Shopping for a Billionaire's Wife (Page 30)

Declan beams with pride. “Pretty great, huh?”

Cigarette smoke tickles my nostrils. “You can smoke indoors here? I thought that was illegal.”

“In Massachusetts it’s illegal. You outlaw it here in Vegas and there would be riots.”

Raised platforms with long, thick, velvet curtains dot the casino floor, private enclaves that don’t clarify who is allowed to gamble within those hidden spaces, because—I assume—if you’re allowed in there, you know. You don’t need to ask.

The slot machines dominate, spread far and wide like worker bees in a hive, drones designed to do the heavy lifting to support the larger operation. I imagine this business is like any other: while the largest profit margin comes from high-value, high-cost products, the sheer number of sales made from smaller-level profits on a mass scale means meeting the needs of the many in large quantities is worth it.

Penny slots are example number one. My eye catches a Tarzan-themed machine and I pull away from Declan, wandering toward it.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Penny slots.”

“I know, but…why? Why the branding?” As I look around, I see characters from television series’ long off the air, from movies that were popular in my teens, and from video games I know my ex-brother-in-law, Todd, used to play for hours.

“Because it draws people in. Once they sit down, they feed their credit card or pre-loaded card into the machine and spend.”

A cocktail waitress with mega-cleavage walks by on heels that might as well be knitting needles, smoothly carrying a tray loaded with drinks.

“Are the drinks free?” I know enough about casinos to guess.

“Yep. Get them drinking. Loosen people up. Help them have fun.”

My eyes float over to the layered system for the machines. Pennies. Nickels. Quarters. Dollars. Higher value machines with twenty dollar and fifty dollar slots. It’s like a flea market, wares spread out in concentric ripples as far as the eye can see, except instead of selling old treasures, Anterdec’s resort is selling hope.

“They sit here for hours and just push buttons?” Most of the slot machines don’t even have levers.

“Mmm hmmm.” Declan seems distracted, eyes darting back to the marbled hallway where we originally were headed. “Is this what you want to do now? Gamble?”

“I thought we were chasing down my mom in the sex toy convention.”

“Right.”

“Not that I want to do it. It’s just….” A nagging feeling pulls at me. This open-ended, unresolved tension between me and Mom shouldn’t affect me like this. Maybe it’s my full stomach. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s fatigue and stress from the last twenty-four hours. Whatever this tug inside me is, it isn’t going away until I have a long talk with my mother and father.

I don’t think I can actually change anything. Mom is Mom. She is going to blame me and Declan for ruining “her” wedding. Between the media circus this wedding escape has triggered and her outrageous behavior, there’s no way to put the genie back in the bottle.

That hug this morning was heartfelt.

Like hell I’m apologizing, though.

We spin away from the casino floor, walking to the right, my eyes catching poker tables and, across the slot machines, a room that has a huge sign made of brass on mahogany that says “High Value Room.”

“Is that where the big money goes?” I ask.

“Ten thousand just to walk in.”

I look back at the penny slots.

More my style.

The hallway widens and changes from Persian rugs to clattering marble, bright lights altering the scenery as I realize we’re leaving the casino and entering a mall. A series of high-end, designer-named stores dots the walk, with gelato and coffee shops interspersed.

“An indoor mall? In a casino?”

Declan laughs at my tone of wonder. “Where do you think people want to spend their money after a win? We aim to please.”

“You aim to keep them penned in and contained in your little universe so you can mop up their sweet consumer dollars,” I scoff.

“Of course,” he says with a charming smile. “That’s the point of this property, Shannon.”

The gelato makes me want to part with some money, for sure, but I’m still full of filet and shrimp and that nagging feeling.

Food will have to wait.

The decor changes even more as we walk up a slight incline, the shops disappearing, the lighting going from artificially bright to a more natural, muted tone as wide glass windows frame the way, leading out to a courtyard dotted with three pools, two hot tubs, and a cabana bar. All of the swimming options are surrounded by giant palm trees and colorful flowers I can’t name, because they definitely don’t grow back home in cold-climate Massachusetts.

It looks so finished. Polished. Like something out of a soap opera.

An art gallery with works by Picasso, Matisse and Cezanne appears out of nowhere, the walls around it painted in Jackson Pollock style, an Andy Warhol print lighted by LEDs blinking in rapid-fire rhythm. We pass by and a security guard starts to ask us a question, takes a good look at Declan, and steps aside, murmuring, “Mr. McCormick. So good to see you.”

Dec just nods.

I’m in awe.

And it’s not from the property.

“How do they all know you?”

“I told you.”

“But—just like that?”

“Security is paramount in a casino. It’s their job to know who the owners are.”

“Do they know Andrew and James and Terry?”