Once Upon a Christmas (28 page)

His low, rough voice sent a shiver through her.

“You have to tell me what you want, because it’s all up
to you. Everything.” He leaned closer, and his body heat mingled with hers
and the iciness of the water between them. “I have what you need. You only
have to ask.”

Stacey couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. This was more than
thirst they spoke of, more than anything they’d shared so far. He was asking
for her trust, offering her the freedom to choose what she wanted…and she
didn’t, she realized as she stared into the goblet, really know what that was.

“What you need depends on how you feel,” Dylan
went on, raising the goblet to her cheek in a sort of caress.

Cold bloomed where it touched her. Stacey gasped at the
delicious sensation it aroused, automatically arching her neck to expose more
of her overheated skin to the glass’s icy touch. He pressed it gently closer,
lowered it to her throat, and goose bumps prickled along her arms in the wake
of his movements.

“See? This feels twice as cold because you’re so hot.”
He watched her, moving the goblet to her lips again. “More?”

More what?
her poor muddled mind asked. The thread of
their conversation was lost to her, swept away beneath the giddiness she felt
at his words—her, hot?—and the incredulity of her response to him.
He’s
dangerous
, her heart whispered. But the rest of her couldn’t have cared
less for the warning.

“More,” she answered.

Dylan’s eyes gleamed, green and wicked in the arena’s dim
light. He raised the goblet to her lips. Stacey brought her hand to his wrist
to steady it, but rather than let her drink, he tipped the glass away again.

“I’ll do it. Much as I’d enjoy seeing you in a wet
T-shirt”—his gaze roved over her body, then lifted—“or wet dress
contest, that’s not what I have in mind.” A smile crooked his lips as he
raised the glass. “For now, at least. Trust me.”

Trust me
. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one
risking a lapful of ice cubes. Nevertheless, Stacey let him tip the glass to
her lips. She sipped the icy water, wildly conscious of him watching her, and
dared to raise her gaze to his.

Dylan stared at something over her shoulder. Bam! The
seductive mood he’d woven went straight down the tubes, right along with her
thirst for his attention.
Dummy
. She should have known better than to
think he’d have eyes for her alone.

Stacey quit drinking and slid sideways on their bench just
in time to avoid the unbalanced goblet’s descent. Dylan wasn’t so lucky.

“Youch!” He jumped partway up, sending the goblet
tumbling the rest of the way to the floor. Water and ice cubes dripped from his
pants.

Twisting to look over her shoulder, Stacey spotted the hotel
employee he’d been staring at—a flower girl selling roses to the diners—and
shook her head. She
really
should have known better.

“Maybe that’ll cool off your libido a little bit.”
She smoothed her dress and gathered her purse so she could leave. “Suddenly,
I’m not hungry anymore.”

A few yards away, two knights on horseback galloped into the
arena to prepare for the first joust. The crowd cheered.

Dylan shook his hands dry and gave her a dumbfounded look. “What?”

“Your libido,” Stacey said louder, trying to make
herself heard over the thundering hoofbeats of the jousters. “Cool off
your libido.”

The music swelled along with the crowd’s enthusiasm and
drowned out her words.

“What?”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She looked at him, dripping
and shivering, and decided he’d had enough punishment already. “Never
mind. I’m leaving.”

Chapter Four

Outside in the neon-spangled December night, Stacey hailed
one of the taxis parked beneath the Renaissance’s porte-cochere. She hurried
toward it with her heart still thumping from her race through the casino. Near
as she could tell, Dylan hadn’t followed her from the arena.

He was probably busy getting the flower girl’s phone number,
she thought sourly as she slipped in the back seat of the taxi. Going to dinner
with him had been a bad idea. She should have listened to herself and refused
to go along. Next time, at least, she’d know better than to give Dylan the
benefit of the doubt.

Leaning forward, Stacey told the Santa-hat-wearing driver her
destination. Serenaded by the Christmas music on his radio, she settled on the
upholstered seat as he maneuvered into the heavy Las Vegas traffic. Judging by
the number of cars and pedestrians on the infamous “Strip,” it could
take days to reach her hotel again.

Shaking her head, Stacey scrounged in her purse for a
compact and lipstick to put herself together with. She might feel as if she had
“gullible” tattooed on her forehead, but that didn’t mean she had to
look the part. If and when Dylan caught up with her, she wanted to look as
polished as possible. Maybe then he wouldn’t guess how close she’d come to
making a complete fool of herself over him. Again.

She cracked open the compact she’d found and swiveled up her
lipstick with a shaky hand, then peered in the mirror to put it on.
Idiot
,
her expression said.
Dylan wants something, all right, or he wouldn’t be
here—but it’s not you.

Let me convince you, Stacey. Give me another try
, he’d
said, but what did that mean, anyway? Did he want to start dating again? Did he
only want to keep his word to Janie and Richard, and help her pull off the
honeymoon suite charade?

Maybe, she thought dismally as the taxi inched forward in
traffic, Dylan had realized he’d spoiled his studly dating record by dumping
her before sleeping with her, and now he just wanted to seduce her. Then dump
her. Again.

Lipstick accomplished, Stacey stared out the taxi window at
the flashy casinos they passed. Spotting the cheerful sixty-foot Christmas tree
in front of one hotel only made her feel more morose. This was some Christmas
season so far, wasn’t it?

It wasn’t that she honestly believed Dylan was as bad as she
made him out to be. It wasn’t even that she was worried about her honeymoon
imposter status being found out. At least not
much.
No, what really
bothered her was her own indecision. If she couldn’t even trust her own
judgment anymore, what did she have left?

The last time she’d been involved with Dylan, Stacey had
been freshly divorced and about as eager to start dating again as a fish was to
rumba on the beach. She’d only agreed to go out with him as a favor to Janie
and Richard, who’d gone to college with Dylan and thought he’d be the perfect
dating re-entry partner: good-looking, successful, and not the least bit
interested in a serious relationship. Tailor-made for a skittish divorcée.

Or so she’d thought.

Until she’d started falling for him.

Dumb, dumb, dumb. The very instant she’d started having
couple-type thoughts about Dylan, he’d sensed it and scrammed. Did men have
early commitment warning systems, or what? It wasn’t as though she’d wanted to
nail him down and marry him on the spot. She needed to get used to running her
own life again before getting involved with another man. She needed…

She needed to find out if that flash of black and red had
really been Dylan running alongside the taxi, or if she’d only imagined it.

Craning her neck, Stacey stared out the taxi’s side window
toward the sidewalk bordering The Strip. Pedestrians in red and green Christmas
sweaters surged along the narrow space, toting shopping bags, cameras, and even
cocktails. Multi-colored lights brightened their faces, but none of those
faces, it seemed, belonged to Dylan.

Whew. She
had
imagined that glimpse of him. Maybe a
guilty conscience could do that to a person. Although why she should feel
guilty, Stacey didn’t know. After all,
he
was the one she’d caught
ogling another woman in the middle of their “honeymoon” date.

Except she did feel guilty. Guilty for dumping ice water in
his lap, and foolish for running out on him the way she had. If she was going
to pull off the honeymoon charade, she’d have to think first before acting.

The driver stopped at a corner to let a stream of tourists
pass on their way to the holiday show at the Bellagio’s fountains. Stacey
settled back again, trying to put the evening’s dinner debacle out of her mind.
She put her things back in her purse, gazed out the windshield at the red
traffic light overhead—and something slammed against the passenger-side window.

Dylan. His face, penitent and pleading, pushed close to the
glass. He rapped on it, motioning for her to let him in, saying something she
couldn’t hear clearly.

Not that she wanted to hear it. Whatever interest she had in
listening to him or relieving her former guilt attack evaporated once she saw
the huge bouquet of red roses he cradled against his chest. So, he thought he’d
buy her off with flowers, did he? He had another think coming.

Stacey surged across the backseat and slammed her palm on
the knob that locked the taxi door. At almost the same instant, the traffic
light changed. The taxi drove forward.

Dylan jogged beside it, dodging pedestrians and a bicyclist.

“Roll down the window!” He mimicked cranking the
handle down. She didn’t and he jogged faster, trailing fallen rose petals along
the side of the street. Noticing that fact, he held the bouquet closer.

“For you!” he called, catching up with the taxi as
it idled in traffic again.

Stacey glanced at what had to be at least three dozen
long-stemmed flowers bundled against his chest. He must have hit on every
flower girl at the Renaissance to accumulate that many. The cad.

She leaned closer to the driver. “I’ll pay you fifty
bucks if you can get me to the Atmosphere in the next five minutes.”

He grinned at her in the rear-view mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”

He accelerated. Stacey fell back against the seat. Dylan’s
voice, “Staaaceey…!” faded like a bad Brando impression. She caught
one final glimpse of him waving the roses overhead before the taxi changed
lanes and left him behind.

They changed lanes again, shot across The Strip, ran a
yellow light, and screeched to a stop in the next clump of traffic. Jittery and
soon to be fifty dollars poorer, Stacey swiveled in the back seat. She looked
out the rear windshield.

No sign of Dylan. Whew! She’d lost him.

So how come she didn’t feel relieved?

Stuck on Las Vegas Boulevard, Dylan revved his Jeep in front
of the Atmosphere, swearing under his breath at the two police cars and the
taxi that blocked the curved drive to the casino’s entrance. Must be a
fender-bender. Great.

Shoving his fingers through his hair, fighting for patience,
he stared up at the palm trees bordering the drive. Someone had strung
Christmas lights on their jagged trunks and along their fronds. The multicolored,
twinkling lights lent the tropical trees a old-fashioned air of holiday
joviality—much like the vendor hawking eggnog lattes on the corner did.

Not that Dylan was feeling especially ho-ho-ho at the
moment. Not since Stacey had run out on him. Damn. He shouldn’t have pushed her
so hard during dinner. He should have known she’d be looking for an excuse to
bolt.

Like an idiot, he’d come on too strong. Now it would be
twice as hard to get through the weekend with her. He’d probably lost every
inch of ground he’d gained, and all because of his stupid roving eyeballs. And
the roses, of course.

Reminded of them, Dylan glanced at the bouquet on the
passenger seat. A little wilted from being waved about, but still pretty nice.
He’d had to buy out both flower girls at the Renaissance to get them, and had
almost missed catching up to Stacey because of it.

“What do you mean you won’t take a check?” a woman
said near the taxi-police car clump. “You just got done telling me you
wouldn’t take a credit card, which I don’t have anyway, so that’s kind of
beside the point, but how am I supposed to pay you? What else is there?”

Stacey. He’d have recognized her voice even at normal
decibel levels. As it was, she was nearly wailing. Dylan whipped out his Jeep
keys, grabbed the bouquet, and hefted himself upright using the Jeep’s roll
bar. Yep. There she was, standing in the middle of the parked cars beside the
squat taxi driver and two uniformed policemen.

“Cash, lady!” yelled the taxi driver, rubbing his
thumb and fingers together in a show-me-the-money gesture that spoke every
language. “Ya heard of it?”

“Of course I’ve heard of cash! But haven’t
you
heard of the computer age? These days, even fast food joints take credit cards.”

“Maybe, lady. But Mickey D’s
doesn’t
take checks,
and neither do I.”

Grinning, Dylan tossed his keys to a valet and headed toward
them. He couldn’t have come up with a better way to pull a knight in shining
armor routine if he’d planned it himself. This taxi driver was heaven sent—even
if he
had
nearly run over Dylan earlier.

“Sir, you’ll have to move your vehicle,” one of
the officers told the taxi driver. “You’re blocking the—”

“I ain’t moving until I get paid,” the driver
interrupted, looking belligerent. He glared at Stacey. “She even promised
me extra to ditch some loser with a bunch of flowers.”

Hunching her shoulders, she scooted closer to one of the
police officers. “I told you. I don’t have any cash! I must have lost it
someplace, or—”

She spotted Dylan. The rest of whatever she was saying came
out in a garbled series of mismatched syllables. “Or, or,” she tried
to rally, “or I could go to an ATM. Please? I swear you can trust me.”
Smiling wanly, Stacey blinked up at the officer nearest her. “Really, I’m
very trustworthy. Ask anyone.”

“Ask me.” The driver snorted. “The guy she
tried to stiff on the fare.”