Tempting Her Best Friend (A What Happens in Vegas Novel)

by Gina L. Maxwell

  Alyssa couldn’t help but stare at the bulging crotch of the cop’s navy shorts. Dixie Normous… Wait, that would imply I’m the one with the— Oh, Jesus, I’m losing it. “I’m no expert or anything, but it looks like he has plenty to work with.”

  Her new friend waved his hand dismissively. “That’s because he stuffed his jock. It’s pretty much SOP with all the models. I learned that the hard way—no pun intended—with Officer Merely-A-Misdemeanor over there. Although he makes up for it with this amazing tongue move—”

  “Trent!” she gasped. “That’s a bit more information than I need.”

  “Right, sorry.” He grinned, not at all sorry. “Sometimes I forget to filter.”

  Again her eyes went back to the men. “I’m not saying you’re lying. I just don’t understand why, if they are in fact gay, they’re flirting so much with all the women.”

  “Look closer, sweetie. None of them are seeking out the attention. They’re simply reacting to what’s being given to them. It’s their job to sell the fantasy, not reveal their reality. A few are actually straight, but I don’t see them here at the moment.”

  “Wonderful,” she mumbled.

  As she downed the rest of the lemon drop, a man dressed as a pirate entered through the side door by the bar where she’d seen employees come and go. His tricornered hat hid all of his hair but his black sideburns and his white linen shirt stood out against his tan skin. The sleeves billowed around his arms and the front lay open to his sternum, exposing his bare chest. Black breaches completed the swashbuckling guise, hugging his thighs and then disappeared into loose-fitting black boots.

  He caught the female bartender’s attention, whispered something to her as she handed him a beer, then ogled her ass when she walked away giggling to tend to her next customer. Alyssa felt a bit like giggling, too. The man was downright lickable.

  Honey Doomey.

  “What’d you say, hon?”

  Crap! Had she said that aloud? “Uh, I said what about him?”

  Trent followed her line of sight. “Mark? Yeah, he’s one of the straight ones. He also plows through every Tanya, Deb, and Harriett he finds at the conventions. Don’t waste your time, hon. You can do so much better.”

  “Now you sound like my quote-unquote friend, Dillon.”

  He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Why all the quotes?”

  “Because we’ve been friends forever, but I started liking him as more than that and thought maybe he felt the same way. I dropped umpteen hints, but he never did anything about them, so now I give up and would like to forget all about him with a few hours of no-strings-no-judgment sex with someone I don’t know.”

  Anita Anna Conda!

  Whoa. Old-fashioneds plus lemon drops equaled a very loose tongue for one Alyssa Miller. Hopefully no one asked her for her bank account info, or she was liable to end up broke.

  Without missing a beat, Trent gave her an understanding nod as if she hadn’t just committed a cardinal sin against the etiquette of polite small talk. “Okay, then you need a plan of attack.” Narrowing his eyes, he looked her up and down before flagging the bartender over. “Another two lemon drops, beautiful.” While they waited for the martinis, he turned Alyssa to face him and tugged down on the hem of her dress.

  Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself and squeaked. “What are you doing?”

  “We don’t have time to get you on an episode of What Not to Wear. I’m accentuating your breasts while bringing your hem down. You don’t want Pirate Mark to think he can plunder your buried treasure so easily. There. Now you look less hoochie and more sex kitten.”

  Trent handed her the new cocktail, which she eagerly drank, grateful for the calming effect it had on her nerves. “Okay, now I introduce myself?”

  He made a face. “Only if you want to strike out.” When she raised an expectant brow, he said, “Cross the room and when you move into his path, fake being jostled into him. He’ll steady you and check to see if you’re okay. Give him your best bedroom eyes and flash him that great smile, and he’ll be all yours.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Cross my heart,” he said. “Now freshen up your lipstick and go hook yourself a pirate.”

  Taking the tube of red lipstick from her clutch, she did as Trent instructed and then gave him a hug. “Thank you, Trent. For the martinis and the advice.”

  “My pleasure. Now go, go, go,” he said, shooing her with his hands.

  Alyssa took a deep breath and walked toward Mark the model. Mark the pirate. Mark the man-whore. No, she didn’t want to think about that. It didn’t matter to her how many treasures he’d plundered in the past, or however Trent said it. In fact, his experience would probably ensure a memorable night with multiple orgasms. If there’s a God.

  She moved to walk past him like Trent instructed, but before she could fake bump into him, someone actually backed into her and caused her to lose her footing. Mark reacted quickly and caught her up against him. Alyssa couldn’t have planned it any better.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said in a breathy voice.

  He grinned as he gave her a conspicuous once over from her face to her chest and back up again. “Yes, you are.”

  Well, damn. This was going to be easier than she thought.

  …

  Dillon’s flight had landed only thirty minutes ago, and he was already bored of this town.

  Vegas had a dreamlike feel to it, which probably accounted for people letting go of their inhibitions there more than they would anywhere else. When a city had a nickname like Sin City, a person almost felt above consequence, untouchable, like the city itself offered a deluded version of Survivor immunity from their reality back home. Ridiculous notions supported by the infamous and overused excuse, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

  Only it didn’t anymore. Not when everyone had a smart phone permanently at the ready. A more accurate slogan would be, “What happens in Vegas ends up on the internet, dumbass.”

  The Masquerade was noticeable from the freeway, distinguishable by the gigantic ribbons flying from the tops of striped poles that rivaled the height of Paris’s Eiffel Tower, Vegas edition. As his cab inched through the traffic, the gargantuan white structure came into view. An overabundance of ribbons and strands of “beads” the size of wrecking balls draped the sides and towers in bold colors of gold, purple, green, red, and silver.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. “Wonder if good ole NOLA knows its precious Mardi Gras puked all over the Vegas Strip.”

  He supposed the unique hotel impressed most tourists, but he’d done the Mardi Gras thing back in his college days and remained unimpressed. If he wanted to get drunk and see a bunch of tits, he’d go to a strip club where they’d do more than flash you for more than five seconds. But women baring themselves to him for superficial reasons wasn’t his thing, making neither atmosphere appeal to him in the least.

  So, although he could appreciate the impressive architecture from a construction point of view, the theme wasn’t something he would have willingly immersed himself in anytime soon. Or ever.

  At last, the car pulled into the semicircular drive that surrounded a reflecting pool that put the Bellagio’s to shame. Crowds a dozen people deep stood and kept their eyes focused on the water. Just as he paid the cab fare and opened his door, a roar of cheers and applause erupted. Dillon glanced over in subconscious curiosity and did a double take when a big-ass carriage rose from the depths of the pool with costumed dancers hanging from the sides.

  So this is what hell looks like.

  Shaking his head, he turned his back on the gaudy spectacle and strode into the revolving doors. The registration area was backed up with a half dozen lines. He didn’t want to wait forever just to find out where he needed to go, and Alyssa’s phone was going straight to voicemail.

  Instead, Dillon stepped onto the carpet of the casino and searched for
the first person who might be able to point him in the right direction.

  Bingo.

  Standing by a blackjack table was a black man in a black suit who carried himself as though he owned everything his eyes landed on. No, not owned, Dillon realized. Protected. Like a fierce knight guarding his majesty’s kingdom. And somehow, the fact that he couldn’t be any taller than five seven didn’t diminish his badass appearance.

  “Excuse me,” Dillon said. The man, whose name tag read McGill-Pit Boss, turned those piercing brown eyes on him in a way that made Dillon want to get to the point. “Can you point me in the direction of where the romance convention is taking place?”

  McGill raised a sharp brow toward his shaved-bald head as he gave Dillon a quick once-over. Dillon shifted in his work boots and forced himself not to glance down at his dirty jeans and dust-streaked, black Alexander Construction T-shirt.

  “Up the escalator,” he said in a clipped tone. “Second-floor ballroom.”

  Dillon nodded his thanks and wound his way through the slots to the tile floor and the double set of escalators by the registration area. Both sets were packed with people, so he was forced to stand still for the endless journey to the second floor. Impatient to find Alyssa, he glanced at the screen on his phone and cringed at the digital 9:27 screaming back at him. He’d wasted so much time already—

  Speaking of screaming… He looked around. Either a parrot was being strangled in front of a microphone or that was some of the worst singing he’d ever heard. Following the line of sight where everyone else had directed their winces, Dillon saw a woman on the stage in Karaoke, killing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” while dancing like Elaine from Seinfeld.

  The poor girl was oblivious to the torture she’d inflicted on her audience and then some, but if the dozen or so cell phones being held up were any indication, she’d probably know tomorrow via YouTube.

  A year later, he finally reached the second floor and possibly another dimension. It was like stepping outside of a black and white farmhouse into the Technicolor crazy Land of Oz.

  Ninety-nine percent of the people on this level lacked a Y chromosome and came in all different shapes, sizes, ages, and colors. Like a gigantic box of assorted candy.

  A group of women walked by wearing strange outfits that looked like they couldn’t decide if they should attend a ball, work on a railroad, or challenge someone to a duel with pistols.

  Hell, maybe a bag of mixed nuts would be a better analogy.

  A closer look revealed many of the women wore costumes, but he couldn’t see any sort of theme or pattern. Did romance readers dress up as their favorite characters like the people who went to comic cons did? If Alyssa was made up as some fictitious character, it would take him even longer to find her. By then, she could be itch-free, courtesy of some asshole with strong aversions to wearing shirts or even his own body hair. His heart picked up a beat and so did his legs. He needed to find her fast.

  Every time he saw the back of a blonde with long hair, he expected to find Alyssa. But each time he tapped someone on the shoulder, he’d been disappointed when they turned to him. One time, it had actually been one of the cover models, which made Dillon literally jump back. The guy tossed his hair behind his shoulder and winked suggestively. Dillon mumbled an apology and made a hasty retreat.

  Finally, he noticed a commanding woman in her seventies, her gray hair smoothed back into a perfect roll, pointing and handing out orders to staff members as easily as he did on his jobsites. Maybe she could tell him where the night’s big event was being held so he could look for Alyssa as people walked in and out. He’d probably have better luck that way than walking around playing a real life version of Where’s Waldo?

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m trying to find the big event for tonight’s conference.”

  “You must mean the Welcome Party, but I don’t see your registration badge.”

  That must be the name tag pouches hanging around everyone’s neck. “I’m sorry, I just got in so I’m not exactly sure—”

  “Oh! No, I’m sorry. I completely forgot that my assistant told me one of the models had a delayed flight. I’m Patricia, the hostess. Come along, I’ll show you where the dressing room is.”

  Patricia slipped her arm through his and led him through the crowd as she glanced at her watch. “Nine thirty. Well, the party started at eight, but better late than never.”

  Dillon knew he should say something. He should come clean about his identity because somewhere out there was the actual model arriving on a delayed flight and then Dillon would be discovered as a fraud. But what if this was the only way he could get access to the convention? He supposed he could wait until the next day when registration opened again. Then he’d have one of those badge thingys and be allowed in anywhere.

  But by then Alyssa could be having breakfast in bed with Fabio Junior.

  Fuck. That.

  Patricia opened a door to a small conference room that had been turned into a pseudo-dressing room. Men’s clothes and gym bags were scattered across various chairs. A full-length mirror was turned on its side and propped on a long table against the wall. Hair products and makeup were lined up in groups on the table in front of chairs.

  Dillon was lost. “Now what, ma’am?”

  “Oh, sorry. Your costume is hanging on the rack over there, and you can use the mirror to get yourself all gussied up.” She pinched his cheek like his grandmother often did, then spun on her heel and clipped over to the door. “Once you’re ready, just go through that other door and you can slip into the party with no one the wiser.”

  In the next moment, Patricia breezed out of the room and left him isolated in a room with man makeup and… Dillon crossed the room to the rack with the costume. Oh, hell no. A Tarzan costume? He might as well cut his balls off now because there was no way his dignity or male pride would survive wearing that in public.

  Suddenly, a woman’s squeal cut through the din of muffled voices near the door that led to the ballroom. The murmurings of a man and their joint laughter followed. An image of Alyssa on the other side of the flimsy partition being fondled and cajoled into another man’s bed set his teeth on edge.

  To hell with his pride. He’d be the best goddamn Tarzan this conference had ever seen until he found his “Jane” and cut her night—and her quest—short. Then, in the privacy of her room, he’d give her exactly what she wanted: excitement, passion, and multiple orgasms. Batteries not included.

  …

  Dillon? Alyssa’s heart skipped a beat as she glimpsed a familiar head of sandy hair over Mark the Booty Call’s shoulder before he darted out of her line of sight. She scanned the crowd as Mark droned on about his latest photo shoot in Maui, desperately searching for her best friend. Coming up empty, she realized how ludicrous the idea was that Dillon would be there. Her eyes—or the lemon drops—were playing nasty tricks on her. The last place she’d ever find Dillon Alexander was at a romance convention.

  “Well, Blondie,” Mark said, “what do you say we get out of here, and I show you the view from my suite?”

  They’d been talking for about twenty minutes. Mostly about how he got his job as a model. And the different places he’d traveled to as a model. And the famous people he’d met as a model. It was amazing how narcissism could take a guy from a ten down to a solid three.

  Despite his cover-worthy body and good looks, Alyssa was no longer interested in spending the night with Pirate Mark.

  “The hell she will,” came from a familiar deep voice behind her.

  Dillon! Excitement rushed through her. She spun around, but her gasp choked off her greeting as her hands flew to her mouth. For several seconds, her gaze roamed over him like the light beneath the copy machine glass. Down…and up…then down again to make sure the image had time to process.

  A leopard print tunic draped across his body from one shoulder and ended mid-thigh in a jagged, asymmetrical line. To further authenticate the Tarzan look, he wore a sh
ort necklace made of rawhide and several teeth from something like a gigantic cat, and thick strips of brown leather knotted around his biceps.

  Despite the ridiculous costume, Dillon stood in all his six-foot-two glory like a proud warrior: shoulders back, chest out, and fists clenched by his sides. His hazel eyes appeared closer to stone gray and just as hard.

  Her immediate thoughts splintered in different directions. Part of her wondered why he’d come to the convention. Part of her wondered why his usual laid-back disposition had turned all Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon.

  But mostly, she wondered why on earth he looked like he’d entered via swinging vine while yodeling to his jungle friends.

  “What,” she began and pointed at the outrageous outfit, “is that?”

  “It’s a Tarzan costume.” His tone was flat, but his eyes dared her to make fun of him.

  Alyssa bit the insides of her cheeks in an effort to tamp down the smile working hard to break through her resolve. Clearing her throat to compose herself better, she said, “Yes, I can see that. I meant, why are you wearing it?”

  Mark, who apparently wasn’t fazed by Dillon’s death stare, stepped up beside her. “The newbie models always get last pick of the costumes. Plus, he was late, so that’s two strikes against him.” An unfriendly twist of Mark’s lips ripped away what little he had left of his sex appeal quicker than a stripper yanking off his Velcro pants. “Maybe you’ll score something cooler next year, bro.”

  “Wait,” Alyssa said, “you think he’s a—”

  “You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t take fashion advice from a guy wearing a puffy-sleeved shirt, hoop earrings, and more eyeliner than the woman he’s trying to pick up. Besides,” Dillon said, nodding at Alyssa, “I think the lady’s proved you’ve got no business giving advice on scoring anyway, Captain Hooker.”

  Alyssa’s jaw fell slack. She’d never seen Dillon behave this way. Like, ever. He sounded like a jealous lover, but that didn’t make any sense. Jealousy implied he had romantic feelings for her, and she’d proven last night she couldn’t even manipulate him into those. If he thought of her as anything, it was probably closer to a little sis—