Taking on the bad guys, making the world a safer place. That was important to her. There definitely wasn’t room for guys like Luke Jennings in her plans.
Nope. Unless he turned out to be a suspect in her op, he was off-limits.
LUKE BRACED HIS HANDS against the sleek marble of the shower walls and closed his eyes to wait out the pain. His knee throbbed like a son of a bitch. He shouldn’t have run that last mile. Stupid. Really stupid.
His cycling career was over. Why the hell did he continue to fight the inevitable? Putting unnecessary stress on his knee was only going to cause him trouble in the long run. The Ace was gone for good.
But he couldn’t just go quietly into retirement the way his agent wanted. That wasn’t who Luke was.
Hell, truth was, he didn’t even know himself anymore.
He braced his forehead against the cool stone. Without his career, he was just another has-been. According to his agent the best he could hope for was a couple of major product endorsements before the world found out he wouldn’t be taking on another race.
So here he was in Vegas, playing celebrity emcee representing a Fortune 500 sports equipment company at a cheerleader convention. No offense to cheerleaders, but this was not what he wanted to be doing with his life.
And if the looming monumental step down in his career wasn’t bad enough, all those women hung on him as if he were the only man in the city.
Luke loved women, he really did. All that female attention had been great at first. Really great. But after the first couple of years it had become less than fulfilling. These days it just made him feel empty.
Forcing himself to go through the motions of actually showering, he scrubbed his hair and then his skin. It would be nice if washing away his disappointment were so easy. He would be lying if he said he didn’t care about his inability to compete the way he used to. It would take time to get used to the idea of not being Luke Jennings, champion cyclist.
Funny thing was, the part that bothered him the most, now that he had time to think about it, was the idea of being thirty-two and unconnected. No significant other. Nothing.
As crazy as it sounded, he wanted a real relationship.
He shook the water from his face. “Damned crazy,” he muttered.
Guys like him weren’t supposed to want relationships. Staying single kept his celebrity status higher profile. Women wanted to believe he was available, and his agent had always insisted that Luke keep any long-term—meaning more than a weekend—relationship under wraps.
Luke had tried that—once. The woman had ended up walking away and selling her story to some gossip rag. He’d ended up looking like a jerk.
He stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel and started to dry himself off. What was wrong with a guy like him wanting the real thing? An actual relationship based on mutual interest and respect? Why did everything have to be about his celebrity status and the public’s perception?
Setting all that aside, how the hell was he supposed to build a relationship when he couldn’t get anyone to look past the fact that he was champion cyclist Luke Jennings?
There it was. His life. The good, the bad—he glanced down at his damaged knee—and the ugly.
The soft roar of the vacuum reminded him that the maid was still in the room. He wrapped the towel around his waist and walked to the open doorway. He’d been so frustrated with his aching knee when he’d come in that he had forgotten to close the door. She probably thought he was an exhibitionist in addition to being a slob.
His gaze fixed on the lady’s curvy bottom and toned legs as she went about vacuuming the thick white carpet. Leaning against the door frame, his lips tipped into a smile when she kicked aside one of his socks. She muttered something, something negative about him, judging by the irritation behind the move. He should have picked up after himself last night but he’d been too pissed off. He’d been groped by dozens of women and one had spilled a glass of champagne on him.
Somehow he’d managed to hold on to his temper while he’d excused himself. He’d had to shed no fewer than four clinging blondes en route to his room. The product sponsors had still been at the party so he’d had no choice but to quickly change and go back down.
He’d hated every minute of it. What had once felt like beefing up the value of his stock now felt like selling himself out to the highest bidder.
Sour grapes, his agent would say. He felt bitter at the idea that he couldn’t race anymore and he was taking it out on the other aspects of his profession.
Maybe that was true.
The one thing he knew with complete certainty was that he could not, could not, get through the weekend without figuring out a way to keep the women at bay.
He scrubbed a hand over his face. Did he really just think that?
He was officially losing it. What man in his right mind didn’t want women hanging on to his every word?
One who wanted a real relationship, he reminded himself.
The maid turned off the vacuum and sighed with satisfaction.
He opened his mouth to say hello at the same instant she swiveled around to survey her handiwork. Her gaze bumped into his and she made the cutest sound—not quite a squeal but far more than a gasp.
His smile widened to a grin. “Sorry. I was just about to apologize for leaving such a mess this morning.”
The irritated expression she wore signaled that she wasn’t buying his sincerity.
“Some…” He folded his arms over his chest and tried to decide how to explain. “Someone poured champagne all over me and I—”
She held up her hands. “That’s okay, sir. You don’t have to explain. Cleaning up is my job.” Her eyes widened and she abruptly scratched at her side. When she realized she’d done so in front of him her face pinked.
The red hair and green eyes were gorgeous, even in the rosy-colored uniform. But it was the fullness of her lips that really made him want to know her better. There was a stubbornness about that mouth…a determination that told him she was no pushover.
The plan came in one abrupt rush.
No, he argued with himself.
His gaze locked with hers.
Maybe.
“It could work,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes slitted with suspicion.
Luke cleared his throat and straightened away from the door. Yes, it could definitely work. “What’s your name?”
“Cris.”
She said her name so hesitantly he wondered if she was afraid of him or simply worried about the rules that didn’t allow her to fraternize with the guests.
“Cris,” he repeated, thinking the name didn’t really fit, but liking the way she looked at him when he said it. “I have a proposition for you.”
The reluctance turned to outright wariness. “What kind of proposition?”
He took two steps in her direction. “One I think you’ll like a lot.”
CHAPTER TWO
CLARISSA HAD TO ADMIT she’d considered all the risks involved with this operation and not one of them had included being propositioned by a nearly naked man. That was the sort of hazard Dorian would be up against in her role as a make-believe hooker.
“This isn’t what it sounds like,” Jennings hastened to add.
She wasn’t so sure about that but she let him keep talking.
“You see, I’m here helping out one of my sponsors with a cheerleading convention.” He shrugged those mile-wide shoulders. “It’s a sports equipment sponsor. You know how it is. You do what you have to in order to keep everybody happy, and your contract gets renewed.”
She nodded, mostly because he was actually blushing behind that great tan. Watching him squirm was kind of fun. She would bet he didn’t do that often. Plus, she got to admire that great bod with its golden beach-bum glow. It just wasn’t fair. Her fair skin prevented her from doing anything but burning.
“Anyway, the women are…” He exhaled a mighty breath. “The women are drivin
g me crazy. I need a break.”
If he hadn’t looked so genuinely at the end of his rope, she might have laughed, but this guy was honestly disgusted about the whole idea. Strange.
“People come to Vegas all the time,” he began again, “and get married, then divorced when the weekend is over.”
She nodded. That was true. Some did it without remembering, and then legal trouble followed. She’d had to break up a fight or two over drunken nuptials.
“Anyway, I was thinking that if you pretended to be my wife, I could keep the…er…ladies off my back and actually get through this weekend.”
Clarissa did a double take. “What exactly are you asking me to do?” Now, this was bizarre. If there was a hidden camera in this room…she was going to kill the guys at the station for setting her up.
Surely Luke Jennings wasn’t asking her to actually marry him and then get divorced on Monday.
“Just pretend to be my wife,” he said adamantly, his hands open, palms up in a beseeching gesture. “No strings attached. Just hang on my arm and pretend to be enamored with me and I’ll pay you…a year’s salary…or whatever you feel is appropriate.”
Did she look that desperate to him? Just when she’d decided to ask as much, she realized that he was the one who was desperate. Those big puppy-dog brown eyes were begging for her help.
Where was the famous unbeatable athlete who never gave up? The mammoth ego?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Jennings.” Not only could she not do this on a wholly ethical level personally, but professionally she was here undercover. She had a job to do. And he was not on her list of potential suspects, which meant he wasn’t part of her assignment. Any risks she took with her cover would be to nail a suspect. “But I would get fired if—”
“I’ll take care of everything,” he urged. “I know the VIP manager. I can fix it with her. You have my word.”
Clarissa stood very still, absorbed those words a little more fully. It couldn’t be this easy. “You know Ms. Bainbridge?” Clarissa didn’t believe in coincidences, and this would definitely be one hell of a lucky coincidence. Knowing the VIP manager meant ready access to the VIP gambling rooms. At least the ones on the twenty-fifth floor.
“We both went to the University of Colorado. She graduated a couple of years before me. But, yes, I know her. She gives me a VIP suite anytime I come to town. Goes the extra mile to make my stay enjoyable.”
A plan formed in Clarissa’s head faster than her good friend Dorian could have typed it. “So we don’t have to do anything on paper. Just pretend.”
“Just pretend,” he agreed.
“I’ll do it,” Clarissa declared, “on one condition.”
He set his hands on his hips just above that precariously slung towel. “Name it.”
“You get me into the high-roller games on the twenty-fifth floor and I’ll gladly play the part of your wife.”
He thrust out his hand without hesitation. “Done.”
CHAPTER THREE
9:00 p.m.
SHE HAD MADE IT THROUGH her first afternoon as Mrs. Luke Jennings. Now it was time for him to fulfill his side of the bargain and escort her to the exclusive gaming rooms.
The paparazzi hadn’t been so bad. Clarissa had gotten authorization from Pearson to deviate from protocol, and Luke had made a short announcement to the press. Easy as one, two, three.
Clarissa was now, as far as those who followed the cheesier news knew, Mrs. Luke Jennings.
Two hours in the convention center grand ballroom playing her part and she understood exactly why the man wanted a make-believe wife.
His female fans treated him like a side of beef.
Clarissa had seen men treat women that way plenty of times, but she hadn’t seen women act this way since the last time she’d had to break up a fight at a Chippendales performance.
She almost felt sorry for the guy.
Almost.
The ego was there, just not nearly as prominent as she had expected.
He actually seemed like a nice guy…so far.
Her arm wrapped around his, he escorted her off the elevator and onto the twenty-fifth floor.
She leaned closer. “Thanks.” His proposition had gotten her onto this floor a whole lot faster than she could have hoped for.
He glanced down at her. “Hey, after what you went through with the paparazzi and the ladies at the convention center, this is the least I can do.”
Clarissa didn’t bother telling him she’d lived with the paparazzi growing up. Her father hadn’t been a celebrity exactly, but he’d been a very rich man and that alone had garnered him far more attention than the average Joe.
Her, too. But she’d finally managed to escape it. No one ever connected Sergeant Clarissa Rivers to child heiress Crissy Rivers. With her father’s retirement to a private island, the Rivers name had followed the same route.
Thank God.
“Welcome, Mr. Jennings,” a deep voice boomed as Clarissa and Luke entered the plush private players lounge on the twenty-fifth floor.
Luke nodded to the man in the black suit who dressed exactly like a member of the president’s personal Secret Service detail. House security. The folks on this level were the richest of the rich. Top-notch security and ultimate service were part of what kept clients coming back to the Free Throw over the rest of the competition.
“This is my wife,” Luke said to the man, then smiled at her. “Crissy Jennings.”
She kept her smile tacked in place in spite of his using the pet name she disliked. Her father had called her that growing up. But, then, he was her father and so she had cut him a break. No one else had ever dared call her by that nickname.
“Mrs. Jennings,” the gentleman, evidently the chief of security, said as he executed a slight bow. “My name is Douglas. Anything you need you let me know.”
“Thank you, Douglas.” She inclined her head in acknowledgment of his offer.
So this was the life her father had enjoyed when he’d brought her to Vegas all those times. She had always spent her nights in the room with a nanny or maid. She’d never been allowed to venture into this territory even after she’d reached the necessary age. For the most part, her father had been extremely protective.
Luke led her deeper into the room where poker games were in progress and roulette tables were spinning like colorful tops. Craps, slots, it was all there. Cigar and cigarette smoke hung in the air, making her lungs seize. Plasma televisions were suspended on every wall, showing major sporting events from all around the world for the viewing pleasure of those present.
“What’s your pleasure, my lady?” Luke offered. “Poker?” He grinned. “Roulette?” He gestured to the tables on the balcony beyond the windows overlooking the infamous Strip. “Or would you prefer a drink and quiet conversation?”
Clarissa disentangled herself from her escort. “I think I’d like to mingle alone for a while. Do you mind?”
He didn’t have to worry about any cheerleaders showing up here, so she wouldn’t need to provide that barrier for now. Surely he could entertain himself for a couple of hours.
“I’ll be at the bar.”
As he walked away, she couldn’t help feeling he was disappointed somehow.
He would just have to get over it. She had a job to do and they had a deal.
Clarissa took a deep breath and surveyed the room once more. Lots of plush red carpet and gold embellishments. This was where she would find her targets.
Time to go to work.
She’d soaked her torso down in calamine lotion and let it dry before slipping into the gorgeous dress Jennings had had delivered to her newly assigned room right next to his. As hard as she’d tried, he had refused to take the dress back. She’d gone home for some things of her own since her strategy had changed and she would be staying at the hotel. Shannon Bainbridge had authorized Clarissa’s release from duties for this favor to Jennings. Clarissa studied the gorgeous dress he’d bought for her. She hadn�
�t owned anything like this since she had turned twenty-one and was introduced to society at her debutante ball. Gold sequins. Strapless. Form-fitting. Matching stilettos. She looked damned good for a cop.
It would be hell getting to her .22 since it was strapped to her thigh and her dress hit the floor, but she wasn’t anticipating needing it here. She felt certain that if she went for it, Douglas would take her out in one shot. Security at this level was highly trained and intensely focused. The badge stuffed into her tiny purse might not be as persuasive here as other places.
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