Negligee Behavior (5 page)

“Hey, sugar, will you pull my lever?”

Brandy turned to look at the leering old man a few machines down.

“Yuck.” Her nose wrinkled and she pushed on through the casino, spotting the freedom of the front entrance up ahead.

The automated doors opened, sending a rush of warm air at her full force. She stepped outside and gulped in a lungful of fresh air—then promptly started coughing as she realized someone nearby was smoking.

She kept moving, walked further away from the hotel and finally onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to the Strip. What was she going to do? Where would she go?

Cars whizzed past her, headlights blending in with the bright lights of the city. Dizziness assailed her again and she stood still for a second. Why was it so darn hot? It was the middle of the night, for goodness’ sake.

Swiping a hand across her forehead, she closed her eyes. When she opened them she saw the most glorious sight. The fountains of the Bellagio hotel.

She’d left him. Marco stood and turned in a slow circle, searching every corner of the room trying to find her, but she was gone. Nowhere in sight. He was completely free of her. So why didn’t he feel more relieved?

Maybe because she was drunk off her ass and wandering around Las Vegas without a hotel room.

Shit. He tossed enough money on the table to cover her drinks and then stuffed his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.

He made his way out of the casino, seeking out frizzy hair and a cat shirt. Letting her out by herself was a bad mistake. She was too sweet and naive to be out on her own this time of night.

The doors swished open and he bolted through them. He looked left and then right. The city was slowing down, but nowhere near dead. How the hell was he going to find her? She could be anywhere.

Though she couldn’t have gotten far. Seriously, she’d been out of his sight for a whole of five minutes.

The brighter lights came from the left. She probably headed toward the big-name hotels. He took off running, keeping an even pace as he looked around for her.

Fifteen minutes later he was ready to accept defeat. It was useless. He’d lost her somewhere in the Vegas night.

Anxiety churned in his belly.
This isn’t your fault. She’s not your responsibility.
He could tell himself that all he wanted, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

Time to go back for the bike and head home. Hell, what else could he do? He stared at the Bellagio hotel as he passed noting the water shows had closed down for the night.

Someone bumped into him, a security guard, who pushed him aside as he ran by. A second later another one went running past him.

What was going on?
His eyebrows drew together. “Oh, God.”

Breaking into a run, he followed after the security guards who were attempting to pull a woman—Brandy—back from the edge of the fountain.

He spotted the silver of handcuffs on one of the guards, while the other one wrestled to get her back from the edge.

“I don’t see the problem here. I was just dipping my feet in.” He could hear her protest. “My feet are perfectly clean, I just had a pedicure. And it’s not like I was actually swimming.”

“Excuse me.” Marco reached the group. “I’m sorry about this, the lady’s with me.”

“Hey!” Brandy’s face lit up. “It’s Marco Polo! You followed me. We should swim together. Maaarco. Poooolo.”

One of the security guards gave him a bored look. “Yeah, well pretty soon, Marco Polo, it’s going to be a police matter.”

The hell it was. “No, you don’t understand. This whole thing is my fault. I fucked up—”
think, Marco, think,
“I called her my ex-girlfriend’s name during our wedding ceremony. She was so pissed she ran off and I’ve been trying to find her all day. I guess she’s been getting drunk.”

“You’re an idiot.” Brandy snorted and then broke into a fit of giggles as she turned towards the guards. “We’re not married, you guys. He’s totally pulling your leg.”

Fuck? Did she
want
to spend the night in jail? He leaned forward to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear in what he hoped looked like an intimate loving gesture.

“That’s because you didn’t let us finish the ceremony, princess.”

Brandy seemed to think about that real hard, like she was beginning to think it entirely possible that they were almost married today.

“I don’t know.” One of the guards hesitated.

“She’s a model citizen who’s never gotten into trouble before this,” Marco argued with as much conviction as he could muster. “I mean just look at her, does she look like she’s used to getting into trouble?”

The other guard shook his head and pursed his lips. “She looks like my mother. In fact, I think my mom has that same shirt, but in blue.”

Good sign, very good sign
. Marco waited with what he hoped was an apologetic, patient expression. Finally he spoke up again.

“Look, can’t we just keep this between us? I’ll take her home and put her to bed. I’d feel like a complete ass if she ended up getting arrested on what should have been her wedding day.”

The guards looked at each other, silently communicating, and then they looked back at him with a brief nod.

“Take her home and sober her up. And then you’d better work on making things right, buddy.” The older guard shook his head. “Hell, I’d have gotten drunk if I were her too.”

Relief snapped the tension out of every muscle in his body.

“Thanks, guys. Will do.” He stepped forward and slipped his arms beneath her legs, lifting her into his arms.

“Does this mean you’ll sleep with me, after all?” she asked hopefully, nuzzling her head against his chest.

The guards turned to look at him again.

“It’s a long story. I was hoping to wait until our wedding night.” Marco gave them a quick grin, not really caring that his excuse had more holes than a golf course. “Have a good night.”

He kept walking, and when they didn’t call him back he assumed they were in the clear. Thank God.

“Dang, I can’t believe you can carry me.” She lifted her head, and then let it drop back against his chest. “I’m no lightweight. My cousin Dave used to tell me that all the time growing up. I was a fat kid. Well, not a fat kid, but
the
fat kid.”

Shitty cousin
. Anger sparked toward a man he’d never even met. “You’re not heavy.”

“Ah thanks, Polo. I stopped eating donuts all of the time and so I lost a few pounds since—hey, where are we going?”

Damn good question. Did he check her into a hotel, drunk off her ass? Or did he…just take her home with him? Which would mean leaving his bike at the hotel.

Marco bit back a groan, he knew what he’d decide.

God, he was pathetic. He should be volunteering at the animal shelter for all the good deeds he was doing.

Lifting his free hand, he waved down a passing taxi. It swerved to the curb and stopped next to them. The driver got out and helped him get Brandy into the backseat.

“She’s not going to puke, is she?” the driver asked.

“She’ll be fine.”
I hope.

Brandy scooted over on the seat, followed by the sound of her head hitting the window.

“Ow.” She didn’t lift her head from the glass.

Marco slid into the cab and helped get her seat belt buckled. He gave the driver his address and then leaned back against the seat. God, how much was he going to regret this in the morning?

Who the heck was running a jackhammer in her head? Brandy didn’t even open her eyes. She lay as still as possible, hoping the painful throbbing would cease. It didn’t. It kept pulsating, thicker and harder, until she was convinced her head was going to explode into a disgusting mess on the pillow.

She needed painkillers. Bad. Opening one eye, she stared at a white ceiling and a poster of a half-naked woman riding a motorcycle.

Where the heck was she? She forced herself to sit up in the bed—God knew whose bed it was—and looked around the room. Lava lamps, more posters of half-naked women and some kind of wall-hanging decorated with gaudily painted marijuana leaves.

Oh. God. She’d died and gone to a frat house.

Her bladder began to pulse in time with her head. Pressing a hand to the back of her skull, she swung her legs off the bed and attempted to stand up.

The room tilted and that cheesecake she’d eaten started to swirl heavily in her stomach.

Where was the bathroom? She lurched towards the door, jerking it open as she ran down the hall. There! She spotted the bathroom and ran inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

She barely made it to the toilet before heaving up more liquid than a human ought to have in them.

A few minutes later she went to the sink to rinse her mouth out. She spotted a bottle of mouthwash and almost ignored it—because God knew whose mouth had been on it—but the urge to get the bitter taste out of her mouth was too great.

A minute later, with a clean mouth, she finally stopped to actually look in the mirror.
Oh dear God.

She pressed her palm against the top of her head, hoping it might push the upright tower of curls down an inch or two. No use, they sprung right back up.

And what was she wearing? Her panties and somebody else’s T-shirt. She pressed her chin against her chest to upside down read the writing on the black T-shirt.
Dante’s Place?

Hmm, sounded like some kind of satanic meeting place or something. Whose shirt was it? Marco’s? Or was his name Polo? All she remembered was Marco Polo. What
was
his name? She lifted the hem of the shirt towards her nose and inhaled. Her fear of getting a contact high from a druggie’s T-shirt evaporated.

It smelled clean and a little bit spicy. Closing her eyes she sighed. It was
his
shirt, and it evoked all kinds of visions from the previous night.

They’d kissed. The memory of it spread warmth all through her body and made her legs weak.

Where was she now? In his house? And what, besides that kiss, had happened yesterday? More memories flickered through her head. Starting from when she ran away from her wedding, Gordon screwing some prostitute and Marco/Polo—God, she really had to figure out his name—hanging out with her all night. They’d drunk a ton…or had that just been her? And then, well, there wasn’t a lot more she could remember.

Get it over with. Open that door and find out what kind of mess you got your butt into!

She took a deep breath and went to twist the handle. It squeaked a bit on its hinges until it fully opened. The house seemed quiet. She looked to the left and then the right. The hall was empty.

Stepping out of the bathroom, she crept out into the hallway and walked slowly as the shag carpet threaded through her bare toes.

The floorboards under the rug let out a loud groan and she bit her lip, glancing around sharply. Still quiet except for a dripping sound that came from what she assumed was the kitchen.

She arrived at the end of the hall and looked out into the living room. Not many furnishings, just a couch and a couple of plastic lawn chairs that were set up in a U around the television.

“Did you sleep okay?”

“Eeeaaw!” Brandy clutched her chest and spun around. “Jeez, you scared me.”

“I noticed.” Marco/Polo raised an eyebrow and walked past her into the kitchen, flipping on the light switch.

Why? Why did he look so good in the morning? It should be a crime. His hair was only slightly tussled, a T-shirt outlined his muscular chest and his boxer shorts showed off a very nice lower half. Her pulse, which had begun to slow down after the fright, sped right back up again.
Stop thinking about his butt, Brandy!

“So? Did you sleep okay?”

She sighed. “I slept like someone who drank entirely too much and then passed out. But then I suppose that’s exactly what I did do.” She narrowed her eyes. “Okay, what the heck is your name?”

What was his name?
Marco stared at her for a moment, trying not to look at the good amount of thigh she showed under his T-shirt. One thing he could almost distinguish today was her breasts—beneath the thin fabric he could tell they were full and round. Miss Choir Teacher was most definitely hiding under the drab clothes, and now he knew her secret.

He lifted his gaze from her chest and met her uneasy stare, but not for long. Christ, that hair. It looked like it was ready to take flight.

Shaking his head, he went to make a pot of coffee. “You don’t remember my name?”

She sighed. “Well, it’s either Polo or Marco, but honestly it’s all kind of a blur.”

“Marco.” Should he be offended? After loading up the water and coffee grounds, he flipped the switch up on the pot and turned to face her. “How’s your head?”

“Oh, besides feeling like it’s been smashed in by a baseball bat? Just dandy.”

“Want some aspirin? Or maybe a shot of tequila?”

Her face turned a bit green and he had to laugh. “Hey, don’t knock it until you try it, princess.”

“Meds please. I prefer my breakfast in the solid form.” She staggered into the dining room and sat down in one of the broken chairs. “Was that your bed I slept in last night?”

“No. It was my roommate’s.” He grabbed the aspirin out of the cupboard and handed her the bottle with a glass of water. “Here you go.”

“Oh, thank God.”

Marco turned and went back and opened the fridge. “Okay, solid food. We’ve got eggs and bratwursts. You want me to cook you some up?”

“Uh—sure. That sounds fine, thank you. Is bratwurst like sausage?”

What the hell? Had the woman never eaten a bratwurst before? “Yeah something like that.”

“All right. I’ve always heard sausage is a good hangover food.”

Had she been living in a cave her entire life? This couldn’t be the first time she’d been hungover.

“So, let me get this straight, I slept in your roommate’s bed last night?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s good news. For a minute there I was afraid it might have been your room.”

“And that would have been bad because…”

“Well,” she said, hoping the heat she felt in her cheeks didn’t show, “you don’t look like the type to have ganja wall hangings.” She looked at him suspiciously. “So where is the roommate? Weren’t you worried he might come home and possibly climb into bed with me?”

A laugh erupted from his chest before he could stop it, but he did manage to cut it off pretty quick. If Ben had come home and found Brandy in his bed, he probably would’ve gotten right back out to go smoke another bowl.

“No, I wasn’t worried about that.” He pulled a carton of eggs out of the fridge. “Ben’s backpacking around Europe and won’t be back for another month. He’s actually moving out at the end of the summer. I was just giving the kid a break until he felt steady on his feet after college.”

“Oh.” She seemed relieved by his response and gave him a shy smile. “Thank you for taking me home with you, Marco. I know it probably wasn’t something you intended to do.”

His chest shook with laughter again. Damn, if she only remembered half the stuff she’d done. “You weren’t in any shape to be on your own.”

“Hey, come on. There’s no need to laugh at me. I mean, I wasn’t
that
bad.”

“Not that bad?” He raised an eyebrow and decided to have a little fun with her. “When you slapped that waitress in the bar, I was laying down money that you could’ve taken her. But then she called in the bouncer and all bets were off.”

The color drained from her face. “I—I slapped a waitress?”

“No. You didn’t.” He grinned when her face flushed with annoyance. “But you did ask me to go to bed with you.”

“I did not!”

“Oh yes. You sure as hell did.” He waved the spatula at her and then went back to cracking eggs into the pan.

It was quiet. The only sound came from the frying eggs and the sizzling bratwurst he’d tossed into the skillet. Why wasn’t she saying anything? He turned around and found her staring at him with a solemn expression.

“What?”

“Did I really ask you to go to bed with me?”

Something about the fragile tone of her voice made him hesitant to nod. He gave a brief nod.

“Oh.” She swallowed hard and then stared at the floor. “And you didn’t want to?”

Fuck? What was this, a trick question? They’d already had the “we’re not each other’s type conversation.”
Even if he was getting the urge to say he was wrong…

“Brandy…”

“No, it’s probably better if you don’t answer that.” Her smile was just as unconvincing as her words. “I’m overly sensitive—my friends tell me that all the time.”

What was up with her shitty friends and cousins? He shoved a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t want to get involved with me, Brandy.”

“I know. Of course I don’t,” she replied a little too quickly. “I’m just wondering if my parents would be horrified or extremely proud to know what was going on with me right now.”

Why did she put so much weight on what her parents thought? She was a grown woman.

“Screw them.”

Her mouth opened in obvious shock. “Screw them? My parents?”

“Not literally.”

“I realize that.” She stared at him for a moment, hard, as if trying to gauge if he was serious or not. “You know what, never mind. You’re right, Marco. It’s definitely better in the end that we didn’t sleep together.”

“Right.” It was?

He pressed the spatula hard against the bratwurst, taking pleasure is the way the meat spit and hissed. Why didn’t he like her admitting that? It was fine when he’d thought it, but to hear her say it was different.
Hypocrite
.

Marco scooped up some eggs and meat onto a plate for her and set it on the table.

“How do you like your coffee?”

“I don’t. I drink tea.”

“I don’t have any tea, princess.” He went back and poured himself a mug of coffee, and then filled one up for her too. “The only leaves in this house are in Ben’s room, and I don’t think you’ll want to use them for tea.”

He set the cup down in front of her, and she stared at it as if he were serving her antifreeze.

“Try it, you might like it.” He went and dished himself up a plate and then came back to sit down next to her.

She lifted a small bite of eggs to her mouth and chewed slowly. After a satisfied moan, she stabbed a piece of bratwurst and then ate it with a little more enthusiasm.

“You like?”

“Bratwurst is
good
.” She grinned and lifted her coffee, sniffing it. “Should I put milk in it or something? Sugar? Does it go down better?”

“I take mine black, but feel free to dump the extra shit in there if you need it.”

Brandy pursed her lips and blew on the coffee before taking a tentative sip. Her eyes squinted together and then she sputtered, spitting it back into the mug.

“Oh God, give me the extra shit please.”

Marco laughed, his eyebrows rising as he went to grab the milk and sugar. Was that the first time he’d heard her swear? It sounded about as foreign as if she’d broken into Mandarin or something.

She added the extras to her coffee and they ate in silence for awhile. True to her bratwurst is good comment, she ate almost the entire plate he’d given her.

The phone rang and he checked the clock. Who’d be calling before eight?

He grabbed the phone off the wall and answered. “Hello.”

“Marco? Is that you?”

He drew in a swift breath. His fingers tightened around the receiver as the familiar image of his kid sister raced through his head.

“Why are you calling, Elena?”

“I dunno. Me and my friends were gonna come up to Vegas in the next couple days.” There was a pause. “I was thinking maybe I could come see you.”

The idea was tempting. Damn. What had it been, about two years since he’d seen Elena? Even longer since he’d seen his dad.

“I’m not so sure that’s such a good idea,” he forced the words out past the hurt and bitterness.

“Dad won’t have to know,” his sister went on quickly. “I’ll just drop by the bar—”

“Elena, you’re not even old enough to go into a bar.”

From the corner of his eye he saw Brandy glance sharply over at him, and he turned his back to her.

“But I am,” Elena argued softly. “I turned twenty-two a few months ago. I’ve been going to bars for awhile now, Marco.”

Shit. The knot in his stomach grew. How had he forgotten Elena’s birthday? God, he was a real bastard.

He lowered his voice and switched to Spanish. “
Lo siento, niña. Pero no es buena idea. Feliz cumpleaños. Te amo
.” He closed his eyes. “
Adiós, Elena
.”

Before she could protest, he hung up, aware of a heaviness in his chest that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Well,” Brandy spoke up with an awkward laugh. “Another reason you probably didn’t sleep with me last night. Was that your girlfriend?”

“No.” Marco turned around and sighed. “That was my sister.”

“Ah, I see. Sorry I’m so nosy.” Relief and guilt flickered in her eyes before she quickly looked back down. “Is she coming up to visit you?”

He flexed his jaw. “No.”

“Oh. But I thought—”

“Look, it’s not something I want to talk about.”

Her mouth parted and hurt flashed in her gaze. Damn. He could’ve been a little less abrupt.

Marco shoved a hand through his hair, not willing to admit his own emotions were a bit raw after that phone call.

“How’s the breakfast treating you?” he asked with a slight smile, attempting to ease the sting.