Once Upon a Christmas (26 page)

Stacey bit her lip. If she didn’t pull off the honeymoon
charade well enough to convince Aunt Geraldine that Janie and Richard had used
and enjoyed her wedding gift surprise, it would cause no end of family feuds.
She did need help.

But why, of all the men in the universe, did it have to come
in the form of Dylan Davis?

“I don’t know. Maybe I can just hide out here in the
honeymoon suite until the weekend’s over. I’ll mail Aunt Geraldine a few hotel
postcards from Janie and Richard, and that’ll be that.”

Dylan’s gaze dropped to the pile of tickets, brochure, and
itinerary in her lap. “Your aunt knows most of these people, remember? She’ll
know it if nobody collects on the rest of her ‘surprise’.”

He was right.
They’re mostly old friends and they’ll
treat you right
, Aunt Geraldine had said in her note.
Just because they
gave me a discount, doesn’t mean you two newlyweds will have less fun.
Even
the psychic was a personal friend.

Stacey sighed. “You’re right.”

“I know.” He braced his hands on the chair’s arms
and gave her a serious look. “So, do we have a deal?”

Chapter Three

He was in.

Well, mostly in, Dylan amended to himself as he strolled
beside Stacey an hour later into the neighboring hotel where their dinner-show
reservations had been made. Mostly in, because she’d only agreed to let him
stay for one night. On the honeymoon suite sofa. Wearing pajamas, if possible.
And only on the condition he didn’t make any moves on her when they got back to
their room.

He’d agreed. At this point, those were all the concessions
Stacey was likely to make. He’d work on the rest later.

After all, she hadn’t said anything about not making any
moves
before
then.

Grinning, Dylan put his hand to the small of her back and
guided her through the hotel’s enormous casino. Like every other resort hotel
in Las Vegas—heck, like every supermarket and fast food joint—the Renaissance
had its share of slot machines. Then some. Beneath gothic-style arches and rows
of flashing lights, gamblers stood cheek and jowl, scooping up the coins
jangling into the slot machines’ bins.

“That’s how Aunt Geraldine won her fortune.”
Stacey pointed to one of them. “She used to take the tour buses up here
with my Uncle Bert almost every month…before he passed away last year, I
mean,” she added, looking wistful. “They had so much fun together.”

Dylan slid his arm to her waist and hugged her closer.
Amazingly enough, she let him.

“They got married here, did you know?” she asked. “In
one of those wedding chapels down on The Strip.”

“Maybe that’s why she wanted Janie and Richard to have
a honeymoon in Vegas.”

She smiled up at him, leaving him with the distinct
impression that, finally, he’d said something right. Dylan wanted to rack his
brain to repeat the accomplishment. The trouble was, he was as clueless about
what made that the
right
thing to say as he was about what made his
usual comments the
wrong
thing to say. He settled for the guy-tested
method of keeping quiet and nodding thoughtfully.

“I think you’re right,” she said. “Sweet, isn’t
it?”

They neared the mammoth slot machine she spoke of, one big
enough to merit its own pedestal and spot lighting at the end of the row. Her
fingertips grazed its metallic face.

“This isn’t the machine she won on, of course.”
Stacey paused beside the slot machine to gaze upward at the Renaissance’s
brightly colored medieval banners and beyond them to the suits of armor posed
nearby. “This hotel wasn’t built then.”

She stopped, frowning slightly. “You know, that’s odd.
I would have expected Aunt Geraldine to arrange the honeymoon surprises at some
of the older hotels, the ones she was familiar with. Not one that’s as nearly
new as this one.”

Ding—ding—ding
. The warning bells in his head were
totally appropriate, Dylan knew. But that didn’t mean he had to like the little
buggers. If Stacey guessed the truth already…

Tightening his hold on her waist, he swept her against him
fast enough to make her dressy black dress flare up behind her. He had to make
her quit questioning the honeymoon surprises, and he had to do it now.

“Let’s try it.” He whirled her in his arms so they
stood side by side, facing the slot machine. He scrounged in his pockets for
change, turning out his wallet, his hotel key card, and two gold-wrapped
condoms.

Stacey raised her eyebrows at the condoms. “Try what?”

“Well, I’ve never gotten lucky atop a giant slot
machine,” he deadpanned, pretending to consider the idea, “but I’m
game if you are.”

“Sorry. I’m afraid of heights.”

“Afraid of heights?” Dylan pocketed everything
again.
At least she’d quit wondering about the rationale behind Aunt
Geraldine’s honeymoon surprises
. “We need a smaller model, then. How
about we climb up on that row over there?”

He nodded toward the row he spoke of, where a gray-haired
lady wearing a purple silk jogging outfit busily fed quarters into two machines
at once.

“Let’s not.” Stacey scanned the glittering row of
machines and the woman in front of them. “She looks like my grandmother.”

“Always a mood breaker.” Scooping his arm around
her waist again, Dylan approached the monster slot machine. “Come on. It’ll
be fun. Maybe we’ll win.”

“I really think we ought to keep a low profile. And
what about our dinner reservations? We’ll be late for the show.”

“Quit worrying. Here. You go first.” He handed her
a twenty and nodded toward the bill-feeder on the face of the slot machine. “You
just slide it in, like the change machines at the Laundromat.”

“Laundromat? You mean you’re actually that
domesticated? I thought you still took your laundry home to mom.”

“Ha, ha.”

“First a dog rescue and now this. Wow.” Stacey
made a deliberately sappy face at him, but made no move to take the money. “I
swear, you might turn out okay yet.”

“Enough with the dog. I’m already okay. If you’d quit
looking out for Generic Faithless Male Scum, you might see that.”

She cast her gaze downward. “I—”

“Never mind. Let’s gamble.” He slid the money in
the tray himself and rubbed his palms together as the machine racked up their
twenty-dollar credit. “This one looks lucky to me.”

“It looks like a good way for us to get into trouble to
me.” Nervously, Stacey glanced around them. “Let’s just get on with the
honeymoon surprises, okay? Dinner show first.”

“Come on, try it. Pull the handle.”

She stepped backward. “Nobody ever wins on these big
machines.” She glanced toward the stairs that led to the dinner show
theater. “They’re just for show.”

“Tell it to that guy.” Dylan pointed at the
poster-sized photo of the previous twenty-five-thousand dollar winner displayed
beside the slot machine. “He looks pretty happy with this loser slot
machine of yours.”

Nibbling her lower lip, Stacey looked at the picture.

“Aunt Geraldine would be proud.” Dylan gave her a
little push forward. “Come on, you pull the handle first.”

“We should try to be inconspicuous.”

“Then you shouldn’t have worn that sexy dress.”

She rolled her eyes. “If I try it, will you try to keep
a low profile for the rest of the night?”

“Do you really think that’s the best way to carry off
this honeymoon imposter thing?”

She nodded. She also stroked the slot machine handle.
Something about the way she wrapped her hand around it made his brains go
south.

“Okay.” He held up two fingers. “Low profile.
Scout’s honor.”

“Good.” Stacey wrapped her other hand around the
handle, raised on her sandaled tiptoes, and squeezed her eyes shut. Poised
there, she started moving her lips.

Dylan leaned closer to listen. He heard only the Muzak “Jingle
Bell Rock” chorus and the din of the casino surrounding them. She wasn’t
even whispering, just moving her lips as though carrying on a conversation with
the gold ball at the top of the slot machine handle.

He peered curiously at her face. “What are you—”

She yanked the handle down and the whir of the machine cut
off his question. They both stepped backward, watching the mechanism spin. Two
cherries snapped in place on the winning line. Two more cherries. He heard
Stacey suck in her breath.

A lemon.

“Maybe next time you ought to kiss it first, instead of
chanting at it,” Dylan said. “Or else talk loud enough for the
machine to hear.”

She looked sideways at him. “I was wishing for good
luck.”

“Then next time it’s bound to work.”

Grinning with enthusiasm, she grabbed the handle again. She
raised on tiptoes, closed her eyes…then cracked one open to look at him. “Do
you want to do it this time?”

“Nah.” It was too much fun watching her, anyway. “Go
ahead. We’ve still got fifteen dollars left.”

“Okay.”

She closed her eyes, got herself settled, and started moving
her lips. Dylan leaned closer, wishing he’d learned to read lips.

She pulled the lever. It spun madly. Three utterly
mismatched fruits clicked in place along the line.

“Rats.” Stacey flopped flat-footed again and
looked up at him. “I thought we had it that time. Why don’t you try?”

Dylan stepped forward. He positioned himself like one of
those guys with a mallet at the test-your-strength machine at the county fair
and yanked the handle.

“Yup, that ought to do it.” He hooked his thumbs
in his belt loops, then stepped back so there’d be plenty of room for their
winnings to spill out.

This time, the items that came up weren’t fruit. They weren’t
even all on the fruit level of the food pyramid. He and Stacey frowned at the
display, then at the five dollar credit remaining.

“Let’s do it together,” they said in unison.

She grinned at him as they reached for the handle, and Dylan
felt a great surge of solidarity. So what if they were a couple of gambling
fiends who couldn’t make it to dinner on time? At least they were together.

They pulled. Stepped back. The slot machine spun.

A silver dollar plunked in the coin tray.

“Whoopee!” Stacey threw herself against his chest,
jumping up and down with glee. “We won, we won, we won!”

Dylan held her about as well as he could while dancing a
jig. This winning was heady stuff. So was the feel of Stacey tight against him,
trembling with excitement. He wanted more.

The purple jogging suit lady leaned over to congratulate
them. “You kids won because you worked together.” She winked. “That’s
the secret.”

“Do you think so?” Stacey asked her.

Grinning, she clutched Dylan’s arm with both hands and
leaned into it, apparently unaware of her position. One flex of his biceps, and
he’d know if her silky dress fabric was really as thin as it looked. He’d also
know whether or not she had anything on underneath it—not to mention what
temperature the room was.

Grow up
, he told himself. Enough with regressing back
to ninth grade. Tamping down the urge to flex, Dylan nodded in what he hoped
was a thoughtful and mature manner and tried to get in on the conversation
again.

“Everybody says there aren’t any real tricks to winning
at gambling,” Stacey was saying.

“Not just gambling, honey,” the purple jogging
suit lady said. “Life, too.” She propped her plastic casino cup of
coins against her ample hip and looked them up and down. “But you two look
like a good pair.”

Great opening. “We’re newlyweds,” Dylan
volunteered. “Just got married this morning, in fact.”

“Oh! Congratulations!” Mrs. Purple Suit’s
expression turned dreamy, like women’s always did when confronted with babies
or puppies or anything else that was really, really tiny.

If women liked small things so much, then why were guys so
worried about the size of their—

“That’s wonderful!” she gushed. “Just
wonderful!”

“Thanks.” He tried to ignore the dagger-laced look
Stacey threw him. What was the matter with her, anyway? This was the perfect
opportunity to cement their honeymoon façade. “We’re on our honeymoon, in
fact,” he went on, hugging Stacey tighter.

Her elbow jabbed his rib.

“Huh—” came his breath. “Huh, huh, huh,”
Dylan said, trying to turn it into a laugh. “Yep, just me and the missus,
on our honeymoon over at the Atmosphere.”

Me and the missus
? He’d morphed into Ward Cleaver all
of a sudden.

Mrs. Purple Suit didn’t appear to notice. Her gaze turned to
Stacey, and her smile broadened. “Don’t you want to show me your ring,
honey? I couldn’t wait to show off mine.”

Stacey stiffened beside him. A ring! What ring? They hadn’t
thought of that. As unobtrusively as he could, Dylan tucked her left hand in
his rear jeans pocket.

“Awww, we don’t want to brag, do we honey?” he
said through another Cleaver-bright grin. He felt like the bumbling husband
character in a TV sitcom.

“I don’t know if I’d call it bragging.”

Stacey tried to wriggle her hand out of his pocket. Keeping
his smile intact, Dylan clamped his hand on her wrist.

She leaned toward the purple jogging suit lady and whispered,
“He’s a little self-conscious about…its size.”

“I am not!”

They both smiled sympathetically at him.

“Really!”

Mrs. Purple Jogging Suit patted him on the shoulder. “It’s
all right. Everybody’s got to start somewhere.”

“That’s what I told him.” Stacey smiled serenely
as she wormed her fingers around in his back pocket. “It’s not the size
that counts, I said, it’s—”

It’s ticklish
. “It’s really not that big a deal,”
Dylan interrupted.

“Oh, I understand,” the woman said. “Lots of
men are that way. You know, some women think the small ones are endearing.”