Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (3 page)

A delicious shiver skated up her arms.

Jon didn’t seem tense at all. He downshifted as they hit another red light. She found herself watching his wrist, his hand, his tapered, elegant fingers. Everything about him was efficient, with no wasted effort, while still maintaining that easy grace.

She wanted to talk, if only as a distraction against her sudden fascination, only she didn’t trust her voice.

He pulled up to The Palazzo’s valet stand. La Rocca’s was located inside. “And here we are.”

Heather reached for her cashmere blazer. Even slightly stained, it was more appropriate than wearing her camisole to dinner.

“Leave it,” Jon said.

“No way. You know why I can’t.”

“Oh?”

She met his innocent gaze head-on. “You haven’t been able to take your eyes off it.”

“Not true.” He leaned across the armrest, edging into her space. “Your mouth is just as erotic as your nipple ring.”

Heat sizzled in her lungs and between her legs. Her nipples tightened, as if simply saying the words aloud had roused their curiosity.

“Heather, c’mon. You know Las Vegas. No one will be paying attention…except for me.” He pulled back and shrugged, as controlled as when he’d driven the convertible. “You decide.”

Two uniformed valets opened their doors. Jon handed over his keys and slipped away, leaving her behind. Heather sat there, the blazer in her lap.

The valet cleared his throat. After one last deep breath, she emerged into the desert night. The blazer lay in a heap on her seat.

Jon’s mouth quirked as he offered his arm. She took it, knowing that a very different woman had stepped out of his Aston Martin—some version of herself she hadn’t been in a long time.

La Rocca’s was not what outsiders might expect of Las Vegas, where glitz skirted so near to tasteless. The lobby was elegant almost to the point of invisibility. No touch shone brighter than the rest. The result was understated, even soothing. The décor said that any patron deserved to know true luxury. A beguiling idea.

“Mr. Carlisle,” said a man in a flawless tuxedo. “Good to see you again.”

“Mr. La Rocca. Out mingling with the serfs, I see.” Jon extended his hand. Heather could only watch as the two greeted one another with such familiarity. It seemed Jon hadn’t been lying about dining there. “I love the new watch,” he said.

“Thanks,” said the restaurateur. “How’s your father?”

“Nothing changes back home. You know that. Same grumpy bastard as always.”

Heather did a double take. At the mention of his father, Jon’s voice had taken on a brittle edge, so different than his otherwise cultured cool.

Mr. La Rocca checked the reservation book. “I didn’t see you on the guest list.”

“I’m Ms. Morris’s plus one.”

Mr. La Rocca turned his eyes to Heather, cataloging her assets with far less polish than Jon had. “Enchanting.”

Jon’s forearm tensed beneath her hand. “Isn’t she, though?”

“But now that you’re here…” Mr. La Rocca’s expression turned solicitous. “Perhaps I can beg a favor?”

“Beg away.”

Heather caught his bemused smile and stifled one of her own.

“There’s a diplomat in town from Paris,” Mr. La Rocca said. “He’s at the bar with his, ah, companion. They didn’t have a reservation, and of course we’re booked full…”

Screwing up her mouth, Heather figured out his angle. The dirty old man wanted their table.

She was ready to protest when Jon covered her hand and squeezed. “Make it worth our while, Mr. La Rocca.”

“Fifty dollars in house chips?”

“I don’t know. What do you think, Ms. Morris? Is fifty dollars enough to assuage your disappointment?”

Heather looked at both men in turn. This was an opportunity to take a stand. “Make it one hundred. And have your best dessert ready to pick up when we call it a night.”

Mr. La Rocca grinned. “A fellow snake charmer, Jon? I’ll tell Patrick to set you up.”

As the restaurant’s owner went to settle the details, Jon leaned close. His breath touched her ear a moment before his nose brushed her temple. “Well played.”

Her heart rate doubled, giving lie to the idea that she’d made the demand to spite Mr. La Rocca. Jon’s whispered appreciation had been the goal all along. It wasn’t enough to pick up the gauntlets he threw down. She felt compelled to impress him while doing so.

Jon Carlisle was, quite simply, dangerous.

Chips in hand, they wove back through the resort. Heather felt dwarfed by soaring ceilings and Italian-style columns. Her eyes were drawn to touches of gold and columns of pure white marble. The main casino floor was busy, as always, full of countless conversations and the sounds of games in full swing. However, like the rest of the hotel’s high-end décor, there wasn’t an ounce of tacky in sight, not even in the powder room she ducked into. This was the playground of adults with taste.

She handed Jon the stack of ten-dollar chips. “Your choice.”

“Isn’t that a privilege usually reserved for the lady?”

“This
is
my privilege. Your choice.” Curiosity had her mentally wagering what game he’d choose. Poker, maybe? He certainly had the expression for it. “On one condition.”

Fathomless eyes narrowed, which would have seemed sinister if not for the amusement dancing in their dark depths. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“You haven’t heard it yet. Only one chip at a time.” She paused, then added the phrase sitting on her tongue. “Make it last.”

“I’m good at that.”

He led her across the casino floor to one of the roulette tables. A small crowd had gathered, as diverse as any in Las Vegas. Businessmen, elderly couples, guys on the prowl, obvious tourists—all watched as the croupier gave the wheel a spin and dropped her ball.

“Roulette, eh?”

“Pure chance. One can calculate the odds but not defy them. And I have a condition too.”

“Oh?”

Jon turned her until they faced belly to belly. Those elegant hands settled at the tops of her hips. His thumbs rested on the waistband of her skirt, as if reminding her how little effort would be required to strip it down. The casino’s clear, bright lighting allowed Heather a good look at his eye color. They were a rich honeyed brown, like brandy. Expensive and decadent.

His voice was surprisingly serious when he said, “I want you to pick a safe word.”

Heather flinched. She couldn’t help it. The host of images and scenarios and positions evoked by that simple sentence caused her body to jump.

She swallowed thickly. His lips parted in silent reply.

There was no brushing this off, but she felt compelled to make the attempt. Any good woman would. “I need a safe word to play roulette?”

“You need a safe word to play with me.” He was staring at the base of her throat where her pulse drummed.

“Panda,” she blurted out.

He smiled on a sudden laugh, showing off those dimples. She’d caught him out again—risk followed by reward.

She was in huge trouble.

“Panda,” he repeated. “Got it.” The croupier had cleared away the chips and opened another round of betting. “Now what’s your favorite fruit?”

“Strawberries.”

He counted on his fingers as he spelled the word. “Twelve it is.” But instead of placing one of their ten chips on the table, he stashed them in an inside coat pocket. In their place he withdrew a chip marked $100.

“Where did you get that?”

“The exchange,” he said. “While you used the ladies’ room.”

“That’s not what I meant by one at a time.”

Jon edged between gamblers at the table and made room for Heather beside him. It was a tight fit, her hip pressed flush against his. “Don’t worry. There’s more where this came from. I’m just trying to make it more exciting.”

More
exciting? Gambling ten dollars at a time was rich enough for her blood. She could quote to the second decimal the balance of her checking account and various retirement plans. Her most recent promotion to assistant director had nixed the last of her student loans. Her net worth wouldn’t be achingly small for long, but that only added to her fiscal discipline.

The idea of laying a cool hundred on a single spin was like Jon and his dimples and his wet dream of a sports car: glorious excess.

He found her ear again with his rumbling whisper. “We’ll make it last as long as we want.” Then he placed the $100 chip on red twelve. “For strawberries.”

“An inside bet?”

“You know roulette?”

“I know gambling,” she said, not bothering to conceal her pride. “Hanover Financial Logistics concentrates on accounting for the casinos. Knowing the lingo is a business requirement.”

Only belatedly did she wonder how dull that might sound to a fighter pilot. Auditing soft count procedures, even for casinos, wasn’t exactly dogfighting over the desert.

He only lifted an animated eyebrow, giving no hint of his true assessment. “Then you might know that the odds on an inside bet are 37-to-1.”

“I’m impressed.”

“I like numbers. My professional specialty, actually.” Then for her ears only he said, “I also like seeing what you’ll do next. So tell me, Ms. Morris, what shall we do if that ball drops on twelve? Make it good. I know you enjoy surprising me.”

Oh, but she did. He was a man who, by all appearances, grabbed life by the balls. She wanted to give
his
balls a good grab just to remind him that not everything—or everyone—was as it seemed.

“The odds are too long to make that any real fun. How about if it drops on any red?”

“Too easy. You’ll hedge and give me something common.”

Her hip molded against the roulette table. If he looked down, he’d have a clear view of the cleavage he found so fascinating, but his gaze didn’t budge from hers. He was waiting, just as she was, to see how much daring she could drag into the light.

Taking the chance, Heather indulged the first of her many fantasies involving this man. She cupped the base of his skull. He smelled of something like Obsession or Pierre Cardin. Rich. Classic. Masculine. She pressed harder, rubbing a little, enjoying how his cropped hair scoured her skin.

“Not common at all, Captain Carlisle. If the ball drops on red, I’ll show you my tattoo.”

Chapter Four

Reflexively, Jon clasped the soft swell of her hips before he could discipline himself. Finger by finger he forced himself to ease off. Tipping his hand had never been his style.

“It seems you’re keeping secrets after all.”

Even her smile was a secret, wrapping layer upon layer like a present. “It won’t be much of one if I show you.”

“But what’s a secret without the temptation of sharing?”

They watched the mesmerizing spin of the ball. Jon stacked her in front of him, surprised by his unwillingness to give up the degree of contact she’d accepted—even though it meant revealing his gathering hard-on. Pressed against the sweet swell of Heather’s ass, it was only going to grow stronger.

The thin silk of her top allowed her skin’s heat to sink into his hands. He spread his fingertips over her taut waist.

The wheel slowed. The ball bounced freely and dropped on twenty-two. While Jon would’ve preferred the number twelve, red would certainly do.

Heather tensed. He brushed a kiss along the curve of her ear. Silken hair slid over his cheek. “Didn’t think you’d have to pay up?”

Nerves wove through her soft laughter. “No one ever really wins in Vegas.”

“That’s not true at all.” He spread his hands wider, moving to her stomach. His middle finger circled the shallow dip of her navel, vulnerable beneath her thin camisole. “I’d already won before it even dropped on red.”

She shivered. “I suppose you want your prize?”

“Certainly.”

He’d almost expected her to hesitate, until she slanted him a look from under her lashes. All challenge and readiness. She lifted her shirt a few inches along her right side. A slender green vine with tiny purple buds climbed up from her skirt, curving around her waist and disappearing up the back of her filmy camisole. He peered closer. The delicate shading within the vine was script, though he couldn’t make out the words.

This was no drunken-sorority-girl tat. It was a work of art. Carefully chosen. The delicate outlines and coloring must have taken hours of patience under the tattoo gun.

Jon’s fingers tingled with the need to touch. So he did. Her skin was as fine as any he’d ever encountered. Softer. He’d love to trace that delicate line with his tongue, then nibble his way back down.

He followed the twisting vine to where it ducked beneath the snug waistband of her skirt. There he discovered another hint of lace and silk.

She hissed in a breath. “I said I’d show you my tattoo, not my panties.”

“Yet.”

“You’re rather self-assured.” Heather faced forward again, but nothing in her posture suggested that he should remove his hand. She dropped the hem over her top so that lace simply draped over his wrist. Brave girl. He rewarded her with a teasing, kneading motion along the dip of her waist.

“Why shouldn’t I be?” he asked against her throat.

“Has anyone ever told you it verges on arrogant?”

“Once or twice. Or more.”

“You don’t care?”

He didn’t really like talking to her without seeing her eyes. Considering her measured, careful voice, she was more difficult to read without precise physical clues.

“Arrogant is what frightened people call bold.” He didn’t need to bend far to speak directly into her ear. In her heels, she was nearly his height. Good thing his ego had never been fragile. Actually, he rather liked the advantages. It made a whole host of sexual positions easier to contemplate. “When am I going to see your panties?”

“Lay another bet, flyboy.”

The croupier had gathered all the chips, paid out the few winners and opened the table for more bets.

“What’s your birthday?”

That earned him a sidelong glance over her shoulder. “The seventh of August.”

“Not long off.”

She laced her fingers over his, across her stomach, with the layer of silk in between. “Plan on buying me a present?”

He leaned their bodies forward to drop another $100 chip on the black square marked seven. Her ass tucked neatly against his cock. Just as he’d thought. They would fit well together.