“Maybe you're taking notes in your head. Are you working on anything these days?”
Scott shrugged. “
Working
might be too strong a term.”
“What is it?”
“A novel, actually. A sort of future history of Manhattan over the next twenty years or so. Everyone with children leaves because they can't afford to live there, so the whole place gets gentrified. Then Bill Gates—obviously he's old by then—buys it and gives it back to the Indians.”
“Sounds … interesting.”
“It would be,” Scott allowed, “if I could get past the outline.”
“Cyn says you're a really good writer.”
There. Anna had brought up Cyn. That proved she had no designs on Cyn's boyfriend.
“Maybe great sex dumbed down her opinion,” he suggested. “Ever happen to you?”
Anna bit into a forkful of her salad. “What?”
“Have you ever had such great sex with a guy that you thought he was someone he wasn't?”
Since Anna had had sex with only one guy, she really didn't have a basis for comparison. But she wasn't about to tell Scott that.
“Why would that be any of your business?”
He shrugged easily. “It isn't.”
“Are you asking me personal questions because you don't want to talk about your writing?” Anna pressed. “Do you think you only got published in the
Times
because your mother called in a favor?”
“Ouch.” He washed down another bite of his burger.
Anna instantly felt terrible that she'd attacked him. It was probably only because she was so damned attracted to him. She knew she shouldn't be. She knew the smart thing to do would be to bring this lunch to a rapid conclusion, go up to her suite, and read
Vanity Fair
.
She stayed put.
“I'm sorry I said that,” she finally murmured.
“It's funny,” Scott began. “Back in New York you always seemed so … tense.”
Only around you. Because I wanted to throw myself at you every time I saw you
.
“It's not like you knew me,” she pointed out.
“True. Maybe I should have gotten to know you.” Scott's direct gaze met hers. He had a single freckle right next to the left corner of his lips—
“Am I interrupting?”
Anna almost dropped her fork. Cyn was standing at their table clad in a very Cyn outfit: vintage burnt orange bellbottoms and a forest green long-sleeved pullover under a ratty pink shrug. She wore her giant black Chanel sunglasses, so Anna couldn't see her eyes. But her nose ring was in. And the accusing tone—that Anna couldn't miss.
“No, of course not!” Anna exclaimed. “We saw each other here when we were swimming. Then we got hungry. That's all.”
“Whatever.” Cyn slid another chair up to their table. “Is Vegas a pit or what?”
“Morning, babe.” Scott leaned over. She raised her lips for him to kiss her. He did.
“I missed you when I woke up,” she told him. She put her hand on her stomach. “God, I'm concave I'm so hungry. Where's the waitress?”
“You know what? I'm done, actually,” Anna declared, pushing her seat back. “So I'll see you two later.”
“Much,” Cyn winked at her. “We may have to go back to bed for a while.”
“All righty!” Anna agreed a bit too gaily. “Have fun.”
She trotted toward the simple glass doors that led into the lobby. As she stepped inside, the casino assault hit her: the noise, the pounding music, the shouts of winners and losers at the craps tables and the slot machines. Anna headed straight for the bank of elevators that would take her back up to her suite. She wanted to shower and change clothes. She wanted to start the day over.
God, she had acted like such an idiot when Cyn showed up. As if she and Scott were guilty of some secret flirtation.
But they weren't. Anna was sure they weren't.
Well, pretty sure, anyway.
TONIGHT! LIVE IN THE JUNGLE ROOM: DRAKE MESMER IN HIP-NO-SIS. VOTED BEST HYPNOTIST IN VEGAS BY LAS VEGAS INSIDER!
Parker sat at the small wooden bar just outside the Congo Room at the venerable Sahara Hotel chatting up a redhead from Dallas. The redhead claimed her name was Kendall, though Parker suspected that she'd borrowed the moniker from Erica Kane's daughter on the soap opera
All My Children
—a soap on which Parker had once done an under-five.
This particular Kendall appeared to be the kind of insecure rich girl who had to advertise her money: gumball-size diamond ring, gold necklace dripping with jeweled charms that disappeared into her eye-popping cleavage, shocking-pink-mink-trimmed Dr. Romanelli leather bomber jacket. The jacket was a limited edition. Parker knew for a fact it went for six grand, because he'd been moseying through Kaviar and Kind in Hollywood over the holidays and had seen Naomi Watts purchase the exact same jacket, only the fur trim on hers was baby blue.
The million-dollar question was, why was this Kendall in this hotel? She obviously had plenty of money. But the Sahara these days was so far down anyone's notion of where to stay in Vegas as to be off the list. Its heyday had been forty years ago: The corridor leading past the ubiquitous all-you-can-eat buffet had been lined with photographs of literati and glitterati from the 1960s—everyone from President Kennedy to the Beatles to Truman Capote. But now the Sahara was toast.
It was exactly why Parker had decided to come trolling here. The others were eating dinner at the sushi bar in the Bellagio. Parker had claimed he wasn't hungry so he could go off on his own and meet … well, someone like Kendall.
He was a man with a plan. Which was why he changed the subject from which casino on the strip put the most alcohol in its free drinks to something a bit more personal.
“You know, Kendall, you have the best hair.” Parker fingered one of her curly locks.
“You think?” she drawled, noisily sipping the last of her Singapore Sling through her straw. It was her third drink—Parker was counting. “I always hated being a redhead when I was kid. So, tell me more about your acting.”
“I just booked a U-five on
Everwood
,” Parker lied, “and I'm about to shoot this indie film. Sean Penn is directing. Fox Searchlight is going to release it.”
Kendall's radiant blue eyes, lined with way too much kohl eyeliner, grew huge. They were glassy from the alcohol. “For real?”
“Well, it's not the lead or anything,” Parker excused himself modestly, making it up as he went along. He was interested in this girl. Very interested. Kendall screamed money. Kendall might be a perfect short-term solution; that was all he was looking for, anyway. She was cute. She was a sophomore at some junior college in Dallas—Parker hadn't caught the name—and had come to Vegas with her best friend for a midweek get-away. The best friend didn't have a lot of money, so they were staying at the Sahara, because Kendall didn't want her best bud to feel bad. When she'd heard that Parker was staying at the Palms, Kendall's inebriated eyes had lit up. That was where she'd wanted to stay.
Well, maybe that could be arranged.
“So, what's up for you tonight?” she asked, looking at him flirtatiously through her MAC-clumped lashes.
“My friends and I are going to see the hypnotist's show.” Parker nodded in the direction of the Jungle Room. “It starts in like ten minutes.”
“Oh, my friend saw that; she said it's great.”
“Hey, you should come with us!” Parker exclaimed, as if he'd just thought up the idea.
Kendall feigned reluctance. “I wouldn't want to horn in or anything.”
“No, really, my friends are cool. Like we came out here in Jackson Sharpe's private jet—”
“Shut
up
!” Excited Kendall almost slid off her bar stool.
“Yeah, his daughter, Sam, is one of my best friends. Come on. Let's go in and get a tabletop. I'll introduce you to her.”
“That'll be fifteen dollars even,” the bartender told Parker, removing his glass and wiping the condensation from the bar.
“Got it.” He flashed his winning grin. Reached into his pocket. Felt around. “Oh man, I can't believe this, I must have left my wallet at the Palms!”
“I do stuff like that all the time,” Kendall assured him. “ 'S no problem. I got the night covered.” She pulled a crisp twenty out of her purse and laid it neatly on the bar.
When her first step in her Constança Basto lime green heels went wobbly, Parker reached out to steady her. “Careful.” He made serious eye contact. His hands remained on the small of her waist.
“Thanks,” she cooed.
“You are so welcome.”
“So, Sam Sharpe?” she breathed.
“Yeah, she'll tell you all about her dad. I hang out over there all the time.”
“What's he like?”
“Cool.”
“And what's she like?” They reached the admissions desk for the hypnosis show. Kendall took out more money. Parker took Kendall's hand the instant she'd paid and steered her into the theater.
“Sam?” Parker asked rhetorically. “Well, for one thing, she's not half as cute as you are.”
“You may think you can't be hypnotized,” Drake Mesmer told the packed theater as he prowled the long, narrow stage. He was a large bald man in a well-cut, expensive-looking suit. “But you may be wrong.” He waved his hand and the enormous diamond on his pinkie ring sparkled. According to the program, when Drake Mesmer wasn't doing his show he was a “hypnotist to the stars,” jetting all over Hollywood and curing the rich and famous of various phobias and addictions. And based on the size of the giant rock on his finger, he must have made pretty good money doing it. “
You
five hundred esteemed guests are the show, ladies and gentlemen. None of you know me, correct? Mom, put your hand down.”
The crowd tittered.
“What a hoot,” Sam muttered to Anna. She took a long pull on the Bud Light she'd ordered. There was nothing else available at the Sahara that appealed to her.
“Hey!” The cheesy, overblown redhead whose outfit screamed, “Get me a makeover!” that Parker had brought to the show flailed at the air with her hands. “I can be hypnotized! Pick me!”
So polluted, Sam realized. Had a few too many before she even ordered the drink that's in front of her.
Drake asked everyone in the audience to lift one arm in the air. Sam checked out the crowd. Pretty much everyone did it. What the hell. She raised her arm, too. She was certain she couldn't be hypnotized; she was way too self-conscious to ever give up control in public.
Coming to this show had actually been her idea. Jackson had mentioned that he'd seen Drake's show last year when he was on a special episode of
Celebrity Poker
for charity. He said it had been worth coming all the way to the Sahara. Nor had Drake made a big deal out of having Jackson Sharpe in the audience, either. Jackson had been impressed by that, too.
“You will listen to me now.” Drake's voice was strangely commanding. “You will listen only to my voice. You cannot lower your arm. No matter what you do, you can't lower it.”
Sam lowered her arm. So much for that. She looked around. Many others in the audience had lowered their arms, too, including all her friends. But the drunk moron with Parker was reaching for the ceiling with both hands, like a ref signaling a winning Super Bowl touchdown. Then Drake instructed everyone in the room to stare at their two extended index fingers.
“You will find them moving closer to each other. Keep staring, keep staring—they are moving closer and closer and closer. …”
Sam didn't even bother to do it, until she saw Anna's friend Cyn with her eyes locked on her fingertips; ditto for the guy from New York, Scott. In the other direction, Cammie and Adam were doing the same thing.
Oh, fuck. Why not?
Sam put her index fingers a foot from her face and stared at them like they were the Academy Award statue her father had been robbed of winning.
“You are becoming sooo relaxed, sooo happy, sooo tired,” Drake assured the audience. “You can't even keep your eyes open. Just let them close. That's it. Let your eyes close.” Drake crooned on and on in a hypnotic tone. Sam closed her eyes. She knew she wasn't hypnotized, though, because she'd made a
choice
to close her eyes. She was just going along with it for fun.
“Your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier, but you're completely and totally relaxed,” Drake intoned. “When I count to three, you will try to open your eyes, but you will be unable to. No matter how hard you try, you will not be able to open your eyes. “One, two, three.”
Sam opened her eyes. What total bullshit. She surveyed her friends. They all had their eyes closed. Next to her she could see Anna's eyelids fluttering, as if she were trying to open them but couldn't. Okay, that was freaky. Anna was not the type to fake it. For a moment, she wished that Dee had decided to come with them to the show instead of staying in the room with her kabbalah text, waiting for a crucial phone call from Poppy that she said she was expecting.
This was right up Dee's alley. On the other hand, it might have influenced Dee—so many things did. Dee Young deciding to become a hypnotist was a scary proposition.
“You feel no panic, no concern,” Drake went on as he strolled the stage from end to end. “Everything is fine. You are totally relaxed, but you cannot open your eyes. Listen to the sound of my voice. You know you are safe when you hear my voice. On the count of three, you will be able to open your eyes. You will feel relaxed. One, two, three.”
Anna's eyes opened. “That was amazing,” she hissed to Sam. “It felt like they were locked shut.”
Drake swept a hand over his the audience. “Remember how I said you are the stars of this show, ladies and gentlemen? All of you who could not open your eyes when I said you couldn't but could open them again when I said you could … come on up!”
Canned rock music began to play as Drake waded into the audience, urging people to go up on his stage. Parker's drunk friend was the first one to lurch up the steps. She was followed by at least three dozen others— Sam was shocked to see that all her friends were participating. Even Anna. Could they
really
have been hypnotized by this guy? It was hard to believe.
With the stage filled to his satisfaction, Drake moved bodies around. Sam could see he wanted the arrangement to be boy-girl-boy-girl. Everyone went along with this willingly. Sam couldn't imagine that some of these people weren't just goofing on the hypnotist, playing him for laughs. Or that some of them weren't plants. But if they were indeed plants—inserted into the show by the hypnotist—they were wonderful plants. They looked just like tourists from Anywhere, USA.