by Taryn Belle
“I—of course! Oh, my God! Yes yes yes!” She was vibrating with excitement, her body too full to contain any of it—him, their dreams, their future, the indescribable love she had for this man. He slipped the ring onto her finger and stood up to take her in his arms. Both of their sheets fell away and pooled on the ground as James lifted her off her feet and buried his face in her neck.
She loved him eternally, intensely, madly.
He was a dream come true.
* * *
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Sin City Seduction
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Sin City Seduction
by Margot Radcliffe
CHAPTER ONE
PARKER JONES LOVED her job. Didn’t just tolerate it like some of her friends whose chosen careers made the Sunday scaries look like a slasher film, but really loved it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. Except possibly swimming-pool-raft model; those people always seemed super happy, and lounging in water with beverages was a skill she’d be happy to cultivate on a professional level. In reality, however, she was a food writer for the online magazine Gastronomic, so her days out of the pool were spent traveling and eating delicious food across the country, her current city being Las Vegas.
And as she watched Hugh Matteson, ex-NFL quarterback and owner of the restaurant she was currently reviewing, saunter across the floor of his extremely successful barbecue joint, Blue Smoke, she couldn’t help but add another bullet point to her gratitude list.
Decked out in a deep violet suit with a white shirt, lavender pocket square and no tie, he looked like he had the world on a string, a confident smile curving his firm lips as if he’d never not had a reason to be happy. Medium brown hair, clipped short, was pushed back and sideways away from his forehead and was just basic-bro enough to ground him in the realm of the living. His jaw was square and strong, the likes of which would compel Gaston to take up facial exercises. Sharp hazel eyes (she’d googled him, obviously, because research) were lit with an enterprising spirit she recognized in her own.
One of his big paws was casually shoved into a pants pocket, sure and easy as if everyone he spoke to was a friend and not a complete stranger. Straight white teeth completed the picture, but she knew that one of his incisors was crooked. A pale white scar, nearly two inches long, was etched across his left cheek and another jagged one separated his right eyebrow into two parts. In some of the photos she’d seen of him he’d worn a steel bar with a screwdriver piercing in the space between the sections, but it was absent today. Apparently, that’s what his former teammates called him, the Screwdriver, because he never stopped driving. She didn’t quite get it, but apparently, football or whatever.
He wasn’t handsome; that was a silly, pale word to describe the sheer mass of man and the obvious contradictions that made up Hugh Matteson, ex-athlete, successful businessman and, lest she forget, tabloid fodder. Even before her research, she’d recognized his name from the constant press coverage his breakup had received. Several years ago, his fiancée dumped him. Not such an extraordinary story, but the timing was unforgettable. The breakup came shortly after his career-ending injury and mere weeks before their wedding day, and then was brutally followed by said fiancée’s elopement to this very town with the guy who replaced Hugh as the New York Comets quarterback. It would have broken lesser men, but no one looking at Hugh now would ever guess that he’d once been the most pitied man in sports.
He exuded sheer magnetism and Parker felt an electric pull in the pit of her stomach that she rarely, if ever, felt. Part of why she loved her job was because it freed her from her responsibilities home in Chicago, also known as her father, who was still recovering from the fact that his wife (and Parker’s mother) walked out on them nearly fifteen years ago. Her life on the road was hers and hers alone. The fact that Hugh wasn’t relationship material wouldn’t stop her from having fun with him. Because he looked like he could be a veritable Disneyland in bed.
As a rule, all her relationships ended the next morning anyway, because she was on the road most weekends and rarely home, but also because attachments weren’t really her thing. When your own mom walks out on you, it tends to shake your faith in the reality of commitment.
Returning her attention to her plate of barbecue, she had to admit that she was tragically underwhelmed by the food. So having fun with the owner, who, considering his lackluster food, was the only smoking-hot thing in this particular barbecue joint, was probably a bad idea. There was an air of the generic everywhere, in fact. The floor-to-ceiling wood paneling and sunbaked longhorn skulls perched high on the walls screamed typical roadhouse decor, but it was something she could forgive because it was Vegas, the city that had invented camp, forgotten it, and then invented it again. It was better than the sports theme she’d expected at any rate, so points for that.
Pulling out her tablet, Parker began typing her initial thoughts for the review she’d write later. She’d ordered nearly everything on the menu, including two sampler platters consisting of sausage, brisket, ribs, pulled pork, salmon and chicken along with corn bread, collards, baked beans, and mac and cheese. The different barbecue sauces themselves were bland, which was downright heresy for a barbecue place. The smoke on the meat was just enough, but it was obvious that they used the same kind of wood to smoke all their varieties of meat, which was such a cop-out.
She managed to type out a few notes, but kept getting distracted. Hugh was working his way around the perimeter of tables that ran along the outside wall and eventually she abandoned even the pretense of working to watch him. Smiling at a blue-haired woman in an I Heart Las Vegas sweatshirt who had reached out and taken his hand, the corners of his eyes crinkled and lit up his whole face, which without the smile tended toward menacing. Her breath stopped at the sight, not quite a catch because she was a grown woman, but edging in that direction. His free hand abandoned his p
ocket and covered the woman’s hand in his, a warm two-handed grip, before he crouched to get down to her level so he could hear her better. Parker had no idea what the woman was saying, and her expression was serious, but by the end of the conversation they were both laughing.
Then as if in slow motion, Hugh rose from his crouch, turned and caught Parker right in the act of blatantly staring at him. Turning back to her food would have been the best thing to do, but instead she held his gaze, because, hell, she wanted to. After a moment she looked away because staring was rude, but that look had communicated what she’d wanted. That, yes, she agreed with America that he was aesthetically advantaged, and also yes, she’d like to explore that advantage in a behind-closed-doors type of situation. Because that was what her work life was about. When she was on the road, she could be herself instead of her father’s caretaker or the girl her friends still coddled because her mom ran out on them for a flashier life.
Then he was coming her way, making a beeline through other hopeful diners whose yearning eyes followed him as he passed them by. Her throat tight, she inconspicuously slid her tablet off the table and back into her bag so he wouldn’t have another reason to be suspicious. Except upon further thought she should have acted like she was reading a book. No one ate alone without a buffer of some kind and here she was with half the food in the restaurant in front of her. Nervous and hating it, she took a drink of beer, one thing she couldn’t complain about. From a local brewery in town, the light hoppy effervescence was the perfect fit to wash down rich, smoky barbecue.
Wiping the foam away from her mouth, she looked up to see him standing there and her entire body froze, with the exception of her wet hand sliding over the paper napkin spread across her lap.
“Enjoying your meal, ma’am?” he asked, an amused eyebrow raised, the one with the scar. His voice was grumbly and rough as he eyed the pile of food eclipsing the surface of the scarred oak table.
“Indeed,” she got out, having second thoughts about engaging with him. Either he’d clock her as a reviewer right off the bat or he’d assume that she was the lone competitor in a food-eating contest. Either way, she’d feel guilty for the unflattering review she’d ultimately be writing.
He held out his hand, but then thought better of it when he saw that her fingers were caked in barbecue sauce. “I’m Hugh Matteson, the owner. Just wanted to make sure we were taking care of you tonight.”
Looking up into his eyes was an epically bad idea, because she’d love to be taken care of by this guy. He was even better up close, dark scruff shadowing that movie-star jaw; hazy green eyes ringed with brown were clear and amused, hands so large she bet he could hold a toddler in his palm. He was also imposing, well over six foot five, and smelled like a man who took care of himself—musky cologne hung on the air like a summer’s breeze over a marsh, intriguing and mysterious. She fantasized about forgetting the article altogether and taking him back to her hotel room for the night.
“I’m Parker Jones,” she finally said, starting and stopping again around the bubbly catch in her throat from the beer.
“Were you expecting someone else?” he asked pointedly, his gaze cataloging her many entrées. “Or a group of people?”
“No, it’s just me,” she admitted, giving him what she hoped was a cheeky smile. Like “I’m just a girl who couldn’t decide,” not “I’m writing an article about your mediocre food.”
Part of her wanted to admit who she was, because she’d never been shy about writing unfavorable reviews before, but she wanted to flirt back with him even if it wouldn’t amount to anything. He was, after all, a famous athlete, and she was a woman with barbecue sauce already crusting around her fingernails.
“I just really like barbecue,” she added when he still hadn’t responded.
That caught him up and he laughed, eyes crinkling, dimples in all their glory, that lickable crooked incisor up close and personal. His voice was lush and deep, plunging like an ocean wave pulling away from shore. An answering pull in her middle had her shifting in her seat. This was probably the reaction he received from every woman he met, which was just the reminder she needed to stop her X-rated thoughts right in their tracks. He was the kind of guy who could ruin her life, and it still wasn’t quite put back together after the first time.
“I can see that,” he finally managed, that amused grin still firmly in place. “But I’ve always been partial to a woman who could eat.”
She laughed. “Oh, don’t worry, I can eat.”
“Apparently,” he said, leaning back just slightly on his wing tip’s heels.
They smiled at each other then in a moment of shared amusement and she felt the bubble of anticipation in her stomach grow.
“Parker Jones,” he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue experimentally. “That name sounds familiar for some reason. Like Lois Lane or Jessica Rabbit.”
Shrugging, she met his eyes again. “Sorry, don’t know. To my knowledge I’ve never been a comic book character, and we’ve definitely never met.”
“No, I would have remembered you,” he agreed.
“Are you sure? I’m not always surrounded by tables of food.”
He smiled again, their eyes still locked as if glued to each other. Breaking contact, she shoved a forkful of brisket in her mouth, nearly choking at the amount and the fact that it was far too dry.
Seeing her distress, he took a seat in the round wooden booth, his arm poised to make contact with her back, but she shook her head vehemently as she swallowed. “I’m fine,” she choked out, reaching for her mug of beer.
Guzzling it down, she felt his eyes on her, saw him gesturing to a nearby waiter who wasn’t hers. “Can we get two more of whatever she’s drinking? Quickly, please.”
“Oh, that’s too much,” she rasped, waving the request away.
“One’s for me,” he stated simply, as if she’d invited him to sit at her table.
In fact, once she’d fully caught her breath again, he decided to help himself to one of her ribs as if they were old friends having dinner together. Watching him chew was like a porno, that tight jaw, gnashing and grinding. She really needed to reevaluate her choices if this was the kind of thing she’d been brought to, getting turned on by a man eating. Honestly, it was too much, and yet admittedly, also very on-brand.
“Are you from Vegas or just visiting?” he asked, throwing the clean rib into the basket already half-full of them.
“Just visiting,” she informed, taking another sip of beer. She wasn’t eating any solid foods until he went away and it was safe to chew again.
“Where are you from then, Parker Jones?”
The waiter set down two frosty mugs of beer, the foamy white heads just barely not running down the sides, and she wondered exactly what she should say. Revealing too much about herself would be a problem. It wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility that as a restaurant owner, he’d read her stuff. “Chicago.”
“And you’re in Vegas by yourself, or just this dinner?”
“Vegas.”
He seemed to consider that for a second. “Business or pleasure?”
Shit. She didn’t want to lie, but he was going to ask her what she did and she wouldn’t have a good answer. Unfortunately, she was a terrible liar, so it would have to be the truth. “Business.”
“Let me guess,” he said, looking over the wealth of food again. “Soup kitchen director?”
She laughed, not expecting a joke. At least not a funny one. “Nope. Though I have volunteered at plenty of them.”
“Good for you,” he said, his eyes sliding over her face and down her chest. She wasn’t wearing anything revealing, just a pair of jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt with a fitted burgundy blazer. All choices designed to hide any sauce or grease stains she might incur during the sampling process.
Nonetheless, his gaze stopped on her clea
vage, and those tingles of anticipation rolled over her skin like a long-lost friend knocking at her front door after an extended absence. It’d been a long time, but she remembered them like it was yesterday. He quickly collected himself, straightening in his seat and meeting her eyes again, vaguely apologetic. If he hadn’t just tried to save her life when she was choking, she might have given him a hard time about it, but she also didn’t want to draw out the conversation considering what she was hiding.
“And you own the Blue Smoke Restaurants,” she filled in. “And used to play some kind of sports game?”
That got him smiling that shy, humble smile again, his eyes drifting downward and his tongue sticking in his cheek. “Football,” he supplied, eyes dancing with amusement. “The sport, that is.”
“Gotcha,” she said. “The one with the ball.”
“Yeah, that one,” he replied, shaking his head at her playful obtuseness. “So what do you do?”
She took a deep breath, having spent their entire conversation trying to figure out the answer to this very question. “I write for a lifestyle magazine.” Not technically a lie, so: points.
“That’s pretty cool,” he said, his thoughtful gaze catching hers again.
Those hazel eyes were intelligent and sharp, at turns making her feel as if she were the only person in the room, but she knew at the same time they were evaluating his waitstaff and his diners’ satisfaction.
“Yeah, it’s my dream job.”
“A lifestyle magazine,” he repeated. “So, like, laundry tips and stuff?”
She shrugged, the anxiety crawling up her back. “I’m not too into laundry,” she hedged. “It’s more like menu planning and leisure activities.” Like where to eat, she thought guiltily. Where was that waiter with her check and please don’t let him ask the name of the magazine.
