What Happens in Vegas...

by Kimberly Lang

  He was getting used to coming home to the sound of music blaring, and, more recently, the smells of dinner coming from the kitchen. For the first couple of days after Evie moved in, she seemed uncomfortable with his house, but that had passed and she’d put her stamp on the place. Arrangements of fresh flowers graced tables. Art that had sat on the floor since the day he moved in now hung on the walls. She’d moved his furniture around and hired a different maid after finding the dust accumulated underneath.

  After almost a year of living here, his house finally felt—for lack of a better word—homey. He had started looking forward to coming home, and a part of that, he wasn’t ashamed to admit, was Evie.

  He found her in the kitchen, her back to him as she stirred something on the stove, her head bobbing slightly with the beat of the music. She wore a simple cotton sundress with a low-cut back, and with her hair pulled up in a ponytail, he was treated to a lovely view of the elegant line of her neck and spine. She shifted her weight, leaning a hip against the counter and balancing one foot on top of the other.

  Evie was barefoot. Pregnant. In the kitchen. He laughed out loud, and Evie dropped the spoon as she turned around.

  “Nick! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  Evie frowned as she slipped past him through the door, and a second later, the music volume dropped dramatically. When she came back in, she arched an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure you’re only thirty-two?”

  He arched an eyebrow back at her. “Are you sure you’re really twenty-five?”

  “If it’s too loud, you’re too old,” she challenged as she opened the fridge, took out a beer and offered it to him. “How was your day?”

  “Good. The sale on The Zoo went through.”

  “That’s great. Congratulations.”

  “I’ll keep it open for a little while, give the staff some notice, but I’d like to get started on the refurbishing soon.”

  Evie returned to stirring. “How sad. I’ll miss those lighted vines. Hey, bring them home, and we’ll hang them by the pool.”

  “Very funny.” But he did like the way Evie referred to this as “home.” “So what did you do today?”

  “Picked up some paint samples for you to look at for the baby’s room. Sent a resume to Circus Circus…”

  “I told you I’d hire you if you wanted a job.”

  Evie shook her head. “Thanks, but after looking at the pitiful state of my resumé, I think I need to get some experience at places not owned by people I’m related to by blood or marriage.” She paused and took a deep breath. “And I had lunch with Lottie.”

  Such a simple domestic scene: Evie puttering around in the kitchen while they discussed their respective days. It was almost as if they’d been doing it for years. And it hadn’t been at all what he expected when Evie moved in. “Good. I’m glad you and Lottie are becoming friends.”

  Evie leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m going to be helping her with the Gleason Street Community Center project.” She tossed it out like a challenge, but he wasn’t sure why.

  “I think that’s great, Evie. You’ve certainly done a lot of fundraising and PR in the past.” He chose his words carefully, wondering why she seemed so on guard about this. “I’m sure Lottie will appreciate your expertise.”

  “So I can count on you for a hefty check and ongoing support?”

  Was that sarcasm? “Of course.” When Evie didn’t respond, he decided not to beat around the bush. “What? What’s the problem?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me you grew up in that neighborhood?”

  “I distinctly remember telling you that very thing.”

  She rolled her eyes. “And if I’d told you I grew up in Turtle Creek, would that have meant anything to you? Didn’t think so. I’m from Dallas, how was I supposed to know what you meant by that?”

  “Considering you were just on vacation, it didn’t seem that important to elaborate.”

  “And now?”

  “What do you want to know, Evie? I grew up in the projects. My dad was a drunk who couldn’t keep a steady job. I didn’t want to end up like him, so I worked my way through school, won a lot of seed money at the poker tables and bought Blue.”

  She smirked. “A true American success story. Making good through hard work, determination and luck.”

  Somehow, Evie made that sound like a slam. “I guess. And your point is?”

  She sighed. “Nothing.”

  So much for that nice, homey feeling. “Go ahead. Spit it out.”

  Pushing out of her lean and wiping her hands on a towel, she shook her head. “You know, it’s not worth it. I’m not going to pick a fight.”

  It was a little late for that, in his opinion.

  Waving in the direction of the stove, she added, “Dinner will be ready in a few more minutes…”

  “You brought this up, not me. If it’s bothering you…”

  Evie spun to face him. “Fine.” With her hands on her hips, she met his eyes evenly. “What about those people who only needed luck? The luck to be born into the right family.”

  “Like you?”

  She nodded. “That’s one example, sure. It seems like the height of arrogance to assume those born into money aren’t as appreciative of it or that they’re somehow not as…as good as those who started with less.”

  “Evie, here’s a news flash for you. Money doesn’t always bring out the best in people.”

  “And poverty does?” Sarcasm dripped off the words. “No offense to your personal Bolshevik uprising, but money is nothing more than a tool. If that’s the only tool in your toolbox, you’ll never be happy. It’ll warp your brain. Surely you’ve seen that.”

  “Spoken by someone who has a trust fund greater than the GDP of some small European countries. You lack credibility on this particular topic.”

  “And that huge chip on your shoulder makes you an expert on what, exactly? You know, a good therapist could help you work through some of these issues.”

  What the…? “My issues? Jesus, Evie, you’re one to talk. You’re not exactly the poster child of self-help and empowerment.”

  Her chin went up. “But I’m not your mother, either.”

  He froze. “You don’t know anything about Farrahlee Grayson,” he said slowly, narrowing his eyes in warning and hoping she’d realize he didn’t want to continue on that course of conversation.

  No such luck. “Oh, I know enough. And while it doesn’t make anything she did right or fair, I can see where having money and being Farrahlee Grayson was the identity she had and how losing that identity could have pushed her over the edge.”

  “You’re defending her?” Three weeks ago he wouldn’t have been surprised, but after everything recently…

  “God, no. Not at all. The woman is an evil bitch and her whole family should be shot. Understanding why someone did something doesn’t mean I sympathize or approve.”

  “You’re assuming I don’t understand why she left.”

  “Actually I think you do. And it’s made you mad enough to live your entire life for the sole purpose of spiting her and her family. You’re basically a good man with lots of potential, and you should be proud of your accomplishments. But you’ve got to let this go at some point.”

  Evie let her hands drop to her sides. “You’ve passed judgment on me, assuming I’m self-centered and selfish because of my bank balance.” Her words were clipped, precise. “I’m actually relieved to find out that’s where it’s coming from, because my trust fund isn’t me. I don’t even know how much money you have, so I have to base my judgment of you on your actions. I think my judgment has a lot more creditability than yours.”

  “You’re the one who showed up with a marriage proposal, a prenup and a divorce plan because you found yourself pregnant. Those actions just scream credibility.”

  She opened her mouth, paused and closed it with a snap before scrubbing her hands over h
er face and huffing. “Dinner’s ready. Help yourself. I’m not hungry anymore.”

  She walked out of the room with her shoulders held back, but there was resignation in her step. A moment later, he heard a door close; not with a loud slam—just solid noise that spoke volumes.

  He drained his beer, hoping the liquid would help cool his temper. Evie had made several valid points during her rant, telling him he that needed to reevaluate a few things. But he wasn’t totally wrong, either, he reminded himself.

  But if that were really the case, his conscience argued, why did he feel like the complete tool now?

  Chapter Eleven

  EVIE DROPPED INTO THE ROCKING chair she’d purchased for this room with a groan of disgust at herself. Shooting off her mouth—and thereby shooting herself in the foot—had moved from being an occasional lapse to a full-time occupation.

  And things had been going so well. Well, better, at least. The rocking chair she was currently sitting in was proof of her belief in that. And her hope. Why else would she be decorating a nursery unless she harbored the hope it would see good use?

  Oh, she’d rationalized it, telling herself that Nick would want the baby to have a nice room of its own for when he or she came to visit. But now, as she berated herself for her astonishing inability to keep her trap shut, she had to admit that wasn’t really the complete truth.

  She’d been designing this room for the long term. It was a long-shot, secret hope—one she didn’t really want to admit: the hope she and the baby might be here for much longer than originally planned. And that was totally stupid, considering the situation.

  Because that meant…Well, damn. She shouldn’t even go there. Crossing that bridge wasn’t a good idea. Madness lay on the other side. As did heartbreak.

  Evie leaned back and set the chair rocking, allowing the movement to calm her. Or trying to, at least. She heard the quiet knock a few minutes later and opened her eyes as Nick stuck his head around the door.

  She searched his face carefully, examined his body language for clues to his mood and temper level. He seemed oddly…friendly? No, friendly wasn’t the right description, but he wasn’t openly hostile, either—amazing considering how she’d just blown her top and flounced out of the room in such a mature way.

  “You like to get the last word, don’t you? Make the dramatic exit?” Nick’s mouth twitched in amusement, and Evie felt her muscles relax. He wasn’t here to reopen hostilities.

  Cautiously teasing, testing the waters, she tried for a small smile. “It’s one way out of uncomfortable situations.”

  “Is it approved by your sister-in-law?”

  “Oh, no. Flouncing—of any sort—is definitely not Miss Behavior-approved. It’s a hard habit to break, though.”

  Nick crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. The silence stretched out, but it wasn’t stretching her nerves. The energy in the room wasn’t tense or angry. Nick wasn’t mad, wasn’t here to fight more, but the truce had been upended—thanks to her—and she got the feeling Nick was here to reestablish the treaty. And since she’d fired the first shot, she needed to extend the olive branch, as well.

  She took a deep breath and swallowed her pride. “I’m sorry I blew up like that. I shouldn’t have said—”

  “Maybe those things needed to be said.”

  That was hope rising out of the ashes of her pride. “I lack finesse when I get angry, though.”

  “So do I.”

  Fortune favors the brave. She met Nick’s eyes and made a cautious step out onto that bridge. “I’m not like her, you know.”

  Nick nodded. “I realize that. You’re not the only one with bad habits, though.”

  It wasn’t exactly a gushing declaration, but Evie grabbed the hope it offered with both hands. Mentally steadying herself, she edged another foot out on the bridge. “And I don’t want to be like her, either.” There, she’d said it. She’d gone there. Sort of.

  Surprise registered on Nick’s face, replaced a moment later by a slow, easy smile that made her insides melt. “History doesn’t have to repeat itself.”

  Evie figured that was about as good as she could hope for at the moment and it was a good start. She put her feet down and stopped the rocker. “You know, I’m hungry after all.”

  Nick extended a hand to her and she took it. “Let’s eat.”

  She took it, and with that, she was across that bridge and on the other side.

  And it scared the hell out of her.

  “Lord, you’re such a butthead.” Evie rolled her eyes at him as she made that pronouncement and flopped dramatically back onto the pillow. Then she ruined it with a giggle.

  Nick pushed up on his elbow to face her. She was a vision: her hair all tangled and flowing across her pillow onto his and her cheeks flushed. “Did you really just call me a butthead? I haven’t been called a butthead since third grade.”

  “Hey, I call ’em as I see ’em.”

  He picked up a lock of her hair and brushed it across her nose. “But you’re not in third grade anymore. You can’t come up with something better?”

  “Other appropriate descriptions would not be very ladylike,” she responded primly. Completely unselfconscious of her nudity, Evie looked like an exotic goddess—not a buttoned-up “lady” worried about appropriateness.

  He used her hair to paint a line down the valley between her breasts before lazily circling a nipple and watching the shiver slide over her skin. “Is ‘butthead’ part of the Official Debutante Vocabulary?”

  “It’s not in the handbook, no, but—” Her forehead creased slightly, and she arched her back. “Ouch.”

  “You okay?”

  She nodded as she sat up and rubbed at her lower back. “Muscle cramp.”

  “Roll over.”

  She grinned. “Again?”

  Desire sliced through him. “Don’t get cheeky. I’m offering to rub your back. However—” he let his eyes roam over her until she started to blush “—I’m certainly willing to rethink that offer.”

  “Back rub first.” Evie flipped to her stomach and wrapped her arms around a pillow.

  He knelt over her, straddling her hips, and savored the smooth warmth of her skin against his thighs. Gathering her silky hair in one hand, he lifted it out of the way and tucked it over her shoulder, leaving her back completely bare. He slid a finger down the indentation of her spine and watched gooseflesh rise. “Are you cold?”

  “Not at all,” she mumbled huskily, then cleared her throat. “Lower back, please.”

  Massaging slow circles at the base of her spine earned him an appreciative moan. His erection stirred to life, hardening against her backside.

  “This is what I get for not exercising for three weeks. I knew I felt tight in my up dog this morning. It started bothering me a couple of hours ago.” She shrugged, and he looked up to see her cheek move as she smiled. “I guess tonight’s activities just aggravated—damn.”

  His hands hadn’t moved much; he couldn’t be responsible for that pained curse. He quickly moved off her. “Evie?”

  Evie rolled to her side and curled her legs up into her body, her arms wrapping around her waist. Her face had lost all its color, and her eyes squeezed closed in pain. A muscle in her jaw worked as she gritted her teeth and breathed in slowly through her nose. “Are you all—”

  Fear—real fear like he hadn’t felt since he was a child—slammed into him as Evie groaned again and pressed her hands against her stomach. His blood turned icy.

  The baby.

  Heart pounding, he scrambled for the phone.

  Everyone was so kind. The doctors and nurses in the emergency room. The hospital volunteer who’d found her a set of scrubs to wear instead of her bloody clothes. The counselor who stopped by her little curtained-off bed in the E.R. to check on her and give her a card for a “recovery group.” And especially Nick, who had worry lines etched into his stone face, but had sat by her bed while folks came and went and did all kinds of things to
her—none of which stopped her from losing her baby.

  They were all so damn kind, she’d wanted to hit something. And now, ten nightmarish hours later, she was still careening between that need and the need to lock herself in a dark room and bawl. But instead she had to sit here and listen to Dr. Banks talk about recovery time and coming back for a follow-up scan, when just two days ago, he’d been writing prescriptions for prenatal vitamins and pressing nutritional information pamphlets at her.

  She’d taken so much for granted. It never occurred to her she wouldn’t have this baby. And now she didn’t. This had to be some kind of karmic payback for not wanting to be pregnant in the first place. The depth of the ache surprised her and killed her at the same time.

  It was hard to focus on what Dr. Banks was telling her. “It’s not uncommon to miscarry this early. It’s nothing you did or didn’t do.” She should take comfort in that, but the wound was too fresh. “I can’t find anything wrong with you physically, so there’s no reason to assume you’ll have any problems in the future conceiving or carrying a baby to term.”

  She opened her mouth, but Dr. Banks put a hand on her arm and squeezed gently. “It’s not your fault.” He turned to Nick. “Or yours, either. I’m so sorry about the baby, but you’re perfectly healthy and these things really do just happen sometimes.” She nodded because he seemed to expect it. “Now, do you have any questions for me?”

  She did, but they all started with why and she already knew Dr. Banks didn’t have any of those answers for her. No one did. She shook her head, which felt as hollow as the rest of her right now.

  Dr. Banks had a kind face and a bedside manner that made her feel she could trust him at the same time it made her feel as if he really cared, but all that kindness and caring just rattled around in her hollow chest like marbles in a can. “I wrote you a prescription for some pain medicine if you need it over the next few days. Just rest and take it easy. And no sex for at least two weeks.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nick’s shoulders stiffen at the “no sex” edict. Did that mean he was upset it was off the cards, or insulted it even came up? And while she couldn’t fault Nick’s behavior or support through all this, he’d fallen into a silence that made his usual lack of communication seem positively chatty in comparison. He’d said all the right things at the right time, but none of them had meant anything. Nothing to let her know what he was feeling.