Heron's Landing. JoAnn Ross

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ in the country—no mere local Elvises (Elvi?) need apply—amazingly went off without a hitch. And although the reception might have gotten a little rowdy, both the wedding party and the guests invited to this special occasion all seemed to enjoy the tiered white wonder of a wedding cake created by the Cordon Bleu–trained top chef. But it was the gilt doggie bags filled with a variety of gourmet dog biscuits dusted with edible twenty-four-karat gold that proved the hit of the party.

      After escorting the happy couple up to their honeymoon penthouse suite that adjoined that of the bride’s parents, Brianna finally blew out a long breath of relief.

      The good news was that the wedding of the tech mogul and his wife’s award-winning King Charles spaniel to a male belonging to a distant member of the British royal family (the first high-end dog ceremony Brianna had arranged) had gone off without a hitch. The bad news was that if word got out of its success, it might not be her last.

      She’d just returned to her desk, which, like everything else in Midas, was heavily gilded, when a guest she recalled from yesterday came marching toward her. Unfortunately, the man’s lobster-red complexion, furious scowl and steam she could practically envision coming from his ears were not encouraging signs.

      “I have a complaint,” he bellowed as he approached the desk. Like she couldn’t hear him from three feet away?

      “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Brianna pasted on her most conciliatory, caring smile. “What can I help you with?”

      “The concierge from yesterday was terrible. I want her fired.”

      “May I ask why?”

      “Because she’s obviously not working up to the standards of this hotel.”

      “Sir, I’m the concierge you spoke with yesterday. And again, I’m sorry that you had a less than satisfactory experience. What’s the problem?”

      He gave her a long, hard look. Leaned over the desk, and squinted at her gold-plated name tag. Then straightened, and squared his shoulders like a man about to go into battle. “It’s about that restaurant you sent us to last night.”

      “Bombay Spice.”

      “Yeah. That one.”

      “You didn’t care for your meal?” Bombay Spice, located a block off the strip near the Taj Mahal, was one of Brianna’s personal favorites, serving deliciously prepared authentic Indian cuisine.

      “It was fucking vegetarian!” His tone rose again with indignation.

      Having grown up working on the Mannion family Christmas tree farm, Brianna had learned at an early age how to deal with difficult customers. She’d also discovered, while working her way up the chain of the hotel hospitality business, that in some cases, the higher the income, the more escalated the sense of privilege. Apparently this was going to be one of those cases.

      “I believe I mentioned that when you asked about it,” she said with measured calm.

      “Well, dammit to hell, I expected them to serve some meat dishes. None of the five-star reviews my wife read online said anything about them not at least having a damn rib eye steak.” His color rose to a hue that had her prepared to call 911 in case he keeled over from a blood pressure spike.

      “I suspect the reviews didn’t mention the lack of meat because online diners were reviewing the restaurant’s vegetarian dishes.”

      Brianna wished she had a dollar for every time a guest came up to her with a list of restaurants in hand, asking her to recommend one. The problem with online review sites was that they reflected only the experience of the person writing the reviews. She’d spent her first six months in Las Vegas eating at as many restaurants as she could, meeting the owners and managers, in order to get firsthand knowledge. Some guests might like a noisy, busy brasserie, while others might prefer a quiet, romantic dining experience. Some might like bright lights. Others might go for candles on the table. Her job was to ask questions to determine what restaurant might work for that particular guest. Which she’d tried to do with this agitated man yesterday.

      “You shouldn’t send people there.”

      “I did recommend two steak houses,” she reminded him, practically having to bite her tongue at this point.

      “But Bombay Spice had great reviews,” he insisted. “Which is why my wife wanted to go there. She was determined to try the gobhi mattar masala with truffle rice because it had all five stars. But if a restaurant doesn’t have meat, you should warn people! You ruined our anniversary dinner!”

      “I’m sorry you had a less than satisfactory experience.” The cauliflower/green peas/cumin/ginger/cashews dish was one of Brianna’s personal favorites. But she did find the truffle rice a bit rich for her taste.

      “Less than satisfactory? It sucked! Of course we left the place, but by then it was impossible to get a table anywhere decent, so we just came back to the hotel.”

      “We have several fine restaurants in the hotel,” she pointed out in her most cordial, professional voice. “All which have received excellent reviews by both critics and diners alike. I, or the night concierge, would have been more than happy to arrange for you to have dinner on us if you’d only let us know you were dissatisfied.”

      “My wife had lost her appetite by the time we got back here and just wanted to go to bed.” He ripped off his black-framed glasses. If fiery glares could kill, Brianna would have burst into flames on the spot. “Which is why you owe me fifty fucking thousand dollars.”

      That got Brianna’s full attention. “Excuse me?”

      “My wife went to bed. Alone,” he stressed in the event Brianna hadn’t gotten his meaning. “Since our anniversary night was toast, I decided, what the hell, I might as well go down to the tables.”

      Where he’d lost fifty thousand dollars. Brianna restrained herself from suggesting he Google the meaning of gambling.

      “I’m thinking of reporting this place to the state gambling commission for rigging the games.”

      “That’s certainly your right. But I can assure you that nothing at the Midas is rigged.”

      Her roots may be Irish, from a many-times-great-grandfather who’d arrived in the Pacific Northwest where he’d gotten the dangerous job of driving the dynamite wagon for the construction of the railroad, but somehow Brianna must have been busy meeting and greeting people when God had handed out tempers, because she hadn’t inherited the trait. Still, this man was beginning to test her limits.

      “I’ve never lost that much in any casino in two fucking hours.”

      Wow. He’d really been tossing down the high dollar chips. And, from the red veins crisscrossing his eyes like lines on a Nevada roadmap, he hadn’t turned down any of the free drinks handed out to high rollers.

      “I’m sorry for your bad luck.” Having never dropped as much as a dollar in a slot machine, Brianna didn’t comprehend why anyone would want to risk hard-earned money when everyone knew that in the end, the house always eventually won, but enough people seemed to feel different to allow her to be paid a very lucrative salary with benefits and generous tips from happy guests. Especially those who’d walked away after a winning streak. “But it certainly wasn’t due to any rigging.”

СКАЧАТЬ