The Best Bet (2 page)

Maybe she should explain her role and that of his host, the Xanadu Resort? But if she explained and this wasn’t his first time, she ran the risk of embarrassing him. And if it was his first time, he might not want her to know he was a rookie.

She should have checked his file more thoroughly. She’d spent too much time, setting up a helicopter tour of the Grand Canyon for the group of whales from Taiwan. She’d barely finished when Mr. Escobedo’s driver had radioed her that they were on their way to the resort, and then she’d only had a few minutes to take a cursory glance at his digital file. Mostly, she’d zeroed in on his likes and dislikes. No surprises there. Based on his preferences, he appeared to be the ex-jock, party-hardy type. She’d assumed he’d be easy to please—just point him in the direction of the nearest tables and bars. But after meeting him, she wasn’t so sure.

She should have been better prepped, not waiting until he was almost here. The next time she would work late, if necessary, to make certain she memorized her special guests’ files before their arrival.

Adriana studied him from beneath her eyelashes. Damian Escobedo was certainly handsome enough to be arrogant and self-centered. Not only was he more attractive than his digitized picture, but he was different, too, somehow, in the way he held his mouth and the expression in his eyes. In the picture, he’d appeared to be the consummate rogue, self-assured with a touch of dangerous male. In the flesh, he seemed more subdued, not dangerous at all. If she had to put a label to him, she would use that awful word . . . nice.

And nice was
not
a word that characterized high rollers.

Alarm bells sounded in her head. She suppressed the urge to ask for his ID, remembering the picture in the file. If she asked and was wrong, she would embarrass herself and her employer. She might even be fired. But he would bear watching and further research.

He rose from the chair and asked, “May I go to my room if everything’s in order?  You say my luggage will be sent there?”

“Of course, Mr. Escobedo. Whatever you wish.” She handed him a plastic key card in a cardboard holder. “I’ll have the luggage sent right up.”

“Please, not Mr. Escobedo, call me Ra—er, Damian.” He ran his hand through his hair again, tousling it.

She had the oddest urge to reach out and smooth the stray tendrils. It was a frightening yet titillating feeling, giving her a case of the shivers—almost as if, her Mamá would have said, someone had walked across her grave. Shaking off her reaction, she extended her hand again.

He took her hand between his in a strangely intimate gesture. The touch of his hands radiated warmth and a graceful tensile strength. With her hand wrapped in his, she flushed and shivered, as if tiny mice feet were running up and down her spine.

Pulling her hand free, she said, “I almost forgot. This is my business card with my cell number. If you should want anything—show tickets, reservations for restaurants, tours—or if I can help you in any other way, please call me.”

Taking the card, he glanced at it. “What if you’re off duty?”

“Call that second number.” She pointed. “It will connect you to our office and one of my co-workers will be more than willing to assist you. Day or night, someone is on duty 24/7.”

He grinned then, a lop-sided grin with a touch of rogue. And there was a gleam in his eyes, an unspoken message, which she knew only too well. Now this was the man she recognized from the picture. It was a good thing she hadn’t leapt to the wrong conclusion and asked for his ID.

“Thank you, you’ve been most gracious,” he said, inclining his head toward the front of the reception area. “This way to my room?”

“Yes, of course.” She moved in front of him, feeling uncommonly flustered, her professional demeanor undermined by the way he affected her. She went into the hallway and directed him, “Turn left outside and go to the first bank of elevators on your right. Your room is on the twenty-first floor.”

“Thank you again.” He nodded and smiled that devastating smile of his, white teeth contrasting against the golden brown of his skin.

Her gaze tracked after him, watching him saunter down the corridor, she couldn’t help but notice the way his taut butt moved beneath his tailored khakis. Heat scalded her face, and she dropped her eyes.

#

Rafael’s room on the twenty-first floor wasn’t just a room. It was a suite with two bedrooms, a living room, and two bathrooms. The Jacuzzi tubs in the bathrooms were big enough to take scuba lessons in, and the suite was a high-tech marvel: equipped with several phones, a computer, scanner, fax machine, and copier. So much for all play and no work. But there were plenty of play toys as well: plasma TV’s in every corner, a control panel for surround sound, choice of PS3 or Xbox 360, a Wii player, and Blu-ray players.

He’d never seen such luxury before except maybe in a movie. His brother had been right—this was definitely the royal treatment. High tech items aside, the suite bloomed with enough bouquets of fresh flowers to put a florist shop to shame, along with bowls of fruit and boxes of Godiva chocolates. And there was a bar stocked with enough liquor to make any party a merry one.

He snorted. Hell, he could hold his own sequel to the
Hangover
here.

Actually, it was a bit overwhelming, if not a bit wasteful for just one person—especially when that person was a fraud and had done nothing to deserve such opulence.

He moved to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled aside three layers of drapes to gaze outside. The Strip of Las Vegas lay before him: a glut of glittering palaces of pleasure, some executed in whimsical designs such as a castle or pyramid or the skyline of New York. He’d seen lots of movies filmed in Vegas, but they couldn’t compare with being here.

Suspended twenty-one stories in the sky, he could still sense the raw vibrancy of the place, the pulsing heartbeat that never stopped, day or night, 24/7.

What would it be like to live here?

Thinking about living here reminded him of his interview tomorrow. Where was his luggage? He didn’t care about his clothes or toiletries, but he needed his laptop with notes and articles for the interview. He wanted to go over what he was going to say, as well as his responses to the standard interview questions.

Sliding his hand into his pocket, he withdrew her card. Adriana de Los Santos, Guest Relations, it read. He was tempted to call her and ask about his luggage—way too tempted. Adriana de Los Santos was a babe, a “hottie,” as his brother would say.

He closed his eyes and conjured her image: petite but well-rounded in all the right places. Her severe business suit hadn’t even started to hide the lush promise of her body. Not only did she have a great figure, but she was gorgeous to look at with long russet hair framing a perfect heart-shaped face and wide-set, velvety-blue eyes. And remembering her full mouth was driving him wild, especially when he fantasized about the intimate ways she might use it.

Exercising iron self-control, he placed her card on the coffee table, wanting to rid himself of temptation. The less contact he had with Miss de Los Santos, the better. He’d even noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band, and he usually didn’t notice such things. He shook his head and drew a deep breath, hoping to cool down.

He was afraid that she might be “on to him.” He’d already made several blunders about the limo and checking in. And she was quick because she hadn’t missed his confusion. He’d seen the surprise and suspicion on her face. At this very moment, she was probably checking him out.

Groaning, he silently cursed his brother. Why hadn’t Damián warned him about the unique welcome he would receive, prepared him, so he wouldn’t come off as a rank greenhorn? Rafael answered his own question: because that wasn’t his twin’s way. His brother cruised through life on autopilot, oblivious to the mundane details that concerned everyday mortals.

He paced the length of the living room and glanced several times at the door, willing his luggage to arrive, as promised. Checking his watch, he found it had been almost an hour since he’d come up.

Rubbing his eyes, he realized the contact lenses were bothering him. He wasn’t accustomed to wearing them, and the change in pressure on the plane hadn’t helped. He wished he could take them out and give his eyes a rest, but that wasn’t possible. The contact solution and holder were packed in his bags.

He snatched up the nearest phone and called down to the bellman’s desk. After giving his name, he was put on hold for several minutes. Then he was informed that his luggage hadn’t arrived. There was some mix-up with the airline and the hotel was working on it.

Exasperated, he hung up the phone. He crossed to the coffee table and picked up Adriana’s card. But he replaced it on the table and grabbed his cell phone, keying in a query for his airline’s local phone number. After he’d hit “call” on his cell phone, the number rang at least twenty times before a clerk picked up.

After a frustrating series of muddled conversations, he was patched through to the airline’s lost luggage department. Just when he thought he was getting somewhere, the baggage clerk asked for the numbers on his luggage tags.

He didn’t have them. The limo driver had taken them. Irritated by the ridiculous situation he’d been thrust into, he tried to chill out and asked for the representative’s name and a direct line to the lost luggage department. Jotting the information on a hotel pad, he hung up.

He walked over to the coffee table again and gazed at her card for the third time.

The bank of phones shrilled in Rafael’s suite, making him jump and drop Adriana’s card. He grabbed the closest receiver, hoping it was the bell captain saying he’d found the luggage.

“Yes.”

“This is Adriana de Los Santos. Your luggage was lost by the airline. But you already know that, don’t you? The bell captain told me you called down.”

Was it his imagination, or did she sound nervous? That was good because she made him feel as jumpy as a paratrooper without a parachute.

“I need the baggage claim tickets for the airline.” He hadn’t meant to be so blunt, but he felt powerless. “I gave them to the driver and he—”

“I know. I found the driver and got them.”

“Do you want me to come down and get them?”

She exhaled. “Mr. Escobedo—”

“Please, call me Damian.” He congratulated himself for remembering to use his brother’s first name and not his own.

“Damian, then. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, and I don’t want you to waste another minute of your vacation. I’ll be more than happy to go to the airport and find your bags, even if it means waiting all night for them. The staff of the Xanadu Resort is here to serve you.”

“Sounds like above and beyond the call of duty to me. You don’t want to waste your evening, either.” He could think of a lot of other ways to waste her evening—ways that made his blood race.

“Not at all. It’s part of my job. Any way that I can be of—”

“Service,” he finished for her.

She was beginning to sound like a broken record. Not that he minded. He could listen to her recite the Gettysburg Address all night and be as happy as a frog in a latrine. She had a low, husky voice, especially resonant over the phone. But he wished he could rid her of this employee and guest hang-up she had. Get to know her on a more personal level, a lot more personal, if he had his way.

“Well, Mister, er, Damián, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way to the airport.” Her voice held a note of defensiveness.

He hadn’t meant to offend her by finishing her sentence. He just wished she would chill out on the service issue. “Can I come, too?” The question popped from his mouth.

“That really isn’t necessary, you know. I’m more than capable of locating your bags.” This time, she didn’t bother to mask the exasperation in her voice.

“I have the utmost confidence in your ability, Miss de Los Santos. But it’s my luggage, and I don’t usually duck my responsibilities.” It was a lame excuse, but he couldn’t tell her the real reason he wanted to go with her. “And I might be able to help, too. My luggage is black and lumpy and looks like everyone else’s. But I know I’d recognize my bags so you wouldn’t have to check all the tags.”

She didn’t answer right away, and he could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. “As you wish, Damian. I’ll pick you up at the front entrance under the porte cochre. My car is a late model, dark blue Ford Taurus. Give me twenty minutes. Okay?”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll be there.”

He checked his watch and went to the nearest bathroom. The requisite toilet articles in tiny bottles were provided along with a hair dryer but no comb or brush. Turning on the cold water, he splashed water on his face and tried to ignore his itchy eyes. With wet fingertips, he smoothed down his hair.

Leaning over the sink and staring at his reflection in the mirror, he wondered why he was pushing this. His ex-fiancée and what she’d done to him was never far from his mind. Except for a few arranged dates by his family, he’d avoided the opposite sex for the past two years. Adriana was attractive, but so were a lot of women. And he would only be in Vegas for a few days. A short-term fling wasn’t exactly his style.

Maybe he’d assumed his brother’s carefree personality along with his identity. Whatever temporary insanity might be driving him, all he knew was that he wanted to see Adriana de Los Santos again.

Chapter Two

Adriana pulled from beneath the gilded and neon-clad Xanadu porte cochere, making a quick U-turn onto Harmon Avenue to avoid the glutted Strip traffic. As she headed toward McCarran Airport, the sun was setting at her back and the eastern mountains were turning purple. It was her favorite time of day in the desert city—twilight.

Normally, she would be savoring the constantly shifting patterns of shadows on the mountains, breathing deeply and composing herself after a grinding day at work, except for one small detail: Damian Escobedo, sitting next to her, close enough to touch. The scent of his spicy cologne teased her senses, making her acutely aware of him. His incongruous presence, as her Mamá would have said, made her as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.