“Rebounding from Jameson? I don’t think so. The minute I walked out his door, I knew I’d been wasting my time. There’s nothing to rebound from.”
So then why had she been so drawn to Ben, who reminded her of Jameson? Honestly, it wasn’t even so much about his looks, although Liz would have to be blind not to notice them. It was mostly because of the way he . . . well, gestured and had a white-collar bearing, she supposed. Yeah, the confident-yet-not-arrogant way he held himself could’ve been the exact reason why Liz’s libido was still going vroom-vroom whenever she thought about him.
Which was kind of always.
“Okay, I believe you,” Anita said, going back to her makeup. “If you say it’s not a rebound, then it’s not a rebound.”
“A rebound would require emotional investment in the person who supposedly broke my heart, right?”
“Or it could require some hurt that you might’ve felt when your latest affair told you to get the hell out the morning after.” Anita gave her a wise, sad smile. “We all hurt, Liz, and that’s why you should be careful. Hurt’s a powerful thing that can make us do some silly stuff so we can feel better. Shagging the man who has a passing resemblance to the guy who dumped you would be some pretty inmensa feel-better medicine, and I fully support that—but nothing more. No taking off with him to play house again just because you think it’s meant to be, okay?”
Right. She was so right. Just because a man gave her a thrill without even being in the room, just because she couldn’t stop thinking about him, didn’t mean anything.
“Okay,” she said. “But for the record, I’d shag Ben no matter what kind of medicine was involved—immense or not.”
Anita held up her mascara wand. “I’d shag him for no reason, too.” She stroked her lashes with the brush, laying the mascara on thick. “But make me a promise?”
“Anything.”
They smiled at each other in the mirror, which was getting clearer by the minute.
“Tell me,” Anita said, “that you’re going to be smarter with that heart of yours tonight, Lizzie. Say it in no uncertain terms.”
Liz thought back to the moment she’d first seen Ben walk into the pool area, the sun shining on him. Thought back to the first time they’d locked eyes and her heart had melted all through her, making her change form in some way she couldn’t explain—a way no man had ever made her feel. Not even Jameson.
Liz had never been in true love at first sight. Lust? Most definitely. But she’d never tripped over the holy grail of emotion. She’d searched for it in men’s eyes, sometimes hoping so hard that she’d found it that she mistook it for something more, but how about this time?
Did she always feel this way every time she met someone who tweaked her interest? Was Anita right?
As Liz smoothed down her hair, she had the feeling deep in her gut that this one was different.
Even if he turned out to be like all the rest.
5
In the entire history of man, Liz was pretty sure that no one had ever been bored in a place like Bordello.
On the lower floor, the soft lights blushed over velvet red love seats and chaises while sinfully sheer material hung from the ceiling near chandeliers that looked like frozen crystal rain. Mahogany booths and a wood floor reflected the light’s hot liquid sparkle along with the shadows that stretched from dark corners where secret liaisons probably happened night after night.
But it didn’t look like one of those was in the cards for Liz as she stood outside of a private, curtain-shrouded upper-level booth and peered over the railing, looking for Ben while taking a picture to post on Facebook.
It was already four thirty, with happy hour in full swing, and he wasn’t anywhere around. Had he stood her up? Was he laughing over drinks back at the hotel while he talked on the phone with a girlfriend in another city? He’d said he was alone on this vacation, but Liz should’ve questioned him more.
Why was she so terrible at men? Couldn’t she read one right . . . ever?
She absently adjusted one of the sexy straps on her dress—a colorful violet ditty that matched her eyes and featured a network of delicate spiderweb designs on her back. She’d even taken care to match it with a new pair of economical but tasteful high heels with rhinestones and crisscross straps, hoping they’d catch Ben’s eye.
So much for fate.
“Why so blue?” asked Anita over the techno music, kneeling on the plush cushion of their booth. She’d brushed aside the see-through curtain and was leaning against an iron bedpost that all the VIP booths had.
Liz forced a smile and lifted her second glass of champagne. “Who’s blue?”
“You blue.” Anita gaily hugged Liz and kissed her cheek. “Come on. You left Ben’s name at the door, and he’ll get here when he gets here.”
“What if he doesn’t come?”
Anita lightly touched the tip of Liz’s nose with her long, manicured fingernail. “Liz Palazzo waits on no man. Maybe she did back when she was Maddie Patterson, but that girl stopped existing the minute she stepped onstage with her ostrich feather headdress and rhinestones. The minute she became a goddess!”
A pep talk from Anita, who was the only person here who knew how disappointed Liz was. It was just what she needed.
Liz glanced at the rest of her friends in the booth: Darcie, Parisa, Mai, and Carolann had already lured affluent young software industry men into their lair, and the girls were waving at Liz to get inside, too.
“Liz, Liz, Liz . . .” Darcie started chanting, her usually pale face flushed from the expensive iced vodka that’d come compliments of their host.
The rest joined in. “Liz, Liz, Liz . . . !”
She had a choice—to wallow in rejection or to give it up to some fun.
Anita was right—who was she? Liz Palazzo waited for no man. Hell, she’d been an object of desire for how many adoring males over the years? The men—usually married—used to come backstage with flowers and gifts and sometimes even impulsive marriage proposals. And she was being ruled by some guy she’d met at a pool today who hadn’t even bothered to be on time?
Hah. Screw Ben Whatever-His-Name-Was. He’d been a false positive.
She gulped down her champagne and joined her pals. Anita clapped her hands and went back to sitting in the lap of their benefactor for the night—Donell Whitehouse, her hipster-haired software designer who breezed through Vegas every so often. Thank God the tab was on him tonight, otherwise there’d be no big Anita birthday bash even close to this.
Their waitress, dressed in a uniform that would’ve been right at home in a Paris cathouse, wiggled by to replace the empty bottles of champagne in their ice buckets, and Liz poured herself and the girls more, enjoying the luxury while she could.
And she would enjoy, with or without some guy from the pool!
Mai, with her almond eyes accentuated by sparkly makeup and false eyelashes, squeed as a famous, elderly rock star and his fashion model wife cruised by their booth, casually looking inside. He’d done a high-profile Super Bowl commercial for Donell last year.
His smile widened on his craggy face as he perused them, but when his wife grabbed his arm, he moved on.
“Did you see that?” Mai shouted, the music almost drowning her out. “I used to diddle myself to sleep under his poster on my ceiling!”
Carolann, who was as diamond blond as the rock star’s wife, lightly pushed Mai. “Nasty girl!”
Darcie and Parisa started giggling, their dates offering them more vodka.
Anita must not have heard Mai’s confession, because her mouth was busy mashing against Donell’s.
Good times. Liz made herself laugh right along with the girls, drinking probably more than she should’ve as other celebrities arrived on the VIP floor—a young indie-film director who’d helmed that Super Bowl commercial, then a celebrity socialite with her own reality show who was everywhere for no particular reason.
Liz watched all of them, wondering why the cha
mpagne wasn’t working as well on her as it usually did.
Hell if she was going to be down in the dumps, though.
She realized that ye olde bladder needed a trip to the restroom, and she didn’t bother to tell Anita where she was going since the birthday girl was all hot ’n’ heavy, making like this was a real bordello with Donell.
She turned to the Fearsome Foursome next to her. “Anyone have to pee?”
“Nope,” they said, cuddling up to their own partners for the night.
Except for Mai. She practically sprung over Liz’s lap and out of the booth, away from her guy, pulling Liz out of her seat.
“I gotta go so bad!”
She tugged Liz toward the VIP restrooms, and it was only as they passed the rock star’s booth that Liz recognized some very obvious, horny ulterior motives.
Mai slowed down to an extraslow shimmy. Liz noticed that he noticed, his lips in a lascivious pout as his wife chattered with a friend.
“Bad girl,” Liz said, widening her eyes at Mai.
Mai slurred in Liz’s ear. “You’re on your own from here. I know we ladies need a partner on bathroom trips, but . . .”
Liz made a buzzed, Psh, go-ahead sound, waving her hand. The champagne was finally working. Any minute now, she was going to forget Ben ever existed.
With an evil laugh, Mai headed for a dim area behind the booths, glancing over her shoulder at the rocker. Sure enough, he was watching, craning his neck so he could peek out of his booth.
Yuck. Married men weren’t Liz’s thing. Neither were puckered rock stars. But Mai was a big girl, and live and let live.
She made her way into the restroom, did her thing, then washed up and checked her lipstick in the mirror, lingering a minute as the champagne took a maudlin turn.
Jeez, was there something wrong with her that she always ended up alone in the end? Not that she wanted some married old horndog on her cha-cha, but what could she do to make herself more appealing so that someone would finally . . .
She didn’t want to even think it, but the saddest part of herself did.
So that someone would finally love her?
With a sigh, she shook her head. Neediness sure wasn’t an attractive quality, that much was true. So what if her mom had been remote before she’d died a few years ago? So what if poor little her had never had a dad around, seeing as Mom wasn’t even sure who he was in the first place?
Liz tipped the attendant, then walked out, trying not to feel sorry for herself anymore. Where was fabulous Liz Palazzo now? More to the point, where was the old girl’s confidence?
As she emerged back into the club, Liz Palazzo all the way, she adjusted to the darkness, looking around with a regal champagne-gaze, letting the dance music hit her and feeling the heavy beat travel her body.
Little by little, her vision got better and . . .
Then she saw him.
He was standing by a wrought iron pillar, his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, a GQ sport coat covering a plain white shirt. His blond hair reminded her of a day on the beach—not that she’d ever been to a real one, but he seemed relaxed, sun-kissed among all the dark spots in the room.
And he was smiling at her in a way that made her pussy meow.
That was no exaggeration either—her blood was purring downward until it rubbed between her legs, silky and hot. It conjured up lust, tight and needful, but there was something else going on, too.
And it was happening far away from her sex.
Whatever it was had wrapped around her heart, and for some reason, it felt like Ben from the Pool was stroking it, playing with emotions that she’d promised Anita she’d keep in check.
Too fast, she thought. Get yourself together and take the night for what it is. Fun!
But it was sure odd that he’d shown up after all, like he was . . .
Before she could think, Meant to be, Ben took his hands out of his pockets and sauntered over to her, grinning the whole time, looking her up and down and obviously appreciating everything he saw while leaving a trail of pulsing anticipation everywhere his gaze went.
When he finally came to stand in front of her, she looked up at him just slightly. She was taller than normal in her heels, but he measured up to her, unlike most men.
Boy, did he.
“You’re late,” she said above the music.
“Were you timing me?” he asked.
“I didn’t have time to time you.” My, he smelled clean and citrusy, and it was making her gaga. So were his blue, blue airport eyes, which looked so inviting even through the red-shaded atmosphere. “I was thinking you took off to be with your girlfriend or wife or . . .”
“I told you—I don’t have any of those.”
There—it hadn’t been so hard to verify.
Jeez, she liked a man with an honest streak. And broad shoulders. And a smooth voice. And, and, and. His attributes were all building up inside her, swirling and whirling, and suddenly the champagne really hit, making her happy and fizzy because he was finally here.
“I see,” she said, smiling, too, leaning closer, near enough so she could whisper in his ear. “You only like to be fashionably late.”
As he turned his head a bit, looking into her eyes, her lips warmed. His cheek was so close. So was his mouth.
Was he going to swoop over and kiss her, rashly, impetuously, wonderfully?
But then something darkened his gaze and he gave her some space, not enough to be obvious about it, but . . . enough.
“Actually,” he said, “I wasn’t familiar with this complex. It’s big, and there’re a lot of clubs and restaurants to sort through.”
So he was being one of those hard-to-get guys, but she was as familiar with those as she was the bring-her-candy-and-flowers type who’d come backstage. His type of guy only had enough money to take vacations and splurge on European pools and a few extra costly drinks. His type relied on his looks instead of cash.
Fine by her for a night.
She leaned toward him again, just so he could hear her better. That was the excuse, anyway.
“Good thing you made it here before we left,” she said. “There’s champagne and vodka on ice at the table. And it’s the good stuff.”
Why did his shoulders seem to go stiff? Did his pride make him want to refuse to be paid for?
So many questions, Liz thought. So many things she wanted to get to the bottom of with this man who pulled her in to his orbit and wouldn’t let her go. . . .
***
Were the drinks on Jameson again?
Damn, this woman was ballsy, possibly spending his brother’s money like she’d earned it. Twenty thousand dollars didn’t last a long time in VIP rooms, and Ben was surer than ever that she’d been handing him a line about that restaurant dream of hers—all talk, no willingness to work for it or save her money.
But he was on this errand for Jameson all the way—now more than ever. He’d forced himself to put off coming here to Bordello, too, wanting her to wait for him. He’d never met a woman yet who admired overeagerness.
Liz laid a hand on his arm, and when a quaver took him from head to toe, he froze it out.
“Let’s go,” she said, as chipper as could be. Tipsy again, too.
She led him to a curtained booth near the railing that overlooked the main floor, where waitresses served trendy food on small plates, and platforms showcased drunk people dancing. Compared to the Rough & Tumble, everything had a gloss that didn’t appeal to Ben as much as it used to, although he never said no to it. No hadn’t been in his nature before he’d been sent on this errand for Jameson.
“Hey!” shouted her friends in the booth when they saw him. Even Anita, who was making out with some guy Ben couldn’t identify who had scruffy dark hair and wore a thin beige sweater, looked up and acknowledged him before glancing at Liz and going back to kissing the daylights out of her date.
Liz grabbed a champagne bottle from an ice bucket and an empty glass. As she was fi
lling up, a bouncy, dancy Robin Thicke remix came on and the girls rushed out of the booth, their guys in tow.
“Let’s go, Liz!” said the platinum-blond one. He thought her name was Carolann.
She grabbed Liz’s hand, but Liz shook her head and waved her on, handing the champagne to Ben. Meanwhile, Anita and her guy, plus one kid who seemed to be the odd man out, remained in the booth.
The fifth wheel took one look at the departing girls, then another at Anita and her smothered partner, then shrugged, climbing out of the booth and following the crowd.
Liz made a sympathetic face, then leaned her head against Ben’s shoulder to laugh into it before she smiled up at him, shaking her head.
“Poor kid. I’m afraid Mai found another distraction and ditched him.”
Ben wasn’t exactly concentrating on Liz’s words—he was too busy trying to tell himself that the pressure of her head against his arm hadn’t felt real good, hadn’t sent a rush of unwanted desire through every part of him.
She edged onto the seat opposite the kissing couple, scooting in to the booth. As he did, too, the dim cove blocked out some of the music—although not much.
It sure didn’t block out the sight of Anita straddling her date, running her hands through his hair as his fingertips dug into the skin of her back.
Ben leaned over to Liz so his words wouldn’t carry. “Well, this is intimate.”
His mouth had brushed her bobbed hair, and damn, did it ever smell like a spring morning. He’d expected heavy perfume, not something light and sweet.
He almost pulled away before he realized that this was what he was here to do—get close enough for her to take him into her confidences, then try to smoothly talk her into signing that nondisclosure agreement he’d tucked into an inside pocket of his jacket, then letting her know in no uncertain terms that the Hughes Corporation would take steps to see that she never went public with this scandal in the making. A debonair fixer.
Down and Dirty Page 6
