The bartender recognized her, and he smiled. “Martini straight-up with gin, vermouth, and two olives.”
Liz smiled back and perched on the chair. Was Manly Man looking?
Nope, dammit. Maybe he wasn’t that into girls. Just her luck.
But the longer she subtly checked him out from beneath her lashes, the more her blood high-kicked its way through her.
Liz had never been shy, so why did the cat have her tongue now?
When he picked up a cigarette lighter from the bar where he’d set it next to his drink—a Manhattan?—she recognized the image on the casing: black Cleopatra hair, kitten-with-a-whip pose.
“Bettie Page,” she said, seeing her opening with him. Thank you, Destiny.
The man gave the lighter a good look, then nodded. “So it is.”
“I had a friend who was into her, for pure kitsch value, of course.” A costume designer from the years she’d worked on Blaze! at the Oceana, a dead hotel-casino on the Strip that’d closed down six months ago, after she’d retired.
“This belonged to a friend,” said the man. “He gave it to me before he left on a long trip.”
Forthcoming. She liked that in a man.
She extended her hand. “I’m Liz.”
He gave her a look that she couldn’t comprehend for a moment—something between ice and fire, disinterest and . . . more? But before she could decide, it went back to neutral.
“Ben.” He shook her hand.
Her skin came alive, a burst of whirring sparks spinning through her fingertips and up her arm, popping in her chest and spangling lower until her belly fizzed.
Hub-ba-ba-ba.
He disengaged, going back to his lighter, fiddling with it. She didn’t see any cigarettes nearby.
“You need a smoke?” she asked.
“I’m not in the habit.”
“Good.” So she was anti. Sue her. “I mean, I don’t have any cigarettes to give you.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Wow, he was to the point, but he’d said it with a slight grin. As she sat there deciding what that meant, she slid down in her chair ever so slightly.
“I’m only being polite,” she said with her own smile as the bartender brought her martini.
The man drained his cocktail, and Liz nodded to the bartender, ordering another for him.
When he glanced at her, she shrugged. “It’s on me.”
For some reason, his mouth went tight, but then the bartender brought his next cocktail, and he raised a glass.
“To Bettie Page,” he said.
She met his glass with hers, and they both drank. She watched him the whole time, his mannerisms feeling so familiar and not-so-familiar.
When she finished sipping and laughed a little, he loosened up.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing really.” She peered at him, her heartbeat racing again at the blue of his eyes. “It’s just that you remind me of someone . . .”
This time when his smile disappeared, Liz knew there had to be a good reason.
***
Had Liz Palazzo caught onto him?
Ben had never been in a situation where he needed to be anyone but himself, and he wasn’t sure he was pulling off this Joe-Blow-on-vacation imitation right now. Maybe it’d been a bad idea to pretend to be someone else so he could get into her good graces, finding out what she’d done with the money she’d taken from his brother’s room during their one night stand. Getting her to sign the non-disclosure agreement that was weighing in his pocket.
Was she an avid tabloid reader and she knew who he was? Or worse, was he somehow reminding her of Jameson? He and his brother weren’t dead ringers for each other, but was Ben more like him than he’d thought?
Either way, Liz Palazzo had a way of looking into Ben that made him shift in his seat. He itched to get back to his comfort zone, start up the old flirting machine, slipping his Rolex onto her wrist and whispering sweet nothings into her ear to distract her from everything else. Shiny things—and sinful ones—had always distracted him.
But she’d come over here because she’d been attracted to Joe Blow, not because he was buying a saloon full of people drinks or giving away expensive watches to one-night stands. For once, that felt kind of good, even if he was obviously just a poolside flirtation.
She was giving him a sultry look, the tips of her mouth lifted in a pink smile that was slightly and, yes, even adorably tipsy.
“Yup,” she said lazily. “You’re familiar, all right.”
Every nerve cell was alive, zinging with awareness, with a lust that nearly took his common sense over. Beautiful woman, interested woman, his kind of woman. Up close her eyes were even more vivid than in the phone picture, neon violet promises.
He gripped the Bettie Page lighter Cash Campbell had given him. It’d been as much of a sure conversation-starter as he’d been hoping. “How could you have seen me before when you just met me?”
“Oh, it’s not necessarily you I’ve seen.” She leaned on the bar with both arms, flashing the tops of those perfectly round breasts that’d fit right into his palms like they were made to be there.
Damn, he really wanted to strip off that bikini top. But this wasn’t the moment to be lusting when maybe she was about to tell him he resembled Jameson. Was his cover already blown?
She gave him another smoking hot look, stroking her finger over the stem of her martini glass. His very own misbehaving stem pulsed, and he looked away from her and at his drink.
Focus. This is how Jameson got into trouble with her, too.
Her voice was as smooth as the lapping pool water in the background. “You on vacation?” she asked.
“I am. You?”
“You could call it that.”
“Sounds like you have a story behind this trip.”
There it was—a smile from her, a getting-to-know-you-over-drinks step in the right direction. One of Bennett’s—and obviously Ben’s—specialties.
“We all have our stories,” she said with a careless shrug. “Mine just happens to include a man who didn’t quite work out for me. And that’s why I must drown my sorrows today.”
Was she referring to Jameson?
Besides being a little buzzed, she was being flip about her story. Surprisingly, there was even a sadness there, too. But how could she have given a crap about Jameson if she’d stolen from him?
At least she was talkative, but then again, most people he met at bars were like that. Booze, the social lubricant of choice for lonely people . . . or maybe just people who went to places like this to not be lonely.
Ben glanced at her again as she sipped her cocktail, one pinkie up. When she placed the glass back on the bar, she sighed, resting her head in her hand while she gave him another considering glance from beneath her lashes. Damn, they were long. They looked natural, too.
“And what’s your story?” she asked.
Relieved that she’d dropped the whole you-remind-me-of-so-and-so thing, he pocketed the lighter. “No story. As I said, I’m here for a few days of relaxation.”
“On your own?”
Forward, wasn’t she? He liked it, but he tamped that down, too. He was also beginning to suspect she’d never seen him in the tabloids. Was this working?
“Yes, all on my own.” He smiled back at her. “Where’s that man you’re running from? Is he somewhere around?”
“Heavens, no. I wouldn’t say I’m running from him, either. He flicked me out of his condo like I was an insect. A perfect storybook fantasy ending to our time together.” She stretched out her body as she leaned on the bar, emphasizing those breasts, the luscious curve of her back. “Anyway, it’s my friend Anita’s birthday, so we decided to live it up here for a few days. It’s a treat for us locals to come to the Strip like this.”
They were swerving off topic, so he tried to get them back on it. Maybe, after she downed that martini, he’d buy her another so she would give him even more of her story. “This definitely isn’t the kind of place the ninety-nine percent can come all the time.”
“Well, luckily, I’ve been making a lot of friends who like to buy girls drinks.” She nodded toward his Manhattan. “Consider yourself special, though. Right now, the tab’s on the man who left me high and dry.”
Jackpot. “What do you mean?”
She wound her red, bobbed hair around a finger, her gaze easing into his, pinning him, making his heart throb painfully, right along with other spots that couldn’t control themselves.
No wonder Jameson had brought her home.
“What I mean,” she said with that sad inflection again, “is that some people can only express affection with money. This man I’m talking about? He was one of them. We weren’t together long at all, but before we parted ways, he gave me a gift.” She shook her head and laughed. “God, I’m talking way too much. Martinis, you know?”
God bless martinis. “No, this is interesting. People don’t just give out money every day.” Or Rolexes. Not unless they were trying to buy something.
Affection? Attention?
It didn’t matter right now, because Ben had clearly pressed a button in her and she raised a finger to make a point.
“The gift was a nice gesture. Really. I’d been talking to him about all my plans for the future, and he told me to put some money toward them. That was a nice thing to do, right?”
Oh, she was good. “And what’re your plans, Liz?”
She perked up. “I’m going to own a restaurant someday—after I pay off some debts.” She hesitated, as if she didn’t want to reveal that much about herself. “Anyhow, how’s that for someone who used to eat brown rice and vegetables all the time? My place will be sexy and silky with the best steaks in town, an old school joint the Brat Pack would’ve gone to back in the day. Vegas is missing all that now, you know? The leopard-print lounges with vintage Hollywood pictures and ferns, the elegant drinks . . .”
He recognized the same glint in her eyes that Kat had gotten when she’d told him she’d always wanted to hang out at Mandalay Bay. He’d given in to Kat’s whim, but he couldn’t find a similar sympathy for Liz Palazzo.
Jameson had given her a parting “gift.” Bullshit. And even if Ben loved the idea of bringing back some old school to Vegas, he couldn’t afford to care for her so-called plans.
A gift. Yeah, good one.
She was laughing, obviously acknowledging again that she was being chatty. Maybe she was just one of those people who got attached to others right away, though. It’d explain how easily she’d hooked up with Jameson and gone to his rental property without getting to know him first.
“I have this philosophy,” she said. “Life is written in the stars. I met him because he was supposed to help me realize my dream.”
“So this man . . .” Ben said, steering the conversation once more. “He must’ve given you a big gift if it was meant to help you start up a restaurant. Those don’t come cheap.”
“Oh, he said it was only something to get me going. See, after he got wasted, he just dug in his pocket and, boom—there it was, a wad of rich man’s carry-around cash. He put it on the kitchen table, like he was serving it right up to me on a platter.” Another shrug, another sip of her martini. “Then he passed out, but I’m pretty sure it was his intention to kiss me off that way. When I tried to wake him up in the morning, he told me to get out, so I did.” She drew in a breath, straightened up in her chair. “Seriously—you don’t want to hear me crying into my drink. That’s not what Vegas is for!”
He didn’t answer, because what he was hearing about Jameson’s “gift” flew in the face of what his brother had told him. Who should he believe—his own flesh and blood or this barfly who was buying him drinks with Jameson’s money? Vegas was full of con people, and she might’ve been no exception. Hell, a lot of cons even hung out at the R&T with him.
Maybe, with all the women he sweet-talked, he was even one of those himself.
“Anyway,” she said, “I’m totally saving that money.”
“For your dream?” And the debts she’d mentioned?
“You got it. But my girl over there”—she gestured toward the pool—“does deserve some birthday love, too. Still, after this, it’ll be buckle-down time with the finances.”
If he didn’t know any better, he might think that Liz Palazzo was feeding him a tale about her monetary woes, priming him and shaking him down for free drinks or a night on the town, making him feel like a big man for helping a girl out. But he wasn’t dressed like someone who could throw bills around the Strip—not like Bennett Hughes would’ve been.
She wanted something else from him entirely . . .
Just as he almost started getting way too excited about that, five water-slicked women bounded over to them, their bikini tops on.
One with rosy-tan Latina skin and long dark hair that trailed in a wet, curly bundle over her shoulder dropped into the seat on the other side of Liz. “What’s cookin’, hot stuff?”
Liz gestured to Ben. “Anita, Ben. Ben, Anita.” She indicated the other three females who clustered near Anita. “Darcie, Parisa, Mai, and Carolann.”
He recognized the girls who’d been in the pool when he’d walked in, and all of them had showgirl figures, tall, slim and sculpted. However, none of them could compete with Liz Palazzo of the perfectly round, pink-tipped breasts
“Hey, Ben,” they said together, then ordered cocktails from the bartender.
Ben’s dander rose at the thought that the drinks were on Jameson, but he smiled at Anita as she threw down a bright blue shot of something foo-foo and slung an arm over Liz’s shoulder.
“Not that we want to interrupt, but it was time to wet the whistles. I, myself, intend to take full advantage of being served instead of serving!”
Liz gestured to all of them. “Waitresses.”
As the other girls turned to chat with the bartender, Anita nodded. “Except for Liz, here. She was the last of us to retire from our main gigs because she was featured in her job, but she says she’s going to be slinging drinks in a lounge soon.”
A featured showgirl, huh? It meant that Liz had been paid more and higher esteemed, although showgirls didn’t get paid all that much.
But it was time to play dumb. “You’re all too young to retire from whatever it is you were doing.”
Anita slid a glance to Liz, and if Ben knew anything about girl communication, she was asking a question.
How much did you tell him? If only she knew how freely the information had flowed.
Liz took another drink, then said, “We were all showgirls once upon a time.”
Anita said, “We don’t tell every guy we meet. Some of them don’t know how to handle it. What a pain.”
Liz clinked glasses with Anita. “And some guys get way too into the whole showgirl mystique—”
“Because they want to screw a Vegas icon so bad they don’t know how to deal—” Anita said over Liz.
“And they ask these questions you wouldn’t believe. But we can trust Ben to be mature about it, Ani.”
“Excellent,” her friend said, hunkering down on the bar by crossing her arms and addressing Ben from around Liz. “So you’re not gonna ask dumb questions?”
“Like what?”
“Let’s see . . . ‘What’s it like to be naked in front of a crowd?’ ‘Do you put ice cubes on your nips before you go on stage, like they did in Showgirls?’ What they come up with is downright nervy.”
“So we get to know guys before we spill the truth.” Liz smiled, probably thinking about how much she’d already said to Ben.
It was interesting that she’d been way more forthcom
ing about her love life woes while holding back on her own identity. But maybe she was doing the same thing he was—keeping the most important part of herself back.
Don’t get too intrigued, he thought.
Anita braced a hand on Liz’s shoulder. “We’re the last of a dying breed, aren’t we, chica?”
Liz swirled the alcohol in her glass. “Yup. The big revues are being squeezed out by all the Cirque du Soleil this-or-that. You don’t see shows anymore with sixty showgirls in a cast. If you’re not a novelty act then . . .”
Anita made a cutthroat motion and made a sound effect to go with it.
It was time for some buddying up. “I think I saw Jubilee!, Folies Bergere, and Blaze! more than a few times. It’s too bad about the closures.”
Anita jumped. “We were in Blaze! before the Oceana closed.”
Ah, the Oceana. He’d spent more than a few nights there. Talk about old school. The hotel-casino had been run by a guy who was as mob as they came, and it’d held on for as long as it could before the corporations had fully taken over Vegas.
He looked down to feel Liz’s gaze on him, her smile lackadaisical, her finger circling the rim of her martini glass as if she was picturing doing . . . things . . . to him. Dammit.
Then Anita clutched Liz’s shoulder, drawing her attention away from him. Dammit about that, too.
“I like this guy,” she said. As the bartender slid her another shot, she reached out and tossed back that one, too. She licked her lips and smiled. “He could be a friend.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Liz said, grinning.
Excitement pierced him, needles in his skin, and he wasn’t sure if it was because he was getting closer to sussing out the truth of Jameson’s “gift” to Liz Palazzo and then having her sign the non-disclosure agreement, or if it was because of the libidinous gleam in her eyes.
Anita peered at him, then at Liz, a secretive smile on her lips. Then she backed away from them. “We’re going to the rooms for some shut eye and room service, Lizzie. Got to conserve energy for happy hour.”
Rough and Tumble Page 28