Tempting Her Best Friend (4 page)

Chapter Three

Ivanna Climacks…

Alyssa stood at the bar, sipping on a brandy old-fashioned and trying to think of names she’d have if she were a Bond girl. In her current getup she felt more like some sexy alternate version of herself. So far she wasn’t convinced it was an improvement over the normal, albeit plainer, Alyssa Miller. However, with her red halter dress bear-hugging her body and the aptly named fuck-me boots slicked over her legs, she’d been hit on by several men who normally wouldn’t have given her the time of day.

Unfortunately, they’d all been employees of the hotel or “industry professionals” who were either old enough to be her father or married enough to be…well, very married. That was enough for her confidence to take a serious nosedive. Turned out the blonde-bombshell business was harder than she’d thought. Hence, why she’d bellied up to the bar and started entertaining herself with the Bond Name Game.

Anita Goodlay… Ryda Johnson…

Well, she
wanted
to, but it was starting to look like her plans were a wash for the day. Exhaling a deep breath, she blew a stray curl off her face and stabbed at the ice in her drink with the tiny straw.

A martini glass slid into view with a pale yellow drink, garnished with a sugar-coated rim and a curly lemon rind. “Vodka for your thoughts?”

Alyssa tensed as she turned toward the dark-haired man sitting next to her with an identical drink to the one he’d offered her. He picked up his own glass with a delicate hold on the stem and took a sip. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he made an oh-my-God-that’s-so-good sound before returning his attention to her.

Something told Alyssa this guy wasn’t about to hit on her—or any girl—either, but instead of disappointment, she felt relief and a certain instant kinship. The warmth radiating from his brown eyes and dimpled smile invited conversation.

Returning the smile, she said, “Did you know that drinking an ounce of vodka every day has numerous health benefits? It lowers high blood pressure and decreases your risk for strokes, Alzheimer’s, and type two diabetes to name a few.”

“If that’s true, then I should live forever,” he said with a wink. “What I
do
know is that when a woman dressed to kill looks like someone kicked her puppy, she needs a better drink than that disgusting thing. Meet the lemon drop martini.”

Yikes. She hadn’t realized she’d looked so morose. She usually had a better poker face than that. Offering her thanks, Alyssa lifted the glass and tried the fancy drink. The alcohol-enhanced lemon flavor hit her taste buds with a tart zing, quickly soothed by the sugar as her lips left the rim of the glass. She loved it.

“So what’s your story, Morning Glory? Someone stand you up? I’m Trent, by the way. Party planner extraordinaire here at the Masquerade hotel and casino. You need connections for anything in Vegas, I’m the guy to see.”

“Good to know. I’m Alyssa,” she managed to say instead of one of her new spy names. “And not exactly.” She took another drink as she contemplated how much to tell him. Then decided to screw it. It’s not like she’d ever see Trent again. “I came here with the intention of letting loose and ending my…you know…
dry streak
with one of the cover models. But even dressed like a high-priced hooker, I can’t seem to grab their attention.”

Mia Verra-Horney.

Trent snorted behind his hand. “You mean
these
cover models? Honey, those trees aren’t meant for
you
to climb. You have the goods, but they’re not buyin’ what you’re sellin’.”

She took a minute to think about his cryptic statements, wondering if she might be misreading them. Was he really saying the models were
gay
? Scanning the crowd, Alyssa paused to study each of the costumed models as they interacted with the women around them. They winked, smiled, laughed, waggled their eyebrows… “No. You must be mistaken. There’s no way.”

He turned around and pointed at the model in the army gear. “He has a boyfriend of five years.” Then he pointed to the construction worker. “He can’t get it up, but it doesn’t matter ’cause he’s bottom bunk all the way.” Another gesture directed at the one dressed as a cop. “Been there, done that, and trust me, he doesn’t have much to work with anyway.”

Alyssa couldn’t help but stare at the bulging crotch of the cop’s navy shorts.
Dixie Normous… Wait, that would imply
I’m
the one with the— Oh, Jesus, I’m losing it.
“I’m no expert or anything, but it looks like he has plenty to work with.”

Her new friend waved his hand dismissively. “That’s because he stuffed his jock. It’s pretty much SOP with all the models. I learned that the hard way—no pun intended—with Officer Merely-A-Misdemeanor over there. Although he makes up for it with this
amazing
tongue move—”

“Trent!” she gasped. “That’s a bit more information than I need.”

“Right, sorry.” He grinned, not at all sorry. “Sometimes I forget to filter.”

Again her eyes went back to the men. “I’m not saying you’re lying. I just don’t understand why, if they are in fact gay, they’re flirting so much with all the women.”

“Look closer, sweetie. None of them are seeking out the attention. They’re simply reacting to what’s being given to them. It’s their job to sell the fantasy, not reveal their reality. A few
are
actually straight, but I don’t see them here at the moment.”

“Wonderful,” she mumbled.

As she downed the rest of the lemon drop, a man dressed as a pirate entered through the side door by the bar where she’d seen employees come and go. His tricornered hat hid all of his hair but his black sideburns and his white linen shirt stood out against his tan skin. The sleeves billowed around his arms and the front lay open to his sternum, exposing his bare chest. Black breaches completed the swashbuckling guise, hugging his thighs and then disappeared into loose-fitting black boots.

He caught the female bartender’s attention, whispered something to her as she handed him a beer, then ogled her ass when she walked away giggling to tend to her next customer. Alyssa felt a bit like giggling, too. The man was downright lickable.

Honey Doomey.

“What’d you say, hon?”

Crap! Had she said that aloud? “Uh, I said what about him?”

Trent followed her line of sight. “Mark? Yeah, he’s one of the straight ones. He also plows through every Tanya, Deb, and Harriett he finds at the conventions. Don’t waste your time, hon. You can do so much better.”

“Now you sound like my quote-unquote
friend
, Dillon.”

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Why all the quotes?”

“Because we’ve been friends forever, but I started liking him as more than that and thought
maybe
he felt the same way. I dropped umpteen hints, but he never did anything about them, so now I give up and would like to forget all about him with a few hours of no-strings-no-judgment sex with someone I don’t know.”

Anita Anna Conda!

Whoa. Old-fashioneds plus lemon drops equaled a very loose tongue for one Alyssa Miller. Hopefully no one asked her for her bank account info, or she was liable to end up broke.

Without missing a beat, Trent gave her an understanding nod as if she hadn’t just committed a cardinal sin against the etiquette of polite small talk. “Okay, then you need a plan of attack.” Narrowing his eyes, he looked her up and down before flagging the bartender over. “Another two lemon drops, beautiful.” While they waited for the martinis, he turned Alyssa to face him and tugged down on the hem of her dress.

Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself and squeaked. “What are you doing?”

“We don’t have time to get you on an episode of
What Not to Wear
. I’m accentuating your breasts while bringing your hem down. You don’t want Pirate Mark to think he can plunder your buried treasure so easily. There. Now you look less
hoochie
and more
sex kitten
.”

Trent handed her the new cocktail, which she eagerly drank, grateful for the calming effect it had on her nerves. “Okay, now I introduce myself?”

He made a face. “Only if you want to strike out.” When she raised an expectant brow, he said, “Cross the room and when you move into his path, fake being jostled into him. He’ll steady you and check to see if you’re okay. Give him your best bedroom eyes and flash him that great smile, and he’ll be all yours.”

“Seriously?”

“Cross my heart,” he said. “Now freshen up your lipstick and go hook yourself a pirate.”

Taking the tube of red lipstick from her clutch, she did as Trent instructed and then gave him a hug. “Thank you, Trent. For the martinis and the advice.”

“My pleasure. Now go, go, go,” he said, shooing her with his hands.

Alyssa took a deep breath and walked toward Mark the model. Mark the pirate.
Mark the man-whore.
No, she didn’t want to think about that. It didn’t matter to her how many treasures he’d plundered in the past, or however Trent said it. In fact, his experience would probably ensure a memorable night with multiple orgasms.
If there’s a God.

She moved to walk past him like Trent instructed, but before she could fake bump into him, someone actually backed into her and caused her to lose her footing. Mark reacted quickly and caught her up against him. Alyssa couldn’t have planned it any better.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said in a breathy voice.

He grinned as he gave her a conspicuous once over from her face to her chest and back up again. “Yes, you are.”

Well, damn. This was going to be easier than she thought.

…

Dillon’s flight had landed only thirty minutes ago, and he was already bored of this town.

Vegas had a dreamlike feel to it, which probably accounted for people letting go of their inhibitions there more than they would anywhere else. When a city had a nickname like Sin City, a person almost felt above consequence, untouchable, like the city itself offered a deluded version of
Survivor
immunity from their reality back home. Ridiculous notions supported by the infamous and overused excuse, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

Only it didn’t anymore. Not when everyone had a smart phone permanently at the ready. A more accurate slogan would be, “What happens in Vegas ends up on the internet, dumbass.”

The Masquerade was noticeable from the freeway, distinguishable by the gigantic ribbons flying from the tops of striped poles that rivaled the height of Paris’s Eiffel Tower, Vegas edition. As his cab inched through the traffic, the gargantuan white structure came into view. An overabundance of ribbons and strands of “beads” the size of wrecking balls draped the sides and towers in bold colors of gold, purple, green, red, and silver.

“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. “Wonder if good ole NOLA knows its precious Mardi Gras puked all over the Vegas Strip.”

He supposed the unique hotel impressed most tourists, but he’d done the Mardi Gras thing back in his college days and remained unimpressed. If he wanted to get drunk and see a bunch of tits, he’d go to a strip club where they’d do more than flash you for more than five seconds. But women baring themselves to him for superficial reasons wasn’t his thing, making neither atmosphere appeal to him in the least.

So, although he could appreciate the impressive architecture from a construction point of view, the theme wasn’t something he would have willingly immersed himself in anytime soon. Or ever.

At last, the car pulled into the semicircular drive that surrounded a reflecting pool that put the Bellagio’s to shame. Crowds a dozen people deep stood and kept their eyes focused on the water. Just as he paid the cab fare and opened his door, a roar of cheers and applause erupted. Dillon glanced over in subconscious curiosity and did a double take when a big-ass carriage rose from the depths of the pool with costumed dancers hanging from the sides.

So this is what hell looks like.

Shaking his head, he turned his back on the gaudy spectacle and strode into the revolving doors. The registration area was backed up with a half dozen lines. He didn’t want to wait forever just to find out where he needed to go, and Alyssa’s phone was going straight to voicemail.

Instead, Dillon stepped onto the carpet of the casino and searched for the first person who might be able to point him in the right direction.

Bingo.

Standing by a blackjack table was a black man in a black suit who carried himself as though he owned everything his eyes landed on. No, not owned, Dillon realized. Protected. Like a fierce knight guarding his majesty’s kingdom. And somehow, the fact that he couldn’t be any taller than five seven didn’t diminish his badass appearance.

“Excuse me,” Dillon said. The man, whose name tag read McGill-Pit Boss, turned those piercing brown eyes on him in a way that made Dillon want to get to the point. “Can you point me in the direction of where the romance convention is taking place?”

McGill raised a sharp brow toward his shaved-bald head as he gave Dillon a quick once-over. Dillon shifted in his work boots and forced himself not to glance down at his dirty jeans and dust-streaked, black Alexander Construction T-shirt.

“Up the escalator,” he said in a clipped tone. “Second-floor ballroom.”

Dillon nodded his thanks and wound his way through the slots to the tile floor and the double set of escalators by the registration area. Both sets were packed with people, so he was forced to stand still for the endless journey to the second floor. Impatient to find Alyssa, he glanced at the screen on his phone and cringed at the digital 9:27 screaming back at him. He’d wasted so much time already—

Speaking of screaming…
He looked around. Either a parrot was being strangled in front of a microphone or that was some of the worst singing he’d ever heard. Following the line of sight where everyone else had directed their winces, Dillon saw a woman on the stage in Karaoke, killing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” while dancing like Elaine from
Seinfeld
.