Chapter 1
RAISING THE STAKES
Las Vegas, Nevada is picturesque. Everything glitters in the desert sun. Everything and everyone feels fresh and new and different. A clean slate. No history to haunt its streets. It is a desert jewel; an oasis filled with love and laughter.
At least that’s what it said in the brochure.
To me it looked more like a couple of money traps baking in the sun.
It’s so hot you can see waves of heat dancing across the sticky asphalt.
This was not my idea of a desert oasis. I wanted Palm Springs: swimming pools and tennis, some golf if you enjoy that sort of thing.
“Damn it, Priss, will you knock it off,” Mickey whines. “Jesus, you’re so dramatic.”
I raise my eyebrow and turn to face him in the driver’s seat. “I’m dramatic? You’re the one who drove us out to the middle of the desert to get married like a couple of bums.”
“It was your idea to elope,” he argues.
“Yes, but I was thinking something more like Niagara Falls or Nantucket, not some sand trap on the surface of the goddamn sun. I want it to be special.”
“It will be, trust me. Plus, I’ve got some business to attend to while we are out here.”
“Business?” I ask. “What business?”
He grins and trails his fingers along the edge of my cheek. “Now don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. I’ve got it all taken care of.”
I scoff. “Oh, my pretty little head is plenty worried.”
“Don’t you trust me?” he chuckles.
Do I trust him? Of course not. I wouldn’t even be in this situation in the first place if my mother hadn’t stuck her nose where it doesn’t belong.
She informed me on my twenty-fifth birthday that since it appears I am unable to do so myself, she is going to find me a husband before I become an old maid.
Can you believe that—an old maid at twenty-five?
“Elizabeth Taylor was married twice before she was twenty-five,” my mother reminds me.
Well excuse me if getting married, popping out babies, and trading recipes with the other housewives for the rest of my life is not at the top of my priorities.
Still, my mother and her friends would shake their heads and pinch my cheek, while spouting the same old tired cliche, “You’re such a pretty girl. It’s a shame you aren’t married.”
As if being pretty was the only quality worth having.
“Did you hear me, Pris?” Mickey says, bringing me back to the present. His eyes dart from the desolate road ahead, to me, then quickly back again.
“Yes, Mickey,” I comply. “I heard you, and my name is Priscilla.”
He grins and reaches for my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. Despite my irritation with the man, I crack a smile.
Michael Anthony Giordano III is the first-born son of Michael Anthony Giordano II and Maria Elizabeth Costas Giordano.
The Giordano family is legendary back home in Great Neck, New York.
They own several businesses in town plus a chain of dry cleaners in the city.
Their reach spans far and wide. Absolutely everyone I know is either related to them or works for them in one capacity or another, and in a particularly cruel twist of fate, Maria Giordano happens to be my mother’s closest friend.
My betrothal to the eldest of the five Giordano brothers has been a foregone conclusion since our infancy.
However, my mother, while skilled in the art of getting her way, is not a dictator, neither is Maria for that matter.
Their greatest wish has always been for Mickey and me to fall in love, get married, joining our two families forever.
They created every opportunity imaginable to put Mickey and I together: birthday parties, country club dances, cotillions, and rotary club dinners.
There was rarely any choice or notice of these events.
I would simply come home from school and there would be a new dress laid out on my bed in one of the many shades of pink my mother deemed most feminine.
I detest the color and would express my displeasure in inventive ways over the years.
I once ‘accidently’ spilled grape juice down the front, resulting in my mother’s insistence that only clear liquids be served at all times.
It’s a shame, because I love grape juice.
Her moratorium on dark colored beverages didn’t do much to deter my rebellious streak.
It just forced me to think out of the box, much to my mother’s dismay.
Now, I must give her credit because if it weren’t for her insistence on dressing me like Danity June, I never would have discovered my love for fashion.
I’ve always excelled with needle work, and I can work magic with a needle and a McCalls pattern, but I rarely do I stay within the lines.
When I was about fifteen, I came home from school to discover yet another tulle monstrosity draped over my bed.
Frustrated and full of teenage angst, I reached for a pair of scissors and went to work.
I spent hours working and reworking that dress until it felt more like me, and when I was finished, nothing had ever felt more true.
When I entered the ballroom that Saturday night, I could feel all eyes on me as I made my entrance.
It caused quite the stir and caught a fair amount of attention.
Unfortunately, one of those people was him.
That was where my plan had gone awry, because while the goal had been to stick it to my mother, instead I caught the attention of none other than Mr. Michael Anthony Giordano III.
You see, while I was less than thrilled about being thrust at Mickey, he was even more annoyed with our mothers’ plans.
He spent our formative years crying whenever I was in his presence.
I once overheard Maria confess that he would burst into tears when shown a picture of me.
His disdain for me turned to plain meanness after my growth spurt kicked in and I was nearly a foot taller than him for over a year.
We’d teased and pinched each other as babies, and avoided each other as preteens, but that night everything changed.
Suddenly, I wasn’t the girl whose face made him cry anymore.
Eventually, the vast wasteland of desert gave way to rundown motels and truck stops. What felt like an instant later, we were driving down the infamous Las Vegas Strip, bypassing the Golden Nugget, the Tropicana, and the Sands.
“Here we are,” Mickey says, pulling up to the front of a brand-new hotel that wasn’t featured in the brochures.
The Beacon is aptly named, a gleaming column of white stucco and glass, glittering in the desert sun.
Mickey hit the brakes hard, jerking me forward then back in my seat.
I glare at the back of his head, as he exits the car, tossing the keys to a waiting valet.
The passenger door opens and a young man in a crisp emerald green jacket with gold epaulettes smiles and offers me his hand. “Welcome to the Beacon, Mrs. Giordano,” he greets me.
“Not yet,” I reply.
He furrows his brow. “My apologies, Miss Castelano,” he corrects himself, putting a little more emphasis on the Miss.
I tilt my head, my lips curling up in an approving grin. Pausing at the entrance for a moment, I take in the grandeur of the tower. It is impressive to say the least, with a tall classic design.
“Pris,” Mickey calls to me. “Let’s go. My balls are melting over here.”
An older woman clutching an angry shih tzu gives him a stern look as she passes on the stairs. Mickey doesn’t notice, but then again, Mickey doesn’t notice anything that doesn’t make him money or a have reflective surface.
I groan, rolling my eyes as I make my way up the red carpeted stairs.
Mickey offers me his arm, and I reluctantly follow his lead.
As we pass through the lobby doors, we are enveloped in the marvelous innovation of air conditioning.
Gooseflesh pebbles my sweat damp skin as the temperature shifts from nearly 105 degrees to a crisp cool 75 in an instant.
It’s a bit of a shock to the system after six hours in a hot car, but a welcome reprieve from the heat.
An older man in his late forties, early fifties at most, approaches us in a light gray suit and thin black tie. “Mr. and Mrs. Giordano. My name is Franklin Newcastle. Welcome to the Beacon.”
“Yeah, thanks Frank,” Mickey said, rubbing his hands together, looking everywhere but directly at the man in front of him. Mr. Newcastle gave a subtle flinch at Mickey’s abrupt greeting, but to his credit, he manages to stay in character. “What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?”
I resist the urge to dig my heel into the center of his foot. “What my fiancé means,” I interject, shooting a cutting glance at Mickey, “is we’ve been on the road for quite some time and could use some refreshment.”
Mr. Newcastle’s face relaxes slightly, and morphs into a tight smile. “Of course, right this way.”
He shows us to a beautiful bar area overlooking the pool.
Women lounge in the sun in their two-piece swimsuits and swim caps.
The men relax in patio chairs, enjoying the scenery.
Mr. Newcastle offers Mickey his card and leaves us with the assurance that our bags will be delivered to our suite immediately.
Mickey orders his usual scotch and lemonade for me. I would prefer a dry martini, but a lady never drinks before noon, in public at least.
The bartender sets our drinks down in front of us and Mickey drains his in an instant, while I take a more dainty sip from my straw.
“You need to stop doing that,” Mickey announces, catching me off guard.
“Stop what? Drinking? It’s only Lemonade.”
Mickey’s jaw ticks. “No, speaking for me. It makes me look weak.”
I shrug. “Well, if you weren’t such a Neanderthal I wouldn’t have to.”
He catches my wrist in his hand with a sinister glare, his grip so tight the tips of my fingers go numb. “I mean it, Pris,” he hisses through his teeth. “You will not embarrass me, am I making myself clear?”