Las Vegas Layover

One night in Vegas could be their ticket to love.

Coastal Airlines mechanic Sebastian Brisbane is on his way to Las Vegas to fix a broken jet. But after one look at his sexy, travel-sized seatmate, he’s more concerned with revving her engine than fixing the plane’s.

Clara Howe will do anything to fulfill her aunt’s last wishes to have her ashes spread in Vegas. A one-night stand isn’t on the itinerary, but when Clara accidentally pricks Sebastian’s temper, along with his passion, only one thing is certain: It’s bound to be a bumpy ride.

Warning: If you need to get away from it all, this quick read will send you to Sin City for sexy fun with serious heart.

Las Vegas Layover

Eva Siedler

Dedication

For Gavin. Momma finally found her spot on the shelf.

Chapter One

Clara Howe was going on a guilt trip. Literally.

She broke out in a cold sweat as the cab approached Douglas International Airport—having sworn never to poke so much as a big toe inside one of those giant metal deathtraps more commonly known as airplanes. But the party really started when she had to tango with TSA before the sun had risen over Charlotte, North Carolina. The bozo with the plastic gloves even dared to utter the two words that struck fear in the stoutest heart: cavity search.

Who would have known airport security would get their panties in a wad about a little thing like human remains?

After years of fighting, Clara’s Aunt Betty had passed away three weeks before. Betty loved to travel, and she’d managed to see most of the places she’d dreamed about. However, in her will, she’d all but ordered Clara to spread her ashes in the one place she’d always meant to see but never had: Las Vegas. A written lesson in the fine art of guilt trips from the master herself.

After a near miss with the plastic gloves and two harrowing hours of bumpy air, Clara arrived at the gate for her connection in St. Louis only a little worse for wear, praise Xanax. By the time she’d boarded the second claustrophobe’s nightmare, she figured she could make it to Vegas without an encore performance from the salad she’d scarfed for lunch. Until she glanced out the puny plastic window that didn’t look strong enough to stop a determined fly.

Had stress turned her into William Shatner in that old episode of
The Twilight Zone
? She blinked a few times, then looked again. No, she wasn’t crazy. There really was a guy standing on a ladder, leaning over the wing of the plane. But he sure as shit didn’t look like a gremlin.

With his back to her, she couldn’t tell much about him. He seemed to be of medium build, possibly even a little on the skinny side. Short, dark brown, almost black hair in need of a trim. A brown Carhartt coat loosely fit his shoulders, but his shorts were what really drew her attention.

March had brought the promise of spring to the South, but winter clung to the Midwest with icy claws. She couldn’t believe he was working out in the biting wind with his legs exposed. And mercy, those shorts hugged him just right. Bent over the wing as he was, his tight, round butt was the first—and last—thing she paid much attention to.

Clara wasn’t generally an ogler. Growing up along the Atlantic Coast, she’d gone to the beach often enough that she could politely ignore the sight of a nicely built man. This guy was different. Her heart hammered in her throat, and her thoughts ran buck wild.

When she managed to tear her attention away from his NFL-worthy backside, her eyes flowed down to the most muscular calves she’d ever seen. Once, when Aunt Betty was stuck at the hospital, they’d watched a documentary on TLC about men’s calf implants. It sounded bizarre at the time—who gave a hoot about a guy’s calves?—but Clara understood the appeal now. She had the sudden urge to nibble on those beefy muscles like she would a turkey leg at the county fair.

She sighed. It couldn’t have been
that
long since she’d been on a decent date. Only…crap. Had it really been almost two years?

The realization punched her square in the chest. Her life had been on hold for that long and she hadn’t even noticed. Scrunching her forehead, she tried to remember the last time she’d focused on what she wanted. She couldn’t think of a single instance since she’d returned home after college.

Maybe she’d find some calves to nibble in Vegas.

She almost laughed out loud. Responsible, practical Clara Howe didn’t do things like nibble calves. She’d get through this god-awful trip, go to that job interview on Monday, and get on with her life if it killed her.

Shaking her head, she glanced back out the window and couldn’t catch a breath to save her soul. This time her respiratory acrobatics had nothing to do with Mr. Fix-It’s fine behind and everything to do with the shiny patch he’d left on the wing.

Was that fool actually trying to hold this oversized lawn dart together with
duct tape?

Cue panic attack.

Clara doubled over in her seat, dragging in great gasps of stale air, choking on commercial cleaners and the stench of humanity. She probably could have gotten a hold of herself, though, if one thought hadn’t led to another.

She could die today in true roman-candle fashion and there wasn’t a soul left in the world to mourn her. How pathetic was that? Her gut roiled. The reality of being so completely alone suddenly seemed much, much worse than a fiery death.

Someone settled into the seat next to her, but she didn’t look up. Judging by the spicy waft of air tickling her nostrils, it was a man. Then the cabin door slammed shut. Her heart kicked up another notch as the engines roared to life and the plane eased away from the jetway.

Shit. She sure hoped that was some strong duct tape.

Lord only knew how long she stayed like that, her face plastered against her kneecaps. At least her seatmate politely pretended he didn’t see her. Maybe her luck was starting to look up.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind than a deep voice demanded, “You’re not gonna hurl on me, are you, lady?”

Chapter Two

The average, kind-hearted soul probably would have asked if she was all right, offered to get her a cool cloth, anything but demand she not barf on him. But then, Sebastian Owen Brisbane wasn’t the average, kind-hearted soul. Hell, even his initials were SOB.

The Embraer 170 bound for Las Vegas lurched against a pocket of air and continued its steep ascent. Hydraulics ground, retracting the landing gear, as the plane slowly leveled off.

Sebastian had boarded the familiar commuter jet late. He’d been trying to sweet talk the cute little gate agent into giving him a seat in the emergency exit row. There weren’t any available.

At five-nine, he wasn’t an exceptionally tall man, but he wanted to catch a few Z’s before he landed in Vegas, and leg room would have been a definite plus. Still, he’d stayed optimistic on the napping front until he spotted the small figure in the seat next to his folded over in obvious pain.

Dark and thick, her hair did an excellent job of hiding her face. Her slender back lay atop short shapely legs. Her fitted T-shirt had hiked up above the waistband of low-riding skinny jeans, exposing smooth white skin and a tiny tramp stamp he couldn’t quite make out. It was all he could do to rip his gaze away and sit down like he hadn’t noticed how tight her body was. He’d spent every moment since imagining what her face looked like.

She ignored his asinine question about the likelihood of her blowing chunks all over him and continued to moan softly, her cheeks resting on her knees.

“Honest to God, lady, I’m not trying to be a jerk. It’s just…I didn’t even pack a change of clothes.” He couldn’t help the crackle of desperation in his voice. This particular road trip had been pretty last minute. Steve needed his help. Sebastian owed him. End of story.

Sebastian shifted in his seat. That wasn’t entirely true. Spring always put him on edge, but this year sucked more than most. This month should have marked five years, and sitting still too long meant thinking about all he’d lost, all Pam had stolen from him. He’d rather peel off his own skin. Steve’s mayday provided the perfect excuse to get the hell out of Dodge for a day or two and clear his head.

A sudden, unfamiliar wave of sympathy rushed over him when the woman finally looked up. Her skin was pale, her features strained.

“No. Your clothes are safe.” Her voice was high and weak but painfully sweet against the muffled hum of pressurized air. “At least, I think so,” she qualified with a grimace.

“Are you sick or something?” Damn. He hadn’t said anything that stupid in a long time. And from the ironic tilt of her lips, she knew it.

“Nah, I just like this shade of green. It brings out my eyes.” Her smile deepened, exposing a shallow dimple in her left cheek.

It was a joke, of course, but her glittering green eyes pierced him nonetheless.

“What’s the matter anyway?” Sebastian asked with his customary lack of finesse. “We haven’t been up long enough for you to be airsick.”

She smiled tightly. “It’s nice to know you’re as sweet as you are brilliant.”

Ah, a smartass. Nice.

“And it’s nerves,” she continued. She sat up, her spine stiffening. “I hate flying. It scares me. Besides, St. Louis was a connection for me. I’m
still
sick.”

If he hadn’t been staring at her eyes, he might have missed the flash of anger she quickly covered. Admitting her fear didn’t sit well. Leaning closer, he studied her expressions. So far he’d noticed that her nose crinkled when she was aggravated, and the tips of her ears reddened when she was embarrassed. It was fucking fascinating. He couldn’t wait to see what she did next.

“If you hate flying, then why are you doing it?”

“I’m being blackmailed by a dead woman.”

Expression Number Three: She arched one delicate brow when she was being sarcastic.

Now that the green tinge to her face had faded, revealing flawless cream, Sebastian couldn’t deny it any longer. Mystery woman was a knockout.

Her brown hair was cut in one of those styles that stopped just below her jaw to flow gently around her oval face. Her height—she couldn’t have been five feet tall in hooker heels—and the light, natural look of her makeup gave her the appearance of a pixie who’d wandered out of the woods. The most adorable, cherubic lips he’d ever seen called to him in a way he hadn’t thought possible anymore, and that lone dimple was beyond adorable. Still, it was those eyes, glass-green and shining with some sparkle he couldn’t put his finger on, that made him lean even closer.

Feisty
and
smokin’. It was a damn shame he was on the clock. She might have been just the distraction he needed.

He grinned. “I’m Sebastian.”

“Sebastian? Seriously?” Something in her tone or maybe the way she scrunched her forehead made her question feel insulting.

“Yeah, seriously.” He tapped the embroidered nametag stitched to his navy blue uniform. “Why? What’s wrong with my name?”

“There’s nothing
wrong
with it, per se. You just don’t look like a Sebastian to me.” Her gaze narrowed, then did a slow circuit over his body that heated his blood. “It sounds stuffy,” she finally said with a dainty shrug. “You don’t look like the stuffy type.”

“There’s nothing stuffy about me, babe. But you can call me Happy if you want. Most people do.” He gave her the practiced, lazy grin that had charmed the panties off countless women.

She burst out laughing, a tiny snort escaping that only made her giggle harder. He should have been offended, but she had a sexy little laugh. Hell, even that snort was cute.

Obviously he
really
needed to get laid.

A few of the other passengers glanced over at all the noise. She didn’t notice anyone but him.

Hell. Yeah.

“Sorry, but I’m not calling you Happy.” She wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. The fake leather seat squeaked as she shifted to face him.

She smelled good enough to eat, one of those perfumes with the faint foody scent that makes a guy think of kinky sex. He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to decide what it was. Chocolate covered strawberries?

“What on earth did you do to deserve that kind of torture?” she asked.

Fuck. What were they talking about? Right, his nickname. “They think they’re funny. Apparently I never smile.”

“You’re smiling now.” Her eyes caressed every feature of his face, lingering on his mouth.

Funny he hadn’t noticed, but she was right. His smile broadened.

The spark in her eyes exploded and she laughed again. “Wait. Wasn’t Sebastian the name of that grouchy crab in The Little Mermaid?” His eyes narrowed. She laughed harder. “Maybe it does fit you.”

“Ouch,” he said, scooting closer still. God, she was a gutsy little thing. “Now that you’ve laughed at my name, I think it’s only fair for you to tell me yours.”

“Clara. I’m—” She stopped, a movement over his shoulder catching her attention.

“Hey, Happy,” a sweet Southern voice drawled from the aisle. “Can I get you anything, sugar?” The din of passengers he’d basically forgotten since sitting down filled the plane. But this voice, feminine and decidedly sensual, refused to fade into the perpetual whirr of engines.

He turned to find a slender blonde wearing the standard issue flight attendant getup: white button-up, dark blue sweater vest, and a gleaming gold badge that read “Sheri.”

“Nah, I’m good.” He winked at her.

“Well, you just let me know if you change your mind.” Sheri brushed the V of her blouse with two fingers, remaining a second too long before twirling on her heel to stroll back to the galley.

“Oooookay,” the melodic voice to his right began. “I’m not normally a nosey person, but when exactly did you sleep with her?”

Sebastian yanked his attention back to Clara. “What?”

“Oh, please,” she said with an eye roll that fluttered her thick lashes. “If she had it her way you two would be locked in the bathroom right now. A woman doesn’t look at a man like that unless she’s seen him naked. And liked it.” She raised one thin brow and waited for an answer.

Blood crept along his neck to color his face. Shit. He probably hadn’t blushed since high school. “Tell you what.” He returned her eyebrow quirk. “I’ll answer your question, if you answer mine.”

She mulled that over for a moment. “Depends. What’s your question?”

“Why are you afraid to fly?”

She laughed, her small shoulders shaking against the window. “You’re on, but you first.”

“I don’t remember.” Sebastian tried to sound duly ashamed of himself and only just missed his mark. Truth be told, he wouldn’t have remembered Sheri’s name without the badge.

“I asked when you slept with her,” Clara repeated.

“I know.” Shaking his head, he lowered his voice and leaned in to whisper in her ear. Damn, that perfume was killing him. “I meant, I don’t really remember when it happened.”

Scandalized, Clara shot a glance to the front of the plane. “That’s
horrible!
”

“Probably,” he admitted. “But it was one night a couple years ago. Does that make me sound like less of an asshole?”

“A little,” she said, the strained shock easing from her face. “
Very
little.”

As he followed her gaze, he
felt
like an asshole. Sheri stood with her back to them, a drink cart parked in the aisle ahead of her. Now that he thought it over, he did remember a few things about her. She was from Dallas and had a weakness for peppermint patties. Why could he remember that but not her name or even what city they’d been in when they slept together?

Anxious to shift Clara’s focus, as well as his own, he said, “Your turn. Why are you afraid to fly?”

“That’s easy.” Her voice notched tighter. “I don’t trust these dumb things to stay in the air.”

“That’s stup—” He tried to catch himself but it was too late.

Her glare should have left a pile of ash in his seat.

He recognized that look; he’d seen it enough in his life. The moment he learned to speak, he’d developed a wicked case of foot-in-mouth disease—a chronic condition that regularly caused him to say shit he didn’t mean, shit that almost always pissed people off. He’d learned to manage it shortly after discovering that girls did not in fact have cooties. Clearly he reverted to his fifteen-year-old self around Clara.

“Stupid?”
she supplied, flexing her foot like she wanted to kick him.

“N—no, that’s not what I meant.” Damn it, what was it about her? He hadn’t been this flustered by a woman in over a decade. “It’s just…the feds regulate maintenance on
these things
pretty closely. There hasn’t been a major crash due to faulty equipment in years.”

“Oh, please,” her glare lessened, but her tone still carried plenty of bite. “Have you seen the trained monkeys they let work on these things?”

Sebastian stared back, his spine stiffening. He bit his tongue to keep silent, but the flush creeping up his neck and the tremor in his hands were beyond his control.

“Seriously,” she continued. “Before we left the gate, some ape was climbing around on the wing and, I swear to God, he duct-taped the damned thing.” Her thumb jerked over her shoulder to point out the flash of silver gleaming in the sun. “I mean, what kind of—”

“Technically,” Sebastian ground out between locked teeth, “it’s speed tape.”

“What?” She frowned.

“I said, it’s
speed
tape, not
duct
tape. And I put it over some chipped paint to protect the flap.” On the verge of losing his temper, Sebastian fisted his hands in his lap and tried to push Pam’s snide echo out of his mind.
You’ll never be anything more than a grease monkey.

For the first time since he’d sat down, the woman next to him didn’t look the least bit green. She wasn’t even red. Clara had lost all color, her face a stark white mask of horror.

“You don’t mean you’re—”

Sebastian cut her off, gently pounding his fist against his chest. “Ooo, ooo, ooo.”