That Man 2

by Nelle L’Amour

  “Ten is a winner,” shouted out the croupier. Oohs and ahhs broke out among the crowd of spectators. I was in a wide-eyed state of shock as the croupier set a tower of black chips on the winning number.

  I turned to face Blake. A big Cheshire cat grin spread across his face, and his eyes glinted with amusement. “I just won, didn’t I?” I gasped, clasping my hand to my mouth.

  He nodded sheepishly. “Yes. A mere hundred dollars. I want you to play again and put everything on thirteen.”

  I gulped. He wanted me to risk it all? I’d won almost a whole month’s pay. “Are you sure?”

  He nodded again. “Do it,” he commanded.

  With jittery fingers, I complied.

  The croupier gave the wheel another forceful spin and then said, “No more bets.” My heart pounded and every nerve in my body buzzed. I chewed my lip as the little ball circled around the wheel.

  The wheel slowed down, and the ball skidded across several numbers. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I wished silently. My fists curled so tightly I could feel my nails. Finally, it stopped at ten again. Oh no! I lost. My heart sank painfully to my stomach—every penny I’d won was gone. And then, to my absolute shock, it edged into the next slot—red thirteen. I leaned into the table and squinted hard to be sure I was seeing things right. Yup, red thirteen. I even heard the croupier call it out. Holy shit! I could neither get my mouth to move nor my brain to send words to my vocal chords. A chorus of oohs and ahhs surrounded me, and I watched with wide-eyed stupor as the croupier piled copious stacks of chips onto the number. Several frustrated players left the table. From the corner of my eye, I thought I recognized someone in the crowd. Don Springer? A chill zigzagged down my spine, but he was gone in a blink. He was probably just a figment of my imagination, and I went back to enjoying my big moment.

  “Holy crap!” I finally managed. I jumped out my chair and began to do a happy dance. Literally.

  “I won! I won!” I shout­ed repeated­ly, gripping Blake’s shoulders as my feet did a jig. I’d never seen so many chips.

  Blake placed his hands at my waist. “Do you know how much you’ve won?”

  Delirious, I had no clue. “Tell me.”

  “About a year’s worth of salary after the taxes.”

  “Oh my God!” I was close to fainting. Thank goodness, Blake was holding me.

  Grinning, Blake drew me close to him. I could feel more than his rock-hard chest. Between his strong legs, that giant cock of his pressed against my middle. Goose bumps spread across my flesh.

  “C’mon, let’s go to a bar and celebrate.” He pressed me yet closer to him and rubbed his hard length against my abdomen. My big win aroused him. And it aroused me.

  My skin prickled. Temptation teased me. My mind screamed no; my body screamed yes.

  “Just one drink. We’ll talk business.”

  “Okay,” I mumbled. “Just one drink. And only if you let me buy.”

  A triumphant smile lit his gorgeous face. “Sure. And besides, you owe me ten bucks.”

  Five short minutes later after exchanging my chips for real dollars at the cashier, I was sitting with Blake at a high table at one of the hotel’s many bars. On the stage, some chesty redheaded lounge singer was singing a medley of Roberta Flack songs. I ordered another wine, he another Scotch. I craved something stronger, but I knew I shouldn’t mix drinks, especially in the company of my boss. I could easily get sloshed and embarrass myself. That definitely would not be a good career move.

  Our drinks arrived quickly—delivered by yet another disturbingly flirtatious blond cocktail waitress whose name tag said Kay. After again toasting to winning, we drank in silence. I studied his face. The flickering candlelight danced across his strong features, bathing them in a warm glow. I’d never faced him in this kind of lighting, and it awed me how spectacularly handsome he truly was. It no longer surprised me that he’d once been a model. He was the kind of guy who belonged on the cover of GQ and could sell ice to an Eskimo.

  “What made you come to Vegas tonight?” I asked, fumbling for conversation.

  “You.”

  “You don’t trust me to do my job?”

  “Of course, I trust you.”

  “Didn’t you have a date with Kassie?” I recalled overhearing Mrs. Cho setting it up before he got sick.

  “No. I had one with Kasey. She came down with the flu too.”

  Yay for her, I silently cheered and then mentally slapped myself. What was wrong with me? I was newly engaged and definitely not the mean jealous type. Or so I thought.

  “Aren’t you glad I came?”

  “Tomorrow would have been just fine.”

  He looked slightly crestfallen. “Hey, if I hadn’t come tonight, you wouldn’t have won all that money.”

  I almost felt rich. But most of my winnings were going to paying off debts, including my car and student loans.

  “It was just beginner’s luck,” I countered.

  “There’s no such thing as just luck, my father says. He says success is like a slot machine. You have to line up the three cherries—the right idea, the right time, the right person. If one of those three cherries is missing, you can’t win.”

  I pondered his words, but the wine was clouding my thinking. It made sense, but I wasn’t sure.

  He glanced down at my engagement ring and then returned his gaze to my face. His eyes bore into mine. “Do you think you’re going to succeed at marriage?”

  My skin bristled. “What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is . . . maybe the idea and time feel right, but is that dentist boyfriend of yours the right person?”

  His question made my stomach clench. Fuck. I’d forgotten to call Bradley. I’d promised to call him the minute I landed in Vegas, but I didn’t. But he hadn’t called me either. Like what if my plane had crashed or I’d gotten into an accident?

  I nervously twisted my engagement ring with my thumb. I couldn’t answer his question. The truth: I was having my doubts. Yes, we’d been together for a long time—through most of college and grad school—and we both had the same goals of living comfortably and having children, but lately, there hadn’t been much of a spark. Maybe that’s what happens to couples who are starting separate careers or have been together for a long time.

  As I took another long swig of my wine, the lounge singer began singing, “The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face,” and a sad truth hit me hard like a hammer. I couldn’t remember the first time I saw Bradley’s face. Was it the cafeteria? In the courtyard? In a classroom? I just couldn’t remember.

  Blake held my gaze in his. And my mind flashed back to our first encounter in his office. How when he lifted up his head and met my eyes, I almost melted. I’d relived it so many times. The moon and the stars danced in my head. Inwardly, I quivered.

  As if reading my mind, he reached across the table and ran his thumb across my chin. “Dance with me.” Another command.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Please. It’s just a dance.”

  On the verge of unexplainable tears, I bit down on my lip and simply nodded.

  Blake rose and came around the table to help me off the stool. A breath later, I was in his strong arms, stepping slowly side to side, as the lounge singer sang the moving Roberta Flack song. So much taller than me even in my heels, my head just reached his pecs. I rested my cheekbone against his chest and let the words of the song fill my head. I felt the heat of his body and his heart beat in my ear. At this very moment, nothing else existed except Blake and me.

  “You feel good, Jennifer” he whispered.

  “You do too,” I said back softly.

  The song ended, and I pulled away.

  “Well, I’d better be going. There’s a lot going on tomorrow.” I blinked once. Only once. We’d never talked business at all. My eyes stayed fixed on him.

  He was about to touch my face, but stopped midway. He smiled wistfully. “Yeah.” He paused. “Thanks for a great
evening.”

  I quirked a half-smile back at him, the tears so close to falling my eyes stung. “Yeah. It was really fun.” Turning away from him, I hurried out of the bar before I made a total fool of myself in front of my boss. I didn’t look back.

  The truth: Blake Burns had given me the best time I’d ever had in my entire life.

  Chapter 6

  Jennifer

  The morning focus groups were being held at a research facility in downtown Vegas—the early Vegas of the Rat Pack era that was now enjoying a resurgence. Dressed casually but professionally in black slacks and another silk blouse, I was sitting on a taupe brown couch in a small room, able to view the groups through a one-way mirror. A notebook and pen sat on my lap and a cup of coffee on the table in front of me.

  The first group, women 18-34, had already started. Libby, seated at the head of a conference room table, was briefing a dozen or so respondents who were drinking coffee and devouring pastries. The women seated around the table were of various shapes, sizes, and ethnicities, and some bore tattoos. They came from all over the country, many here in Vegas for the book signing event.

  Where was Blake? Though we hadn’t made a plan to come here together, it was not like him to be late. I was looking forward to seeing him as much as I was dreading it. Everything was fine last night until I’d danced with him. Why did I do that? Wasn’t there some kind of law about employees dancing together? Had I not drunk a couple glasses of wine, sleep would have eluded me. I’d fallen fast asleep, still swaying in his strong arms. Oh, he’d felt divine! The memory still danced in my head. I tried impossibly hard to force it out of my mind.

  Libby, in her glory, started to ask questions about the respondents’ reading tastes. The group broke into a lively discussion about books they were reading and authors they loved. Of course, Fifty Shades of Grey was mentioned, but so were so many others—Arianne Richmonde’s The Pearl Trilogy, Adriane Leigh’s Wild, and R.K. Lilley’s Up in the Air series to name a few. There seemed to be no end to the list of books and authors these voracious readers devoured.

  While two women were fanning themselves over a heated discussion of billionaire racecar driver Colton Donavan, the damaged hero of K. Bromberg’s Driven trilogy (books high on my list to make into a SIN-TV telenovela), the door to the observation room burst open. Blake.

  “What’s going on?” he growled, grabbing a coffee. He didn’t seem to be in a particularly good mood.

  My eyes met his and my heart hammered. He looked sexy as sin—in a pair of faded jeans that hugged his long, muscular legs and a simple white tee that exposed his mountainous biceps and chiseled pecs. His dark hair was perfectly mussed up, and a fine layer of stubble lined his strong jaw.

  “Did I miss anything?” he asked, crashing down on the couch, uncomfortably close to me.

  “Not too much. The briefing and the books these women are passionate about. They’re discussing them now. Libby is videotaping the focus groups so you can watch anything you missed later.”

  “Good.” Blake sat back in the couch and stretched his long legs on the coffee table in front of us and his toned arms across the back of the couch. One arm draped behind me.

  The warmth of his body radiated through mine. I immediately sat forward and pressed my legs together to quell the fluttering sensation that had gathered between my thighs.

  I tried to focus on what the group was saying, but his presence was distracting me and knotting up my stomach. Why was he late? And why did he have that just-fucked look going on? Had he slept with that flirtatious cocktail waitress after I’d left him last night?

  The latter question sent a shiver up my spine. Why should I care? I was engaged and he was a player. He had the right to fuck anyone he chose; I had the right to fuck no one but Bradley.

  I forced myself to focus on the group discussion and engrossed myself in taking notes. Libby, as group moderator, was doing a great job extracting information from the talkative woman. In truth, it wasn’t difficult. The enthusiastic bunch couldn’t stop blabbing away about their favorite book boyfriends, as they called them. If anything, Libby had to work hard at controlling the group from getting out of control and talking over one another. The women couldn’t spit out their opinions fast enough.

  “Alexandre Chevalier. One word. Sex on a friggin’ stick.”

  “Lane Wild. Holy hotness Batman! I need a cold shower.”

  “Jesse Ward. I can’t get enough of that fucking crazy, hot alpha male.”

  “Drew Evans. Sexy arrogant man whore!”

  “Remington Tate. One sweet, confusing, fucking hot beast of a man!”

  “Ethan Blackstone. Oh my God! Sex in a suit! So smoking hot!”

  “James Cavendish. Whew! I need me some Mr. Beautiful now!”

  My body heated. Everything these women were saying mimicked how I felt about my boss. Drop dead gorgeous Blake Burns. My Mr. Beautiful. That these zealous women were confirming my programming instinct took a backburner position in my muddled mind.

  I glanced over at Blake, soaking in his handsome profile. His expression was impassive. “What do you think about the group?” I ventured, butterflies aflutter.

  “Except for the blonde at the end of the table, they’re not very attractive.”

  Bastard. I clenched my teeth and balled my fists. I wanted to throw my notebook at him. Mr. I-Hate-Research was just not going to acknowledge I was right—that there was a voracious appetite for erotic television programming targeted at women. And then his cell phone rang. He picked it up after the first ring.

  “I have to call you back, baby.” He ended the call, and I fumed. Keira? Kirsty? Kitty? Kat? Or maybe that damn cocktail waitress. Her name tag popped into my head. Her name started with “K” too—“K” for Kay. I suddenly regretted spending last night with him.

  Libby’s zinger question enabled me to refocus my attention on the group discussion. “So, ladies, what would you think if some of the books we talked about today were made into television series and movies?”

  The women broke into orgasmic shrieks. “Yes!” “Now!” “Holy fuck!” “Oh baby!” “Bring it on!” “I’m on fire!” These were just some of the words that spilled from their lips.

  A smug smile crossed my face, and I turned to face Blake. His hands were tightly folded across his chest, his brows knitted together, and his lips pressed into a thin line. The look of defeat.

  Libby wrapped up the group and handed the respondents their incentives—each an envelope containing a crisp one hundred-dollar bill for their time followed by a choice of a signed paperback from a myriad of books she scattered across the table. The women went at the books like sharks in a feeding frenzy. After thanking the ecstatic women, Libby joined us in the observation room.

  “Well, I think this group proved that Jennifer’s right—there’s a huge opportunity to develop programming based on popular erotic romance novels. The next group, women 35-49, starts in a half hour.”

  Chugging his coffee, Blake rose to his feet. My eyes roamed up his fit body until they met his gaze.

  “I don’t need to see another group. Jennifer, please option some of these books and put development on the fast track.” His voice was businesslike, bordering on gruff, and intimidated me.

  “Yes, sir,” I said meekly. I’d lined up the three cherries—the right idea, the right time, and the right person. But victory eluded me as he blew out the door.

  Chapter 7

  Blake

  Last night, this girl had emotionally blue-balled me. She’d split from the night club and left me bereft. The cocktail waitress with the mother fucker big tits had propositioned me, and I could have had her. But I didn’t want her. The only woman I wanted was Jennifer McCoy, and she wasn’t mine to be had. She plain and simply walked out on me. My cock aching, I headed back up to my hotel suite alone and wanked off before collapsing into bed. The exercise was in vain. Another ache tugged at my heart that wouldn’t go away. I spent a restless night, tossing an
d turning, wondering why this girl was affecting me, and woke up late in a fucking bad mood.

  As if she hadn’t pissed me off enough, now she’d mind-fucked me. Ms. Smarty Pants had just proven she was right—there was a tremendous, untapped market for erotic programming targeted at women, and SIN-TV had to be the first to tap into it. I called my father immediately after the group to tell him the findings before that know-it-all research girl got to him. He uttered three words: “Run with it.”

  I’d had enough. I wanted to get the hell out of Vegas, but I’d scheduled dinner with my Vegas affiliate manager at Valentino, a swanky restaurant at the luxurious Venetian hotel. I didn’t want to cancel it because Vegas was one of SIN-TV’s strongest and most important markets. Having time to kill, I decided I might as well check out the erotic book signing convention.

  I’d been to numerous adult entertainment conventions in Vegas before, but this one topped them all. I was able to get into the convention hall with a VIP pass, evading the long line of women eager to get in. Many held copies of their favorite books in their hands while others held scrapbooks and Kindles in brightly colored fabric cases.

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. Women were lined up at authors’ tables waiting to get their books and Kindle cases signed as well as to collect swag. These authors were like fucking rock stars to them. Except for a handful of male book cover models who’d come along for the event, I was the sole male in the vast room. I felt like any minute I would be tackled by a pack of man-hungry wolverines.

  And then the inevitable happened. A voluptuous brunette, sporting a sinister snake tattoo, sprinted up to me. Her eyes lit up. “Aren’t you Blake Burns, that famous model?” She was practically drooling.

  “You’ve got the wrong person,” I begged off.

  “No, I don’t. I’ve followed you on Facebook. It’s you! Would you sign my Kindle case?” she asked breathlessly.

  Before I could say, “fuck off,” a hoard of women swarmed me. I frantically began signing Kindle covers. Damn. What had I gotten myself into? My eyes darted left and right in search of an escape. And then to my utter disbelief, one of the crazy women tore open her blouse. Out popped a pair of knockers that belonged in The Guinness Book of Records. Her puckered nipples looked like fucking walnuts.