Betting on the Wrong Brother (What Happens in Vegas)

by Cathryn Fox

  She came up on her elbows and made a move to get up, but he bent forward, grabbed her arms and hauled her to her feet. Her body bumped his, and a slow, unsteady breath left his lungs. His warm, sweet scent washed over her face, and her lips were so close to his, all she had to do was lean forward if she wanted to kiss. Which she didn’t…she didn’t think.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  “Ryan,” he said.

  “What?” His boyish grin nearly melted her panties, and that was quite the feat considering how big they were. Shit, she really needed to get dressed and out of there before she did something stupid. Again.

  “After what we’ve just been through we should at least know each other’s names. I mean we practically—”

  She held her hand up, palm out to stop him. “I know what we practically did.”

  “So, I’m Ryan and you are…”

  The second he said his name again, it hit her. Her mouth dropped open and she pushed his chest to get away from him. He stumbled backward until he hit the wall. What the hell? Why would he give her a fake name? This was Nolan Wheeler, former bad boy turned pilot. She’d bet her brownie on it. That’s how sure she was.

  He rubbed the back of his head. “What did you do that for?”

  “Do you have a last name?” she asked instead of answering. Would he fake that too?

  “Grayson.”

  Ryan Grayson. Okay, so he was really going all incognito on her. The question was, why? Probably because he was a big shot pilot now and undoubtedly had a harem of women in every major city. An alias would prevent any woman from tracking him down after he loved and left them.

  He glanced at his watch like he too had some important meeting. “Do you always get changed in the elevator?”

  “Yes. I quite enjoy stripping down to my skivvies and changing clothes in public places.” Since she was well past the point of trying to salvage her self-respect, she waved her hand down her body. “Bloomers like these should always be shown off, don’t you think?”

  “Bloomers?” He grinned. “I can’t say I ever heard them called bloomers before.”

  “That’s because you haven’t been hanging with my grandmother.”

  His grin widened, and despite the fact that she was furious with him, it turned her insides to jelly. She hated her body’s reaction. This man had laughed in her face, and stole every bit of confidence she’d managed to muster that day. Even after she lost the weight, and looked different on the outside, his rejection always reminded her that inside she was still that fat girl who was unworthy of love. She’d had a few relationships over the years of course, but always kept an emotional distance. She presented confidence due to the changes in her appearance, but she never trusted that a guy wouldn’t laugh and leave if he saw who she really was inside. Sex was one thing, but now this girl played it cool and distant outside the bedroom.

  “Seriously, were you in that much of a hurry?” he asked.

  “I was stuck for fifteen minutes and running late for an appointment, so I put my time to good use.”

  “An efficiency expert.”

  “It’s not a bad thing.”

  She turned and scanned the floor until she found her skirt. She bent to grab it and a groan sounded from behind. Darting a glance over her shoulder, she found him staring at her ass, which she’d just happed to aim his way. Lovely.

  “No,” he said. “Not a bad thing at all.”

  Oh God! “I really need to get out of here,” she groaned.

  Nolan walked to the panel, and this time his backside was in her face. And oh, what a backside it was. The guy looked as good going as he did coming.

  He punched a button and when nothing happened, he hit a couple more. “We’re still stuck,” he said.

  “Way to state the obvious.” She snatched up her skirt and her breasts swayed, the lace on her bra suddenly abrasive to her sensitive nipples, making them hard enough to cut through the metal panels and free them if need be. “I think the place is haunted,” she added. “Rumor has it that late at night a woman can be heard moaning from one of the rooms.”

  Nolan looked over his shoulder, his eyes glittering. “I doubt that’s a rumor.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I meant moaning of a ghost.”

  Nolan stiffened, the fine lines around his mouth deepening as he frowned. He tugged on the collar of his T-shirt. “Yeah? You think?”

  “What?” She eyed him. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of ghosts.”

  He raked his hair back, but it fell forward again. He darted a glance around the elevator, looking at everything and anything besides her. His discomfort was so tangible, she could almost feel it.

  “I’m not,” he said, his words belying his actions. “My brother and I used to watch scary movies all the time. Why, are you?”

  “No.” She nodded toward the buttons. “Keep pressing them.”

  Nolan stabbed the mezzanine level with his thumb, and the lift started moving. He shot Andi a look and wiggled his fingers. “I guess I have the magic touch.”

  “You’ve got something, all right,” she muttered as she turned her back to him to get dressed. It wasn’t that she needed privacy, or had any pride in need of preservation. No. That ship had sailed when she’d tried to seduce him twelve years ago. She just didn’t want to look at those big hands of his and remember how much she’d liked having them on her body.

  “You never did tell me your name.”

  What? Seriously? He still hadn’t figured out who she was? She chewed on that, letting the bitter taste settle on her tongue. She pulled on her skirt, buttoned her blouse, and faced him. Okay, let’s see where this goes.

  “Andi Palmer.” Her lips puckered, as she watched him carefully. The blue in his eyes deepened, but it wasn’t from recognition. The guy had given her a complex and ruined her trust in men, and yet her name didn’t ring any bells for him. Jerk.

  “Is Andi short for something?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know me, do you?”

  His brows came together. “No, should I?”

  “I guess not.” Why would he, really? She wasn’t that memorable.

  He stepped close, too close. “Believe me, if I’d met you before now I would have remembered.”

  Had the temperature in the elevator just jumped? Time to do something before she introduced her knee to his crotch for not remembering her, or plant her lips on his and kiss the hell out of him so he’d never forget again. She dropped to the floor and gathered up her papers.

  “Here, let me help you.”

  He crouched beside her. Her hand landed on her agenda, and an idea formed. An evil, wicked idea that would make him pay for dissing her back then, and not recognizing her now. Normally she wasn’t the vindictive type and avoided any sort of drama, but Nolan Wheeler deserved to go down, and she knew just how to take him there. Payback really was a bitch. She gathered up her papers and shoved them into her bag, zipped up her suitcase, and jumped to her feet. He followed her up, still looking mussed and rugged, liked he’d just crawled out of a warm bed.

  Why oh why did she have to think of Nolan and bed at the same time?

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked.

  “Like what?”

  “I’m…” he angled his head, like he wasn’t sure whether to be scared or delighted. He should go with scared. “I’m not sure.”

  “It’s because I just realized who you were.” She tapped her fingers to her forehead. “That’s why I asked if you remembered me. You reminded me of someone, but now I’ve figured out how I know you.”

  He grabbed the neck of his T-shirt again, that uncomfortable look returning. “You do?”

  “Sure.” The doors opened on the mezzanine level. Perfect. She grabbed her suitcase, shouldered her bag, and reached for his hand. “Come with me.”

  “What?” he asked, and gathered up his duffle bag. “Where?”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there before it’s too lat
e.” Guiding him to the male model pageant would make her later than she already was, but it was going to be so worth it. Getting him to parade around half naked on a stage in front of hundreds of women wasn’t just the most awesome revenge ever, the pictures she’d take home and distribute at the next high school reunion would be the proverbial icing on the cake. She just wished she wasn’t so interested in licking that icing.

  He slowed his steps. “I think you might have me mistaken for someone else.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so, and don’t worry, I’m not like the wilder women at this convention. Groping the male models is not my thing. You’re safe in my hands.” She gave a wink and as he dug in his heels, she tugged harder, practically dragging him down the hall. Women passed, casting curious glances their way.

  He stopped dead in his tracks and pulled his hand back. “Male what?”

  If he was determined to keep his identity a secret, let him wiggle his way out of this one. “Male models, for the romance writers’ convention. You can stop pretending. I figured it out.”

  He stared at her and she could almost hear the tumblers falling into place as he put it together. He frowned, went quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Right. Male model.”

  And there you have it. Anything to protect his real identity.

  She led him to the dressing room at the back of the stage. Men bustled about, some getting dressed, others grooming themselves in the full-length mirror. Many had tattoos, thick muscles, and piercings. While she hadn’t seen Nolan naked yet—wait, there wasn’t going to be a yet—she had felt his muscles when they were rolling around on the floor. She’d bet her next royalty check that none of these models had anything on him. He was going to win this one hands down. She looked for the director, and when he caught her eye, she pointed a finger at Nolan, or rather Ryan, if that’s what he wanted to go by.

  “What are you doing?” Ryan asked.

  “Calling over the director. You need to get changed and get on that stage.” She pointed to a blue curtain masquerading as a door.

  “Andi, listen—”

  Her phone pinged. Dammit. She wanted to stay for pictures, but needed to get to her meeting. “I guess I’ll see you around.” She left him standing there scratching his head as she rushed out the door. If she hurried to the meeting with her editor, she could still be back in time to catch him parading around in some skimpy outfit. Her grin widened, and she gave herself a mental fist pump. Tonight would go down in history, because this week, what happened in Vegas definitely wasn’t going to stay in Vegas.

  Chapter Two

  What the hell was that?

  One minute he’d been laying on the floor with a sexy woman bouncing on top of him, the next he was shoved into some room with a dozen or so half naked men getting ready for a male modeling contest. A beauty pageant, for Christ’s sakes. Him. Self-proclaimed bachelor for life, and horror writer Parker Perry, otherwise knows as Jack Ryan Grayson Wheeler, here to do research on the hotel’s haunting. Did she really expect him to parade his stuff on a stage?

  Oh, hell no.

  He watched Andi give a little triumphant shake of her ass as she sauntered out of the room and make a beeline for the stairs. Why did he get the feeling she knew he wasn’t a model and was fucking with him? Payback for pressing her down on him when he’d gotten an erection, perhaps? Honestly, what the hell did she expect? She was one of the sexiest women he’d ever set eyes on, even in those big underwear that could double as a bra, and maybe even more because of it.

  The women he went out with, when he actually dragged himself away from his computer, all wore skimpy floss that had to ride up and chafe like a son of a bitch. More times than not they were the aggressors, turning on the sex kitten act to get what they wanted from him. Hell, his brother, a pilot for one of the major airlines, and also a self-proclaimed bachelor to the end, had his own harem of sexy, barely clad knockouts throwing themselves at him.

  And then there was Andi Palmer. With a sweet, pouty mouth that was quick with a comeback, she seemed different than most. She had just enough curves to let him know she wasn’t the type to live off lettuce alone. Christ, he hated that. Healthy and fit was one thing, but cutting out food to stay wafer thin was another. He sensed she’d found a happy balance, and there was something refreshing about a woman dressing for herself and for comfort that piqued his interest and stimulated his brain—as well as another body part. One a little farther south.

  He drove his hand into his pocket and shifted his still hard dick. She’d started that launch sequence the second she gazed at him with those whisky eyes. Combine that with her long brown hair that looked like it had a mind of its own and a body made for sin, he was about ready for takeoff.

  Andi Palmer. The name sounded a bit familiar. In fact, she looked a little like a girl his kid brother knew from back in Cedar Point.

  Did he know her?

  Perhaps he’d give Nolan a call and ask. First thing’s first, though. He had to get the hell out of this room, and as far away from the stage as possible. He glanced at his watch. He wanted to check in on his pregnant sister, and if he hurried he could still talk to his little niece Katie before she went to bed.

  The director stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Bony cheekbones prominent, the man cupped his chin and tapped a long finger on the hollow of his cheek. The director went thoughtfully quiet as he checked Ryan out. Ryan looked up at him. At six foot two, Ryan rarely had to tilt his head to meet a man’s eyes, but this guy was taller than most, and pencil thin.

  Like a light bulb had suddenly flicked on, the man’s beady eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers. “Got it.” He grabbed a walkie-talkie from his belt loop, pressed a button and said something Ryan couldn’t make out over the static.

  He secured the two-way radio back onto his belt loop and focused on Ryan. “What are you waiting for? Get undressed.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Oh, but I do.” He gave Ryan another once over. “They’re going to eat you alive, soldier.”

  Soldier?

  “I’m not a model, I’m—” Shit. Think Ryan, think. Thanks to rabid fans and a near death experience with an overzealous stalker, admitting he was horror writer Parker Perry was out of the question, so was going by Jack Wheeler, his first and last name. A few years back his pseudonym had been linked to his real name and leaked to media, which was why he now went by his two middle names, Ryan Grayson. “There’s been a mix up. I’m just a—”

  “What you are is a live one.” Ryan looked at the man’s name tag, Nathan, as some guy stepped up to them and shoved a pair of army pants into Ryan’s hands. Military issue boots landed at his feet, along with a prop rifle.

  “What’s this?” he asked Nathan.

  “Your costume, of course.” Nathan’s gaze fell to Ryan’s crotch, and his lips split. “But I see you brought your own gun. And a big one at that.” He winked and added, “Down boy.”

  Fuck no. His gun wilted as Ryan pushed the clothes into the other man’s hands. “I’m out of here.”

  “Oh, come on,” he waved his hands, dismissing Ryan’s protests. “It’s all for fun and the profits go to literacy. How can you turn your back on that?”

  The man hit his weak spot and Ryan stopped. Shit, Nathan was right. There was no way he could turn his back on that. “Literacy?”

  “Of course. What better cause for a romance novelists’ convention?”

  If there was one cause he believed in it was literacy. Not just because he was a writer, but because he’d suffered from dyslexia for years. He’d always felt stupid, been a slow learner compared with his peers, younger brother, and sister until a proper diagnosis came in his teen years. Now the only time he had trouble was when he was nervous, and it was something he was still trying to overcome. He donated every year to literacy-focused charities and assisted at schools, determined to help every struggling child read. He never wanted another kid to feel the way he had or go through what he went through i
n the classroom or schoolyard. He might have been bullied for being slow, but at least those beatings didn’t last long since he could hold his own in a fight. The poundings his father gave him toughened him up and taught him how to block a punch.

  “Now, hurry up and get dressed.” Nathan tugged at Ryan’s T-shirt as Ryan reached for his belt. Wait! Was he really going to do this? He dragged his belt through the loops and shook his head. A good portion of his blood had to still be trapped in his groin, preventing him from making sound, rational decisions—because this was seriously a dumb-ass move. No way would he do this under normal circumstances.

  But it’s for literacy…

  He exhaled an exaggerated breath as Nathan dragged his T-shirt from his shoulders, giving him little choice in the matter. Ryan unzipped his jeans, pushed them down his legs and kicked them off. He shook out the fatigues and shoved his legs into them, struggling the get them over his thighs.

  He tried the button and sucked in his breath to get it closed. “You couldn’t have found any in my size?” He shoved his feet into the boots. At least they fit.

  “That’s the whole point,” Nathan said with a smirk. He waved a hand toward the curtain just as a sweaty guy dressed in a firefighter suit, a long hose hanging over his shoulder, came back into the room. “Those women paid top dollar for a show, and we’re going to give them their money’s worth.”

  The tight pants forced blood back into his brain. “How about this?” he began. “I match the sales in a monetary donation, if you don’t make me go out there.”

  “We’ll take that donation.” Nathan grabbed his hand. “But you’re still going out there.”

  The music changed. Moves like Jagger. Uh, no…he didn’t. All of a sudden, he was on a stage, dressed in nothing but fatigues and boots as women screamed at him from the audience. He stood there like a deer caught in the headlights, then shot a scathing look Nathan’s way.

  Nathan laughed it off, and threw him the gun. Ryan caught it and stood as still as a stealth soldier, ready to kill someone, although he had no one to blame but himself for the situation he was in. Well, that wasn’t entirely true, he could blame Andi. But was it her fault she thought he was a model? He could only blame her if she was messing with him.