Make You Mine

by Macy Beckett

  She softened at that, lips parting in an oval while her hand flew to her breast. “Oh, bless your heart.” Head tipped to the side, she blinked at Marc like he was a kindergartner with a skinned knee. “I wish there was something I could do. Have you looked into hiring a charter?”

  Marc stood a bit straighter. “A charter plane?”

  “Mmm-hmm.” She rooted around beneath the counter until she found a business card and slid it across the laminate surface. A toothy cartoon nutria waved at Marc above simple black font advertising River Rat Charters. “Rick’s your best bet for a last-minute booking. He’s a real sweetie.”

  Marc didn’t care if the guy was a sweetie. He wanted someone to fly him safely to Vegas, not pinch his cheeks and tuck him into bed. “That’s nice, but can he fly?”

  “Oh, sure.” The woman waved off his concern. “He’s been doing this forever.” She pointed at the phone number listed on the card while her gaze darted to the line of customers forming behind Marc. “Give him a call and see if he can help you. And congrats on the wedding, by the way.” Then she motioned for the next passenger to come forward.

  Marc took the hint and carried his overnight bag to a quiet corner to contact the pilot. When he dialed the number, a woman with a two-pack-a-day voice answered, “Y’ello.”

  “Hi,” Marc said. “I’m looking to charter a plane to Vegas.”

  “When you wanna leave?”

  “Preferably now.”

  “Just a sec.” She didn’t bother covering the mouthpiece when she hollered, “Hey, Ricky! You wanna fly to Vegas today?”

  A distant male voice shouted, “Mm-kay,” and the old woman gave Marc directions to the landing strip, which she said was in a field behind her house.

  The exchange didn’t exactly fill Marc with confidence, but he wasted no time in jogging back to his truck and following the woman’s instructions. The sun hung a little too low in the sky for his liking, proof that the clock was ticking.

  Twenty minutes later, he turned down a dirt road toward a small brick ranch in the distance. For a moment, he worried he’d arrived at the wrong address, but when he pulled onto the gravel driveway, he noticed a cartoon nutria painted on the side of an aluminum garage resting beside the house.

  Must be the right place.

  Marc strode to the front stoop, punched the doorbell, and a middle-aged man with a Duck Dynasty beard answered. He wore a Parrot Head T-shirt, cargo shorts, and a grin that said he’d spent some recent time in Margaritaville.

  “Are you Vegas?” the man asked, chuckling at Marc’s tuxedo. He extended a palm. “I’m Ricky.”

  “Yes, sir.” Marc shook his hand. “Marc Dumont.”

  “Dumont?” Rick’s bushy brows drew together over narrowed blue eyes. “You’re not Jack’s boy, are you?”

  “One of them,” Marc said. “I’ve got four brothers—five if you count the baby on the way.”

  “Mmm.” This revelation didn’t seem to please Rick. Knowing Daddy, he’d probably seduced the man’s sister. “Well, I won’t hold that against you.”

  With that roadblock settled, Marc peered at the adjacent field. “I don’t see your plane. Do you keep it parked at the airfield?”

  “Nah.” Rick removed his ball cap and pointed it toward the aluminum garage. “The old girl’s in the hangar.”

  Marc stopped breathing. That oversized shed was a hangar? He had a bad feeling about this.

  “C’mon,” Rick said as he stepped out of the house and led the way. “You can help me pull her out.”

  “We’re going to haul it out of the hangar, just the two of us?” Mercy, how small was this plane?

  “Don’t worry,” Rick assured him. “You won’t break a sweat and ruin your penguin suit.”

  Once the hangar’s aluminum doors parted, Marc nearly swallowed his tongue. When he’d heard the words private charter, his imagination had conjured images of sleek ten-passenger jets—the kind celebrities and professional athletes hired to whisk them away to secluded islands. The aircraft that faced Marc from the shed looked more like a tin coffee can with wings, smaller than Beau’s SUV. Wasn’t this the kind of plane that had killed John Denver? And a couple of the Kennedys?

  All the blood must have drained from Marc’s face, because Rick studied him and took a defensive tone. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  I’m going to fall to my death, screaming like a schoolgirl at a Bieber concert. That’s what Marc was thinking.

  Rick smacked the side of his plane. “That it’s going to take forever to get there, considering how many times we’ll have to stop and refuel.”

  “Nope, that’s the last thing on my mind.”

  “Good, because my girl’s quicker than she looks. Not as fast as a jetliner, but I can have you in Sin City tonight if you don’t mind the close quarters.”

  At that point, Marc had two choices: turn around and go home, or climb inside Rick’s paper airplane and risk death for a chance at knocking on door 123 and seeing Allie’s sweet face.

  Marc extended his hand to shake. “You’ve got a deal.”

  • • •

  Allie was fairly certain she had glitter stuck to her tongue. She picked off a fleck and frowned at the offending sparkle. Unlike Devyn, she hadn’t licked any naked chests tonight, so how had it wound up inside her mouth? And more importantly, from which sweaty body in the club had it originated?

  Never mind. She didn’t want to know the answer to either of those questions.

  “Gross.” She wiped her finger on her jeans and took another swig of merlot in hopes that the alcohol would act as a sterilizing agent.

  The other women experiencing the Bare Booty Beefcake Review whooped and hollered, waving dollar bills in the air in hopes of luring a young muscled dancer in their direction for a few minutes of awkward simulated sex.

  But not Allie.

  She didn’t appreciate half-naked men thrusting their junk in her face, no matter how toned and gorgeous the owners of that junk happened to be.

  Sinking back into her chair, she avoided eye contact as a nearby “soldier” peeled off his shirt and flung it into the crowd. Experience had taught Allie the best way to go unnoticed in here was to stare into her lap. The one time she’d made the mistake of watching the show, a dancer had dropped to his knees in front of her chair and buried his face between her legs.

  That just wasn’t right.

  She snuck a peek at her watch to check the time, which seemed to be going backward. But as much as she longed to return to the hotel, she’d booked this trip as a reward for Devyn, who was currently onstage with both legs wrapped around a bouncing cowboy’s waist, screaming, “Yee-haw! Giddyup, stallion!” A second wrangler galloped up from behind and put Dev in the middle of a stripper sandwich, not that she seemed to mind. Reaching behind her, she snatched off the second man’s Stetson and placed it atop her head.

  If the hickeys on Devyn’s neck were any indication, she was having the time of her life, and Allie wouldn’t be the wet blanket.

  “Hey, pretty lady.” The soldier—or “Private Privates” according to the embroidery on his red, white, and blue thong—tugged on Allie’s wrist. He flashed his teeth and nodded toward the stage. “Consider yourself drafted”—his voice dripped with sexual innuendo—“for service.”

  Oh, no. Allie wanted no part of this. She reclaimed her hand and massaged both temples. “Sorry. I’ve got a headache. Maybe next time.”

  With a shrug, the private extended his hand to a willing volunteer at the next table, and Allie exhaled a sigh of relief. While the music blasted and women cheered, she sipped her wine, trying to make herself invisible. Finally the song ended and a flush-faced Devyn returned to the table.

  Dev used an index finger to tip back her pilfered Stetson. “Okay, party pooper. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

  “No
,” Allie objected. “We can stay as long as you want. The firemen are up next. You haven’t ridden any of them yet.”

  Devyn took a sip of her martini and glared at Allie. “I can’t have fun when you’re sitting down here looking like you’d rather get a colonoscopy than dance with a hot guy.”

  “There’s dancing,” Allie pointed out, “and then there’s dry humping to loud music. The two are not mutually inclusive.”

  “You say dry humping like it’s a bad thing.” Dev lifted her martini toward Private Privates. “He’s been checking you out all night. A rebound fling is just what you need.”

  Allie wrinkled her nose. “Even if I were into him—which I’m not—I’ll bet he’s with a different woman every day of the week. Not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas . . . like gonorrhea.”

  What she didn’t say was that no man could replace Marc, and she wasn’t ready to try.

  “You’re hopeless.” Dev grabbed her handbag and threw back the rest of her drink. “Let’s go. Maybe there’s a good chick flick on pay-per-view.”

  “Now you’re speaking my language.” Maybe Allie would take a bubble bath, too. “And room service. I’m craving a cheeseburger.”

  Dev wrapped an arm around Allie’s shoulders. “Anything for my favorite sister. I’ve even got a surprise for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Duh, if I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  After a brief cab ride back to the Grand Palace Royale, Allie slipped her key card into the slot and walked inside their medieval-themed room, scanning it for a basket of chocolate or a tray of cupcakes. But nothing looked different aside from the beds being turned down.

  Allie gave her sister a questioning glance.

  “Pack your things,” Devyn said with a smile. “Because I called the front desk this morning and got us upgraded to a deluxe suite—two bedrooms, a free minibar, and a hot tub so big we can swim in it. Surprise!”

  “No way.”

  “Way. There’s even a TV attached to the hot tub, so we can watch chick flicks in our bikinis while we sip champagne and soak away our cares.”

  Squealing, Allie threw both arms around her sister. “This is just what I needed. You’re the best!”

  “Damn right, I am,” Dev agreed. “If we’re going to act like homebodies, we might as well do it in style. Seventeenth floor, here we come!”

  • • •

  By the time Marc’s plane landed in Nevada, he didn’t want to simply kiss the ground—he wanted to give it Allie’s ring and make passionate love to it.

  He unclenched ten white-knuckled fingers from his knees and drew a deep breath to loosen the vise around his chest, but he couldn’t quite manage to unclench his jaw. Lord, if he never flew in a froghopper again, it would be too damned soon.

  Rick slapped him on the back. “Told you I’d have you in Sin City tonight.”

  With twelve o’clock rapidly approaching, tonight was a stretch. By the time Marc called a taxi and drove to the hotel, it would be morning, but not morning enough to knock on Allie’s door. He would’ve been better off getting a decent night’s sleep and flying out at dawn.

  “Want to share a cab into town?” Rick asked. “I need to rest up before I head back. Maybe I’ll catch a show and hit the craps tables, too.”

  Marc agreed, and after helping Rick stow the plane in a rented hangar, the two men rode together to the city. They chatted the whole way, and Marc shared the reason for his visit.

  “A Dumont getting hitched?” Rick asked, smoothing his beard. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

  “I’ll leave here a married man or die trying,” Marc promised.

  “Good luck to you, son.” When they reached the Grand Palace Royale, Rick wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it over. “I imagine you’ll want to fly back with your bride on a commercial jet, but call me if you change your mind.”

  Marc pocketed the business card, but knew he wouldn’t need it. Then he thanked Rick and waved good-bye as the cab shuttled the man to a less extravagant destination.

  At the front desk, Marc’s credit card took a beating, but he gladly plunked down the money for a deluxe suite with the honeymoon package, then hurried to his room on the seventeenth floor to freshen up. He didn’t care if it was two in the morning. If he waited any longer to apologize to Allie, his head might explode.

  Looking as dapper as possible in his sleep-deprived, travel-weary state, he took the elevator to the first floor and approached room 123. Then he knocked on the door, arming himself with a repentant grin and a single rose he’d borrowed from a floral arrangement in the lobby.

  When the door swung open, Marc’s smile fell.

  “Yeah?” A chiseled young man stood there, looking like he’d stepped off a J.Crew billboard. He was naked with nothing but a sheet wrapped around his waist. He rubbed his eyes and scanned Marc’s tuxedo. “We didn’t order anything.”

  Marc’s face heated while raw jealousy surged through his veins. In the span of two seconds, he couldn’t hear his own thoughts over the pounding pulse in his ears. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  The man drew back. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Where’s Allie?”

  “Who?”

  “My fiancée, that’s who!”

  A classic oh, shit! expression passed over the guy’s features as he darted a glance into the room. “She told me her name was Mandy. And she didn’t say anything about having a fiancé.”

  Marc pointed into the darkness. “Just put on your clothes and get lost. I’ll take it from here.”

  The guy propped one hand on the doorframe, blocking the way. “Listen, buddy, I can sympathize, but it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be with you. Why don’t you quit embarrassing yourself and go drink it off or something?”

  Drink it off? Who did this punk think he was?

  “Drink this off, you son of a bitch!” Marc dropped his rose and pushed up both jacket sleeves, gearing up to knock this cocky bastard into next week.

  Too bad sheer exhaustion had slowed his reflexes. The last thing Marc saw before losing consciousness was a ham-sized fist connecting with his face.

  Chapter 19

  When Marc came to, he was flat on his back in the hallway with a curly-haired blonde kneeling over him. She wore a fluffy white bathrobe and a worried expression.

  “I don’t know this guy,” the woman said to someone standing behind her.

  “Well, he said you’re his fiancée,” came a man’s response.

  “I don’t care what he said.” The woman tightened her robe’s belt tie and frowned at the man. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  Marc pushed to his elbows, groaning when the slight change in altitude made his head throb. One of his eyelids had begun to swell shut, so he turned the good one toward the couple staring at him.

  They were strangers.

  Understanding dawned, bringing with it sweet relief. Allie hadn’t moved on with another man. Marc sniffed a dry laugh at his own stupidity—and that of Beau’s hacker.

  “Sorry,” he said in a voice roughened by the fall. “I had the wrong room.”

  The woman smiled triumphantly at her partner. “See? Told you.”

  Cringing, the man inspected his knuckles. “Guess I should have just closed the door and called security instead of whaling on you like that. Sorry, man.”

  “No hard feelings.” Marc wasn’t a stranger to black eyes and busted lips. “I’m glad you didn’t call security. I can’t afford to get kicked out of here.” At least not until he found Allie and won her forgiveness; then the hotel staff was free to toss him into the street. He pushed himself up to a sitting position while the hallway spun around him.

  “Whoa, there.” The man steadied Marc’s shoul
der. “Take it easy before you pass out again.”

  “How long was I unconscious?”

  “Not long—a few seconds, tops. I think you hit your head when you fell.”

  That explained the pounding at the back of his skull. Marc closed his eyes, but that made the spinning worse. “I’m fine. I need to get back to my room.”

  “Let me get dressed and I’ll help you,” the man said. “It’s the least I can do, since I kicked your ass, and all.”

  Laughing, Marc agreed, and they slogged arm in arm to the seventeenth floor. Once inside his suite, the guy helped Marc to the king-sized bed before returning downstairs.

  While Marc iced the back of his head, he considered his next move.

  He could call Beau and ask his hacker friend to give it another whirl, but that didn’t seem worth the effort since the original information had been wrong anyway. At this hour, it didn’t seem wise to walk through the bars or casinos looking for Allie. She’d almost certainly be asleep, especially considering the schedule she kept at the bakery—early to bed, early to rise.

  His gaze darted to the bedside phone. Maybe he should try calling the front desk. Could the solution be that easy?

  Marc dialed the check-in station and waited for an answer before asking, “Can you connect me with Allie Mauvais’s room?”

  “Just one moment,” came the reply. “I’m sorry. That room has issued a DND request.”

  “DND?”

  “Do not disturb.”

  Marc uttered a curse under his breath. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy. He decided not to leave a message. Allie wouldn’t return his call, not after the way he’d behaved at the cemetery.

  Back to the drawing board.

  After a few minutes of brainstorming, he decided to wait until six in the morning, then grab some coffee and sit in the lobby to watch for her. All the elevators in the complex emptied into the lobby, so sooner or later she’d have to cross his path. It wasn’t the best idea, but he couldn’t come up with anything better. Tossing his impromptu cold pack into the ice bucket, he reclined on the bed to rest his eyes for a few moments.