Las Vegas Layover (3 page)

Chapter Five

Damn him. Damn his stupid, lazy smile. And damn those sexy calves, while she was at it.

Clara sat in the plush leather chair at the mahogany desk in her hotel room and replayed the message one last time.

“Hey, it’s Sebastian. I know I said it would be easy to get away, but…” He trailed off for a second, and Clara could almost see his frown. He sounded genuinely disappointed, she’d give him that. “Look, just call me when you get this. You never said how long you’d be here. Maybe we could get together for drinks later. If I get this done. Fuck, I don’t know. Just call me.” That order was succeeded by his phone number.

Clara tapped a button on the phone, killing the recording, and sat back in her chair. The room was overkill for one person. Mahogany nightstands flanked a king-sized bed bedecked with soft, gold linens. The matching dresser dominated another wall, topped with an enormous flat-screen television. Above the desk, a gilded mirror reflected the opulent scene and its sole inhabitant. The woman staring back at her had tears in her eyes. Odd. She hadn’t noticed until she saw them there in the spotless glass.

Clara brushed her fingertips over the well-worn pages of Betty’s list where it sat on the desk. Smoothing the edges, she read through it one more time.

Vegas, Baby!

1st
Start at one end of the Strip and walk into every hotel that strikes your fancy.

2nd You are hereby ordered to buy no less than three extremely tacky souvenirs, one T-shirt I know you’ll never wear, and four magnets.

3rd You will watch at least one show, but I’ll let you pick that.

4th Throw away thirty dollars at a roulette table at Circus Circus, and plunk twenty dollars in quarters in the slots at Caesar’s Palace.

5th You can dump the vial in the fountain at the Bellagio or the lake in front of the Mirage. I don’t care which, but do it at night while it’s all lit up.

6th Enjoy yourself, baby. You deserve it.

Clara had read Betty’s instructions a dozen times, but they still made her insides ache. She should’ve been here. This was her dream. But then, Betty had known how to use that to her advantage.

Betty had always admonished her niece for what she affectionately referred to as Clara’s “stubborn refusal to live a little.” And as much as she hated to, Clara admitted Betty had a point. She’d focused her entire life around her aunt since the accident that had killed her parents and her brothers so she wouldn’t have to deal with her grief. Even when her college sweetheart made her choose between marrying him and caring for her only living relative, the choice was a simple one. Clara had thought she loved Dean, but who could love a man like that?

She carefully refolded the pages and slipped them into her purse. She’d finished most of the items earlier, with the exception of spreading Betty’s ashes and catching a show. As for the ashes, she wanted to wait until later when the lights were bright but the streets weren’t as crowded. She’d put off seeing a show so she could squeeze in a trip to the mall across the street from her hotel.

The tiny black dress the sales clerk had talked her into buying was certainly beautiful, but the price tag had nearly made her faint. She rationalized that she hadn’t bought new clothes, outside of the essential replacement of serviceable cotton underwear or socks, in the past few years, so she could afford the splurge. She even sprang for new lace panties and a matching bra. Now she wished she’d checked her messages before she ripped the damn tags off.

Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, Clara groaned and stood in heels too high to be practical but which made her look less like a midget and started for the door. She wasn’t about to waste all the effort, not to mention this dress, by sulking in her room. Black clutch in hand, she brushed away the last of her tears, unbolted the door, and stepped out into the hall.

Right into a raised fist.

“What the hell?” she shouted, her free hand flying to her face.

“Shit balls!” a masculine voice answered, tugging at the hand she held to her eye. “You all right, Clara?”

Her first response was utter terror that the man who’d punched her knew her name. Then she recognized his surly tenor.

“What are you doing here, Sebastian?” She sounded appropriately irritated, but her heart wasn’t in it. With her one good eye, she took in his weary appearance. Tired and dirty, he was still the sexiest man she’d ever met. His dark hair was rumpled, and he smelled faintly of oil, Dial soap and man—an oddly sensual combination. Even his stupid scowl warmed her all over.

Until he opened his mouth. “Why didn’t you call me?”

They looked at one another for a moment, her clutching her injury, and him clutching her wrist. Sebastian broke the staring contest first, growling, “Let me see your eye.”

“It’s fine,” she grumbled as he prodded gently at it.

“It’ll probably be black by morning.” He shook his head, as though that alone negated her assessment. “Did you eat yet?”

“No. I wasn’t hungry,” she lied. In truth she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of eating alone, not dressed as she was.

“You’re hungry now,” he stated as he pulled her away by the hand.

“Am I?” Yanking the door closed behind her, she made sure to infuse enough outrage into her tone that he wouldn’t think her a pushover but not so much as to make him second-guess taking her to dinner. She really was hungry.

A smile tilted her lips as he dragged her down the hall. Crazy though it sounded, she’d missed his grouchy ass.

Chapter Six

“Yes, you’re hungry,” Sebastian said in answer to Clara’s slightly incredulous question. “And so am I.” He stopped as they came to the elevators and turned to face her. “We should probably eat at one of the restaurants here, though. I don’t have a lot of time.”

He thought disappointment flashed across her face when she nodded. But then, he might have just been seeing what he wanted to.

The ding of the arriving elevator filled the air. The doors slid wide, and he watched as she stepped across the threshold. Between the sweet relief of finding her safe in her room and his worry that he’d hurt her when he’d clipped her, he hadn’t really looked at anything but Clara’s eyes. Now his gaze started at the toes of her slinky black fuck-me heels, hungrily traveled the length of her shapely legs—more exposed than he’d realized in a clinging black dress specifically designed to taunt any hot-blooded man—and over the tantalizing temptation of her tight, heart-shaped ass. She’d styled her short hair to fit his wildest fantasies of her other life as a pixie, spiky ends flipping out everywhere. The dress was a backless number that exposed the tattoo at the base of her spine. And damn if it wasn’t a fairy perched in the middle of a pink rose.

She turned to face him and his chest suddenly seemed too small for his lungs.

Exquisite.
Men like him—simple, salt-of-the-Earth grease monkeys—didn’t use words like that. Yet, it was the only one his mind would cough up.

Her bright red lips twitched at the corners before curving into a slight smile. The doors began to close. She pressed a button on the wall to hold them open. “You coming?” she asked, eyes sparkling with humor.

Not yet,
he thought, smiling at his own pun. He hadn’t realized he still wasn’t moving until she tapped her foot, which he only noticed because it made the creamy swell of her breasts jiggle. Shaking his head, he chuckled and crossed to stand at her side. “Damn, lady.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She kept smiling but didn’t look at him as she pushed another button on the wall. Pink spots stained her cheeks, like he’d embarrassed her.

“Take it as a warning,” he said as the door slid shut ominously.

Her voice, always a little high, shot even higher. “What?”

Sebastian slid his fingers gently over the tantalizing bare skin at the small of her back and whispered in her ear. “I’m starving, Clara, and you look good enough to eat.”

Sebastian had toyed with the idea of traveling through Europe for years. However, he wasn’t interested enough to do anything that expensive on his own, and just thinking about a flight that long bored him into a coma. Vegas, with its miniature versions of Paris and Venice, seemed a nice, no-flying-over-the-pond kind of compromise.

The hotel concierge directed them to what he promised was the “ultimate Venetian experience.” Black lampposts brilliantly lit the rounded archways of the square surrounding the restaurant’s patio with a gentle glow. Voices hummed beyond the wrought-iron fence as tourists staggered, drinks in hand, from one store to the next. Inside the fence sat dozens of tables laid with crisp white linens and bone china.

They’d taken a few steps into the night when Sebastian shook his head. Quietly speaking to the hostess, he slid his hand from the small of Clara’s back to her hip, gently holding her in place. She gave him a disgruntled look that might have made him chuckle if the feel of her curves against his palm wasn’t driving him insane. The hostess smiled at him and changed course, leading them back inside to a cozy circular booth overlooking the patio.

As she walked away, Clara asked, “What was that about?”

He nudged her to keep scooting so he could slide in next to her, rather than across the great wooden divide. Though he couldn’t imagine why, she seemed surprised by that. If she thought he’d pass up even the smallest chance to touch her, she didn’t understand the power she had over him.

And thank God for that. Because he sure as fuck didn’t understand it either.

Sebastian tore his gaze from her and picked at his shirt buttons so he could focus on her question. “The sun’s been down for a while now. A lot of people don’t realize it, but the desert can get cold at night. I didn’t think you’d be warm enough in that.” He glanced up, his fingers brushing the enticing flesh of her bare shoulders and grazing the thin straps of her dress. The feel of her silky skin sent tingles up his arm.

Clara closed her eyes. Whether she was relishing his touch or deciding what to bludgeon him with, he wasn’t sure. But she didn’t pull away.

The waiter bustled over to take their drink orders. Clara glanced at the wine list and murmured her request for pinot noir. When Sebastian ordered a Coke, she raised her eyebrow in question.

“I have to go back to the hangar tonight. The feds frown on us drinking while we work.”

Clara chuckled, a low throaty sound that made him want to groan. She placed her napkin in her lap, her eyes growing rounder. “Lord, I should hope so.”

Sebastian settled back in his seat and watched her as she observed the people around them. Late as it was, the night was still young by Vegas standards, and plenty of other patrons crowded the dining room. A group of old biddies occupied one of the long tables, their pink hats bobbing as they gabbed a hundred miles an hour. Waiters flitted from one table to the next while bus boys cleared away dishes with reluctant efficiency. For all that activity, the place was quiet and dark. Dim light filtered down through the leaves of the ficus trees and potted ferns dotting the area, casting their table into speckled shadow.

Across the room, another couple sat in a similar booth, though dinner seemed to be the farthest thing from their minds. There wasn’t a hand to be seen above the thick linen tablecloth, and guessing by lover-boy’s expression, at least one of hers was being put to good use.

Sebastian knew the moment Clara noticed them – her cheeks flushed and her gaze skipped along to the next table. He smothered a grin. He couldn’t imagine ever being bored with her around to watch. But, really, why was he surprised? Clara had obviously led a sheltered life. She’d made it clear she didn’t do hook-ups. Whatever made her every movement so sensual wasn’t an act. It was just…Clara.

He shifted in his seat. Her head wouldn’t be the only one spinning if he ever got inside her.

But the thought of sex was surprisingly easy to dismiss for the moment. She’d scared the shit out of him earlier. He opened his mouth to ask her where she’d been when the waiter appeared again. He plopped down a platter of vegetables and a smaller plate piled with yellow triangles, muttered God knows what under his breath, and left again.

As soon as he stepped away, Sebastian demanded, “Why the hell didn’t you call me?”

Clara sighed, as if he were an overprotective parent she’d known she’d eventually have to satisfy with some bullshit story. “To be perfectly honest, I figured you’d niced-up your kiss-off line and called me the moment you finally got it through your thick skull that you weren’t getting laid tonight.” She shrugged. “I have too little time on this trip to bother with someone who doesn’t want to hang out with me.”

He blinked. So much for bullshitting him.

She’d said it all with convincing nonchalance, but the vulnerability in her sad eyes and the downward tilt of her chin awakened protective instincts he hadn’t known he possessed. He recognized that expression too well.

She looked every bit as lonely as he felt.

Sebastian reached for her hand on the tabletop and caressed the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “Babe, I don’t do ‘niced-up’ anything, and I never run from a challenge.” His tone teased, but he allowed a little of his determination to ring through. He had no intention of letting his pixie fly away untouched.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. When her gaze found his again, she suddenly seemed older, and so damned tired it made his chest ache. Her eyes had turned the muted color of frost-covered grass, beaten down and brittle.

She took a deep breath and scooted away from him. Those inches felt like yards when she spoke. “We’re not in high school, Sebastian. This isn’t some stupid game. I don’t sleep with just anybody. I’m super picky and I have a butt-load of baggage.”

She was warning him, he realized with a jolt. Her eyes were guarded, her hands had moved to clench each other on the tabletop, and her spine was stiff. He’d been shamelessly panting after her since the moment he’d sat down on that jet, and yet she was begging him to walk away. Not because he was acting like a skeezy bastard, but because she wanted to save him. From her. How frickin’ sweet was that?

“So,” Sebastian said, pulling her hand back into his, “what exactly does a man have to do to get on your ‘super picky’ screwable list?”

“Yeesh. You are such a man-whore.” She was chiding him again, but his comment did the trick. Her shoulders loosened, and she managed a tenuous smile.

He shook his head. “And
you
are avoiding the question. Again.” Sure, he wanted to set her at ease, but getting to the top of that particular list was his new mission in life.

She thought about that for a moment, nibbling on a baby carrot. Finally she looked up, directly into his eyes. “I have to be in a committed, introduce-me-as-your-girlfriend kind of relationship. And as few and far between as those are for me, I’m guessing they’re an endangered species for you.”

“Guilty as charged. But you need to understand, I’m a very patient man, Clara. Patient and persistent,” he assured her with an evil grin.

She rolled her eyes, but the remainder of the tension left her back. “You know? It’s a shame you don’t have more confidence.” Her smile wasn’t wicked, it was sweet as honey, and Sebastian couldn’t help but laugh. She really was a refreshing contradiction.

Sugar-coated arsenic.

“Just one more reason you should quit playing hard to get,” he said, reaching for one of the little yellow triangles. “You’ve beat the shit out of my ego today.”

Clara’s smile faltered when he brought the cheese to his mouth. He didn’t normally eat much of the stuff, just didn’t care for it, but he was half-starved and desperate for something to do with his hands. Hell, even that bunny food was starting to look appetizing.

He took a big bite and Clara clapped one hand over her mouth. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask what he’d done now when his taste buds sent out a war cry. Not cheese. Definitely not cheese.

Sebastian took a closer look at the bit of triangle he still held, now baring an imprint of his incisors. Holding it toward the light, he felt his stomach do another flip.

Yep, butter. He’d taken a giant freaking bite of butter.

He wanted to spit it as far away as he could, but Clara was already looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.
Man up
, he scolded and, blocking the taste as best he could, he swallowed the slimy shit. His stomach turned when the bite thudded in, but he forced a smile.

She burst into a fit of laughter that nearly doubled her over, a snort escaping every other gasping breath. Everyone but lover-boy turned to look in their direction.

“What are you doing?” she asked when she finally settled down enough to breathe.

As the last of the pink-hats turned back to her plate, he hissed, “I thought it was cheese, okay?”

She went back to laughing her sexy little ass off, but now she was shaking her head, too, tears streaming from her eyes. She brushed them away and said haltingly, “That’s…not cheese…genius.”

“Well, hell. I kind of figured that much out on my own.”

Her laughter finally downgraded to chuckle. “Didn’t you hear the waiter say he’d be back with bread as soon as it came out of the oven?”

“Obviously not.” He tossed the triangle back onto the plate. “I guess I don’t need to worry about making an ass outta myself anymore. I couldn’t top that if I tried.”

“You don’t have to worry about being constipated anytime soon either.”

The waiter chose that moment to return for their dinner order. Sebastian was making a mental note to double the guy’s tip for saving him when the bastard plopped a basket of fresh bread in the middle of the table.

Annnnd she was off again, three more snorts popping out before she could calm herself.

Sebastian was thoroughly humiliated, but the rusty way she laughed, as if it had been too damn long since anything had come anywhere near her funny bone, tugged at his heart. When that little dimple peeked out at him, he knew he’d run down the Strip buck-ass-naked to make her laugh like that again.

Clara got herself under control and ordered a twelve-ounce ribeye, medium-rare, which impressed the hell out of him. He ordered the same and swiped a slice of bread in hopes of dimming the buttery taste clinging to his tongue.

Clara picked up the small plate of triangles and held it out toward him, her sweet smile and that sparkle in her eyes setting off all kinds of warning bells. “More cheese?”

“Har, har,” he grumbled, but it was a half-assed effort. She was chewing on her full bottom lip and all he really wanted to do was help her.

Conversation flowed easily through the arrival of dinner. Which was nice. He usually had to watch his every word, but Clara wasn’t like other women. She didn’t get offended when he told a dirty joke or went off on a rant. She laughed with him. Or at him. They even talked politics. Though how that happened he’d never know. He normally avoided discussing politics with a date. Or religion. Or any subject where his tendency to say stupid shit he didn’t mean might hinder his chances of seeing her naked. But somehow the topic of over-taxation to support Medicare and Medicaid morphed into the issue of welfare. Before he could say “food stamps” the evening went to hell in a bread basket.

Welfare was a particularly touchy subject for him. Five years ago, he’d supported it wholeheartedly. Then Pam took a chainsaw to his future. She’d dumped him for some pro wrestler wannabe because a grease monkey could never provide for a family.

The irony was that now she, her meathead, and their two kids lived in a trailer park in his nothing hometown, with no job between them. The thought that a fraction of a cent he worked for wound up in their pockets made him nuts.