by Lisa Plumley
When she’d awakened in Phoenix this morning, she hadn’t planned on being drafted into emergency faux-bride duty. Her wardrobe showed it, too. Dressed in her usual jeans, sweater, and a jacket, Stacey felt downright dowdy next to the vacationers in the checkin line. But, cheered by thoughts of getting to her room and soaking in a hot bubble bath until she turned pruney, she managed to tough it out.
When her turn came, Stacey approached the hotel desk.
The immaculately coiffured clerk glanced up. “May I help you?”
“I have a reservation. Under the name of, ummm, Parker. Richard and Janie Parker.”
The woman frowned in concentration as she typed the names. Then she beamed up at Stacey. “Oh! The honeymoon suite. How exciting for you. Congratulations!”
“Thanks.” Please just give me the key. Don’t ask any questions, Stacey prayed. Please, please, please.
How like Janie it was to ask her, possibly the world’s worst liar, to take her place at the hotel.
It would be a miracle if she weren’t found out before sunset. The people at the hotel would tell Aunt Geraldine her niece had tried to pawn off her wedding gift on somebody else, and she would get mad at Janie. Janie, when she got back from the Bahamas with Richard, would get mad at Stacey for bungling the whole thing. Before long, none of the family would be speaking to each other.
For the sake of the promise she’d made to her cousin, Stacey had to get through the weekend with her real identity undiscovered. She’d just have to find a way to pull it off.
“Married.” The desk clerk sighed. Her eyes went dreamy, just like Janie’s did when she spotted a shoe sale. “You must be thrilled,” she chirped, going back to the terminal in front of her. “I got married last June.”
Pushing buttons, she described her bridesmaid’s dresses, the flowers, and the wedding toast the best man had made.
Stacey nodded and smiled, doing her best to gush right along with her—without revealing her own non-bride status. It was just her luck to be checked in by the hotel’s talkiest, cheeriest employee. A woman like this was meant to work at Disneyland greeting little kids, not at one of Las Vegas’s trendiest new resort hotels.
Still chattering, the woman rifled through a pile of room keycards. She selected one and started handing it to Stacey. With her hand midway there, she stopped.
“Oh, but you’ll need two keys, won’t you? Silly me.” She grabbed another card. “But where’s the happy groom?”
She frowned toward the hotel’s entrance, then at the conspicuously empty area surrounding the reservation desk.
“Oh, ahhh…” Think, dummy. Nothing came to mind. Why hadn’t she planned for this question? Stacey gestured vaguely toward the bank of glass doors leading outside. “He’s, ahhh—”
“Getting the rest of your luggage?” The clerk waved her hand, smiling conspiratorially. “I always pack too much, too. Mark—that’s my husband—well, he says you shouldn’t bring more than you can carry yourself, but that’s ridiculous, don’t you think so? How would I ever bring what I needed then?”
“Right,” Stacey agreed. Giving the woman what felt like a completely inane grin, she nodded at the keycards. “I’d better just go on up without him, I guess.”
“Oh!” The woman tittered. “Sorry. Here you go!” She held out the keycards, then paused. “Shall I keep one here for your husband to pick up?”
Since Stacey’s “husband” was strictly imaginary and about as likely to turn up as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer….
“I’ll take both.” Stacey grabbed them. “I’m trying to get a head start on my husband, since I’m planning a…surprise.”
“Ahhh. Say no more.” With a wide, woman-to-woman grin, the clerk relinquished the keys. “Good luck with that. Oh, and don’t forget to visit our special holiday buffet. All the food is red and green! And the Holiday Extravaganza show is a must-see, too! The showgirls dress up in Santa suits, and—don’t tell your hubby I told you this—the hunky holiday elves are a real showstopper!”
The idea was mind-boggling. “Wow. And they say Christmas doesn’t come to Las Vegas.”
“Oh, it definitely does. Enjoy!”
Making her getaway, Stacey scurried across the crowded lobby. She passed a glittering display of Christmas ornaments, each at least six feet in diameter. Everything really was bigger and fancier here, she guessed. A Muzak rendition of “White Christmas” serenaded her in the elevator. And on the fourteenth floor, one of those “hunky holiday elves” got on and rode with her all the way to the top.
Yep, Christmas had come to Las Vegas, all right. So had Stacey Ames, fresh from Phoenix and sans fake husband. Now all she had to do was keep her head low and keep her real, non-bridal identity a secret until check-out time.
Piece of fruitcake, she assured herself. How tough could it possibly be?
“Quit worrying,” Dylan Davis said, speaking into his cell phone with one hand and steering his Jeep through the bumper-to-bumper Las Vegas traffic with the other. “I said I’ll handle it.”
On the other end of the line, his friend Richard sighed. “When I asked you to do this, I didn’t know things had gone sour between you and Stacey. Janie told me all about it. You—”
“Everything will be fine,” Dylan interrupted. Ducking his head, he frowned through the windshield at the highway exit sign overhead. “The Atmosphere, you said?”
“Yeah. Janie’s aunt booked us into the honeymoon suite for the weekend as a wedding surprise.”
“Nice surprise.” At least it would have been, if the newlyweds hadn’t already paid for a trip to the Bahamas themselves.
But their loss was his gain. Thanks to the generosity of Janie’s Aunt Geraldine—and her yen for surprises—Dylan was about to have a second chance with Stacey. He’d blown it the last time. He didn’t mean to make the same mistake twice. If he had to swing from a trapeze like one of those Cirque du Soleil performers, he’d do it. Whatever it took to win Stacey back.
Feeling more determined than ever, Dylan steered the Jeep toward the next exit. At the rate cars crawled off the highway toward the Las Vegas Strip, he’d be lucky to get there in time to spring his own surprise much before sunset.
“Get on that plane with Janie and get going, you worrywart,” he told Richard. “I’ll handle everything here.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
A muffled thump sounded on Richard’s end of the phone line, then bumping. A second later, Dylan heard something scrape across the receiver, then, “Okay, okay.”
If he knew Janie, she was giving her new husband an earful. Patiently, Dylan nestled the phone between his ear and shoulder and eased his Jeep down the off-ramp. Cars whizzed past in the right-hand lane, streaming toward the turn that led to the surface streets.
The phone crackled. “Listen,” Richard said loudly, as though he’d returned his full attention to their phone conversation. “I gotta go. But watch yourself out there. If you screw up and break Stacey’s heart again, you’ll never sing bass in this town again.”
Dylan grinned. “Janie’s parting shot, I presume?”
“Mine, too. You know how—”
“Quit worrying.” He frowned at the brake lights shining between him and the stoplight at the bottom of the ramp. “Stacey’s a big girl. She can take care of herself.”
“Like hell she can,” Richard returned. “Especially when it comes to you.”
“What am I, the Terminator of romance?”
“According to Stacey? Yeah.”
“She’ll change her mind.” God, he hoped she changed her mind.
He said his goodbyes to Richard and Janie, then plopped his cell phone on the Jeep’s passenger seat. Its occupant, Ginger, sprawled across the upholstery with about as much canine grace as usual. He gave her a pat.
“You know, for a girl dog, you don’t have much feminine mystique.”
He scratched between her furry, perked-up ears. She sneezed, quivering with the joy of being the
center of attention. She rolled over so he could rub her belly. Dylan rubbed absent-mindedly, his thoughts returning to Stacey.
Now there was a female with feminine mystique to spare. He hardly ever knew what the hell she was thinking. He had to be insane to jump back into the three-ring-circus that was dating Stacey Ames.
On the other hand, he’d be even crazier not to.
Dylan turned onto the next street, his gaze darting toward the space-age platinum spire of the Atmosphere Hotel rising above the Las Vegas skyline. Stacey didn’t know what she was in for. But he was going to love showing her.
In the honeymoon suite’s pink marble bathroom, Stacey slipped deeper into the hot, peppermint-scented bathwater she’d drawn. Her muscles relaxed for the first time since she’d stepped into the church for Janie’s wedding this morning.
What an adventure that had turned out to be. First, Janie had burst into tears at her bachelorette party the night before, thanks to Stacey’s brilliant idea to have a male stripper dressed as a police officer come to the door and pretend to arrest the bride. Then, at the wedding, Janie had had the train of her wedding gown ripped off, thanks to Stacey accidentally stepping on it while ogling a cute usher.
By the time Aunt Geraldine had presented the bride and groom with their surprise wedding gift—after they’d scrimped and saved for a nonrefundable trip to the Bahamas—Janie had had all she could take. She’d run from the room wailing, leaving Stacey to explain away her cousin’s trauma as a case of newlywed nerves.
And to step in and solve the problem.
Now here she was, chest-deep in a bubble bath foamy enough to get lost in, in a hotel suite bigger than the whole closet-sized apartment she lived in back in Phoenix. You know, she thought, sculpting herself a new pair of forty-four doubleDs with the suds, this might actually be fun. A little relaxation, a little shopping, a little honeymooner champagne…yessir, she could get to like spending a weekend in Vegas.
Stacey raised her foot from the water and examined it. Yep, just about wrinkly enough. After a few more minutes’ soaking, maybe she’d get dressed and head down to the casino to try her hand at a slot machine or two.
The phone jangled. Luckily, hotel patrons in Las Vegas apparently felt it imperative to remain connected at all times. Beside the neatly lined-up toiletry bottles on the pink marble vanity stood a cordless receiver. Dripping, Stacey rose from the tub and leaned halfway out to answer it.
“Oh, Mrs. Parker!” the woman from the front desk yelped. “I hope everything’s all right with your room. Is everything satisfactory? Do you need anything?”
“Everything’s fine,” Stacey replied, feeling extra naked. As soon as I hang up, I’m throwing the phone out the window. “Thank you for calling. If that’s all, I’ll just—”
A giggle came from the receiver. “I just wanted to give you a little advance warning, because of your, you know, surprise. We girls have to stick together, I always say.”
Listening with half an ear, Stacey murmured, “Uh-huh.”
Water puddled on the plush rug beneath her left foot. Frowning at it, she balanced on the foot that was still in the bathwater so she could shake herself dry on the left side, at least.
“He’s on his way up,” the clerk said urgently. She lowered her voice to a girlish whisper. “I just gave him his keycard a few seconds ago.” She paused. “Whoops! There he goes into the elevator.”
“What?” Stacey lowered her leg back to the rug, still poised between the tub and vanity but too confused to move. Goose bumps spread along her arms and sped toward her toes. “You gave who a keycard?”
“Why, your husband, of course.”
“My husband.”
Silence. Then, tentatively, “Yes, your husband. Is there…a problem?”
Her husband? But Richard and Janie were already at the airport, waiting for their honeymoon flight. Who in the world…?
“Mrs. Parker?”
This had to be some kind of mistake. Had to be.
“Uh, I’m here.” Her mind wasn’t, though. It was someplace else entirely. Like Panicville. “Thanks for calling. I guess I ought to get ready!”
With a ridiculous, panic-induced titter, Stacey disconnected the line. Clothes. She needed clothes. She slammed the phone in its stand and twisted to pull her other foot from the bathwater.
Knock—knock—knock.
Her heart revved into overdrive. So did her foot. It splashed from the water, sending an arc of complimentary Happy Holidays brand peppermint-scented foam across the bathroom—and sending Stacey flat on the floor. She landed on her backside in a puddle, staring in the direction of the knock on the door.
Knock—knock—knock.
Ouch. Rubbing her aching, soggy butt, she glared toward the sound. Maybe if she ignored it, whoever it was would just go away. He’d obviously made a mistake. He needed the other honeymoon suite, the one with an actual bride in it.
Just in case, she pushed herself up and hobbled across the bathroom. Shivering, she yanked the white monogrammed hotel robe from its hook and slipped her arms inside the sleeves. The thick terrycloth stuck to her wet skin, but at least it was warm.
Knock—knock—knock.
Okay, this was ridiculous, Stacey decided, tying the robe closed at her waist. She was hardly going to skulk around in her honeymoon suite, dripping, while some poor libidinous bridegroom knocked around outside. For all she knew, that wasn’t even his knuckles he was rapping against the door.
Now there’s the kind of guy you want to invite in, Janie would have said with a wink. Unfortunately, Janie and her ribald sense of humor weren’t there. Stacey was. With a quick swipe at the foggy bathroom mirror and a last pat at her scraggly brown ponytail, she headed toward the door.
Something scraped against it. The knob clicked.
The keycard. The woman at the desk said she’d given one to Stacey’s “husband.”
Panicked, Stacey scanned the room for a weapon. Her suitcase? Too bulky. Her purse? She carried hot pepper spray in a holster inside, but there wasn’t time to grab it. Think, think.
Her gaze settled on her blow-dryer’s cord, dangling from the bathroom vanity to the floor. She followed it upward from the plug to the two-thousand watt, gun-shaped business end.
The door swung inward.
If personal care appliances were all she had to defend herself with, that’s what she’d use. Adrenaline pumping, Stacey lunged for the blow-dryer. The plug slapped her bare leg. The dryer’s weight filled her hand.
“Mrs. Parker?” asked a rich-timbered masculine voice.
A familiar masculine voice.
The broad, jacket-clad shoulder that edged into view around the door nudged her suspicions. The rest of the hard-muscled body that followed confirmed them.
Dylan Davis. Here. Dear Lord, she had to be imagining him. Maybe hallucinating. Stress could do that to a person, couldn’t it?
But he sure looked real. Tall, dark-haired and grinning, he filled her doorway. His arms were laden with an overcoat-wrapped bundle of what she assumed constituted luggage for a Peter Pan type like him, and above it his eyes sparkled with good humor. The bastard.
“Aren’t you missing a husband?” he asked.
He added another smile to the mix. This was the part, Stacey supposed, where she was supposed to fall at his feet in gratitude. Fat chance.
“I spent the whole wedding trying to avoid you.” She aimed the blow-dryer nozzle at him.
His gaze went to it, and his eyebrows raised. His stupid smile widened, too. Damn him.
“What are you going to do? Style me to death?”
Stacey stretched her arm back, letting the blow-dryer cord spin through her fingers until she held a good hank of it. She twirled it in the air, working up momentum. Then she walloped him with it.
It was the least Dylan Davis deserved.
The hair dryer whacked him right in the temple.
“Ouch!”
The dryer rebounded off his forehead, bashed
off the wall, and came at him again. Dylan ducked, his head stinging, and tried to keep from dropping the trench coat-wrapped bundle in his arms. Easing it into the crook of his arm, he grabbed the hair dryer with his other hand.
“Same old Stacey.” At the sight of her, he was completely unable to keep a goofy-feeling grin from his face. “I knew I should have taken out accident insurance before I came here.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, hair dryer swinging beneath her elbow, and glared at him. “That wasn’t an accident.”
“Uh-huh.”
God, she looked great. Between the half-tied bathrobe she had on, the bunched-up, shiny brown ponytail she’d stuck her hair in, and the fire in her eyes, she’d never looked sexier. But maybe that was just his skewed perspective talking. Because actually, Stacey looked miffed. Adorably miffed.
Adorably miffed? part of his brain jeered. Hell-o. You’re way far gone over this one. He had to get a hold of himself.
Okay, maybe miffed was understating it. Mad as hell was more like it.
On the other hand, he’d pretty much expected that. Now he just had to change her mind—about him, about them—and he didn’t plan to leave until he’d done it.
Dylan let go of the hair dryer. “You always say that. Right after you stomp, drop, smash or hurl something at somebody.”
“I did that on purpose, you creep.”
Okay. Clearly, Stacey needed time to adjust to the surprise of seeing him. Giving her exactly that, Dylan devoted himself to studying the suite.
The room stretched outward, luxurious and spacious and awash in mid-century modern design details. A carpeted sitting area with a pair of angular loveseats. A sleek media center. Chairs arranged around a table featuring a triangular plate of cellophane-wrapped Christmas cookies.
A bank of windows let in the desert sunshine—and the suite’s vaunted view of The Strip—belying the fact that it was only a week until Christmas. In an adjacent room, a big double bed covered with a cushy black silk comforter awaited.
He liked it. All of it.
“Nice place,” Dylan said, looking back at her.
“You’re not staying.”
