Tempting Her Best Friend (A What Happens in Vegas Novel) (Entangled Lovestruck)

by Maxwell, Gina L.

  A sly grin crept over her face. “Well, you could say I’m looking for a man to take care of my ‘pipes’ soooooo…”

  Stunned. That’s what he was, and not in a good way. More like tasered-in-the-nuts kind of stunned. That third glass of wine had blown holes in her inhibitions, and now she was speaking in innuendo. If he thought she was even remotely referring to him, he’d be as hard as a plumber’s wrench. But she wasn’t. She was talking about some stranger who wouldn’t give two shits about her and would get to know what it felt like to sink into her heat and hear her moan in pleasure.

  You’ve heard her moan on multiple occasions.

  Yeah, he had. Through the shared wall of their bedrooms whenever she pleasured herself. The sounds were faint by the time they broke through the layers of drywall and insulation, but she might as well have been right in his ear for as much as it tortured him.

  Dragging a hand over his mouth, he about-faced and strode out of her room. The beer wasn’t going to cut it anymore. He needed a stiff drink.

  “Oh, come on,” she said with a laugh. “You have to admit that was funny. Where are you going? You haven’t even had dessert yet.” Then, in a singsong voice she added, “I made crème brûlée.”

  Of course she did. Because that was his favorite dessert on the planet and she knew that. Just like she knew everything else about him. Everything except the myriad fantasies he had of pinning her with his body and burying himself between her soft thighs.

  Damn it. Wrong time to think of that. Now his cock suddenly wanted to join the party. Fucking perfect. “Sorry, I just remembered I have to meet Dad before work tomorrow about…things. I need to try and get to bed early.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay.”

  Dillon gritted his teeth against the disappointment in her voice as she followed him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d end up doing something asinine—like kiss the hell out of her—to make her forget her crazy idea of hooking up with some muscle-bound Fabio tool in Vegas.

  He turned when he reached the front door. “Text me when you land so I know you got there safely.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said matter-of-factly. “The odds of dying in a plane crash are equivalent to having naturally conceived identical quadruplets, and when was the last time you heard of that phenomenon crawling around?”

  He’d grown accustomed to her spouting off stats in their conversations over the years, but sometimes she needed a reminder that statistical logic didn’t mean a damn thing in the face of someone’s feelings. All the one-in-however-million stats in the world wouldn’t make him feel any better until he knew for sure she was safe. That’s all there was to it.

  What used to be a lengthy discussion years ago had been whittled down to a meaningful arch of his brow. Which he now gave her.

  A sheepish grin lifted the corners of her mouth, and a pale blush dotted her cheeks before she wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight. “I’ll text you as soon as the wheels touch down.”

  “Thank you.” Careful to keep space between his growing erection and her belly, he held her for several moments, breathing in her familiar vanilla-sugar scent. As always, it beckoned him, tempted him to drag his tongue over her skin and see if she’d melt in his mouth like a warm sugar cookie.

  Over the years, it’d gotten so bad that he had to stop using vanilla creamer in his coffee and couldn’t get within fifty yards of a pastry shop without getting hard. She’d turned him into a grown man who avoided the Mrs. Field’s store in the mall for fear of being charged with public indecency. And he didn’t even want to talk about Christmas cookie day at his mom’s house every year.

  He pulled away and grabbed the door handle, trying like hell to look like he didn’t have murderous thoughts spinning in his head.

  “Hey,” she said, “I don’t want you to worry about me. I promise I’ll be careful.”

  The thought of her rolling a condom on someone else’s dick made him physically ill, and he turned to get the hell out of there before he said something he’d regret. “Thanks for dinner. I’ll talk to you when you get back.”

  “Okay. Oh, wait,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen. A minute later, she returned with a ramekin of crème brûlée and a green pill bottle. “Take it with you, in case you want it later,” she said, handing over the dessert with a smile. Then she held up the bottle. “And this is melatonin. I know you’ve had a hard time falling asleep lately. These should help you get the rest you need.”

  Dillon’s least favorite school subject was English, but he was pretty sure they called this irony. The only reason he’d been having sleepless nights was also the only woman who cared enough to try and alleviate his supposed insomnia. But he didn’t want to take pills, natural or otherwise. He’d rather fix it by fucking her until utter exhaustion forced him to sleep for as long as it took to regain his strength to do it all over again.

  She has the same idea. She just doesn’t plan on doing it with you, dumbass.

  He needed to beat feet and go a few rounds with the heavy bag in his basement before he put a hole in the drywall.

  “Thanks, Aly,” he said sincerely. “You always take good care of me.”

  “What are friends for, right?” Her smile held a hint of sadness before she raised up on her toes and kissed his cheek like always. And like always, it took all of his restraint not to turn his face at the last second so their lips would finally meet.

  He shoved the pill bottle in his pocket, then made his escape, dessert in hand. Once on their shared porch, he waited until he heard her slide the locks home before walking through his front door immediately to the left of hers.

  He made his way to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and held the dish of crème brûlée inches above the shelf. If he left it in his fridge, he’d always have his favorite dessert on hand. But seeing it there and catching an occasional whiff of its sweet scent would be a self-inflicted torture.

  On the other hand, he could give in to his urges and indulge in it now. He’d have to live in the moment and revel in the creamy ecstasy, satisfied with committing every last second to memory in case it was the last crème brûlée she ever offered him. There’d be no room for regrets.

  Dillon’s arm shook from the tension, and his teeth ached from clenching his jaw. With a final growl, he set the dish on the shelf and slammed the door.

  “Fuck!”

  Frustration surged through him like electricity. It lit up his veins and burned through his muscles. The only way he’d get any sleep in the near future would be to push his body to its limits with a killer workout. It wouldn’t be the first time he had to leave himself with just enough energy to drag his ass into a shower and off to bed.

  Dillon glared at the fridge one last time before heading to his room to change.

  He doubted it would be the last time, either.

  Chapter Two

  What a shitty day.

  He woke up to a broken coffeemaker and didn’t have time to stop for his mandatory dose of caffeine on the way in because road construction had fucked up the Diagonal, making him late as hell. The morning meeting with his dad had been about Karlson throwing yet another wrench in their plans because the guy was too arrogant to let them do their jobs and insisted on micromanaging the entire project.

  Then Dillon learned an entire shipment of building materials had mysteriously disappeared en route to the site. Now all he needed was a random rainstorm to further hinder the crew’s progress and the day could officially be called a clusterfuck.

  “Hey, kiddo. You going to tell me what’s wrong or make me drag it out of you?”

  Dillon looked up from his clipboard to find his twin sister. Barely older than him, she made a game out of calling him names that implied they were separated by years instead of six minutes. She had a spitfire personality with a brain to match and an uncanny ability to make people talk when they didn’t want to. If he couldn’t escape her within the first sixty seconds, he’d have no hope o
f keeping his problems bottled up like the rest of the male population.

  “Thanks, sis, but I don’t have time to talk.” He held up the several rolls of blueprints he was holding. “Have to get these up to Dad, or he’ll have my ass in a sling.”

  “Hey, you,” she called to a random guy in a hard hat, then took the plans right out of his hands. “Can you take these up to George for me lickety-split?” She hit him with her hundred-watt smile and the guy jumped to do her bidding like she’d promised to grant his every wish or something.

  Turning back to him, she flicked her brown hair over her shoulder and said, “There. Now you have time.”

  Dillon heaved a resigned sigh. He knew better than to fight her. Once she sniffed blood, she wouldn’t give up until you sliced open your chest and bled the whole sordid story. Thankfully, she wasn’t so much a shark as she was a surgeon. Maddy had a pretty good track record at putting people back together after they bared their problems to her.

  So he sucked it up and told her about the dinner with Alyssa and what she told him she planned to do on her weekend retreat. “I’m worried about her. She’s not very street savvy. What if she gets into some kind of trouble?”

  “Which is code for you’re all messed in the head because you let her leave without telling her how you truly feel.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on, Dillon. You’re not as slick as you think. Everyone knows you’ve carried a torch for that girl since the beginning of time. Even the dinosaurs knew it.”

  The frustration from the night before had never left. He’d simply beat it into submission long enough to get a few hours of sleep. Now it coursed through his body again, stronger than ever. He snatched his baseball hat off and whipped it against his thigh, displacing a fine layer of sawdust before slapping it on his head backward.

  “I’ve wanted to tell her at least a hundred times,” he said, remembering the night before. “I keep putting her in the fridge so I can take her out and smell her. But what I really want to do is taste her and enjoy every creamy bite, you know what I mean?”

  Blinking a few times, she finally said, “Honey, not even Freud would know what you mean.” Maddy placed her palm against his forehead. “Have you been hydrating? I think you might have heatstroke.”

  Pulling her hand away, Dillon pinned her with a confused glare. “What? No, listen, I want to be with her, but you know about her dad. Always leaving her and her mom. Never being faithful. I don’t have that faithful gene either, just like our Dad. Being with Alyssa would be the most selfish thing I could ever do, because eventually I’d screw it up.”

  “Oh, now I get it,” she said, dripping with her well-known sarcasm. “I’m sorry, I thought we were in the real world, but we obviously took a wrong turn into Crazy Town.”

  “Maddy—”

  “Don’t ‘Maddy’ me, junior.” Dillon mentally winced at her scolding tone. “What would ever put such a ridiculous notion in your head?”

  He released a sigh and dragged a hand over his face, noticing the stubble on his jaw that he hadn’t had the energy to shave that morning. Did he really want to open this can of worms with his tough-as-nails, take-no-prisoners twin? Glancing over, he took in her stance—hands planted firmly on her cocked hips, fingers drumming as she waited for his answer—and tried to gauge what her reaction might be to the shit in his head he called “perfectly good reasons.”

  Then he noticed the contradicting warmth and concern in her eyes. If anyone could understand where he was coming from, it was her.

  “I’ve seen what happens when a man wanders. Aly swears she believes in romance, but have you seen her ever fall for a guy? No, she’s scared shitless of a real relationship. And we both know I’d wander. I can’t help it. Dad couldn’t stick with one woman, and neither can I. A marriage to someone like us would only end in disaster.”

  The starch left her body. “Not if you love each other, it doesn’t have to. I’m older than you,” Dillon rolled his eyes, “and that automatically makes me wiser, so listen up. Basing your future on Dad’s past is a lousy idea. You’re nothing like him, no matter how much you think otherwise. I love the guy, but he’s not marriage material. He’s too selfish. But you don’t have a selfish bone in your body.”

  “I date women for a very specific reason, Maddy, you know that. How is that not selfish?”

  “Please, give me a little credit. I know you better than anyone, including you apparently.” She crossed her arms over her chest, daring him to dispute her claim. “You might have a new girl for every month of the year, but you never lead them to believe it’s anything other than some temporary fun. And I also know that when one of them decides they want something more, it really bothers you when they end up hurt. Like with this last girl.”

  Dillon thought to argue her points, but knew it’d just be a waste of breath. He could bullshit a lot of people, but his twin wasn’t one of them.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe he wasn’t as much like his father as he’d always assumed. He shook his head. Just because their reasons for having short-lived relationships were different, didn’t mean the outcome wasn’t the same. Dillon had never had even a spark of wanting something real and lasting with anyone. The thought of it made him break out in a sweat. The only kind of relationship he was good at was the fun-and-done kind.

  A sudden idea took root. If Alyssa just needed someone to scratch her itch, why couldn’t he volunteer? She wasn’t looking for anything serious right now, so maybe they could both indulge for a little while away from home and go back to being friends when they returned. At least this way she wouldn’t be sleeping with some stranger who wouldn’t take care of her needs and he’d have the memory of loving her to last a lifetime. It was the perfect solution to both their problems.

  “Sis, you’re a genius. I gotta go. Cover me with Dad, okay? I have to catch a flight to Vegas.”

  “What are you going to tell her?” Maddy asked as he kissed her on the cheek.

  A big smile spread over his face, and he began walking backward. “That I want her crème brûlée.”

  Chapter Three

  Ivanna Climacks…

  Alyssa stood at the bar, sipping on a brandy old-fashioned and trying to think of names she’d have if she were a Bond girl. In her current getup she felt more like some sexy alternate version of herself. So far she wasn’t convinced it was an improvement over the normal, albeit plainer, Alyssa Miller. However, with her red halter dress bear-hugging her body and the aptly named fuck-me boots slicked over her legs, she’d been hit on by several men who normally wouldn’t have given her the time of day.

  Unfortunately, they’d all been employees of the hotel or “industry professionals” who were either old enough to be her father or married enough to be…well, very married. That was enough for her confidence to take a serious nosedive. Turned out the blonde-bombshell business was harder than she’d thought. Hence, why she’d bellied up to the bar and started entertaining herself with the Bond Name Game.

  Anita Goodlay… Ryda Johnson…

  Well, she wanted to, but it was starting to look like her plans were a wash for the day. Exhaling a deep breath, she blew a stray curl off her face and stabbed at the ice in her drink with the tiny straw.

  A martini glass slid into view with a pale yellow drink, garnished with a sugar-coated rim and a curly lemon rind. “Vodka for your thoughts?”

  Alyssa tensed as she turned toward the dark-haired man sitting next to her with an identical drink to the one he’d offered her. He picked up his own glass with a delicate hold on the stem and took a sip. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he made an oh-my-God-that’s-so-good sound before returning his attention to her.

  Something told Alyssa this guy wasn’t about to hit on her—or any girl—either, but instead of disappointment, she felt relief and a certain instant kinship. The warmth radiating from his brown eyes and dimpled smile invited conversation.

  Return
ing the smile, she said, “Did you know that drinking an ounce of vodka every day has numerous health benefits? It lowers high blood pressure and decreases your risk for strokes, Alzheimer’s, and type two diabetes to name a few.”

  “If that’s true, then I should live forever,” he said with a wink. “What I do know is that when a woman dressed to kill looks like someone kicked her puppy, she needs a better drink than that disgusting thing. Meet the lemon drop martini.”

  Yikes. She hadn’t realized she’d looked so morose. She usually had a better poker face than that. Offering her thanks, Alyssa lifted the glass and tried the fancy drink. The alcohol-enhanced lemon flavor hit her taste buds with a tart zing, quickly soothed by the sugar as her lips left the rim of the glass. She loved it.

  “So what’s your story, Morning Glory? Someone stand you up? I’m Trent, by the way. Party planner extraordinaire here at the Masquerade hotel and casino. You need connections for anything in Vegas, I’m the guy to see.”

  “Good to know. I’m Alyssa,” she managed to say instead of one of her new spy names. “And not exactly.” She took another drink as she contemplated how much to tell him. Then decided to screw it. It’s not like she’d ever see Trent again. “I came here with the intention of letting loose and ending my…you know…dry streak with one of the cover models. But even dressed like a high-priced hooker, I can’t seem to grab their attention.”

  Mia Verra-Horney.

  Trent snorted behind his hand. “You mean these cover models? Honey, those trees aren’t meant for you to climb. You have the goods, but they’re not buyin’ what you’re sellin’.”

  She took a minute to think about his cryptic statements, wondering if she might be misreading them. Was he really saying the models were gay? Scanning the crowd, Alyssa paused to study each of the costumed models as they interacted with the women around them. They winked, smiled, laughed, waggled their eyebrows… “No. You must be mistaken. There’s no way.”

  He turned around and pointed at the model in the army gear. “He has a boyfriend of five years.” Then he pointed to the construction worker. “He can’t get it up, but it doesn’t matter ’cause he’s bottom bunk all the way.” Another gesture directed at the one dressed as a cop. “Been there, done that, and trust me, he doesn’t have much to work with anyway.”