With Love From Las Vegas. Cat Schield
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suite. Missy better be there. While he’d been on a conference call with their lawyers, going over last-minute changes to the contract for the purchase of Smythe Industries, she’d pulled a vanishing act. That had been almost six hours ago.
Concern buzzed. He’d left three messages on her voice mail and sent her four or five emails. Not a single response. Assistants didn’t come any more efficient or reliable than Missy. Should he be worried that she’d gotten into trouble?
Noisy, crowded, chaotic Las Vegas lured tourists with over-the-top promises of adventure and spit them out with blurry memories and empty pockets. Had Missy fallen prey? Her small-town upbringing in west Texas couldn’t have prepared her for such dangers. Was she somewhere in the maze of slot machines, pouring her paycheck into one? Or perhaps she’d left the hotel and been accosted on the street.
A cheer went up from the craps tables on his right. If his BlackBerry hadn’t been set to vibrate, he never would have known he’d received an email. Slowing his pace, he pulled the handheld out of his coat pocket. Missy had finally responded. The two-word subject line stopped him cold.
My resignation.
He stared at the concise note in disbelief. Missy was quitting? Impossible.
His executive assistant had been with him for four years. They were a team. If she were unhappy, he’d know it.
Sebastian dialed Missy. After four rings he was directed to her voice mail.
“Call me.”
Without waiting to see if she would, he shot her a terse text message demanding her location. Thirty seconds later, he received a response.
The bar.
Which bar?
He gnashed his teeth during an even longer pause.
Zador.
He pulled up a mental image of the casino’s layout and turned to his left. A five-minute hike brought him to the bar. Red walls, black-lacquer accents and Asian-inspired art gave Sebastian the feeling he’d been transported halfway around the world. Enormous fish tanks lined the wall and provided most of the room’s light. Twelve-inch koi drifted through the clear water as Sebastian strode into the room, scanning the occupied tables for his assistant. A redhead at the bar derailed his search.
She faced the bartender, gesturing as they conversed. With her back to him, Sebastian couldn’t hear her laugh but suspected it would be husky and intimate, a siren sound that lured men into her sensual web. She sat with her long legs hitched to one side, her modest hemline offering a view of slender calves and delicate ankles.
Even without seeing her face, he was hooked.
Her allure was so potent he’d taken half a dozen steps in her direction before he recalled why he’d come here. A quick survey of the room assured him that Missy didn’t occupy any of the small round tables. He would deal with her later.
First, he needed to meet the redhead at the bar.
“No, no. Really. He did that?”
Sebastian was close enough to recognize the redhead’s voice. Shock vibrated through him. “Missy?”
His assistant turned her head and peered up at him through a screen of long, dark lashes. If it had been another woman, he would have described the action as flirtatious. But this was Missy.
“Hello, Sebastian.” Her voice rasped along his nerves like nails dragged over bare skin. She pivoted the stool a quarter turn and gestured at the empty seat beside her. “Joe, get my boss a shot of Patrón.”
Sebastian sank onto the stool, unable to believe what he was seeing.
Where were her glasses? Her eyes, the rich hazel of a mossy grotto, watched him with open curiosity, waiting for him to say or do something.
“What’s with your email?” he demanded, struggling to pull free of the whirlpool of attraction he’d been sucked into. “You picked a hell of a time to quit.”
She nudged the shot glass toward him. “There’s never going to be a good time.”
He swallowed the tequila without tasting it. The alcohol’s burn was a mild discomfort compared to the inferno raging elsewhere in his body.
At some point in the six hours since they’d gotten off the plane, she’d freed her lush, auburn hair from its long thick braid and cut off twelve inches. The shorter style waved and cascaded over her shoulders like Chinese silk. Had it always been that vibrant and alive? His fingers itched to comb through the cinnamon ripples and wrap the long strands around his hands. He could almost feel the sensual caress against his skin.
His gaze traveled downward. She’d traded her amorphous pantsuits for a figure-hugging dress that framed and flaunted the creamy curves of her breasts. Had her skin always been this pale, this flawless? Or did it just appear that way in contrast to the black of the dress?
And speaking of skin. Had he ever seen her bare this much?
The Missy he knew was modest and reserved. The woman occupying the stool beside him reveled in her sensuality.
Sebastian shook his head. “What did you say?”
“I said it’s your turn.”
His turn. His turn to what?
The valley between her breasts called to him. He imagined plunging forward and burying his face in her cleavage. To arouse her with lips and tongue. To suck one nipple after another into his mouth until she wept for joy.
The intensity of the urge shocked him. He hauled a steadying breath into his lungs. Her seductive scent infiltrated his senses and fogged his brain.
“Sebastian?”
“What?” He wrenched his gaze from her stunning cleavage and blinked to refocus his thoughts.
“Is something wrong?” Her lips curved in a way both mysterious and feminine. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking. And liked it.
What had happened to the levelheaded, professional girl he’d come to rely on these last four years? Maybe bringing her to Las Vegas hadn’t been such a good idea.
“No. I’m fine.” What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn’t seem to think straight. He peered at the empty shot glass. Had he been drugged? “What were we talking about?”
“My resignation.”
Her words slapped him out of the sensual daze. His brain cleared. Heat receded. Or perhaps retreated was a better word.
“What do you want? More money. Or are you after a better title?”
“I want to get married. Have babies.”
More shocking revelations. She’d always struck him as a career girl. His entire image of her consisted of the efficiency and dedication she exhibited within the walls of Case Consolidated Holdings’ offices. Sure, it made sense that she’d have a personal life that involved friends and lovers, but it had never occurred to him that she did.
“You don’t need to quit your job to do that.”
“Oh, but I do.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m keeping you from getting married and having kids?”
“Yes.” Her long lashes fell over whatever she didn’t want him to read in her eyes.
“How?”
Sebastian signaled the bartender for another tequila, shaking his head when the man glanced at Missy’s drink. How much alcohol had she consumed? Her clear gaze didn’t suggest intoxication. But what else could explain her rash decision to resign?
“You keep me working late most nights,” she began. “You call me at all hours to make changes in your travel arrangements or to pull together conference calls. How many times have I worked through