Once Upon a Christmas

by Lisa Plumley

  “On the other hand, you and I have different ideas about what’s dangerous, don’t we?” he murmured, lifting his goblet of water from their tabletop. Ice cubes clinked together softly as he raised it between them, then swirled it. “To you, this is just water. Plain and cold and that’s all. But to a man who hasn’t drunk for hours, a thirsty man, it’s everything he needs.” His gaze joined with hers, then lowered again. “And to me, it’s opportunity.”

  “Opportunity?”

  “Mmmm-hmmm.” Dylan stroked his fingertips against the goblet, leaving slippery trails of condensation on the glass.

  He raised it higher, gazing into the water as though considering whatever opportunity he’d meant, then brought the goblet nearer to her. Stacey sensed its chill just above the bare skin at the neckline of her sundress.

  “Opportunity for sensation,” he explained, raising it to her lips. “Maybe for you, that’s a little dangerous.” Slowly, he tipped it forward, allowing her to drink.

  She did, knowing he watched her and feeling acutely aware of her reliance on him. Dylan knew her thirst, controlled the glass…and her satisfaction. The water slid down her throat. Shivering at the icy wetness of it, Stacey leaned forward for another sip.

  He tilted it away. “More?” He watched her over the goblet’s rim. She nodded, but still Dylan held it away. “Tell me what you want.”

  His low, rough voice sent a shiver through her.

  “You have to tell me what you want, because it’s all up to you. Everything.” He leaned closer, and his body heat mingled with hers and the iciness of the water between them. “I have what you need. You only have to ask.”

  Stacey couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. This was more than thirst they spoke of, more than anything they’d shared so far. He was asking for her trust, offering her the freedom to choose what she wanted…and she didn’t, she realized as she stared into the goblet, really know what that was.

  “What you need depends on how you feel,” Dylan went on, raising the goblet to her cheek in a sort of caress.

  Cold bloomed where it touched her. Stacey gasped at the delicious sensation it aroused, automatically arching her neck to expose more of her overheated skin to the glass’s icy touch. He pressed it gently closer, lowered it to her throat, and goose bumps prickled along her arms in the wake of his movements.

  “See? This feels twice as cold because you’re so hot.” He watched her, moving the goblet to her lips again. “More?”

  More what? her poor muddled mind asked. The thread of their conversation was lost to her, swept away beneath the giddiness she felt at his words—her, hot?—and the incredulity of her response to him. He’s dangerous, her heart whispered. But the rest of her couldn’t have cared less for the warning.

  “More,” she answered.

  Dylan’s eyes gleamed, green and wicked in the arena’s dim light. He raised the goblet to her lips. Stacey brought her hand to his wrist to steady it, but rather than let her drink, he tipped the glass away again.

  “I’ll do it. Much as I’d enjoy seeing you in a wet T-shirt”—his gaze roved over her body, then lifted—“or wet dress contest, that’s not what I have in mind.” A smile crooked his lips as he raised the glass. “For now, at least. Trust me.”

  Trust me. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one risking a lapful of ice cubes. Nevertheless, Stacey let him tip the glass to her lips. She sipped the icy water, wildly conscious of him watching her, and dared to raise her gaze to his.

  Dylan stared at something over her shoulder. Bam! The seductive mood he’d woven went straight down the tubes, right along with her thirst for his attention. Dummy. She should have known better than to think he’d have eyes for her alone.

  Stacey quit drinking and slid sideways on their bench just in time to avoid the unbalanced goblet’s descent. Dylan wasn’t so lucky.

  “Youch!” He jumped partway up, sending the goblet tumbling the rest of the way to the floor. Water and ice cubes dripped from his pants.

  Twisting to look over her shoulder, Stacey spotted the hotel employee he’d been staring at—a flower girl selling roses to the diners—and shook her head. She really should have known better.

  “Maybe that’ll cool off your libido a little bit.” She smoothed her dress and gathered her purse so she could leave. “Suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.”

  A few yards away, two knights on horseback galloped into the arena to prepare for the first joust. The crowd cheered.

  Dylan shook his hands dry and gave her a dumbfounded look. “What?”

  “Your libido,” Stacey said louder, trying to make herself heard over the thundering hoofbeats of the jousters. “Cool off your libido.”

  The music swelled along with the crowd’s enthusiasm and drowned out her words.

  “What?”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She looked at him, dripping and shivering, and decided he’d had enough punishment already. “Never mind. I’m leaving.”

  Chapter Four

  Outside in the neon-spangled December night, Stacey hailed one of the taxis parked beneath the Renaissance’s porte-cochere. She hurried toward it with her heart still thumping from her race through the casino. Near as she could tell, Dylan hadn’t followed her from the arena.

  He was probably busy getting the flower girl’s phone number, she thought sourly as she slipped in the back seat of the taxi. Going to dinner with him had been a bad idea. She should have listened to herself and refused to go along. Next time, at least, she’d know better than to give Dylan the benefit of the doubt.

  Leaning forward, Stacey told the Santa-hat-wearing driver her destination. Serenaded by the Christmas music on his radio, she settled on the upholstered seat as he maneuvered into the heavy Las Vegas traffic. Judging by the number of cars and pedestrians on the infamous “Strip,” it could take days to reach her hotel again.

  Shaking her head, Stacey scrounged in her purse for a compact and lipstick to put herself together with. She might feel as if she had “gullible” tattooed on her forehead, but that didn’t mean she had to look the part. If and when Dylan caught up with her, she wanted to look as polished as possible. Maybe then he wouldn’t guess how close she’d come to making a complete fool of herself over him. Again.

  She cracked open the compact she’d found and swiveled up her lipstick with a shaky hand, then peered in the mirror to put it on. Idiot, her expression said. Dylan wants something, all right, or he wouldn’t be here—but it’s not you.

  Let me convince you, Stacey. Give me another try, he’d said, but what did that mean, anyway? Did he want to start dating again? Did he only want to keep his word to Janie and Richard, and help her pull off the honeymoon suite charade?

  Maybe, she thought dismally as the taxi inched forward in traffic, Dylan had realized he’d spoiled his studly dating record by dumping her before sleeping with her, and now he just wanted to seduce her. Then dump her. Again.

  Lipstick accomplished, Stacey stared out the taxi window at the flashy casinos they passed. Spotting the cheerful sixty-foot Christmas tree in front of one hotel only made her feel more morose. This was some Christmas season so far, wasn’t it?

  It wasn’t that she honestly believed Dylan was as bad as she made him out to be. It wasn’t even that she was worried about her honeymoon imposter status being found out. At least not much. No, what really bothered her was her own indecision. If she couldn’t even trust her own judgment anymore, what did she have left?

  The last time she’d been involved with Dylan, Stacey had been freshly divorced and about as eager to start dating again as a fish was to rumba on the beach. She’d only agreed to go out with him as a favor to Janie and Richard, who’d gone to college with Dylan and thought he’d be the perfect dating re-entry partner: good-looking, successful, and not the least bit interested in a serious relationship. Tailor-made for a skittish divorcée.

  Or so she’d thought.

  Until she’d started falling for him.

  Dum
b, dumb, dumb. The very instant she’d started having couple-type thoughts about Dylan, he’d sensed it and scrammed. Did men have early commitment warning systems, or what? It wasn’t as though she’d wanted to nail him down and marry him on the spot. She needed to get used to running her own life again before getting involved with another man. She needed…

  She needed to find out if that flash of black and red had really been Dylan running alongside the taxi, or if she’d only imagined it.

  Craning her neck, Stacey stared out the taxi’s side window toward the sidewalk bordering The Strip. Pedestrians in red and green Christmas sweaters surged along the narrow space, toting shopping bags, cameras, and even cocktails. Multicolored lights brightened their faces, but none of those faces, it seemed, belonged to Dylan.

  Whew. She had imagined that glimpse of him. Maybe a guilty conscience could do that to a person. Although why she should feel guilty, Stacey didn’t know. After all, he was the one she’d caught ogling another woman in the middle of their “honeymoon” date.

  Except she did feel guilty. Guilty for dumping ice water in his lap, and foolish for running out on him the way she had. If she was going to pull off the honeymoon charade, she’d have to think first before acting.

  The driver stopped at a corner to let a stream of tourists pass on their way to the holiday show at the Bellagio’s fountains. Stacey settled back again, trying to put the evening’s dinner debacle out of her mind. She put her things back in her purse, gazed out the windshield at the red traffic light overhead—and something slammed against the passenger-side window.

  Dylan. His face, penitent and pleading, pushed close to the glass. He rapped on it, motioning for her to let him in, saying something she couldn’t hear clearly.

  Not that she wanted to hear it. Whatever interest she had in listening to him or relieving her former guilt attack evaporated once she saw the huge bouquet of red roses he cradled against his chest. So, he thought he’d buy her off with flowers, did he? He had another think coming.

  Stacey surged across the backseat and slammed her palm on the knob that locked the taxi door. At almost the same instant, the traffic light changed. The taxi drove forward.

  Dylan jogged beside it, dodging pedestrians and a bicyclist.

  “Roll down the window!” He mimicked cranking the handle down. She didn’t and he jogged faster, trailing fallen rose petals along the side of the street. Noticing that fact, he held the bouquet closer.

  “For you!” he called, catching up with the taxi as it idled in traffic again.

  Stacey glanced at what had to be at least three dozen long-stemmed flowers bundled against his chest. He must have hit on every flower girl at the Renaissance to accumulate that many. The cad.

  She leaned closer to the driver. “I’ll pay you fifty bucks if you can get me to the Atmosphere in the next five minutes.”

  He grinned at her in the rear-view mirror. “Yes, ma’am.”

  He accelerated. Stacey fell back against the seat. Dylan’s voice, “Staaaceey…!” faded like a bad Brando impression. She caught one final glimpse of him waving the roses overhead before the taxi changed lanes and left him behind.

  They changed lanes again, shot across The Strip, ran a yellow light, and screeched to a stop in the next clump of traffic. Jittery and soon to be fifty dollars poorer, Stacey swiveled in the back seat. She looked out the rear windshield.

  No sign of Dylan. Whew! She’d lost him.

  So how come she didn’t feel relieved?

  Stuck on Las Vegas Boulevard, Dylan revved his Jeep in front of the Atmosphere, swearing under his breath at the two police cars and the taxi that blocked the curved drive to the casino’s entrance. Must be a fender-bender. Great.

  Shoving his fingers through his hair, fighting for patience, he stared up at the palm trees bordering the drive. Someone had strung Christmas lights on their jagged trunks and along their fronds. The multicolored, twinkling lights lent the tropical trees a old-fashioned air of holiday joviality—much like the vendor hawking eggnog lattes on the corner did.

  Not that Dylan was feeling especially ho-ho-ho at the moment. Not since Stacey had run out on him. Damn. He shouldn’t have pushed her so hard during dinner. He should have known she’d be looking for an excuse to bolt.

  Like an idiot, he’d come on too strong. Now it would be twice as hard to get through the weekend with her. He’d probably lost every inch of ground he’d gained, and all because of his stupid roving eyeballs. And the roses, of course.

  Reminded of them, Dylan glanced at the bouquet on the passenger seat. A little wilted from being waved about, but still pretty nice. He’d had to buy out both flower girls at the Renaissance to get them, and had almost missed catching up to Stacey because of it.

  “What do you mean you won’t take a check?” a woman said near the taxi-police car clump. “You just got done telling me you wouldn’t take a credit card, which I don’t have anyway, so that’s kind of beside the point, but how am I supposed to pay you? What else is there?”

  Stacey. He’d have recognized her voice even at normal decibel levels. As it was, she was nearly wailing. Dylan whipped out his Jeep keys, grabbed the bouquet, and hefted himself upright using the Jeep’s roll bar. Yep. There she was, standing in the middle of the parked cars beside the squat taxi driver and two uniformed policemen.

  “Cash, lady!” yelled the taxi driver, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in a show-me-the-money gesture that spoke every language. “Ya heard of it?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of cash! But haven’t you heard of the computer age? These days, even fast food joints take credit cards.”

  “Maybe, lady. But Mickey D’s doesn’t take checks, and neither do I.”

  Grinning, Dylan tossed his keys to a valet and headed toward them. He couldn’t have come up with a better way to pull a knight in shining armor routine if he’d planned it himself. This taxi driver was heaven sent—even if he had nearly run over Dylan earlier.

  “Sir, you’ll have to move your vehicle,” one of the officers told the taxi driver. “You’re blocking the—”

  “I ain’t moving until I get paid,” the driver interrupted, looking belligerent. He glared at Stacey. “She even promised me extra to ditch some loser with a bunch of flowers.”

  Hunching her shoulders, she scooted closer to one of the police officers. “I told you. I don’t have any cash! I must have lost it someplace, or—”

  She spotted Dylan. The rest of whatever she was saying came out in a garbled series of mismatched syllables. “Or, or,” she tried to rally, “or I could go to an ATM. Please? I swear you can trust me.” Smiling wanly, Stacey blinked up at the officer nearest her. “Really, I’m very trustworthy. Ask anyone.”

  “Ask me.” The driver snorted. “The guy she tried to stiff on the fare.”

  The officer shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss—”

  “Sugarlumps!” yelled Dylan, smiling broadly. He reached them in two quick steps, then thrust the bouquet in Stacey’s arms.

  “Hey, that’s him!” the driver cried. “The loser with the flowers!”

  “He’s not a loser,” Stacey said. “He’s, he’s…”

  Dylan could almost see the wheels turning in her mind. Suddenly her eyes brightened. She gave him a smile even more syrupy than the one he’d tried out on her at the Renaissance show.

  Of course, his smile had been sappy and genuine. Stacey’s probably wasn’t, especially in this instance. But if Dylan had his way, she’d look at him like that and mean it by the time the weekend was up. It was something to look forward to.

  “He’s my husband.” Her voice emanated false cheer as her gaze met Dylan’s. “Isn’t that right, honey?” she added through her smile, turning to face him so the others couldn’t read her desperate please-stick-to-our-story expression.

  She clamped both hands on his shoulders. Help me! she mouthed.

  “Trust me,” Dylan said.

  He covered his whispered words with a lo
ud smacking kiss on her lips. She nodded, looking scared but willing to bluster her way through whatever they had to do.

  “It’s going to cost you, though,” he warned.

  Grinning at the thought of the friendly repayment he’d exact, Dylan hauled her up against his side. He put on his best sitcom husband face. “I’ll take care of this, Sweetcakes.”

  He offered his hand to the closest policemen. “Richard Parker!” he boomed, shaking hands with each of them in turn. “What seems to be the trouble, officers? Don’t tell me it’s my little lady, Janie, here.”

  Stacey raised the flowers. “Richard’s going to kill you,” she muttered from behind them. “You’re making him sound like Fred Flintstone.”

  “I guess that makes me Barney Rubble, then. You know, Fred’s buddy,” he whispered. “I’m kinda tall for the part, though. Don’t you think so?”

  Her smiling, up-and-down perusal made him feel tall enough to touch the top of the Atmosphere. This hero business had potential.

  “It seems your wife can’t pay the taxi driver,” one of the officers said. “And he won’t move his taxi out of the drive until she does.”

  The driver waved a strip of paper at Dylan. “She’s paying this ticket, too! You’re lucky I don’t charge you for lost wages. What kind of bubble brain tries to pay for a taxi with a check?”

  “Bubble brain?” Dylan repeated.

  The driver looked uncertain.

  “This is my wife you’re talking about, pal.” Dylan stepped closer, then reached in his pocket.

  Both officers straightened, instantly alert.

  “Sorry, lady.” The driver darted a glance at Stacey.

  Dylan bared his teeth at him. “I don’t think she heard you.”