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To VB, AG, EM, ES; to all the unforeseen forces at work on this book, and in the universe
CHAPTER ONE
THE STRIP. IF THERE WAS any place in the world as appropriately named, Teddy Cannon didn’t know what it was. The Las Vegas Strip had been created for the sole purpose of stripping money from tourists, stripping clothing from women, stripping dignity from drunks, and stripping romance from weddings. And Teddy loved everything about it.
Her cabdriver pulled into the entrance of the Bellagio, past the hotel’s famous fountains. He idled behind a stretch limo painted candy-apple red. It was slick and shiny and shockingly tasteless, even by Vegas standards. Teddy watched as a group of twentysomethings careened out of the limo, chanting, “Vay-gas! Vay-gas!” In the center of the group was an especially plastic-looking blonde wearing a tight dress, a tiara, and a pink party sash emblazoned with Birthday Girl. She’d probably spent her entire paycheck on that dress. Tonight she would drink too many cosmos and do something she would come to regret in the morning. There was only one place Teddy wanted to hang out with girls like that—at a poker table. They were easier to read than a copy of Us Weekly.
The driver tapped the meter. “Twenty-two fifty.” Teddy resented having to shell out money for a cab, but she didn’t have a choice. She’d sold her beloved 2004 Volvo the day before. She’d gotten five grand for it, enough to bankroll tonight’s gambling.
Teddy nodded but didn’t reach for her wallet just yet. Instead she returned her attention to the entrance to the hotel, trying to get a read on the crowd.
“What’s the matter?” the driver asked. “You nervous?”
“Me?” She adjusted her wig. Damn, it was itchy. “Never.”
“Well, you should be. Let me tell you something. These casinos, little lady, they don’t lose.”
She met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Neither do I.” She paused. The rest of the sentence echoed in her mind: You sexist jerk. But she silenced her snarkiness, offering a more acceptable comeback: “Because I don’t play like a ‘little lady.’ ”
He laughed so hard that his considerable belly shook. Teddy knew her own belly wouldn’t shake like that. Because it was fake. One hundred percent cotton, with zero percent jiggle factor. “If you say so,” he said. “Las Vegas—everyone thinks they’re a winner!”
Not everyone Just me.
“You from around here?” he asked
“Yeah.”
“Funny. You don’t look Vegas.”
Meaning, she supposed, she didn’t look like a stripper, a cocktail waitress, a showgirl, or even that plastic blonde. She couldn’t decide if it was a compliment or an insult. Wrong, in any case.
Teddy Cannon was the epitome of Vegas. She’d grown up just a dozen miles away. And like the town itself, she was entirely self-invented.
In seventh grade, she’d been given the task of researching her ancestors and presenting an oral report about her heritage. She’d put on a sad face, hoping to play on her teacher’s sympathy and skip out of the assignment altogether. “But Mrs. Gilbert,” she’d said, “I’m adopted. I don’t know anything about my ancestors.”
Mrs. Gilbert, who was eight months pregnant at the time and supported by ankles that had swollen to the size of footballs, was crankier than usual. “Oh, for God’s sake, Teddy. Just make something up.”
It had never occurred to her that she could. She’d researched her options and decided to become Irish. Not the cherub-faced, flame-haired, grinning-men-in-green-suits Irish. No, she was Black Irish. A perpetual outsider. A member of a cunning, brawling, down-on-their-luck people. Years later, she certainly looked the part. Medium height and slight of build, sharp angles rather than soft curves. Raven-haired and eyes so pale they appeared almost silver.
Not that anyone would recognize her now.
She wore a long ash-blond wig that hid her pixie-ish hair, and contact lenses that turned her silver eyes brown. Weighted undergarments packed thirty pounds and several years onto her slender twenty-four-year-old frame. She’d found clothing at a local thrift store: starched white blouse with faint perspiration stains under the arms, black rayon skirt that pulled at her hips, faux-leather leopard-skin pumps. Lots of cheap jewelry. She wanted to look like someone who’d made an attempt to doll herself up and didn’t realize she’d failed. She’d blend right in here.
Her disguise ensured that no one would give her a second look. Because if anyone—namely security—did, she’d be screwed.
The cabdriver had been her first test. She’d passed.
She paid the fare, leveraged herself from the backseat, and headed for the casino’s revolving doors. Her panty hose rubbed between her padded thighs, emitting a distinct cricketlike chirp as she walked. Odds-on favorite for the most obnoxious noise in the universe.
She stepped inside the Bellagio and moved through the lobby. She hadn’t left her apartment in weeks. God, the money, the greed. Bet more, win more! Shrill bells. Flashing lights.
She tried to avoid flashing lights on principle, as they could trigger a seizure. She’d been diagnosed with epilepsy as a kid, and she took medication to prevent the wild, unpredictable episodes that would take hold of her
