Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  I remove my hands from his lapels and back away, offering him a dainty wave and stepping aside. The man probably has women throwing themselves at him all day long; the least I can do is let him use the restroom in peace.

  Plus, there’s nothing alluring about a woman who fawns over a man after meeting him for all of ten seconds.

  I head back toward the bar area, scanning the crowd for a buxom blonde with the reddest lips in the joint, and I do a little bounce and squeal when I see her.

  “Araminta!” I grab her from behind, hooking into her shoulders and giving her a shake.

  “Good God, what’s gotten into you?” She spins to face me, her eyes drinking me up and down. “You wander off for ten minutes and now you’re all giddy.”

  “Keir is here,” I say. “Keir Montgomery.”

  Her jaw falls and she whacks the side of my arm with her clutch. “You’re kidding me.”

  She sits up in her stool, attempting to see above a sea of hundreds, most of them wearing every conservative shade of black and navy imaginable.

  “He’s in the restroom now,” I say. “I bumped into him on my way out. But he’s here. At Bar Twelve. Tonight.”

  Her red lips twist at the corner. This is the kind of opportunity Araminta’s fantasized about for years.

  “Let me know when you see him again. I’d love to introduce myself.” She takes a healthy sip of her martini, eyes busy scanning.

  Her fearlessness both awes and inspires, but mostly it entertains me.

  Several minutes pass, and we fill the time with idle chat and shared observations about the people around us. We wait like patient saints, hoping for a sign that Keir has made his way back into the crowd. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Fifteen. We check our phones like clockwork.

  “Wonder what’s taking him so long?” she asks.

  “Maybe he’s not in there anymore? He could’ve snuck out a back exit.”

  Her face falls and her posture deflates. She runs a nail along a streak of condensation on the bar top in front of her until an averagely attractive man in his thirties approaches her and she snaps out of her funk with a flirty side-eye and a toothy grin.

  I stare ahead at the bottles behind the bar, starting with the ones on the top shelf, biding my time until Araminta either leaves with this man or lets him stick around long enough to buy her a drink before she gives him a polite boot.

  I’m midway through counting the number of cobalt blue bottles when a warm palm centers on my bare back. I turn around, heart pulsing, only to meet a set of newly familiar sapphire eyes.

  “Oh.” I smile as relief pushes the startle clear through me. “Hello again.”

  This place is so damn loud, I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to hear a word he says, and I so badly want to hear every word this man is about to say.

  My gaze settles on his face, focusing yet trying not to stare.

  Strong jaw. Perfect nose. Nice lips.

  Keir leans into me, and I inhale his cologne because this may be the only opportunity I’ll ever have to know what Keir Montgomery really smells like.

  Old money. Leather. Vetiver.

  The scent is vaguely familiar, which is odd because I’m quite certain it’s not the kind of cologne a man could buy at any old department store. Barneys, perhaps. Maybe Bergdorf.

  And then it hits me. His scent reminds me of John. It’s not identical by any means, but I feel like it’s something John would wear.

  For a split second, reality smacks me in the face and reminds me that John hasn’t called in days, and that sinking, ego-deflating heaviness washes over me.

  “I’m Keir,” he says into my ear, his low voice tickling my eardrum and sending a quick tingle to my nerves. My skin pricks, and instantly I want to hear his voice again. “Keir Montgomery. What’s your name?”

  I lean into his ear. “Camille Buchanan.”

  “You look familiar, Camille,” he says, pulling away though standing closer than before. “Have we met?”

  There’s a wicked gleam in his deep blue stare that sends a soul-stirring tickle to the deepest part of me. Half of his mouth lifts, revealing a dimple, and it’s all I can do not to melt right in front of him.

  This man could take me home right now, hoisting me over his shoulder caveman style in front of all these people, and I wouldn’t try to stop him.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met before.” My eyes trace the length of his strong jawline before drawing higher to his lips, studying the way they arch and wondering how they taste. His nose is straight, perfect. And his hair is thick and dark, the kind made for pulling.

  In many ways, he reminds me of the way I imagine John might look.

  I glance away for a moment, quietly scolding myself for thinking about John right now. He’s in the past. It’s over and done with. He doesn’t get to stake a claim in the forefront of my mind tonight and ruin this beautiful moment.

  “It’s really loud,” Keir yells, pointing behind him. “You want to come with me to the VIP area so we can talk?”

  I’m numb. Completely numb. And speechless.

  How is it that I can walk into any establishment in this city and take pride in the appearance I’ve worked so hard to maintain, but when I’m approached by one of the most sought-after bachelors in the free world, all of my insecurities rise to my mind’s surface one after another?

  I’ve perfected the art of looking approachable. I’m trained to represent allure and mystery and sex and fantasy, all the things a man could want and then some. Everything I’ve ever learned about becoming desirable is working in tandem to draw this man to me right now, and I still can’t help but wonder what he could possibly want with me.

  “Yeah, sure.” I swallow my insecurities whole and slap a demure smile on my mouth before sliding off the barstool.

  Two agents sandwich us as we make our way to an area behind red velvet ropes, and it doesn’t occur to me until we’re already there that I didn’t tell Araminta where I went.

  “Phone.” An agent places his hand toward me.

  I look to Keir and he nods. “Standard procedure. You’ll get it back.”

  The phone goes from my purse to the agent’s palm before slipping into his front suit pocket. A group of six or seven men, friends of his perhaps, and a handful of giggling women dressed to the nines take up the space around us.

  “So you were saying?” I wait for him to take a seat before occupying the one beside him. My legs cross, pointing toward him, and I angle my body for optimal conversation.

  He leans in. “You look familiar to me, Camille. Do you have any idea why that would be?”

  I’m not sure if this is some kind of trick question. A test maybe? Am I already supposed to know the answer?

  I lift a brow. “I have no idea why that would be, Keir. I’m quite certain we’ve never met before. I’d remember meeting someone like you.”

  It’s my feeble attempt to charm a charmer. Can’t blame a girl for trying.

  Keir’s gaze hypnotizes and disarms me all at once, and he lifts his hand to my face. His fingers run the underside of my jaw, leaving a trail of frenzied nerves in their path. If he touches me again, I’m certain my heart will beat out of my chest.

  “I can’t shake the feeling we were meant to cross paths tonight.” His stare hasn’t broken. We’re locked this way.

  “I don’t believe in destiny, only random coincidence.”

  His hand falls to the side of my neck, his thumb raking the front. I need to swallow but I’m paralyzed. My tongue rakes my bottom lip, and I inhale.

  “You’re very beautiful, Camille.” I swear he inches closer, but all I can do is focus on steadying my breathing.

  Women pass, gawking, pointing, and smiling covetous smiles. I see them all, but Keir doesn’t.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  His hand is still hooked on my neck, and his gaze falls to my pout. He wants to kiss me . . .

  Keir Montgomery wants to kiss me.

  My e
yes flutter shut as the pressure on the back of my neck guides me to his lips. His mouth grazes along mine, the heat a tortuous tease seconds before the real thing. This heart-stopping kiss comes with a side of tongue and two of the softest lips I’ve ever tasted.

  Keir’s fingers glide up the nape of my neck, taking a fistful of hair while he claims my mouth. His kisses feel like John and taste like fine alcohol. I lift my hands to his face, as if the pads of my fingers might remember the way he felt beneath them.

  With eyes closed, everything about this is eerily familiar. His hands in my hair. The stroke of his soft lips on mine. The tempo of his greedy kisses. The rich scent filling my lungs with each breathless gasp for air.

  I pull away, studying his face as if I could possibly know what it might look like bathed in pitch black.

  “Why’d you stop?” His fist in my hair relaxes.

  This can’t be John.

  John wouldn’t approach me at a bar, lead me behind a velvet rope and make out with me in front of every patron within a five-foot radius.

  Unless John was drunk, and then . . .

  I wouldn’t know, because I’ve never seen him in that condition.

  “Do you want privacy? Is that what you want?” he asks.

  “The way you kiss me,” I say. “It’s very distinct.”

  His eyes flash. “You like it.”

  His response is more of a statement than a question.

  I nod, biting my bottom lip like I’m some kind of coy schoolgirl. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I’m throwing tactics and techniques out the window at every turn. When he looks at me with that intense blue stare, I can’t think straight.

  “Do you want to go somewhere private?” he says into my ear.

  My chest tingles. I’m finding it difficult to speak at the moment. My mind runs a million miles per hour, and any attempt to listen to my gut instinct is quashed by the loudness of my thoughts and the haywire nerves sprawling along every inch of my body.

  Keir rises, reaching to take my hand. I place it in his, and he pulls me up and into him, slipping his hand around the small of my back. He leans into me again, and I inhale his sexy scent for the millionth time tonight. I could bathe in it.

  “I want to take you home with me.” His words send a pulse between my thighs.

  I don’t know what to say. I mean, I know what I want to say . . .

  That’s obvious.

  But all I can hear are Araminta’s words echoing my mind, and I know damn well the fantasy of being with a Montgomery brother is likely a million times better than the reality. Less dangerous, too.

  Keir guides my face to his, and I linger in his wonderfully wicked gaze before making my decision.

  “Look at me, Camille. You can trust me.”

  “What . . . did you say?”

  “You can trust me, Camille.” He smiles, dimples anchoring his cheeks.

  I want to hear his voice without all of this external noise. I know John’s voice, and I know the way it feels rumbling through his chest and filtering through a silent room. It’s crisp and clear, low and virile.

  “Come,” he takes my hand, nodding toward an agent who follows us down a long hall.

  Warm jealousy displaces my excitement when I ponder the idea that Keir is, in fact, John, and that he possibly spends his free evenings in bars, picking up women who fawn all over him because he’s one of the most irresistible bachelors on the face of the planet.

  I know so little about John that such a scenario wouldn’t be entirely implausible.

  Keir yanks me around a corner while his agents block the hallway. No one’s getting in. No one’s getting out.

  It’s not as quiet as I’d hoped and there’s a ringing in my ears, but at least we’re away from prying eyes. In all my years, I’ve never been keen on exhibitionism.

  His mouth covers my collarbone, his teeth grazing my flesh. My head dips back and waits for his lips to travel a natural path. From my collar to the center of my neck, his kisses grow harder, greedier. Keir’s free hand caresses my left breast, massaging until it hurts just enough to feel good.

  The room spins a moment later, and I’m not sure if I’m drunk or drunk off of sheer infatuation and physical delight. All signs point to everything.

  “Come home with me.” His lips leave me as our eyes meet once again.

  “I shouldn’t.” My mind overrides my body for a moment. I’ve had a few drinks. I don’t want to do something I might regret.

  In all my years in this city, I’ve never gone home with a man just because I wanted to. Cheap and easy has never been my modus operandi. Giving away the goods for free is the worst thing a woman can do with a man who looks this good and kisses like this. He’s probably never had to work for a single lay in his life.

  “Aren’t you curious, Camille?” His dimpled smile makes me forget and miss John all at once, and then I scold myself for missing someone I don’t even know. “You can trust me.”

  Those words . . .

  “Why do you keep saying that?” My brain attempts to piece together his words as if they’re riddles.

  “Because there are very few people a beautiful woman like you should trust in a city like this,” he says. “And I’m one of them. Trust that I know how to make you feel incredible, Camille. Know that out of all the women here tonight, you’re the only one I would remotely consider bringing home with me.”

  I stare into his dark blue eyes and run my fingers against the hollow above his jaw.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I test the waters.

  “There are plenty of things I’m not telling you,” he says. “Just as there are plenty of things you’re not telling me. Isn’t it better that way? More mystery. More excitement.”

  “It depends.”

  “On . . . ?”

  “What drew you to me tonight?”

  He sighs, scratching the spot above his temple. He’s growing frustrated with my questions, or perhaps the fact that I’m not as easy as I look.

  “I told you, you’re the most exquisite woman here tonight, and there’s something familiar about you.” Keir takes a strand of my hair and twists it around his finger before letting it fall. “Tell me, Camille. Am I familiar to you? Haven’t you ever looked at someone and just known?”

  There’s a flurry in my chest and the air around me grows thinner.

  “This is a game to you, isn’t it?” I ask. “You speak in codes.”

  “Everything’s a game.” His answer comes quickly, and he smirks, leaning in to taste my lips. “Leave with me, Camille. You want to. I can see it in those curious, dark eyes of yours.”

  My thighs squeeze as his words penetrate my apprehensive little fortress. If Keir is John or if he isn’t, I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Or it’s all the same.

  Funny how Keir showed up in my life the second it became clear that “John” was finished with me.

  “Okay.” The word feels uncertain in my mouth, and the pounding from the music has caused some kind of temporary, mild deafness. Everything sounds tinny and hollow and far away, even my own voice.

  He slips his hand around mine and leads me out a back door to a waiting limousine. A driver stands next to the passenger door, and I climb in first. I hear Keir tell the driver to take us to the Hightower apartment, and my heartrate skyrockets.

  He enters the running car, his eyes intense and determined, and takes the seat next to me. Pulling me into his lap, he grips my face and guides my mouth to his. The car pulls away a moment later, city lights streaking past the windows in a multi-colored blur.

  “You’re taking me to the Hightower?” I ask between kisses, my fingers digging into his scalp.

  “Yes.” His hands cradle my ass, pulling me close enough that I feel the growing bulge in his pants.

  “It’s you, isn’t it?” My words are buoyant and breathless. I’m disgusted with myself for craving validation that I’m still worthy of being wanted by a faceless man. “You’re hi
m.”

  Keir’s lips are against my neck, his hands tugging up the hem of my dress. He slips a finger under the crotch of my lace panties and glides it between my folds.

  “Tell me you’re him,” I whisper into his ear.

  “Do you want me to be?” His voice is low, monotonous. Void of infliction. I’ve heard this voice before. I know it.

  My eyes squeeze as my hands trail along his strong jaw and perfect nose, and my hips grind against his prodding fingers.

  “I need to hear you say it.” I breathe in his scent as it fuses with mine.

  And then I ask myself why it matters. I’m not John’s anymore, and I certainly don’t have feelings for a man whose face I’ve never seen. A flood of questions rushes through me all at once, demanding my attention when I’d much rather be focusing on the way Keir’s hands own my body and his mouth takes whatever it wants without asking.

  Thoughts of John refuse to be dismissed.

  My bruised ego chooses this moment to remind me that I’m inferior. Mediocre. Worthy only of rejection. I find Keir’s lips once more, as if his tongue against mine could possibly reinflate my self-esteem.

  “What do you want me to say, Camille?” His hands snake up my sides as his words breathe hot on my skin. The car pulls to a stop, and I glance out the window to see the well-lit Hightower sign. “I think you know exactly who I am.”

  His voice reverberates from his chest to mine, a low hum laced with wicked desire. The driver opens the passenger door and offers his hand. Two agents step out of a black SUV that must have been following us the whole way here.

  Keir’s words play on a loop in my mind. “I think you know exactly who I am.”

  He could be saying what I think he’s saying . . .

  Or he could be stating the obvious; that he’s Keir Montgomery.

  He leads me by the hand through the front door, the security guard nodding us through, and by the time we find the elevator, he jerks me in, slams the close button, and brushes me up against the far wall.

  With Keir’s hands in my hair, I can’t think straight, nor do I want to. Lust dizzies and consumes me, clouding out my busy thoughts, if only temporarily.