Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (12 page)

“Aw, damn.” Leah leaned down to look in the window. “Does that mean no karaoke tonight?”

“It’s Wednesday, Princess,” Jon said on a sigh. “Don’t you ever slow down?”

“Come on. It’s more fun if everyone’s there. Bring the chick.”

“What makes you think I’m seeing a woman tonight?”

Leah only rolled her eyes. “Gee, because you’re not gay?”

“Heather’s not the karaoke type.” But as soon as he said it, Jon realized he had no idea if that was true. He could picture her onstage, in a pool of white light as she sang some ballad. She’d do it with her eyes closed, ignoring her fear and getting lost in the song.

That would be amazing to see.

“Children, children,” Ryan said with a laugh. “Can we please get back on task?”

Leah grinned. “Giving Tin Tin crap is my primary directive.”

Her insistence on using the call sign he hated was another of her special gifts. Ryan lightly cuffed her on the shoulder, but his expression sobered.

Jon sobered back. “Was there something you needed to talk to me about?” The faster they got business over with, the faster he could get to Heather.

“Definitely. Today’s classes did
not
go well, and part of it was your fault. You can’t keep dogging the new guy. Kisser’s earned his place here, same as anyone.”

Captain Eric “Kisser” Donaghue. The bane of his recent professional existence.

Jon clenched the steering wheel. “He deserved it.”

“We’re here to train incoming pilots. Not hand our own squadron mates their asses.”

“Kicking that hotshot’s ass
is
good training.” He managed to infuse his voice with a parody of humor, but it was tough. Calling the man a hotshot was an understatement. He was all short dick and big ego. If allowed to continue, he’d get someone shot down. Odds weren’t good he’d do the world a favor and make sure it was him.

Jon knew he was still touchy about his right to be in the Aggressors. He was probably too young, too green. Most folks were good enough to ignore how many strings his father had pulled to land Jon at Nellis. But he’d made members of the 64
^th
into his second family. He’d never really be versed in how to trust a
real
family, so they were the best he’d ever have. Putting up with shit that risked their lives was a fucking no-go.

“Agreed,” Ryan said with a slight smile. “He’s arrogant and needs a little…seasoning. But not by you. If the CO gets wind of it, your ass will be hemmed up. Prove you can do him some good rather than just flinging trash. Otherwise I’ll pair you with another pilot for the next week of sorties.”

“And then there goes my fun. Are we done?”

Ryan’s gaze was steady and unwavering as he probed. His unwillingness to back down was one of the qualities that made him a good leader. “For now,” was all he said. He patted the roof of the car as he stood and walked away. Leah followed, tossing a wave over her shoulder.

Fucking hell. Jon drummed his fingers on the open window of the Aston Martin. He’d been still riding high on the frustration of trying to teach Donaghue a lesson when Heather’s call came through. Talking her through her orgasm, spilling dirty French words out as quickly as he could think of them, had been a hell of a way to unwind. Now that outlet had dissolved.

He’d just have to see one of her orgasms in person and work on a few of his own.

Jon wasn’t sure why he was taken aback that Heather lived in an actual house. He’d assumed she was just like him, efficient and modern and living in a condo.

Instead, the tidy Craftsman bungalow on the outskirts of Vegas had plenty of character. The walls were stucco. A porch made of dark-stained wooden beams clung to the front as he walked up the path.

When he rang the doorbell, he heard no response from inside. He checked his watch. Six on the dot. The Air Force had taught him punctuality, even if it had failed to help him ignore dickweeds who put his friends at risk.

He shoved the memory of Donaghue and his air jockeying away. Tonight was about Heather and her birthday. He rang the doorbell again.

This time came the quiet clatter of high heels across wooden floors. The door swung open.

“You look gorgeous.”

“That took you somewhere around three-fourths of a second to say.” Her smile was secretive again—teasing him, sure, but with a darker edge. “I’m supposed to believe you?”

He tugged her close. The kiss he stole was slow. Careful. Hopefully tantalizing as hell. “It doesn’t take me any longer than that to see you.”

Pure truth, just like he always spoke.

She wore a dark green wraparound dress that dipped low across her cleavage and clung to her tiny waist. Red lipstick turned her mouth into a lush pout of eroticism—and reminded Jon to wipe their kiss off his lips with a linen handkerchief. She’d swept her hair up again, baring the smooth line of her neck. His skin twitched at the memory of his hands there.

He shoved that away too, along with the beginnings of an erection. Oh, he planned to get to that, but later. He wanted to pick her apart, figure out what made her tick.

He wasn’t exactly the relationship type—lack of shining examples and all that. But even he saw the appeal of sticking together for another time or two. What made her able to walk away from their single night together when he’d relived so many moments?

He liked tucking her into his car. Heather was a woman to be pampered, whether she knew it or not. She looked up at him as she gracefully swung her legs inside. “Where are we going?”

He rounded to the driver’s side before answering. “La Rocca. I still owe you dinner.”

“You were able to get reservations that easily? You
have
to explain that one. Jenn and I waited three months.”

He kept his speed down as the powerful car rumbled through Heather’s quiet neighborhood. At some point he intended to get them out on the open road and let it rip. He wanted to know if she’d love it as much as he did.

“My parents were one of Mr. La Rocca’s earliest patrons. They staked his first restaurant in Hyannis.”

She twisted in the bucket seat, watching him. “Hyannis? As in Kennedy-compound Hyannis?”

“Near enough.” He smiled at her. “Impressed?”

“Surprised is more like it.” Pale blue eyes narrowed. “Carlisle and Hyannis. Why does that sound so familiar?”

“Because my grandfather was a post-war financial pioneer. Pretty sure his theories are still taught in the universities.”

“He certainly was in mine. Not just for his aggressive investment strategies but for shutting down his firm.”

“Turned out my father had absolutely zero interest in working. At anything.” Jon rolled stiff shoulders. “Grandfather was rather disheartened. Always said he should’ve waited around for me.”

“How in the world did you end up in the Air Force?”

“It’s the only way to fly fighter jets.” He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles without taking his eyes off the road. Then he nibbled softly on the pad of her thumb. “And ladies love a fighter pilot.”

She shivered, but she was too smart to be put off the scent. “No,” she said, drawing the word out. “That’s not it. Not all of it, at least. You’d never be hurting for female companionship.”

He blew out a tight breath. They were halfway to the restaurant. If he worked it right, he could distract her, but he found himself talking anyway—part of Heather’s strange magic. “It’s the rush and the challenge. My older sister died when I was in my freshman year of high school.”

She made a soft sound of sympathy, but he shook it off.

“It was sad,” he said, keeping his tone even. Just facts. “But it also helped me find flying. After…that, I spent a lot of time with the pilots who flew my dad’s private jet. As soon as I stepped in the cockpit, I knew where I had to be.”

“And you had to be the best of the best.”

“Of course,” he said glibly. This wasn’t how he’d meant to start their evening. His ribs felt compressed. “What’s the point of doing anything if you’re not the best?”

Silence filtered through the cabin of the car, broken only by the steady rumble of the engine and some idiot honking two lanes over. Jon slid his ass an inch or two in the seat. Uncomfortable wasn’t even the word. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d mentioned Sara, not even in passing. His parents didn’t like to talk about her, and Jon’s closest friends knew only the barest details.

Heather’s hand smoothed over his thigh. The muscles he’d inadvertently flexed suddenly eased under the touch.

“I know one thing you’re the best at,” she finally said.

He allowed himself to chuckle. “I thought you were worried about my ego.”

“Maybe I’ve decided I deserve another birthday present.”

“That’s a certainty.”

“Jon?” Her voice hit that husky timbre he was coming to know—and to anticipate. “You should know something.”

“Oh?”

She scraped her nails over his slacks. “I didn’t wear panties tonight.”

He slanted her a long, hungry look despite the traffic on the Strip. Heather, bare under that clingy dress. Any arousal would paint the tops of her thighs with moisture.

She was playing dirty pool. Jon had no idea how he’d keep his hands off her through dinner.

Chapter Fifteen

They weren’t going to make it to La Rocca. Heather had started to think of the restaurant as her own white whale. Roadblocks closed off main avenues as police directed traffic onto side streets. The lights of two ambulances and a fire truck in the distance meant this was no ordinary evening snarl.

“I have an idea,” she said. “Pull off here, into the Wynn.”

Jon nodded and smoothly took advantage of a momentary break in the oncoming traffic. He zipped onto Wynn Avenue. More cars. The line for the valet was backed up to the street.

“Forget it.” Heather pointed. “Drive back to the self-park.”

His dubious expression, with an eyebrow arched in blueblood disdain, made her smile. Such a snob she’d found. Not for the first time she wondered what he would make of her upbringing. But then her thoughts strayed toward what he would think of her parents, should they ever meet—and that stopped her quick.

No future. No plans.

She rummaged for her BlackBerry as Jon navigated toward the self-park garage. After scrolling through her contacts, she placed the call. “Hello, Peter? It’s Heather Morris. I wonder if you could do me a huge favor?”

Peter Bloom was her main contact at the Wynn. The confirmed workaholic was probably still at his desk in the corporate offices on the north side. Sane people stayed away from the Strip, even if it was their business.

“Anything, Heather. I can’t recall you ever asking.”

“Never had the need.” She liked that she used her favors judiciously, hoarding them like a squirrel with acorns. “Could you snag me a table at The Country Club, maybe the corporate table out by the falls?”

“No one has it this evening, that I know of. I’ll do what I can.”

“And phone in a temp tag too?”

“Of course. Any chance you can do my visit a week early in repayment?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. We have half your prep work to do yet.”

“What, you can’t bend time and space?”

“One day I’ll get it right. Thanks again.”

Heather switched off the call as Jon pulled the DBS around to the parking structure. She directed him to an upper level reserved for professional visitors. Unlike the lower ramps where cars jockeyed for any available space, the guest area was nearly deserted. Heather chatted with the security guard, who called in to confirm their temp tag.

“That’s good news.” She took Jon’s arm as they crossed toward the pedestrian exit. “Peter works fast and he never takes no for an answer.”

“Peter?”

“My contact here at the Wynn. We do their audits.”

“So, Ms. Morris can pull a few strings of her own? Nice.”

She smiled, inordinately proud of being able to swing this. Jon was rich as Croesus, but she’d worked too hard not to benefit from her dedication and skill.

The resort was abuzz with activity, regardless of it being a Wednesday night. Sin City had no regard for days of the week. Heather pressed more deeply against Jon’s body as they navigated through the corridors. Tourists queued for an evening show.

If anything, his attire was even more immaculate than what he’d worn to the wine tasting. This was Jon making an effort. His vest was a striking silk brocade in colors of deep blue and charcoal gray, flecked with silver threads. The suit itself was a classic wool blend in matching charcoal. Its trim, tailored cut was almost mod, accentuating his lean strength. A midnight-blue tie and a crisp white collar circled his throat. The tendons along his nape looked especially powerful, revealed by his buzz cut.

She didn’t know how she could stand it. The urge to tug him into a dark corner and hitch her legs around his hips was almost too powerful. Only the knowledge that they were in a casino, with the universe’s most intense camera and security systems, kept her on good behavior. For now.

The Country Club was themed with Scottish décor, as if they’d traveled across the Atlantic instead of across town. Jon eyed the place with a satisfying degree of approval. She had to stop hoping to impress him. It gave away the power she fought so hard to keep.

“Ms. Morris,” said the maître d’ as they arrived. “Mr. Bloom told us to expect you. Right this way.”

Minutes later they settled at the table reserved for wining and dining the Wynn’s various subcontractors. Situated on a golf course, the forty-foot waterfall off the eighteenth green created a white-noise backdrop. Conversations felt almost private, with the sounds of the Strip washed away. The idyllic, lush setting seemed so far removed from the sparse desert just beyond its obsessively tended limits.

“Nice,” Jon said, his gaze lost over the rolling course. “Very nice.”

Heather swallowed a heady bubble of fulfillment. Her birthday. Her little magic trick.

“May I take your drink order, ma’am?”

“Scottish milkshake,” she said without hesitation.

Jon shot her an incredulous look then returned his attention to the fresh-faced male waiter. “
Cuvée Speciale Cent Cinquantenaire
.”