Keir O'connell's Mistress

“What? Those idiots? They’re the ones who left this damned piece of wood here in the first place.” She leaned down again. “I’ll fix it myself.”

Maybe. But he couldn’t promise what he’d do if she kept bending over like that.

“Not on my time,” he said sharply, “and not in my elevator. Dammit, why argue over something so simple?”

“Go ahead, then. Who am I to argue with the man in charge?”

“‘Thank you’ might be a more gracious response.” Keir squatted down, yanked the shoe free and rose to his feet. “Here. Next time you decide to wear stilts—”

The car shuddered to a halt. Cassie yelped, stumbled, and Keir caught her in his arms.

She caught her breath. So did he. She was pressed tightly against him, her back against his chest, her bottom against his groin. Don’t move, he thought, God, don’t move…

The doors swooshed open. Keir heard a sound. A snicker? No. A snort of laughter. He swung around, taking Cassie with him, and saw two very interested, all-too-familiar faces.

Cassie gave a little moan of despair. “Your brothers?” she whispered.

Keir nodded.

Sean and Cullen O’Connell simply grinned.

CHAPTER TWO

CASSIE’S day had gone really, really well.

She’d worked a double shift to cover for one of the other girls who’d either come down with the flu or had a new boyfriend—nobody was quite sure which—but that was okay.

No problem. She could use the extra money.

The only thing was that she’d started the first shift tired after a tough, three hour exam, the final one before she got her degree in restaurant management. Cassie had taken the course on the Internet after signing up, mostly out of curiosity, two years ago. The work had been interesting and, to her surprise, she’d done well at it.

Soon, she’d start looking for a job as far from Vegas as she could get. She’d already decided on an employment agency, a place called TopNotch, because the gossip mill said TopNotch provided almost all management employees to the Desert Song.

If it was good enough for the Song, it was good enough for her.

By the time her second shift was drawing to a close, Cassie was totally exhausted. Her mouth felt stiff from constant smiling, her eyes felt tired from the re-circulated air washing over her contacts, and her feet…

No. She wasn’t going to think about her feet. Rule One in Cassandra Bercovic’s Survival Guide: dancers and waitresses should never think about their feet until they no longer had to stand on them. Once you admitted they hurt, you were in deep trouble.

She was already in trouble.

Cassie winced as she eased one foot just a little way out of its silken, stiletto-heeled prison. Her toes felt as if they’d been jammed into a ball, her arches ached and the soles burned as if a sadist had gone at them with a blowtorch.

She sighed, plucked an empty glass from beside a silent slot machine and put it on her tray.

Toe shoes had been the bane of her existence until she’d given up ballet the day after her seventeenth birthday. Back then, she’d thought bloody feet were only the province of ballerinas.

Talk about being wrong…

Okay. Enough of feeling sorry for herself. Her feet hurt. Big deal. The good news was that she was almost out of here. It had to be close to seven. There was no way to tell because there were never clocks in casinos. The only time that mattered was how long a guest spent at the slots or at the tables.

She knew the time, though. She’d asked Chip on her last stop to put in an order at the bar.

“Pushing 6:15 in the old A.M.,” he’d told her.

Thank God.

Cassie swallowed a yawn. One last circuit of the room and that would be it. The casino was almost empty at this hour. Only the diehards played between dawn and breakfast, and there hadn’t been too many of them this morning.

“Miss?”

She knew who it was before she looked. The sweaty-faced guy at the dollar slots. Rule Number Two of the Bercovic Survival Guide: you could count on a minimum of one pig turning up, each and every shift.

“Yes, sir?” she said politely.

“Gimme another orange juice. And this time, do like I said, okay? I want a double shot of vodka, not a single.”

“It was a double shot the last time, sir,” Cassie replied, even more politely.

The man glared as he slapped his empty glass on her tray. She shot a quick look at the tall paper cup that held his coins. Last time she’d come by, it was full. Now, it was almost empty.

“Listen, toots, I can tell the difference between one shot or two, and that wasn’t no two. I want a double. You got that?”

Cassie could almost feel her blood pressure soar but she’d been a waitress long enough to manage a smile.

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back with your drink.”

Her smile turned into a scowl when she reached the bar.

“Pig,” she muttered as she slapped down her tray.

Chip grinned. “Nothing’s as much fun as the early morning players, Cass. You should know that by now.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Cassie sighed. “Another OJ, double vodka.”

“Comin’ up.” Chip reached for a clean glass. “Guy’s an asshole, huh?”

“You got it.”

“Well, the shift’s almost over.”

“How soon?”

Chip pushed back his cuff and checked his watch. “Five minutes to go.”

“Hallelujah! I’m so tired I’m liable to fall asleep standing up.”

“Yeah. Me, too.” He cleared his throat. “Coffee would help, right?”