That Man 2 (5 page)

Blake shot her a sexy wink before she parted. Why did that bother me? I swear the waitress had mentally undressed him. She was just his type—blond, stacked, and stunning. Was he going to hook-up with her later?

“To winning,” Blake said, clinking his glass against mine and hurling me out of my mental ramblings.

I took a big swig of the wine. And then another and another while Blake imbibed a bit of his drink.

“One more time,” Blake insisted after another sip of his Scotch. You know what they say . . . third time’s a charm.”

“Fine,” I spat at him, loosened up from the wine. “But this time, I’m using my own money.” Holding the wine glass in one hand, I unzipped my purse with the other and fumbled for my wallet. I pulled out a five-dollar bill and inserted it into the machine. I took another gulp of the wine and then slapped the spin button.

“C’mon triple cherries,” I shouted repeatedly at the machine. Talking to the machine had worked for Blake. So maybe it would work for me.

My eyes stayed fixed on the glass screen as the spinning came to halt, and a symbol fell onto the payline.

One pair of cherries.

My heart began to race.

Two pairs.

I held my breath, and like in a slow motion dream, the final symbol fell into place. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Three pairs of cherries!

“Holy fucking shit!” cried Blake as a siren went off and a red light on top of the machine began to spin and flash. Crowds of people moved in on us, clapping and cheering.

“What’s going on?”

“Jen, you just won the fucking jackpot!”

“I did?” I was in a state of shock. “How much is that worth?”

“More than a bowl of fruit.”

“Like how much more?”

“Like five thousand dollars.”

“Holy shit!” I could barely contain myself. Screaming, I jumped up and down like a child in a candy store, my arms looping around his neck. I was still holding my almost empty glass. Setting his Scotch down, Blake circled his arms around my waist and spun me around. Beneath the thin fabric of my blouse, I could feel my nipples harden against his steely chest. My lips were so close to his that they almost touched. I swear, I was a breath away from making contact with them, and if I’d had one more sip of wine, I think I might have kissed him. His lips were that inviting, and he held me in that position longer than necessary. Finally, he set me down. Our eyes never strayed from one and other. There was electricity between us. I could feel it and wondered if he felt it too.

“C’mon, Lady Luck, let’s head over to a roulette table.” With that dazzling dimpled smile, he clasped my hand. I didn’t resist.

We strolled up to a table in the center of the casino around which two dozen or so spectators were gathered. Numerous players were calling out red and black numbers and placing large stacks of chips on various numbers. There was one available stool at the table.

“Sit,” ordered Blake.

“Aren’t you going to play?” I asked taking a seat.

“No. I just want to watch you play.”

He anchored himself behind me, his warm breath skimming my neck. Tingles skittered up and down my spine. Blake handed the croupier my win slip.

“Hundreds, my good man,” he said.

In a flash, the croupier placed several towering stacks of black chips on the table in front of me.

“What do I do?” I asked naively.

“It’s simple. Pick two numbers,” he breathed in my ear.

“Okay, ten and thirteen.”

“Why those numbers?”

“That’s the date of my birthday.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” he purred, fisting my ponytail. I didn’t pull away.

“Okay. This is what I want you to do.”

I was all ears. And all tingles.

“Take one of your chips and place it on the line between those two numbers.” With the top chip of my tallest stack, I did exactly as he said.

Other players placed bets and the croupier, a sandy-haired college-aged dude who seemed amused by me, gave the roulette wheel a firm spin. Everyone’s eyes stayed on the little ivory ball as it spun clockwise around the spinning wheel, bouncing from number to number. There was tension in the air as the wheel slowed down. It finally came to a halt, and to my utter disbelief, the little ball bounced straight into the number ten slot.

“Ten is a winner,” shouted out the croupier. Oohs and ahhs broke out among the crowd of spectators. I was in a wide-eyed state of shock as the croupier set a tower of black chips on the winning number.

I turned to face Blake. A big Cheshire cat grin spread across his face, and his eyes glinted with amusement. “I just won, didn’t I?” I gasped, clasping my hand to my mouth.

He nodded sheepishly. “Yes. A mere hundred dollars. I want you to play again and put everything on thirteen.”

I gulped. He wanted me to risk it all? I’d won almost a whole month’s pay. “Are you sure?”

He nodded again. “Do it,” he commanded.

With jittery fingers, I complied.

The croupier gave the wheel another forceful spin and then said, “No more bets.” My heart pounded and every nerve in my body buzzed. I chewed my lip as the little ball circled around the wheel.

The wheel slowed down, and the ball skidded across several numbers. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I wished silently. My fists curled so tightly I could feel my nails. Finally, it stopped at ten again. Oh no! I lost. My heart sank painfully to my stomach—every penny I’d won was gone. And then, to my absolute shock, it edged into the next slot—red thirteen. I leaned into the table and squinted hard to be sure I was seeing things right. Yup, red thirteen. I even heard the croupier call it out. Holy shit! I could neither get my mouth to move nor my brain to send words to my vocal chords. A chorus of oohs and ahhs surrounded me, and I watched with wide-eyed stupor as the croupier piled copious stacks of chips onto the number. Several frustrated players left the table. From the corner of my eye, I thought I recognized someone in the crowd. Don Springer? A chill zigzagged down my spine, but he was gone in a blink. He was probably just a figment of my imagination, and I went back to enjoying my big moment.

“Holy crap!” I finally managed. I jumped out my chair and began to do a happy dance. Literally.

“I won! I won!” I shout­ed repeated­ly, gripping Blake’s shoulders as my feet did a jig. I’d never seen so many chips.

Blake placed his hands at my waist. “Do you know how much you’ve won?”

Delirious, I had no clue. “Tell me.”

“About a year’s worth of salary after the taxes.”

“Oh my God!” I was close to fainting. Thank goodness, Blake was holding me.

Grinning, Blake drew me close to him. I could feel more than his rock-hard chest. Between his strong legs, that giant cock of his pressed against my middle. Goose bumps spread across my flesh.

“C’mon, let’s go to a bar and celebrate.” He pressed me yet closer to him and rubbed his hard length against my abdomen. My big win aroused him. And it aroused me.

My skin prickled. Temptation teased me. My mind screamed no; my body screamed yes.

“Just one drink. We’ll talk business.”

“Okay,” I mumbled. “Just one drink. And only if you let me buy.”

A triumphant smile lit his gorgeous face. “Sure. And besides, you owe me ten bucks.”

Five short minutes later after exchanging my chips for real dollars at the cashier, I was sitting with Blake at a high table at one of the hotel’s many bars. On the stage, some chesty redheaded lounge singer was singing a medley of Roberta Flack songs. I ordered another wine, he another Scotch. I craved something stronger, but I knew I shouldn’t mix drinks, especially in the company of my boss. I could easily get sloshed and embarrass myself. That definitely would not be a good career move.

Our drinks arrived quickly—delivered by yet another disturbingly flirtatious blond cocktail waitress whose name tag said Kay. After again toasting to winning, we drank in silence. I studied his face. The flickering candlelight danced across his strong features, bathing them in a warm glow. I’d never faced him in this kind of lighting, and it awed me how spectacularly handsome he truly was. It no longer surprised me that he’d once been a model. He was the kind of guy who belonged on the cover of
GQ
and could sell ice to an Eskimo.

“What made you come to Vegas tonight?” I asked, fumbling for conversation.

“You.”

“You don’t trust me to do my job?”

“Of course, I trust you.”

“Didn’t you have a date with Kassie?” I recalled overhearing Mrs. Cho setting it up before he got sick.

“No. I had one with Kasey. She came down with the flu too.”

Yay for her, I silently cheered and then mentally slapped myself. What was wrong with me? I was newly engaged and definitely not the mean jealous type. Or so I thought.

“Aren’t you glad I came?”

“Tomorrow would have been just fine.”

He looked slightly crestfallen. “Hey, if I hadn’t come tonight, you wouldn’t have won all that money.”

I almost felt rich. But most of my winnings were going to paying off debts, including my car and student loans.

“It was just beginner’s luck,” I countered.

“There’s no such thing as
just
luck, my father says. He says success is like a slot machine. You have to line up the three cherries—the right idea, the right time, the right person. If one of those three cherries is missing, you can’t win.”

I pondered his words, but the wine was clouding my thinking. It made sense, but I wasn’t sure.

He glanced down at my engagement ring and then returned his gaze to my face. His eyes bore into mine. “Do you think you’re going to succeed at marriage?”

My skin bristled. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is . . . maybe the idea and time feel right, but is that dentist boyfriend of yours the right person?”

His question made my stomach clench. Fuck. I’d forgotten to call Bradley. I’d promised to call him the minute I landed in Vegas, but I didn’t. But he hadn’t called me either. Like what if my plane had crashed or I’d gotten into an accident?

I nervously twisted my engagement ring with my thumb. I couldn’t answer his question. The truth: I was having my doubts. Yes, we’d been together for a long time—through most of college and grad school—and we both had the same goals of living comfortably and having children, but lately, there hadn’t been much of a spark. Maybe that’s what happens to couples who are starting separate careers or have been together for a long time.

As I took another long swig of my wine, the lounge singer began singing, “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” and a sad truth hit me hard like a hammer. I couldn’t remember the first time I saw Bradley’s face. Was it the cafeteria? In the courtyard? In a classroom? I just couldn’t remember.

Blake held my gaze in his. And my mind flashed back to our first encounter in his office. How when he lifted up his head and met my eyes, I almost melted. I’d relived it so many times. The moon and the stars danced in my head. Inwardly, I quivered.

As if reading my mind, he reached across the table and ran his thumb across my chin. “Dance with me.” Another command.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please. It’s just a dance.”

On the verge of unexplainable tears, I bit down on my lip and simply nodded.

Blake rose and came around the table to help me off the stool. A breath later, I was in his strong arms, stepping slowly side to side, as the lounge singer sang the moving Roberta Flack song. So much taller than me even in my heels, my head just reached his pecs. I rested my cheekbone against his chest and let the words of the song fill my head. I felt the heat of his body and his heart beat in my ear. At this very moment, nothing else existed except Blake and me.

“You feel good, Jennifer” he whispered.

“You do too,” I said back softly.

The song ended, and I pulled away.

“Well, I’d better be going. There’s a lot going on tomorrow.” I blinked once. Only once. We’d never talked business at all. My eyes stayed fixed on him.

He was about to touch my face, but stopped midway. He smiled wistfully. “Yeah.” He paused. “Thanks for a great evening.”

I quirked a half-smile back at him, the tears so close to falling my eyes stung. “Yeah. It was really fun.” Turning away from him, I hurried out of the bar before I made a total fool of myself in front of my boss. I didn’t look back.

The truth: Blake Burns had given me the best time I’d ever had in my entire life.

Jennifer

T
he morning focus groups were being held at a research facility in downtown Vegas—the early Vegas of the Rat Pack era that was now enjoying a resurgence. Dressed casually but professionally in black slacks and another silk blouse, I was sitting on a taupe brown couch in a small room, able to view the groups through a one-way mirror. A notebook and pen sat on my lap and a cup of coffee on the table in front of me.

The first group, women 18-34, had already started. Libby, seated at the head of a conference room table, was briefing a dozen or so respondents who were drinking coffee and devouring pastries. The women seated around the table were of various shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, and some bore tattoos. They came from all over the country, many here in Vegas for the book signing event.

Where was Blake? Though we hadn’t made a plan to come here together, it was not like him to be late. I was looking forward to seeing him as much as I was dreading it. Everything was fine last night until I’d danced with him. Why did I do that? Wasn’t there some kind of law about employees dancing together? Had I not drunk a couple glasses of wine, sleep would have eluded me. I’d fallen fast asleep, still swaying in his strong arms. Oh, he’d felt divine! The memory still danced in my head. I tried impossibly hard to force it out of my mind.

Libby, in her glory, started to ask questions about the respondents’ reading tastes. The group broke into a lively discussion about books they were reading and authors they loved. Of course,
Fifty Shades of Grey
was mentioned, but so were so many others—Arianne Richmonde’s
The Pearl Trilogy
, Adriane Leigh’s
Wild,
and R.K. Lilley’s
Up in the Air
series to name a few. There seemed to be no end to the list of books and authors these voracious readers devoured.