“Okay. I think the paint’s dry. Where’s the costume?” She came out of the bathroom and jumped.
“Holy crap! You could have warned me.”
Mitch wore a long black wig, heavy brown makeup, and the facial ridges of a female Klingon warrior. Her body was shoved into a tight, black leather corset-styled top that accentuated her breasts and a long, leather skirt paired with heeled boots with silver toecaps. She had a knife of sorts shoved into her belt.
“Wow! You look fantastic. I could use one of the push-up bras from hell if I ever wanted to look sexy.”
“What are you talking about? You’re one of the sexiest woman I know, and you’re completely oblivious to it. Get your nose out of your father’s ancient history books and look at yourself in the light of the twenty-first century. I love you, girl, but sometimes you frustrate me.”
“Yeah, well, let’s agree to disagree on that. I don’t want to be noticed that way. There’s more to me than a set of boobs and long legs. I’m much happier out of the limelight. Now, are you going to tell me about your makeup?”
“It’s a mask. My friend Hailey works at Paramount and made it for me last year. It gets a little warm after a while, but it’s a lot easier than putting the makeup on each time.”
“I wish I had something like that. Where’s the rest of my costume? I’d better be wearing more than green body paint, blood red lipstick, and gold eye shadow.”
“It’s on your bed.”
Cleo stared at the scraps of fabric and jewelry on the spread.
“No way! There’s got to be more to it than that.”
The costume consisted of a burgundy silk bikini bra, a matching string bikini bottom with gold-colored sheer skirt panels front and rear, gold muscle bracelets shaped like snakes, and two-inch wide metallic fabric ankle shackles without the chain.
“You’ve got to be kidding. I’ll look like a semi-naked leprechaun. How does that fit into a sci-fi convention?”
“It happens to be one of the most popular women’s costumes. For the record, leprechauns wear green, and unless they’re some kind of mutants, they aren’t green. With my five-foot-four figure, the costume loses something, but on you, it’ll be awesome.” Mitch handed her a glass of wine. “Here, take a drink and relax. You showed just as much by the pool this afternoon.”
“Yeah, and whose idea was that? I don’t see why I couldn’t wear my black swimsuit this afternoon. You seem to forget about the moral turpitude clause in my contract. Lying around in the sun half-naked is pushing it. I certainly won’t be wearing that blue bikini to take the kiddies swimming at the local pool.”
“That clause is archaic, and you worry about it way too much—between your father’s ‘rules’ and the school board’s ‘thou shall not’s,’ you’re living in the past. Besides you needed a new swimsuit. Even my mother doesn’t wear a one-piece bathing suit like the one you had. I don’t even think my grandma would wear it. You chose the bikini—there was that gorgeous leopard one…”
“You mean the one cut down to my navel in front, and so high on the hips my ass hung out? No thanks. At least the bikini covered most of my boobs and butt.”
“Whatever.” Mitch rolled her eyes. “Let’s get you dressed. We need to be downstairs in twenty minutes.”
Mitch helped her put on what was surely the skimpiest alien costume in the universe. Cleo stood before the mirror staring at the creature looking back at her.
“I look like a mutant leprechaun belly dancer.” She took a sip of her wine. “It’s a damn good thing you didn’t show me this when you asked me to come. I’d have said no.”
“For the record, you’re not a mutant leprechaun; you’re an Orion slave girl. Men are powerless before you. Too bad that cutie from the bar last night can’t see you. You’re worth a dozen of the brunette he was with. Come here so I can spray the glitter on you.”
Two glasses of wine in quick succession were easing her embarrassment, but as she allowed Mitch to spray the liquid shimmer on her hair and body, she couldn’t resist one final complaint.
“Well, I’d rather wear what you’re wearing. If the air-conditioning is turned up as high as it was this morning, I’ll be an Orion slave icicle!”
“Seriously, Cleo, relax. Don’t be a prude. No one’s going to recognize you. I know you’re not used to showing so much skin, but you look fantastic, and the men will be drooling all around you. Every woman in the room is going to envy you. You’ll be the most sought-after slave girl here. ”
“God, I hope not. That’s the last thing I want. I feel like a chunk of meat on display for a starving man. You’re the extrovert, the one who wants to be the center of attraction. I’m not. I think that’s why we’re friends—because we’re so different.” Horror filled her eyes as she thought of something else. “Crap, I hope no one takes my picture. The last thing I need is to have someone see us on the Internet and recognize me. I’ll wear this tonight because it’s too late to find anything else, but we’re going costume shopping tomorrow. I’m sure we can find something a little less revealing.”
“Whatever you say, but I don’t think anyone’s going to recognize you.”
Cleo turned around and stood in front of the mirror. Her mouth dropped open in shock. Good grief. It’s even worse than I imagined. Thanks to the glitter, her skin reflected the light and looked alive, shimmering as she moved. Her hair shone the same way, and she looked alluring and mysterious. Her large, hazel eyes seemed more golden than ever. Mitch was right about one thing: she didn’t look like a kindergarten teacher from Gordon’s Grove. She looked like a sexy, alien siren. Just the look I want around a bunch of half-drunk Neanderthals. She remembered how decent guys had turned into absolute jerks at university costume parties.
“If it makes you feel better, you can stand behind the table replenishing the books as I sign them and handing out the bookmarks and the other swag the publisher provided. Come on, let’s go.”
Cleo followed her best friend out of the room. She shook her head. Why do I let myself get talked into these things?
Chapter Two
Cleo followed Mitch into the convention hall packed with hundreds of people in various alien costumes, and allowed some of the excitement in the air to calm her fears. She recognized outfits from various sci-fi movies and television shows. There were several Orion slave girls in a variety of shapes, shades, and sizes, and Cleo saw the not-so-friendly glares she got from them—especially when one of their male friends stared admiringly at her. She nodded in return and chuckled when one girl gave the guy she was with a jab in the ribs.
She tried to keep up with Mitch, who barreled across the room as if she were in a speed-walking race. Barefoot as she was, conscious of the icky, sticky carpet, Cleo moved slowly to avoid stomping boots and heels. She’d almost made it to the promised land of booth security when a giant, in snake-like makeup and the dark gray leather and chain mail associated with the Cardassians, grabbed her arm. He spun her around quickly.
“Hey, let go of my …” Her angry words died on her lips.
“What have we here?” He eyed her hungrily. “Are you lost, my pretty little slave girl?”
Familiar chocolate eyes pierced hers, and she couldn’t think straight. His whiskey-smooth voice caressed her; his touch ignited a fire along her spine. Realizing what he’d said, she searched for an answer.
“Lost? No, I got separated from my Klingon friend. She’s over there.”
She pointed to the publishers’ autograph area where Mitch stood.
“Then allow me to escort you safely to her.”
Holding her close to him, he ushered her across the congested convention floor. He bowed to Mitch and gave the Cardassian salute.
“I believe she’s yours, but I’m entitled to a reward for coming to her assistance.”
He smiled wickedly before pulling Cleo into his arms and capturing her mouth with his.
Cleo held herself rigid, but the kiss poured liquid fire through her. Of th
eir own volition, her arms wrapped around his neck both to hold her upright and to encourage the incredible sensations to continue. His mouth devoured hers as if she was his last meal. She’d been kissed before, but never like this. When he slowly pulled away, she was breathless. She read desire in his eyes.
“Later, my Orion beauty.” He turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
“Who the hell is that?”
“I have no idea.” Cleo reached for Mitch’s blue-tinted Romulan ale and drained the glass.
• • •
Sam Mason turned from the enticing beauty and noticed the crowd staring at him. He’d just taken the sexiest woman in the room into his arms, and the men probably all envied him. So much for keeping a low profile. He made his way across the convention floor through the crowd of curious aliens, laughing good-heartedly at some of the comments and scowling at others. Okay, so maybe he’d gone a little over the top, but who could blame him?
Charlie waited for him at the bar, a huge grin on his face. Sam’s breathing was ragged, and his heart beat madly. Another part of his anatomy clamored for attention too. Thank God for Cardassian armor. It had been a long time since a woman’s kiss had turned him on like that. The chemistry between them was unbelievable. Charlie’s going to have a field day.
“Bravo!” Charlie chuckled and raised his glass in a toast. “I thought you wanted to stay under the radar. I think everyone in the room’s got your number now. Damn good thing no one recognizes you in that costume. The paparazzi would go wild.”
Sam reached for the Scotch Charlie had ordered him and downed it in one gulp.
“Whoa, buddy. You keep pounding them back like that, you won’t last the night. I’ll say this much, you sure know how to pick’em. She’s superb. Maybe I should try my luck, too.”
Unexpected jealousy reared its ugly head and clawed at Sam’s stomach. “Don’t even think of it, Charlie. I’ve got dibs on the lady tonight.”
“Relax! I was kidding. I saw you stake your claim—so did half the people in this room. I thought you’d sworn off one-night stands, but maybe that decision was premature.”
Sam motioned to the bartender for another round. Talk about an adrenaline rush. He hadn’t felt this alive in months.
“She whet my appetite, but who’s talking one-night stands?” he challenged.
Charlie frowned. “Isn’t that what Orion slave girls are supposed to do? Knock your socks off and leave you wanting more? I seem to remember they ruin you for all other women. I know I’m not as up to snuff on all the sci-fi stuff as I used to be, but, man, she makes my blood boil just looking at her.”
“Yeah, but Orion women don’t exist. That lady is one hundred percent human.”
“Then I’d say the lady’s playing her part well, and the costume’s a keeper. She’s probably wearing one of those enticing pheromone-based perfumes—apparently they can send a man’s sex drive into high gear. That’s what’s got you all hot and bothered, and you aren’t exactly sober either. Plus, I’ll admit she’s a looker. None of the other slave girls had that effect on you, or did I miss other performances?”
Sam shook his head, wishing Charlie would just let the matter drop, but his friend was having too much fun at his expense.
“Sam Mason, playboy millionaire real estate developer, Mr. Love ’em and Leave ’em himself, with a hard-on for a stranger who probably knows exactly what she’s done to you. Hell, she may even know who you are, although I didn’t tell anyone you were coming. I thought after Lena you’d given up on young ladies who knew the score and decided to look for the ideal Mrs. Mason.”
“And who says I’m not?”
Charlie hooted. “That’s rich. Talk about looking for love in all the wrong places. This is Vegas, pal. There aren’t too many sweet little innocent misses here waiting to fall in love with a nice, normal guy and go back home to a little house with a picket fence and raise two point one children. That’s your small head talking. Most of them are here searching for action that leads to money, and the casino floor’s not the only place they’re looking. You kissed a girl who probably not only knows her way around the block, but owns the damn thing. If she’s innocent, then I’m the next pope. Once you get it on with her, you’ll see she’s no different than any of the other women who’ve auditioned for the role as Mrs. Sam Mason.”
“Since when did you become such a misogynist?” Sam scowled. “I thought I was the one who didn’t trust women. And I didn’t say I wanted to marry her. I’m interested, that’s all. Who wouldn’t be?”
Sam turned away from the bar to watch the convention floor, his gaze fixed on the green-skinned beauty standing next to the Klingon author. He sipped his drink slowly. Charlie was right. He wasn’t sober. He’d had more than a few before coming down here tonight. He watched a Ferengi whisper in her ear, and his hand tightened on his glass. She seemed to be slightly upset by whatever the man had said. She caught Sam’s eye at that very moment. He forced himself to relax. He lifted his glass in a salute just as he had last night, and like last night, she looked away.
While the slave girl was living up to her role, replenishing the books on the table as quickly as she could, the Klingon signed them and kept up a friendly banter with her fans. He assumed his slave girl must be some cute little gopher sent by the publisher to lend a hand. They were probably getting a lot more interest from the crowd because she was there, although he didn’t like the way some of the men were leering at her. He got the impression she didn’t either. He didn’t want to seem too interested, but every time some guy spoke to the slave girl or touched her casually, he had the urge to cross the floor and rip out the guy’s throat. Talk about being in the zone. The last thing he wanted to do was act like a bloody, vicious snake warrior. He watched the slave girl hungrily and admitted to himself he wanted to bed her.
He’d sworn not to get involved with another woman for a long time after he broke up with his ex-fiancée, Lena, eighteen months ago, but this slave girl—she could make a priest break his vows. He’d recognized her from the lounge last night. She’d fascinated him then and even more so now.
She was tall and lean, with legs that went on forever, and hadn’t seemed aware of her own allure. She’d been dressed conservatively if you ignored the four-inch heels, and the simple black dress had enhanced rather than masked her sexuality. Her wild, curly, brown hair with its red highlights had framed an oval face with high cheekbones and translucent skin. She had full lips, the kind a man wanted to nibble. He’d been about to go over and introduce himself when Liz and Jane, his sisters, had arrived. She’d gotten up and left. He’d thought about her today when he should have been working, but tonight, he didn’t intend to let her slip away again. He’d know everything there was to know about her before the weekend was over.
He took another mouthful of Scotch, disconcerted to see that he’d finished that drink, too. Was that five? Six? He ordered a glass of water. Time to slow it down a bit. Charlie was right—he wouldn’t last the night. He looked around the convention hall, always keeping the object of his interest in his peripheral vision.
Coming to Vegas and attending this convention had been the last things he’d wanted to do, but since his sister’s casino was the big sponsor and Charlie needed his signature on a number of documents, Sam had grabbed the chance to kill two birds with one stone. He should be in Carson City scouting land for his latest housing development, but now that Miss Orion was here, he’d rethink leaving in the morning. Everyone was entitled to some vacation time, and it was Independence Day weekend after all. The project would survive even if he took a few days off.
• • •
Cleo stood behind the table taking in the many sci-fi related exhibits and displays in the convention hall. Many of them she recognized; when your best friend was obsessed with the subject, some of it rubbed off on you. It was one more thing her dad complained about. He thought Mitch should be concentrating on things of value—funny how he didn’t seem to re
alize there wasn’t a whole lot of difference between her fascination with aliens and the future and his with the past. Cleo was certain not everyone valued pieces of broken pottery the way he did. The only sci-fi show he’d ever watched had been the first Stargate movie because the Ancient Egyptians had been mentioned. Once he’d realized what the premise of the movie had been, he’d never watched another episode of the series, decrying the Goa’uld System Lords a Hollywood sacrilege.
The convention occupied almost the entire floor. This hall was dedicated to the various Hollywood-inspired movies and series set in space: Star Trek, Star Wars, Stargate and its various spinoffs. There was everything from posters and pieces of movie and television sets to items for sale like t-shirts, phasers, and other memorabilia. Not everyone at the convention was in costume, but those who were had obviously spent hours and a lot of money in an effort to impress their fellow conventioneers; the Borg drone’s half-human, half-robot outfit was especially impressive. That makeup had to take hours. And the man in the Wookie costume had to be cooking in this heat! Her costume had only required the green paint, so it wasn’t too bad, although as the paint had dried it had tightened on her skin, and she had to fight the urge to scratch. She prayed that when she finally took it off later tonight, she wouldn’t be covered in a rash.
She let her gaze roam over to the bar where the man who’d kissed her sat. She was almost positive it was the guy from the lounge—those brown eyes were familiar and the gesture with the glass he’d made minutes ago mimicked last night’s salute. She didn’t see the women he’d been with. There were several men in the room dressed as Cardassians, but he stood out from the others. He’d taken a lot for granted with that kiss, but she wasn’t as upset about it as she should be. She suspected he was a player, but what a kisser! It had been an incredible experience. If anyone else had tried it, she’d have busted his balls. She’d noted the way he’d rarely taken his eyes off her. While some of the men made her uncomfortable with the way they stared at her, he didn’t. Go figure. Normally she abhorred macho men, but there’d been times in the last two hours when she’d wished he’d been closer to the booth to glower at some of the more unsavory men she’d dealt with, especially the touchy-grabby jerks, like the one approaching her now. Mitch owed her big-time for this, and she’d collect. She started out trying to be polite—after all, some of these guys were fans—but she was fed up with their lewd innuendos. She’d resorted to sarcasm, but they were either too drunk or too thick-skinned to appreciate it. Why did some men think they could objectify women the way they did based on the clothes they wore? This was a costume. It wasn’t who she was.
Just for the Weekend Page 2