“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me a secret, Liz.”
He said it in such a way that she was bound to give him all her secrets—and more.
As a trill of longing sang through her, she said, “I still adore eighties songs. I can’t get enough of them.”
He looked into his drink, still smiling. Then he gave her a lowered gaze that made those trills turn into soft screams of need.
“Bruce Springsteen,” he said. “He’s more my kind of eighties.”
Duran Duran had segued into some Asia—“Heat of the Moment.” She moved to the opening chords, pumping her fists at the emphatic guitar licks. “I don’t know. I’d put Bruce up against this any day.”
“No way.” But he listened in, and the next time the guitar lick hit the air, he lightly pounded the bar to the beat.
“You’re so sold!” she said, pointing at him, drinking more of that sweet nectar of the frozen gods until her brain was almost iced. She didn’t care, though, not when she was in such a jubilant mood.
“Okay, you got me,” he said. “I’m a stealth eighties appreciator. If you tell anyone, I swear I’ll . . .”
He lightly encircled his fingers around her neck, and she touched them with a meaningful stroke.
The air hung there, awareness making it thick. Just as she thought he was either going to kiss her or kill her, he took the straw out of his container and drank some of his neon cocktail like a man who needed it.
Why? She still wasn’t sure about anything with him.
Then he left the counter. Confused, she followed. Was he married and he’d been lying to her? What was his deal?
As they walked, Ben inspected his frozen drink. “This is really sweet. I’ve never been to one of these frozen cocktail bars.”
And now he was back to being conversational. Wow, he was hard to get a bead on. “It’s like Kool-Aid, right?”
“If that’s your thing.”
“Hey, along with old New-Wave music and Ed Grimley, it’s totally my thing.”
He laughed again, maybe because he knew what a throwback Ed Grimley was—a small geeky man playing his little triangle and hopping around on Saturday Night Live sketches. Maybe Ben wasn’t about to admit he knew about him, though. If she were a tall, solid man who was as cool as they came, she’d never admit to being a secret nerd, either.
She was actually surprised she’d admitted that thing about her mom and eighties music to him. She rarely talked about the woman to anyone, even her friends, but hearing “Rio” had brought her back for a moment: Mom during one of her lighter days, her red hair in curlers as she vacuumed the apartment, dancing around to her records. Liz—or Maddie, as she’d been called back then—had been old enough to form vapor-thin recollections, but after a few years had passed, she’d realized that those records had meant a whole lot to Mom. They’d both danced and danced to them some days, and it had been one of the few times they’d shared something. At some point, though, Liz had realized that having a common taste in music wasn’t enough to bond her mom to her, that those flashes of a warm, vibrant woman were few and far between, because, most of the time, Liz had felt like Mom’s Great Mistake.
Liz left it behind, though, noticing that Ben had drained his drink, relaxing him a little. She could tell because his shoulders weren’t as stiff now.
He totally needed another. Or maybe she was only thinking that because she was just a quarter done with her peach bombellini and she was flying.
She dragged him into another entrance to Haven, which stretched down the boulevard for what seemed like miles. Didn’t this place ever end?
“Gotta take a pit stop,” she said, scoping out the nearest restroom in the lobby that led to trendy clothes stores and restaurants.
He didn’t seem to mind, not even when she took a bit longer to send a text to Anita. And when they met back in the entranceway to return to the street . . .
A miracle happened.
Yes, it did. If she were sober, it probably only would’ve been a coincidence, but now? High-flying cosmos coming together to give her the best night ever.
God, she loved tonight.
At the south entrance to the Haven complex, where limousines and cabs drove into a carport, she spotted a limo driver lingering by his stretched black vehicle, chatting with a couple walking by like he was trying to pick up some business.
Liz linked arms with Ben, making them swerve toward the carport. “My feet hurt.”
Such a lie, but a limo seemed like such a fun idea. If this was her last hurrah before buckling down and paying off her debt, she wanted to go out in style.
Ben rested a hand on hers, like he’d forgotten about getting all gun-shy with her earlier. “Where’re you taking us?”
Hah! That foofy drink had gotten to him. He sounded a touch buzzed.
“I’m taking you somewhere that’ll give me a break from these heels.” She was slurring, thanks to the frozen foofy, too. “Baby, I might’ve spent years parading on a stage in these things, but why do it if I don’t have to now? It’ll be bad enough when I get a waitressing job and stomp around on spikes all night.”
The limo driver saw them coming, and his smile gleamed under his cap. He was a massive man in a tie and suit, Samoan, handsome and young.
“Good evening, lady and sir! How’s your night?”
“Fantastic,” Liz said, stopping and leaning against Ben. “You wouldn’t happen to . . .”
“Be available? As luck would have it, I had a client cancel at the last minute.”
Yes!
Liz was already leading Ben to the back door of the limo, which the driver had opened. He could read a room, that guy.
“This is my treat,” she whispered to Ben.
Did his shoulders go stiff again? Yeesh. Let a girl take care of a guy, she thought. He didn’t have to be that much of a gentleman and pay for her every whim tonight.
“How much?” she asked the driver, giving him her nearly empty plastic drink cup, with its stretchy tube neck. Everything in Vegas seemed to be stretched at the moment—drinks, limos, the boulevard . . .
And even her heartbeat, every time she thought about what might happen inside that limo. What she hoped would happen.
“How much for you?” the driver asked. “A deal, miss. Let’s say a hundred and thirty dollars and a fuel surcharge for two hours. Wet bar isn’t included.”
Sounded pretty decent to her.
Ben didn’t seem to think so. “Isn’t that close to the going rate?” he asked.
The driver shrugged cordially. “Okay. It’s the slow season out here in Vegas, so I’ll make you a better deal. How about a hundred dollars total? Liquor still not included.”
Ben lifted up a finger, like he was going to bargain even more, but Liz pulled him into the blue-lit extravagance of the limo, with its tinted windows, leather interior, wet bar, and even a flat-screen TV. He plopped onto the long seat beside her, and when the driver peered into the doorway, she grabbed Ben’s empty cocktail container and gave that over, too.
The driver tipped his hat to them with his free hand. “The next two hours are yours, lady and sir.”
“Excellent,” Liz said. “And we’re totally having stuff from the wet bar.”
Ben cleared his throat, but she was already concentrating on what the driver was saying next.
“Any place you want to see?”
“Red Rock.” Liz turned to Ben. He was so close that her nose was inches from his neck. Jeez, his neck smelled goood. “It’s down the interstate, all these beautiful red rocks and mountains and . . .”
“Miss,” the driver said, “the conservation area’s scenic loop isn’t open right now. . . .”
“S’okay. You can just drive us there and anywhere.” Liz saluted him. Boy, that peachboobla bomb lini thing had been high-octane. “Just so’s we end up at Le Gal-lay-lon, we’re good.”
“Your wish is my command,” the driver said. “My name’s Te’o. Let me know if you need anything.�
�
He efficiently took care of business, showing them around the limo, then closing the door. He climbed inside the front, raising the privacy divider. As he drove, Liz turned on the stereo, finding a local station that played retro music, then sat there with a silly smile on her face.
Just one last night of luxury and lust, she thought.
One night of fantasy with a man named Ben.
***
That frozen drink had hit Ben harder than he’d thought possible, and he probably should’ve grabbed a bite while they were walking because he hadn’t had anything to eat since a snack he’d thrown down a couple hours ago. But did he give a shit now?
Not when he had a leggy, supremely gorgeous woman in a limo with him. The purple dress made her eyes more violet than ever, and even if his vision was blurring around the edges, there was no doubt that she was the most beautiful redhead he’d ever seen. No—the most beautiful woman, period. And she liked eighties music. Who knew? Shit, his brothers had always mocked Ben for listening to that “old stuff.” Evidently, no one really understood the eighties except for Liz Palazzo.
Even more than that, though, she was treating him to a limo ride. Bennett Hughes, who could afford a fleet of limos. Yeah, she was no doubt using Jameson’s money, but Ben would take care of that situation tonight.
He’d been wrong about her before, though, when he’d assumed that she’d been spending all that money on Bordello when it’d really been Donell Whitehouse. Maybe she deserved a bit of leeway until Ben could get the full story. Not a lot of leeway, but just an inch would do.
“So, hey,” she said, her arm still linked with his. The pressure of her breast pressing against him put the screws to his groin, and he tried not to moan. It’d been tough enough to bring down the burgeoning woody he’d had back at Bordello.
“Hey, what?” he answered.
“Hey, how do you know about how much a limo costs?”
She was dippy and buzzed, but alert enough. Actually, she was in a good spot for the errand he had to complete—she’d be receptive to the talk he needed to have with her as soon as the limo hit the road and they were settled in.
“Men know stuff like limo prices,” he said. “It’s in our DNA.”
“Oh, kinda like how they also know directions without a map or how to do everything around a house or make drinks without recipes?”
“DNA.”
“Women can do the same things, just so you know.”
As if to prove it, she leaned over him, climbing to the wet bar and grabbing the champagne from an ice bucket, then giving the bottle to him. Her skirt had ridden up, giving him a pleasing view of the curve of her derriere, and he only now let go of the breath he’d been holding.
Talk, he thought. That’s all he had to do tonight was talk to her. No funny stuff or Jameson would kill him.
She pointed at him. “Pop that cork, baby.”
With a little more encouragement, he’d pop for real. He liked her wild side, just as much as he liked the wildness of the women at the Rough & Tumble. More than that, though, he liked that Liz had no idea who he was but she still seemed to be into him, and that set her apart from the Rough & Tumbles. He hadn’t even walked out of his hotel room with a Rolex to give her, and she wasn’t expecting one.
He undid the wire cage on top of the stopper, then finessed the cork out until it popped. He did it smoothly enough to prevent any foam from appearing—only smoke, lazy and sensual as it drifted and disappeared.
Usually he liked to open champagne with one slash of a knife, the showier the presentation the better. But when Liz raised her eyebrows in approval at this simple move, he grinned.
She took two flutes from the bar, then poured about an ounce of vodka into each, handing him one so she could store the bottle away. After she held out her flute to him, she said, “Fill her up the rest of the way, please.”
“Vodka and champagne?”
“It’s delish, and a whole lot safer than the peach-boob-a-linis we just had.”
He chuckled. She was funny, and he was having a great time, even if he needed to keep it in check. Sure, it wasn’t brilliant to mix what they’d been mixing tonight, but he could handle his liquor.
After she stowed away the champagne, she offered a toast.
“Early to rise and early to bed makes a male healthy and wealthy and dead.” She shrugged. “I heard that on some TV show, but I don’t know where.”
Before he thought about it, he said, “James Thurber. That’s who said it.”
Thanks to prep school for that gem. And . . . shit. Would Joe Blow have known that?
As she looked at Ben with surprise, he shrugged it off. “I had an uncle who was a lit professor. It rubbed off.”
Liar. He had no such uncle. But it hadn’t been as if the truth was his pal lately. Lying would get him what Jameson had asked him to get from her.
At the thought of his brother, a snap of something like resentment got to him. His family couldn’t care less about him except for having him run an errand like this, and drinking was just exacerbating the bitterness Ben had tried to push way down until it didn’t matter anymore.
He felt it matter now.
Nonetheless, he tapped his flute against Liz’s and they drank. Not a bad taste, either.
Soon, she’d put her flute in a glass holder, stretching herself along the cushion and resting her arm on the back of the seat. She laid her head in the crook of her elbow, wrapping her arm over her head, her other arm on her hip.
Shit, she was hot, and his hands itched to trace her curves: from hip to waist, coasting over her breasts until she gasped as she had back in the club, after he’d pressed her hard against his cock.
It’d been a stupid, thoughtless move he’d regretted at the time, but now, it seemed perfectly logical to go there. Natural.
God help him.
She must’ve seen his gaze traveling her, and her lips parted, her gaze filling with a passion that made his libido flicker.
Was she playing him like she’d played Jameson? Right now, with the frozen drink—which had been strong, even for a guy—and this Liz Palazzo cocktail clouding his mind, he couldn’t imagine she had bad intentions. Call him weak when it came to women, but this one seemed so real with the way her gaze caressed him, showing an emotion women didn’t usually have for him.
His defenses slipped a bit, and he glanced away from her.
“You sure like to string girls along,” she said. “Don’t you, Ben?”
If only she knew. What was the smartest way to go about carrying out this errand now? His brain was telling him to keep talking, easing her into the subject of Jameson and his money since she’d been so willing to spill the story earlier. But his body?
It was gradually taking his brain over, like a shuddering eclipse blocking all rational thought.
And when she brazenly slipped her dress straps down her arms, revealing the tops of her breasts, his brain went a little darker.
“What do you want, Ben?” she whispered.
He wanted Jameson to know that he could depend on his brother. He wanted some respect, for once. He wanted . . .
His thoughts went black. He was starting to really resent his family for making him want these things. For years, none of them had cared enough to fly out and spend any time with him; Ben wasn’t even sure he was a person in their eyes, just another sperm deposit from Dear Old Dad . . .
When Liz slid the straps down even more, everything just above her nipples was exposed, and Ben’s resentment grew.
Then again, so did other, more urgent things.
“Back at the club,” Liz said, “it seemed pretty obvious what you wanted. Are you too much of a gentleman to have it now, even if it’s only for one night?”
He was the complete opposite of a gentleman, and he really should tell her that before things went any further. But his grip on his willpower was slipping.
And when she pulled her dress the rest of the way down to reveal all
of her breasts, including those ravishing pink tips he’d seen at the European pool today, every one of Ben’s best intentions flew right out the window, desire ruling him . . . as well as something else.
Fuck the family, he thought as Liz reached up to cup the back of his head and bring him down for a kiss. And hello, beautiful . . .
7
As Liz brought Ben’s mouth against hers, fire fanned inside her, reaching every corner, biting and gnawing with a scorching bliss.
Finally! It seemed like Liz had been waiting for hours to feel his lips, tasting the champagne and vodka on him, his mouth soft and searching, drawing at hers in a leisurely yet forceful rhythm.
All his politeness and distance had been driving her insane minute by building minute until she couldn’t take it anymore, so, dammit, she’d seized the moment, banking on the fact that he was a man and she was a woman and she was gonna have her way with him.
She was sure having it now, her mouth tingling under the delicious pressure of his. And when he skimmed a thumb over her bared nipple, she opened her lips in a hot-and-bothered gasp.
Her breasts had already been stimulated just from the way he’d looked at her, his gaze burning blue flame, showing her that he was all hers for the next couple of hours. But now, at his gentle touch, her nipple pulsed, beading for him, aching for more. And that wasn’t the only thing aching on her—she was wet and pounding between her legs.
Stifling a moan, she licked his upper lip, and he met her tongue with his, slow and easy, teasing her, torturing her right before he stroked deep inside her mouth, making her lean back her head like she didn’t have any muscles in her body anymore.
Steam, she thought. Her bones had turned to steam, whooshing through her so fast that it was the only thing keeping her together.
He caressed her face with his fingertips, his other hand still tracing leisurely patterns on her breast, around her nipple, bringing it to such a peak that she nearly bit him in utter pleasure.
When he slid his mouth to her throat, she threaded her fingers into his hair. So thick and gold.
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