

  "Then you're smarter than I was," his uncle replied. He raised his glass for a toast, then frowned. "You need a real drink."

  Devon snorted. "Maybe in a few years. I'm only seventeen."

  "You look older," Pete remarked.

  "Well, my driver's license doesn't," Devon remarked. "It says I'm seventeen."

  "I'm afraid that won't do. The minimum age for casino gambling is twenty-one," his uncle told him. "We'll have to get you a new ID."

  Devon eyed him narrowly. "Isn't that illegal?"

  Pete nodded. "Yes, it is. And it truly pains me to break the law, but I have an obligation to uphold the Whitelaw tradition—and so do you, kid."

  They both laughed uproariously. Then Pete raised his glass and called for a toast. "To the old skeletons in the Whitelaw closet . . . may you and I join them someday."

  Devon picked up his water goblet and clinked glasses with his uncle. "Does that mean you believe I'm your nephew?" he asked.

  "I knew it as soon as I saw you," Pete admitted. "Looking at you, I could be looking in the mirror twenty-five years ago. But I wasn't sure I'd like you. And when's the last time you had a shower, anyway? I understand you've been on the road, but if you're going to hang around me, you've got to wash."

  Devon laughed. There was a harsh honesty about his uncle that struck a chord with him. "No problem," he replied. "Believe me, I'd love a shower."

  Pete pushed aside his plate. "I've got three bathrooms and lots of space in my apartment," he told Devon. "You're more than welcome to stay."

  Devon saw the sincerity in his uncle's expression and heard the vulnerability in his voice. Devon understood that. He'd learned early on that every invitation carried the risk of rejection.

  Maybe I should tell Pete the whole truth about why I'm here, Devon thought. Then he remembered what had happened in Ohio. "I'd really appreciate it," he began hesitantly. "The only problem is, my parents left me broke." He hated lying to his uncle, but he wasn't about to make the same mistake he'd made with his aunt Peggy and uncle Mark.

  "That's nothing," Pete replied, waving it off as if he were swatting a pesky fly. "I never needed the family or their money. And neither do you."

  Devon felt a stirring of faith in this guy. "Are you sure you don't mind if I crash with you for a while?"

  "For as long as you want," his uncle insisted. "The disinherited bad apples that fell off the Whitelaw tree have to stick together."

  Devon raised his eyebrows. "Even though I can't pay my share?"

  Pete let out a derisive laugh. "I wouldn't take Whitelaw money anyway," he retorted. "I've done fine without it, and I'm still doing fine."

  More than fine, Devon thought as he glanced at his uncle's gold watch and diamond cufflinks. Devon's money had triggered the Wilsons' greed, but maybe things would be different this time.

  "By the way, what was Grandfather's nickname?" Devon asked, suddenly remembering the question that had stumped him earlier.

  Pete tipped his head back and laughed. "That was a trick question," he replied, his voice somewhat slurred. "He didn't have one. Nobody ever called my father anything but Mr. Whitelaw. If you were very close to him, you called him sir. Even my mother called him that."

  Devon sneered. "Sounds like my father."

  "You got that right!" Pete said. "James Allan Whitelaw the Third was the old man's clone. Sometimes I thought—" He stopped abruptly and stared at something behind Devon.

  Bemused, Devon looked over his shoulder to see what had caused his uncle's sudden reaction. A tall, elegant woman with long dark hair and brown eyes was being seated at the next table. She was beautiful, but not enough to startle a man like Pete.

  Devon turned back to his uncle and watched him remove a thick wad of cash from his inside pocket. "Come on, let's get out of here," he said tersely as he scattered a few bills on the table.

  "Sure," Devon murmured, thoroughly puzzled.

  As they walked past the woman's table, Devon noticed her and Pete exchange a long glance. It was obvious they knew each other. So why doesn't he say something to her? Devon wondered.

  Steven wrapped his arms tighter around Lila and brushed his lips against her forehead. They were snuggled together on the small couch in the Fowlers' pool house. Through the glass panels that ran the entire length of the far wall, Steven could see the water of the swimming pool shimmering in the moonlight. Lila had set up a temporary home for herself in the pool house while Fowler Crest was being repaired.

  "I wish we could stay like this forever," Lila whispered. "You make me feel so safe."

  Steven sighed. Lila's comment reminded him of his reason for coming to see her that evening. Reluctantly, he pulled himself out of her embrace and rubbed his hand over his chin.

  "What's wrong?" Lila asked in a little, frightened voice that tugged at his heart.

  He smiled tenderly and pushed a lock of her brown hair behind her ear. "We're not going to make much progress on our case this way."

  "You're absolutely right." She leaned back, resting her head on the cushioned arm of the couch and crossing her ankles on Steven's knee. "OK, time for work," she said. "Let's hurry and get it over with so we can get back to the important stuff," she added with a giggle.

  Steven reached down and picked up the yellow legal pad and pencil that had fallen to the floor hours ago. "We need a list of suspects to work from." He wrote the word suspects across the top of the page and turned to Lila. "Do you have any enemies?" he asked. "Anyone who might want to get back at you for something?"

  Lila tucked her hands behind her head. "I don't know . . . ," she began. "I suppose Della Luree would fall into that category. She was a maid I recently had to fire."

  Steven took down the name. "What happened?"

  "I caught her trying on my new Pierre Jové satin tunic!" Lila exclaimed. "Of course she went to my parents and complained that I wasn't being fair."

  "Anyone else?" Steven asked.

  Lila pressed her lips together as she thought. "Greta Davis. She used to fill in on the cook's days off."

  "Did you fire her too?" Steven asked.

  "Not really," Lila replied. "But the food she prepared was ghastly and I refused to eat it. There was another cook a while back too. He couldn't make anything without dumping in at least a ton of butter or bacon fat. It was either fire him or turn into a blimp."

  Steven chuckled. "You'd still look adorable," he teased, leaning over to give her a brief kiss.

  Lila mentioned nearly a dozen more people who'd worked at Fowler Crest and whom she'd recently fired. "I think that's it for the domestic help," she said finally.

  Steven nodded encouragingly and turned to a blank page. "Can you think of anyone else?"

  Lila sighed. "Well, Joan Borden might still hold a grudge against me. She nearly tricked my father into marrying her. This was some time ago, before my parents got back together," Lila explained.

  "Joan Borden," Steven repeated as he jotted down the name. "Do you think she blames you for breaking up her romance with your father?"

  "I did," Lila replied matter-of-factly.

  Steven gave her an incredulous look. "Would you care to elaborate?"

  Lila propped herself up with her elbows. "Joan pretended to be a rich socialite from Los Angeles, but I wasn't fooled. Just before the ceremony began, I got her to admit that she was marrying my father to get her hands on his money . . . and her confession was overheard."

  "Overheard by whom?" Steven prompted.

  Lila smiled mischievously. "By everyone. One of the microphones for the sound system happened to be hidden in the bridal party's dressing room."

  Steven's jaw dropped, then he burst out laughing. "Lila, you're something else."

  Lila sniffed indignantly. "I had to protect my father from that greedy parasite. She also had a daughter who was equally as bad. Just the thought of having Jacqueline for a stepsister makes my skin crawl."

  "This is a great lead," Steven said as he added another page of information to his notes. "I'm going to check this woman out first thing tomorrow morning. We'll see if she's made any recent trips to Sweet Valley. . . ."

  Lila leaned toward him and draped her arms over his shoulders. "Does that mean we're finished working?" she asked.

  Steven moved back and shook his head. "Not quite. Let's go over a few more local suspects. Kids at school?"

  Lila scowled playfully. "There are a few students at SVH who don't like me. Enid Rollins, Bruce Patman . . ."

  Steven struggled to keep up as she continued reciting names. "What about old boyfriends?" he asked.

  Lila moved closer and kissed him. "I can't remember any of them when you're around," she whispered.

  Steven laughed. "Try," he said jokingly. "Even guys you may have dated once or twice on a casual basis."

  Lila rolled her eyes. "I feel like I'm being interviewed for Celebrity Insight magazine," she muttered. "OK,
the guys in my past . . . you already know about Bo," she pointed out. "I also went out with John Pfeifer, and with Tony Alimenti. And Mark Steward, a guy whose parents own a computer company in Oregon, took me sailing when both our families were vacationing in the Caribbean."

  Steven put down the pencil and flexed his fingers, grimacing as if he were suffering an acute case of writer's cramp. "Now, out of these thousands of enemies and old boyfriends . . . ," he teased, then ducked as Lila threw a couch pillow at his head.

  "Seriously, though, it is an impressive list," Steven told her. "We have five pages of suspects."

  Lila shrugged. "I can't help it," she said. "Lots of people are just jealous of me."

  "Who can blame them?" Steven teased, punctuating his question with a soft kiss. "This is very important, Lila," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "I want you to think very carefully. Out of all these names you've come up with, is there any one person who you believe is truly vicious—or crazy? Someone who wouldn't hesitate to hurt you physically, who you suspect is capable of violence?"

  Lila sat back, her expression suddenly grave and her eyes wide with fear. A dark shadow seemed to pass across her face. Steven reached for her hands. They were ice cold.

  Steven gulped, stunned by her strong reaction. Then his heart began to thump excitedly. There is someone, he realized. Lila has a lead! Whoever it was, she was obviously frightened just thinking about that person.

  "What is it?" Steven whispered. "Who is it?"

  Lila shook her head, avoiding his eyes. "Nothing," she mumbled.

  Steven stroked his fingers through her hair, then cupped her chin in his hands and gently turned her toward him. "Lila, tell me."

  "Home at last," Pete said as he ushered Devon into his swanky Las Vegas apartment. "There's plenty of room, so make yourself at home."

  Devon followed his uncle through the high-ceilinged foyer, down a short flight of steps, and into an expansive, sunken living room. A highly polished black wet bar stood over to the left. In the center of the room, a black leather couch and two leather chairs formed a seating arrangement around a glass coffee table. Two brass bookcases flanked the sliding glass doors on the far wall. Devon noticed a small, very expensive stereo system on one of the shelves, with its speakers mounted discreetly near the ceiling.

  "Not too shabby for you, I hope," Pete joked.

  "I'll let you know," Devon replied in kind.

  Pete laughed. "Spoken like a true New England snob," he teased. "Try to make yourself comfortable anyway, kid. I've got a few calls to make."

  Left alone, Devon walked over to the sliding doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The building was located on Las Vegas Boulevard, right on the Strip. From his vantage point on the twenty-first floor, Devon could see the bright neon lights of the city flashing for attention like hawkers at a country carnival.

  Well, it's not Connecticut, he thought, recalling the suburban luxury of his parents' home. And it's not Ohio, Devon had longed for something different, and it seemed he had it now.

  A few minutes later, his uncle joined him on the balcony. "What do you think of my city?" he asked Devon.

  "We sure seem to like our neon around here," Devon remarked drolly.

  "That's part of the charm, kid." Pete leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the wrought-iron railing. "You're looking at the best place in the world to make your mark." He chuckled. "In fact, everywhere you look, there's a mark just waiting to be made, if you know what I mean."

  Devon frowned. Does that mean Pete is doing so well in Las Vegas because he cheats people? he wondered.

  "They say there's a sucker born every minute," his uncle continued. "But it's twice a minute in Vegas."

  Devon glanced sideways at him. "Like those people you were playing cards with in that private room at the casino?" he asked pointedly. "Were they your marks?"

  Pete gave him a long, hard look. "Don't like me taking advantage of the little people, huh? Well, don't worry. I'm just a master card player. Got this little calculator in my head."

  Devon relaxed. "I know about that," he said. "It must run in the family. I've gotten straight A's in math and science my whole life."

  Pete affectionately punched Devon's shoulder. "I think I could get used to having you around, kid. Even if you are family," he added jokingly.

  Devon smiled.

  "Cheating in the casinos is totally out of the question," Pete explained. "The gaming tables are monitored by discreet little cameras that are planted all over the place—a system we call 'the eye in the sky.' But it doesn't matter. Las Vegas is still a gold mine for people like us."

  "How so?" Devon wondered aloud.

  Pete gestured with a sweep of his hand. "Everything has been carefully staged to pull in the average sap and convince him to loosen his purse strings. The bright lights make him feel adventurous, totally different from the man he is in his normal, boring life. Most of the restaurants in the casinos offer simple, inexpensive dishes, like meat loaf and roast turkey, so Mr. Average won't feel intimidated. They work hard to make him feel comfortable, confident, and powerful—because that's when he's likely to pour out his money."

  Devon listened, fascinated.

  "A smart guy like you can use all that to his own advantage," Pete told Devon. "You can make a fortune by developing winning instincts. And once your luck hits and you win a few bucks, there are plenty of places where you can have fun spending it."

  Devon ran his thumb along a ridge in the scalloped pattern of the railing. "If I do make money, I'll pay my share of the rent—help out with expenses at least," he said.

  Pete laughed. "I told you, I don't need a dime of Whitelaw money—even from you. I have everything I want." His expression suddenly turned serious and a clouded look came into his eyes. "Everything a guy could ever want," he whispered tightly.

  Devon stared at his uncle's profile. Something was obviously bothering Pete, but Devon didn't want to pry.

  Pete glanced at him. "You don't believe me?"

  Devon shrugged awkwardly and said nothing,

  Pete gazed out at the neon horizon. "Yeah, kid, I've got it all." He paused. "Except for one thing."

  "What's that?" Devon asked, curious.

  Pete exhaled wearily. "A woman, what else?"

  Devon raised his eyebrows, surprised. His uncle seemed incredibly smooth, sharp, and self-confident—hardly the type of guy Devon thought would have trouble with women.

  "Hard to believe?" Pete asked, as if he'd read Devon's thoughts.

  Devon nodded. "Yeah, sort of."

  Pete sniggered. "Hard for me to believe it myself. I've always been a free spirit—until I met Linda. She and I even talked about getting married. But I lost her."

  Devon was astonished to see this softer, vulnerable side of his uncle. Apparently Pete Whitelaw wasn't the hardened, selfish creature the family gossip had led him to believe. "What happened?" Devon asked.

  Pete rubbed his hand over his chin. "She wanted a commitment, but I didn't want anything to change . . . so she dumped me," he muttered. "Same old story. It's a cliché. Comedians do stand-up routines about this stuff in the clubs. But its not funny when it happens to you."

  "I'm really sorry," Devon said.

  Pete gave him a crooked smile. "Thanks, kid. So am I. Linda is something else. Dark hair, big brown eyes, long, gorgeous legs . . . she was in the restaurant tonight."

  Devon nodded, remembering the woman at the adjacent table who'd caught his uncle's attention. "Yeah, I know who you mean."

  "Seeing her tonight nearly killed me," Pete said. "I guess I never knew what I had until I lost her. But it was bound to happen," he said. "Linda Clark is a class act, and I'm—well, I'm the kind of guy I am . . . old-fashioned and rough around the edges. She would probably go for a guy more like you."

  "What do you mean?" Devon asked.

  Pete shrugged. "Linda needs a guy who's refined, one of those modern, sensitive types."

  Devon raised his eyebrows. "That's what you think I am?"

  "And I'm right too!" his uncle said, slanting him a teasing grin. "But don't you go getting any ideas about Linda, or I'll bust your chops!"

  They both laughed. Devon raised his hands in mock surrender. "Don't worry, I'll stay miles away from her," he promised.

  Uncle Pete gazed off into the distance. "I have a better idea," he said softly. "Maybe you can help me get her back."