Mr. Big Shot

Chapter One

The Gulfstream IV touched down at the Las Vegas McCarran International Airport and came to a stop on a distant tarmac where a royal blue carpet and a silver Rolls Royce waited for the passenger. The jet rested, as if adjusting to the extreme heat, although its home base was commonly as hot and it was hardly a stranger to deserts.

Although the aircraft could accommodate up to eight people for sleeping, when the door rolled open, only two individuals came out; Sheikh Arran Muhalla and his loyal body guard, Alahan. Impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored silk suit, Sheikh Arran Muhalla’s tanned skin contrasted with the heavy golden Rolex he wore on his wrist and the gleaming white of his perfect teeth. Powerfully built, he walked with the grace of a cougar. Even those who didn’t know him could feel his lethal potential. Known to his American friends as Arran, he was comfortable in any environment; that of his birth, and that of his Yale education.

Arran stepped into the glittering silver Rolls. His guard, Alahan, took a front seat and the driver smoothly rolled out of the airport and headed for the Bellagio. Arran adjusted his tie and checked his hair, although there was never a hair out of place. Although there were no meetings planned, he was always concerned with his appearance. He patted the sound system and the vehicle filled with Puccini’s Tosca. He settled back against the upholstered cushions and closed his eyes, allowing the music to carry him to a different place where time was measured in the trappings of grace.

As the driver pulled up before the Bellagio, a doorman advanced to open Arran’s door. Alahan quickly blocked him and stood momentarily, surveying the people and surroundings before opening the limo door. Arran emerged and went into the hotel where he had reserved the Chairman’s Suite.

Arran was the eldest in an extremely successful Middle-Eastern family and the head of their businesses. His younger brothers, Sinhad and Farrah, dealt with various smaller enterprises, but Arran exercised final approval of every move that was made. He was in Vegas to handle the general business for one of the banks the family owned. His schedule provided for a short stay; no more than three weeks at most.

Alahan took care of the details of checking in while Arran waited in the nearby Russian Bar, sliding onto a stool at one end of the long bar where he might watch everything going on. It was his habit to keep his back to a wall; a lesson learned from a lifetime of caution. He ordered a whiskey sour and while he sipped, his posture staunchly erect and alert. He was bored and played with his tumbler, the thick gold ring on his middle finger tapping against the glass. Alahan took up a watch point just inside the door, checking out the room constantly. The bulk beneath his jacket revealed that he was carrying a weapon. While not blatantly obvious, anyone looking would know not to start trouble in his presence.

There were a handful of others in the bar, taking a break from the gaming or meeting before going on to dinner. Arran had an eye for unusual women but had tired of the shallow beauties who usually offered themselves to him. He’d been to Las Vegas many times and knew it was the land of smoke and mirrors. Women’s bodies were molded and augmented to their own ideas of beauty while their men merely paid the tab. Arran could have any female who interested him, but had grown bored with their readiness to fill his empty bed. For the time being, he would remain a confirmed bachelor.

The sound of shattered glass filled the room as a tray plummeted to the bar floor. A table of guests leapt out of the way to keep from being sprayed and one of the women cried out theatrically as liquor dripped down the front of her phony designer cocktail dress. She was outrageously made up and smelled of her profession; a very expensive whore. One of the men motioned toward the bar and the harried manager quickly came over, an angry look on his countenance.

The helpless waitress had her back to Arran. From his perspective, he could see shapely hips, endless legs, and a wealth of silver-blonde hair swept back from her face and wrapped into a barrette at her neck. She was poised there, frozen, looking at the woman with the liquor stain and then to the dropped tray on the carpet at her feet. The manager reappeared with white bar towels and the waitress instantly bent to retrieve the tray, and then turned to wipe the woman’s chest with the towels. She succeeded in making the stain worse, rubbing the sweet liquor more deeply into the fabric of the gown and the woman’s voice rose in intensity at the mess. The overly reactive manager was bowing and apologizing dramatically, motioning away the waitress who set her tray on the bar and left through doors into the kitchen area. A uniformed waiter immediately appeared with a broom and more towels to clean up the mess as the group at the table rose and left the bar after a few harsh expletives toward the manager.

The manager, obviously upset, pulled down his jacket to re-establish his dignity and turned toward the kitchen. Arran signaled the bartender and asked that the manager be directed toward him.

“Yes, sir, good evening Sheikh Muhalla,” the manager greeted him, a nervous grin upon his perspiring face.

“The waitress—you intend to fire her?” Arran asked simply.

“No need to worry, sir, she won’t be bothering anyone again,” the manager quickly assured him.

“You intend to fire her?” Arran repeated, and the manager realized it was a question and scrambled to answer it.

“Yes, sir, we will find someone more professional to take her job.”

“Keep her,” Arran said.

“Sir?”

“Leave the girl be. She needs the work and will not repeat her mistake, you may be assured. Ask the guest who was soiled to select a gown in any of the hotel shops and add it to my account,” Arran ordered.

“Sir, are you sure? After all, it was the waitresses’ fault and there’s no reason you should…”

Arran cut him off. “Shall I repeat my instructions?” His voice invited no argument; he was a man who was accustomed to giving orders—once.

“Of course, Sheikh Muhalla, immediately,” the manager bowed and scurried away.

Arran took another sip of his drink and as expected, the doors from the galley slammed open and the waitress came out, looking along the bar until she spotted him. She came toward him and as she approached, he took in her face. An elegant nose and rosy, prominent cheekbones framed what were huge, green eyes. These, combined with her hair gave her the appearance of being chiseled from a pale gray marble.

“Are you Sheikh Muhalla?” she asked politely. Her voice was slightly gravelly but articulate—giving her a cultured appeal.

“Yes,” he nodded, caught in those green eyes.

“I understand I owe you a debt of gratitude,” she prompted.

“No, you owe me nothing,” he returned, watching the light behind her eyes turn dark.

“I pay my debts…with money. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll see to it that I reimburse the cost of the woman’s dress to you,” she said in a businesslike voice.

“It’s not necessary,” he shook his head, wanting to hear her speak more but wishing she would change the subject.

“I must insist. I don’t accept charity,” her voice was stronger now, more official. In a way, she was almost arrogant except that it was pride that held her spine straight and her chin up.

“My dear Miss…?” he said, asking her to fill in the details.

“Standish, I’m Gabrielle Standish,” she obliged. “Look Sheikh, I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to address you; we don’t have sheikhs in the States, so excuse any ignorance, but I’d really rather that you allow me to pay for the woman’s dress. It will take me a while, but I will pay you for it. Your information, please?” she asked again and pulled out an order pad to write on the back of a slip.

“I’m staying here at the Bellagio,” he said in a quiet voice, wishing he could record hers for its sultry quality.

“I’ll do my best,” she said and nodded her head before she turned away and went toward another table of guests, carefully walking wide of the wet carpet. As she returned to have the drink order filled, he called her over.

“You may call me Arran,” he said.

This time she cocked her head and repeated his name. “Arran… that’s different, but then I suppose where you come from all names are going to differ from those here in America. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Arran, and I’ll be sending you the money I owe you as I can,” she told him. Her tray of drinks ready, she carefully pulled them onto her raised hand and walked toward the table.

Arran watched her and saw that she was, despite the earlier accident, quite a graceful woman. Those well-proportioned hips swayed between the tables with rhythm and she spun about as if on ballerina slippers to deliver the glasses. She could have been a dancer, the way she walked. He finished his glass and left the bar, taking the elevator to the top floor and his room. This was his base of business when he was in town. Over four thousand feet in size, it slept five guests in king-sized beds and had five and a half baths.

He was greeted by his own butler in the mosaic tiled hall with its glass chandelier and water fountain. Arran decided to adjourn to the spa bath and experience a rainforest Swiss team shower in one of the Italian marble bathrooms. Water was a valued commodity in his home country; perhaps that why the Bellagio held such attraction for him.

Putting on one of the provided robes, he settled in the solarium with additional water features and thought about the young woman downstairs. He had been intrigued by her,; attracted to her unusual coloring and her earthy, yet elegant sense of style. Her coloring would be unheard of in his country; a land of vivid colors and outrageous wealth. She was subtle and classic in a sophisticated way. He longed to put expensive dresses on her and have her upon his arm.

He put his thoughts aside for the time being, h. He was here on business and had no time for chasing women. Even so…