That Wild Night. Aimee Carson
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* *
AND HERE HE’D thought he might be bored.
Within the swank Vegas lounge, Jeff Norton folded his arms over the tabletop, leaning forward in what had turned out to be a ringside seat for the crash-and-burn All-Stars playing out before him as a table of guys tried to score on the leggy blonde who’d just served him his Scotch.
He couldn’t believe the one kid was throwing her a line after the world-class freeze she’d laid on the last chump. And his friends were encouraging him. Forget that on the hot scale, this woman ranked so far out of the kid’s league, they weren’t even on the same planet, let alone page. But hadn’t they seen her eyes? The flat, wholly uninviting, all-business expression leaving zero wiggle room for misinterpretation: not interested. Period.
Probably not. These guys had a just legal look about them, which, coupled with their collection of empties lined up like trophies on the table, and the frequent “Vegas, baby!” fist pumps suggested they hadn’t made it past the admittedly dynamite body before their brains blew out.
Live and learn, boys.
Thirty seconds later, the kid was taking a round of conciliatory back slaps from his cohorts and Jeff was back to waiting for Connor. His best friend fresh off a broken engagement and the reason behind this “guys’ weekend” in Sin City.
Where the hell was he anyway?
Checking his texts, Jeff cursed seeing it was going to be at least another hour.
Screw it. He wasn’t interested in watching guys, age twenty-one to ninety-three line up to strike out while Connor wrapped up his call with Hong Kong. Flagging another server, he handed her his still full drink then pulled out a few bills for the table.
He was halfway to the door when feminine laughter, rich and warm, spilled down the hall beside the bar. The full-bodied sound of it snared his senses and had him cranking his head around to catch a glimpse of the source.
He stopped dead, his eyes locking on the silky blond ponytail streaming over one shoulder. The legs. The hourglass curves, and finally the softest, warmest, twinkling gray eyes he’d ever seen, crinkled at the edges as his cocktail waitress peered up at the ceiling laughing at whatever it was the shorter, redheaded server adjusting her shoe had said.
Gone was that untouchable, unattainable, disinterested, cold set of attractive features. And in their place was this woman.
No way.
And no wonder she’d kept that laugh under wraps. She could barely make it across the lounge as it was without some bozo putting a move on her. If anyone saw her like this…
Well, hell, their thinking would probably follow the same as his.
How do I get her to laugh like that for me?
They’d never leave her alone.
The redhead sauntered deeper down the hall and the leggy blonde with the killer laugh straightened her apron and turned—pulling up short at the sight of Jeff standing there.
The warmth and light from her eyes blinked off as she schooled her features back into a mask of utter disinterest. The one that probably would have been easier to take if it were utter contempt because at least then a guy would know he’d made her radar. Damn, she was good.
Yeah, Jeff wasn’t going anywhere.
“Another Scotch when you get a minute,” he said, flashing her a grin before starting back to his table.
It wasn’t like he’d come to Vegas with some plan to score. He hadn’t. Only now the part of him that couldn’t resist a challenge, the part that got off on getting what no one else could have—the fastest time, the highest grade, the biggest trophy, the most successful company—that part wanted to stake a claim on the secret prize so effectively hidden away, he wouldn’t have believed in its existence if he hadn’t heard the seductive, tantalizing sound of it himself.
And as it happened, he had an hour to kill.
* * *
Whatever the deal was with the guy from table twelve, Darcy didn’t have time for it.
To think she’d pegged him as harmless.
Not in general, no. He definitely had the whole devastating male magnetism thing happening with those roughed up looks and his buttoned-down suit. Every set of female eyes in the place and probably half the men had homed in on him the second he entered the bar. But he hadn’t been on the make—and she’d clocked enough hours in this lounge over the past two years to be able to tell. So she hadn’t paid him much mind. At least not until she turned around to find him watching her with some half-cocked gotcha grin, looking like he’d busted her with her hand in the cookie jar.
Because he’d caught her laughing.
Something she didn’t let happen very often at work as it tended to give the male clientele the wrong idea about what kind of good time she might be interested in having.
But then, tonight of all nights, what did it really matter?
Leaning a hip against the bar, she waited for Mr. Not-So-Harmless-After-All at table twelve’s fresh Scotch.
This was her last night on the job. Her last—she checked her watch and felt a surge of excitement—two hours. And then she was through.
Sheryl Crow echoed through her mind, singing about leaving Las Vegas, and it was all Darcy could do not to put a little swing in her step as she pushed off the bar. Two more hours of tables to turn, drinks to serve, tips to make. And then she’d move on to life’s next adventure.
Though even as she thought it, the word seemed an off fit to the relentlessly conservative way she managed her life.
Adventure implied risks and unknowns. Challenges. Excitement. That wasn’t exactly how Darcy rolled. She couldn’t afford to. Not after the steep price she’d paid to ensure her independence. She knew the suffocating experience of being at the wrong man’s mercy and she’d been willing to sacrifice her education to facilitate that escape. Drop out of high school and get the job that set her free.
She’d sworn never to allow herself to be in a position of dependence again, which meant she took care of herself. She played it safe. Stayed in control. Lived within her means. And if the cost inherent to a life that felt safe was adventure of the tall, watered-down variety? She’d gladly pay it.
Stopping at table twelve, she leveled him with a flat stare. “Your Scotch, sir. Anything else?”
His speculative look had her wondering what this guy’s game was exactly.
And then his focus lowered to her mouth, causing an unfamiliar dip and roll deep in her belly. One she met with a stern frown because oh, no, she was not going to be tempted by this guy. No way.
* * *
“Relax, Darcy. I get it. Not interested. Couldn’t be more clear if you were wearing it on a T-shirt like the table of bridesmaids over there.”
Her gaze shifted to the three women and the corner and her mouth twitched, making something in his gut fire up. Though just as quickly she had the impulse tamped down.
“I’m not hitting on you,” he assured. “This is about filling some hang time. You’re my temporary hobby.”
A slender brow pushed up. “How’s that.”
“I like the smile I saw. And I want one of my own.”
That smooth hip of hers rocked out to one side. “You want a smile? I’ll save you the hassle.” She flashed him a grin barely a step above the flat business she doled out to every Tom, Dick and Harry who rolled through her section and Jeff shook his head, giving in to his own more sincere version.
“Nice try. But you’re not going to put me off with some cheap imitation. I’ve seen the real thing, and now