by Deanna Chase
Her joy was cut short.
The doorman waved a waiting taxi forward and opened its door for the lady. Shit! Rachel snapped off some rounds with the digital camera, but the woman scooted inside the cab too quickly for a good face shot. Hurrying to the doorman, she threw a fiver into his palm as he helped her into the next taxi.
She thrust $20 at the driver. “Follow that taxi!”
The man had skin like dark chocolate and long, intricate braids of varying lengths and colors. He took the twenty-dollar bill and looked at her, brows raised. “That’s ol’ Harry, miss,” he said in an unmistakable Jamaican accent. “How ‘bout I just call ‘im and ask where he be takin’ the lady?”
“Uh … yeah,” said Rachel, collapsing to the seat. Her excitement fizzled. “That will work, too.”
5
After Abby left the Bellagio, she went home, got dressed in comfy jeans and a well-worn tee shirt, and drove to the chapel.
Seven years ago, she’d loved walking through the door. Planning weddings had once brought her joy. Watching two people commit to their love by saying their vows in front of God and man … she used to adore the whole ritual, no matter how serious or how silly the ceremony. That joy had long since faded, even before her business turned to shit.
No weddings were scheduled today or tomorrow or hell, even next week. It wasn’t just that business was generally slow in December, no, it was worse than that. She’d owned the chapel longer than she’d been married and now, after ceaseless work and plugging every nickel she had into it, her wedding business was failing as miserably as her relationship had with Dale.
“Why do you have to sign a confidentiality agreement with Reese Cadwell?” asked Gina, waving a sheaf of papers at Abby as she entered The Wedding Veil’s small office.
“Hello you to you, too.” Argh! She didn’t want to deal with her sister’s gentle haranguing. “It’s no big deal.”
She plucked the agreement from her sister’s hand and took it to her desk. Reese had lost no time at all getting her the paperwork. She’d left the Bellagio less than two hours ago. She didn’t begrudge him the extra protection, but her stomach still felt like she’d swallowed lead filings. If only their night together had meant more to him … if only he had felt one-tenth of the way she had felt this morning. Her whole world had changed and not just because she’d slept with a movie star. For a few hours last night, she’d ceased thinking about Reese as a Hollywood hunk.
“Stop with suspense already. What happened with Mr. Gorgeous?”
Abby signed and initialed and dated the agreement then stuck the pages into the fax, typed in the return phone number, and smacked the “send” button.
“We had a nice dinner. We talked. I drank too much champagne and walked to the Motel 6. Sherie put me up for the night.”
Gina, who was shorter, thinner, and blonder than Abby, looked at her with narrowed eyes. “That’s a great story for other people. But you can tell me what really went on last night.”
Abby smiled and shrugged. She kept no secrets from her younger sister, but she’d promised Reese her silence.
Gina stared at her, waiting, then her eyes widened. “Oh my God! You had hot sex with Reese Cadwell.”
“I never said that.”
“You did! You so totally did!” Gina clapped her hands and laughed, spinning in a little circle. “I can’t believe it. What did he say? Do? How was he in bed?”
Abby pressed her lips together to keep from smiling and thereby confirming Gina’s suspicions. Instead, she bent her head and assessed at the large stack of unpaid bills. At loose ends after ending a relationship and losing a job—in the same week, her sister had moved out here more than a year ago, right after Abby’s divorce was final. Not even Gina’s talent for squeezing every penny out of a tight budget had helped her pull out from the nosedive into financial hell.
“I’m going to lose The Wedding Veil.” Even if she didn’t exactly want the chapel anymore, deciding to sell it and losing it to creditors were two very different things. How had she gotten this far in debt? “You know Sean, right?”
“Duh. He’s the Elvis impersonator who owns the Chapel of Love.”
“He wants to open a second location and he’s been asking about buying The Wedding Veil. I don’t know if selling the chapel will get me out of debt, though.” Abby picked up the electric bill and shuddered. She didn’t want to see the money owed for keeping the chapel’s lights on. She sighed so heavily the envelopes on the desk fluttered. “I almost wish winning the contest had gotten me a huge cash prize instead of a date with Reese Cadwell.”
“Oh honey,” said Gina, dropping her playful interrogation. “We’ll figure out something.”
* * *
Rachel’s heart thudded in her chest. Sneaking into chapel—way too much pink, ew—had been a big risk. The cabbie had followed Mystery Woman home and to the downtown chapel, but all that chasing had cost her bundle. Oh so what! As she crept away from the cracked-open door to the back office, she knew she’d gotten the biggest scoop ever in her career. Either the Star Weekly paid her what she was worth, or she’d take her information to another media outlet. She had a feeling, though, that ol’ Harold, the editor-in-chief, would cough up serious cash.
She was, after all, the only one who knew that the woman who owned The Wedding Veil had won a date with Reese Cadwell and, since Rachel knew for a fact this Abby person had left the Bellagio this morning, the woman probably did the horizontal bop with Reese. In addition to that juicy assumption, Abby’s business was apparently going down hill in a hurry.
She tiptoed out of the chapel and the second she hit the concrete steps, she ran through the tiny fake green lawn, under the white lattice arbor, and melted into the tourists headed toward Fremont Street.
More research was needed before she put together the story. She’d learned that with a Star Weekly article, she had to skirt a fine line between fiction and fact. Without a direct quote from Reese or Abby confirming what they’d done in his Bellagio suite, she was left with the yellow journalist’s key tool: innuendo. But first she had research to do.
* * *
That same afternoon, Abby sat at her desk, fluctuating between hope and despair as she went through endless pile of bills. Her stomach growled, adding “hunger” to her emotionally chaotic state. Gina had left a couple minutes ago to pick up an early dinner. She sighed as she gazed at paperwork fanned across her blotter. Maybe she should throw ‘em all into a hat and pick three or four to pay.
The phone on her desk trilled and she picked it up on the first ring. “The Wedding Veil. This is Abby.”
“Hi Abby. It’s Reese.”
Her breath hitched. Reese Cadwell was calling her? Yes! Pleasure curled through her. “Hi.”
“I’m getting ready to hit the road.”
The warmth ribboning through her dissipated like smoke. “Oh. Well, good-bye, again.”
Abby looked at the clock on her desk. It was almost 5 p.m. What had he been doing for the last several hours? She figured he would’ve hopped a plane to L.A. by now. She had to admit she felt bummed about him leaving. She’d managed not to think about Reese –well, not too much—while she got back to real life, but hearing his voice brought back with painful clarity the heavenly night they’d had together.
“I also wanted you to know that I have your underwear.”
“You have my—wait a minute. That’s impossible. I didn’t have any underwear to leave.”
“I didn’t say I found them in the hotel room. I’ll talk to you soon, Abby.”
“Reese—”
“Soon. Bye for now.”
“Bye.”
Ten minutes later, a messenger arrived with a small box wrapped in plain brown paper. She tried to tip the guy, but he only grinned and said he’d already gotten paid plenty.
Abby returned to her desk and tore off the wrap. Her breath left in a whoosh. Two words were scribbled in elegant black across the pink box: Agent Provocateur.
Hands trembling, she opened the box and peered at the two items inside. She plucked a black leather thong from the pink tissue paper. In the front, laced through the top, was a strip of pink leather, a tiny bow in the middle. The other item was also black leather with the same pink leather ribbon and bow, but it was smaller than the thong. Way too small to be a bra. What the heck? She held up the piece, stretching it out, and peered at it.
Oh my God.
A matching mask!
Her skin tingled and her heart revved into overdrive as she thought about prancing around in a just a thong and a mask, daring Reese to catch her and ravish her.
At the bottom of the box, she spied a small pink card. She picked it up and grinned. Scrawled across the card were the words:
Next time, don’t wear the bra. –R
* * *
Rachel’s digital wristwatch blinked 5:14 p.m. She glanced over her shoulder, checking out The Wedding Veil, which was directly across the street. The tiny white building shared a parking lot with a Chinese restaurant. Other than a woman who’d left a few minutes ago, no one had come in or out for the last half hour.
Sighing, she returned to perusing the T-shirts displayed outside of the cheesy souvenir shop. The small, merchandise-crowded store was squeezed between a seedy bar and a pawnshop. Blinking neon signs and old sun-bleached posters of half-naked women in sparkly costumes crammed the big, dirty picture window. Underneath it, were two rickety card tables filled with shirts. In-between the tables, passersby could peruse a bin of $1 items that weren’t worth stealing much less buying.
Rachel had spent the last few hours hunting down information about Abby Reed, Cupid, Inc., and The Wedding Veil. She had enough to create one hell of an article, but her plane to L.A. didn’t leave until tomorrow morning. She figured it wouldn’t hurt to see who might be hanging around the chapel—or if Abby would keep another rendezvous with a certain tall, dark, and handsome movie star.
The sales clerk stood in the open doorway and watched Rachel paw through the merchandise. He was young, with long greasy hair, a pierced nose, and rampant acne. He wore loose jeans, a faded concert T-shirt and army boots. She caught his listless gaze.
“Shirts are five bucks,” he said, “but you can get three for ten dollars.”
Oh for Pete’s sake! Rachel had no intention of purchasing three T-shirts for $10. Aside from the dismal fact she had no family and no close friends who might enjoy a souvenir from Sin City, she was faking interest in “Everybody Loves A Loser” tees because it was the only way to keep an eye on the chapel without looking obvious.
“You keep scoping out The Wedding Veil,” said the guy. “You gonna get married?”
Aw, crap. Caught by a slacker whose red-shot eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in several days or he’d just smoked some weed. Rachel smiled brightly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Dude! You keep looking over your shoulder and peering at the chapel. Then you keep looking at your watch.”
“I am not.” Rachel dug through the shirts as if she might find one that had been gold-plated. What kind of lame reporter was she? Here she was, thinking she was so cool and so smooth … damn it!
“Hey, I’m chill,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve seen grooms stand up their brides a million billion times.”
She blinked at him. “What?”
“You. Got. Stood. Up.” He nodded sagely as if telling her in a loud, slow voice somehow deadened the potential pain of being left at the altar.
Speechless, Rachel stared at him. Did she have LOSER tattooed on her forehead? Not only did she suck at convert surveillance, she apparently had a “dumped bride” vibe, too.
“You gonna buy those?” he asked.
She looked at the T-shirts clenched in her fist. Just then, a motorcycle roared up the street. The biker drove into the parking lot and took the slot nearest the chapel. He pulled off his helmet and shook out longish black hair.
Holy shit. She watched the guy in the tight jeans and black T-shirt open the chapel’s big, pink door and saunter inside.
“Aw right. Your groom showed up!” Slacker Boy grooved his head. “You know something weird? He looks really familiar.”
“Like Reese Cadwell, right?”
“No. He looks like that other guy … Keanu Reeves.”
6
“You still wearing that bra?” asked a deliciously mellow and very male voice.
Abby nearly jumped out of her chair. She probably looked like a scared cat to the sexy movie star leaning against the doorjamb and gazing at her with heat in his eyes. Her pulse beat an unsteady rhythm and she felt the familiar “do-me-now” response of her body that seemed to arise any time Reese was within ten feet of her person. Smoothing her hair and wishing desperately for some lip gloss and a breath mint, she stood up. “You scared the bejeebers out of me.”
“Bejeebers?” He walked into the room. “You have an interesting vocabulary. I wanted to ask about your accent. Are you from Texas?”
“Bite your tongue. I’m an Okie.”
His brows rose.
“Born and raised in Oklahoma,” she clarified. Nervous energy sparked in her stomach as he rounded the desk. His gaze landed on the Agent Provocateur box. He grinned. “I don’t suppose you put on that thong, did you?”
“I couldn’t wear the ensemble because that little bra you sent with it didn’t fit.”
For a moment he looked nonplussed … then he laughed softly. His thumb traced the curve of her jaw. “I can’t get you out of my thoughts. And I don’t want you out of my bed.” He dipped his head for a light kiss. The soft press of his lips caused a delicate shudder to run through her.
“Ditto.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply, trying to put into her kiss what she could never put into words.
“Oh. My. God! You’re locking lips with Sean?”
Gina’s astonished voice broke the sensual spell. Talk about a mood killer. Abby sighed as she reluctantly removed her lips from Reese’s and turned to face her sibling. She stood inside the office doorway holding a big paper bag. The spicy fried scent of eggrolls wafted into the room. Abby watched with some delight as her sister’s eyes widened and her mouth flapped open and shut. The Chinese take-out landed with a splat on the floor.
“I’m not seeing this. Nope. Not me.” Gina picked up the bag and backed out of the room. “You’re not Reese Cadwell. She’s alone in the office. And I’m on my way to get a drink. See? This is me leaving and I’m locking the door behind me, too.” She grabbed the knob and yanked the door almost closed then her head reappeared and she said, “Carry on, people.”
Her sister shut the door and they heard the key turn in the lock. Oh hell. Gina would never buy the story that Abby and Reese had enjoyed a simple dinner last night, much less shut up about finding them lip locked.
“Who’s Sean?” ask Reese.
“He’s the Elvis impersonator who owns Chapel of Love,” answered Abby. She tilted her head and considered Reese’s profile. “I never thought about it before, but Sean sorta looks like you—when he’s not dressed up like the King.”
“You wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve been asked to play Elvis Presley.”
“You’re kidding.”
“That’s what I said.”
The fragrant scent of eggrolls lingered, reminding Abby that Gina had just taken off with the food. Abby lightly punched Reese’s shoulder. “This is the second time I’ve missed out on dinner because of you.”
“I’ll make it up to you at breakfast.”
Her stomach fluttered. She couldn’t believe Reese was standing in her office saying things both naughty and sweet. Doing so was far beyond his duties as a contest prize. She could only hope that he had tracked her down and bought her lingerie because he was as emotionally affected by their night together as she was. Maybe it was possible that a relationship could blossom between them. Yeah. It was just about as possible as her winning a Megabucks jackpot.
&
nbsp; Reese stared at her, and she suspected he was gauging her reaction to his presence. She smiled, hoping her gaze conveyed the invitation to touch her—now. Reese got her message—loud and clear—because his hand stole under her tee shirt, drifting up her ribcage. He cupped her breast and swiped his thumb across the nipple. The tip hardened immediately and a zingy thrill went from breast to groin in 0.2 seconds. Yowzer.
“You are a breast addict,” she accused, pressing closer to encourage optimum groping.
“Guilty.” His other hand joined in the fun. Now both of her breasts were being fondled with an efficiency and enthusiasm that left her breathless. Tiny shivers danced along her skin as he alternately stroked and twisted her nipples through the thin material of her bra.
She pushed her pelvis against his; the hard-on straining against his jeans gouged her with yummy precision. “Do you know what it’s like to walk around in wet panties?”
“Never worn panties,” said Reese, unsnapping the top of her jeans and lowering the zipper. He tugged on the waistband and allowed the jeans to drop to her knees. One hand continued to play with her breasts, thank God, but the other feathered its way across her stomach, one finger slipping inside her underwear to swipe her clit.
“Oh Lord.” She went boneless, shuddering with delight as his finger slid lower, lower, lower. When he dipped inside her, she felt herself get wetter and hotter. She squirmed against him, panting and moaning. He lowered his mouth to her neck and completed his pleasurable assault on her person by employing the breathy-kissy technique. Her vagina contracted, squeezing the finger thrusting inside her, and she felt slightly faint. Was it possible to pass out from being too sexually excited?
Abby fumbled with the buttons of his jeans, nearly ripping off the material in her haste. The jeans dropped … the boxers dropped … and his hard cock jutted out, ready to play.
