by Lisa Plumley
"They got married here, did you know?" she asked. "In one of those wedding chapels down on the Strip."
"Maybe that's why she wanted Janie and Richard to have a honeymoon in Vegas."
She smiled up at him, leaving him with the distinct impression that, finally, he'd said something right. Dylan felt like wracking his brain to repeat the accomplishment. The trouble was, he was as clueless about what made that the right thing to say as he was about what made his usual comments the wrong thing to say. He settled for the guy-tested method of keeping quiet and nodding thoughtfully.
"I think you're right," she said. "Sweet, isn't it?"
They neared the mammoth slot machine she spoke of, one big enough to merit its own pedestal and spot lighting at the end of the row. Her fingertips grazed its metallic face.
"This isn't the machine she won on, of course," Stacey went on, pausing beside the slot machine to gaze upward at the Renaissance's brightly-colored medieval banners and beyond them to the suits of armor posed nearby. "This hotel wasn't built then."
She stopped and looked up at him. "You know, that's odd," she said, frowning slightly. "I would've expected Aunt Geraldine to arrange the honeymoon surprises at some of the older hotels, the ones she was familiar with. Not one like this, that's practically brand new."
Ding—ding—ding. The warning bells in his head were totally appropriate, Dylan knew. But that didn't mean he had to like the little buggers. If Stacey guessed the truth already...
Tightening his hold on her waist, he swept her up against him fast enough to make her short flowered sundress flare up behind her. He had to make her quit questioning the honeymoon surprises, and he had to do it now.
"Let's try it," he said, whirling her in his arms so they stood side by side, facing the slot machine. Dylan scrounged in his pockets for change, turning out his wallet, his hotel key card, and two gold-wrapped condoms.
"Try what?" Stacey asked, raising her eyebrows at the condoms.
"Well, I've never made love atop a giant slot machine," he deadpanned, pretending to consider the idea, "but I'm game if you are."
"Sorry," she said, folding her arms. "I'm afraid of heights."
"Afraid of heights?" Dylan asked, pocketing everything again. At least she'd quit wondering about the rationale behind Aunt Geraldine's honeymoon surprises. "We need a smaller model, then. How about we climb up on that row over there?"
He nodded toward the row he spoke of, where a gray-haired lady wearing a purple silk jogging outfit busily fed quarters into two machines at once.
"Let's not," Stacey said, scanning the glittering row of machines and the woman in front of them. "She looks like my grandmother."
"Always a mood-breaker." Scooping his arm around her waist again, Dylan approached the monster slot machine. "Come on, it'll be fun. Maybe we'll win."
"I really think we ought to keep a low profile. And what about our dinner reservations? We'll be late for the show."
"Quit worrying. Here, you go first," he said, handing her a twenty. He nodded toward the bill-feeder on the face of the slot machine. "You can just slide it in like the change machines at the Laundromat."
"Laundromat? You mean you're actually that domesticated? I thought you still took your laundry home to mom."
"Ha, ha."
"First a dog rescue and now this," Stacey said, making a deliberately sappy face at him. She made no move to take the money. "I swear, you might turn out okay yet."
"Enough with the dog," Dylan said. "I'm already okay. If you'd quit looking out for Generic Faithless Male Scum, you might see that."
She cast her gaze downward. "I—"
"Never mind. Let's gamble." He slid the money in the tray himself and rubbed his palms together as the machine racked up their twenty-dollar credit. "This one looks lucky to me."
"It looks like a good way for us to get into trouble to me," Stacey said, glancing around them. "Let's just get on with the honeymoon surprises, okay? Dinner show first."
"Come on, try it. Pull the handle."
She stepped backward. "Nobody ever wins on these big machines," she told him, glancing toward the stairs that led to the dinner show theater. "They're just for show."
"Tell it to that guy," Dylan said, pointing toward the poster-sized photo of the previous twenty-five-thousand dollar winner displayed beside the slot machine. "He looks pretty happy with this loser slot machine of yours."
Nibbling her lower lip, Stacey looked at the picture.
"Aunt Geraldine would be proud," Dylan added, giving her a little push forward. "Come on, you pull the handle first."
"We should try to be inconspicuous."
"Then you shouldn't have worn that dress."
She rolled her eyes. "If I try it, will you try to keep a low profile for the rest of the night?"
"Do you really think that's the best way to carry off this honeymoon imposter thing?"
She nodded. She also stroked the slot machine handle, and something about the way she wrapped her hand around it made his brains go south. "Okay," he said, holding up two fingers. "Low profile. Scout's honor."
"Good." Stacey wrapped her other hand around the handle, raised up on her sandaled tiptoes, and squeezed her eyes shut. Poised there, she started moving her lips.
Dylan leaned closer to listen. He heard only the din of the casino surrounding them. She wasn't even whispering, just moving her lips as though carrying on a conversation with the gold ball at the top of the slot machine handle.
He peered curiously at her face. "What are you—"
She yanked the handle downward and the whir of the machine cut off his question. They both stepped backward, watching the mechanism spin. Two cherries snapped into place on the winning line. Two more cherries. He heard Stacey suck in her breath.
A lemon.
"Maybe next time you ought to kiss it first, instead of chanting at it," Dylan said. "Or else talk loud enough for the machine to hear."
She looked sideways at him. "I was wishing for good luck."
"Then next time it's bound to work."
Grinning with enthusiasm, she grabbed the handle again. She raised on tiptoes, closed her eyes ... then cracked one open to look at him. "Do you want to do it this time?"
"Nah." It was too much fun watching her, anyway. "Go ahead. We've still got fifteen dollars left."
"Okay." She closed her eyes, got herself settled, and started moving her lips. Dylan leaned closer, wishing he'd learned to read lips.
She pulled the lever. It spun madly. Three utterly mismatched fruits clicked into place along the line.
"Rats." Stacey flopped down flat-footed again and looked up at him. "I thought we had it that time. Why don't you try?"
Dylan stepped forward, positioned himself like one of those guys with a mallet at the test-your-strength machine at the county fair, and yanked the handle.
"Yup, that ought to do it," he said, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. He stepped back so there'd be plenty of room for their winnings to spill out.
This time, the items that came up weren't fruit. They weren't even all on the fruit level of the food pyramid. He and Stacey frowned at the display, then at the five dollar credit remaining.
"Let's do it together," they said in unison.
She grinned at him as they reached for the handle, and Dylan felt a great surge of solidarity. So what if they were a couple of gambling fiends who couldn't make it to dinner on time? At least they were together.
They pulled. Stepped back. The slot machine spun.
A silver dollar plunked into the coin tray.
"Whoopee!" Stacey threw herself against his chest, jumping up and down with glee. "We won, we won, we won!"
Dylan held her about as well as he could while dancing a jig. This winning was heady stuff. So was the feel of Stacey tight against him, trembling with excitement. He wanted more.
The purple jogging suit lady leaned over to congratulate them. "You kids won because you worked together," she s
aid with a wink. "That's the secret."
"Do you think so?" Stacey asked her. She clutched Dylan's arm with both hands and leaned into it, grinning and apparently unaware of her position. One flex of his biceps, and he'd know if her sundress fabric was really as thin as it looked. He'd also know whether or not she had anything on underneath it—not to mention what temperature the room was.
Grow up, he told himself. Enough with regressing back to ninth grade. Tamping down the urge to flex, Dylan nodded in what he hoped was a thoughtful and mature manner and tried to get in on the conversation again.
"Everybody says there aren't any real tricks to winning at gambling," Stacey was saying.
"Not just gambling, honey," said the purple jogging suit lady. "Life, too." She propped her plastic casino cup of coins against her ample hip and looked them up and down. "But you two look like a good pair."
Great opening. "We're newlyweds," Dylan volunteered. "Just got married yesterday, in fact."
"Oh! Congratulations!" Mrs. Purple Suit's expression turned dreamy, like women's always did when confronted with babies or puppies or anything else that was really, really tiny.
If women liked small things so much, then why were guys so worried about the size of their—
"That's wonderful!" she gushed. "Just wonderful!"
"Thanks," he said, trying to ignore the dagger-laced look Stacey threw him. What was the matter with her, anyway? This was the perfect opportunity to cement their honeymoon façade. "We're on our honeymoon, in fact," he went on, hugging Stacey tighter.
Her elbow jabbed his rib.
"Huh—" came his breath. "Huh, huh, huh," Dylan said, trying to turn it into a laugh. "Yep, just me and the missus, on our honeymoon over at the Atmosphere."
Me and the missus? He'd morphed into Ward Cleaver all of a sudden.
Mrs. Purple Suit didn't appear to notice. Her gaze turned to Stacey, and her smile broadened. "Don't you want to show me your ring, honey? I couldn't wait to show off mine."
Stacey stiffened beside him. A ring! What ring? They hadn't thought of that. As unobtrusively as he could, Dylan tucked her left hand into his rear shorts pocket.
"Awww, we don't want to brag, do we honey?" he said through another Cleaver-bright grin. He felt like the bumbling husband character in a t.v. sitcom.
"I don't know if I'd call it bragging," Stacey said, trying to wriggle her hand out of his pocket. Keeping his smile intact, Dylan clamped his hand onto her wrist. She leaned toward the purple jogging suit lady and whispered, "He's a little self-conscious about ... its size."
"I am not!"
They both smiled sympathetically at him.
"Really!"
Mrs. Purple Jogging Suit patted him on the shoulder. "It's all right. Everybody's got to start somewhere."
"That's what I told him," Stacey said, smiling serenely as she wormed her fingers around in his back pocket. "It's not the size that counts, I said, it's—"
It's ticklish. "It's really not that big a deal," Dylan interrupted.
"Oh, I understand," said the woman. "Lots of men are that way. You know, some women think the small ones are endearing."
"Do you really think so?" Stacey asked. Her fingers wriggled amongst the stuff in his pocket. Another second, and she'd get her hand loose enough to flash her nonexistent wedding ring. Dylan tried to hold her wrist tighter.
She goosed him.
"Yeow!" Both women looked at him, eyebrows raised. Stacey had the gall to smirk, too. "Oww, oww, oww," he went on, letting go of her wrist to glare at his watch as though that had somehow caused all the ruckus.
"Look at the time," he said, shaking his head with what he hoped looked less like an overwhelming urge to pinch his 'wife' and more like husbandly concern. "We'll be late if we don't get going, Snookums."
Stacey batted her eyelashes at him. He hadn't even known women could actually do that outside of cartoons.
"In a minute, Pudding," she cooed. Regally, she extended her hand, knuckles facing. Dylan closed his eyes.
Inconspicuous, she'd said. Let's keep a low profile, she'd said. And here she was, flashing her embarrassingly bare knuckles at a total stranger.
"Awww," he heard the purple jogging suit lady say. "That is sweet. Congratulations again."
Dylan opened his eyes. The purple jogging suit lady turned to leave, shaking her cup of quarters. "Good luck, you two," she said. "I'd better get back to it before my luck turns cold."
"Nice meeting you," Stacey called, waving.
Dylan only stared at the diamond and gold wedding band flashing on her finger beneath the casino's brilliant lights.
"Where did you get that?" he asked, glancing up to make sure Mrs. Jogging Suit had reached her slot machines again. She had. He grabbed Stacey's hand to make her quit waving, then scowled down at the ring on her finger. "Well?"
"You didn't think I'd try to pull off this honeymoon ruse totally unprepared, did you?" she asked, batting her eyelashes some more.
He squinted at the ring, then at her. "You didn't even think to bring along a pretend husband for this honeymoon ruse," he pointed out. "How well-prepared could you have been?"
Stacey puckered her lips, appeared to think about it, then pulled her hand out of reach. "It was from Charlie," she admitted. "I used to be married, remember?" Turning, she scooped up their silver dollar winnings. "Come on, we're already late for dinner," she said, tossing the coin to him.
Dylan caught it and followed her toward the dinner theater entrance. "Why do you still wear your wedding ring? You've been divorced for months."
Did she still care about her ex-husband? Was that why she didn't want to get involved with him again? Hell, why couldn't anything be easy with her?
Stacey stopped at the top of the stairway leading to the theater just as he caught up with her. She looked up at him, and a strange expression crossed her face. Then she shrugged.
"Why shouldn't I wear it?" she asked. "I like it."
"It's puny," he muttered.
She smiled at him, one of those irritating, superior smiles only a beautiful woman wearing heels and a skimpy sundress could give. Mister, you're putty in my hands, it seemed to say.
"Does it bother you?" she asked. "Because I could take it off if you're ... jealous, or anything."
Was that hopefulness in her expression?
Nah—just pleasure at teasing him, Dylan figured. He wrapped his arm around her waist and gave her an enigmatic smile of his own. "No more than pretending to be my wife bothers you," he said, guiding her downstairs to the dinner theater. "And you seem to be handling that pretty well. So, are you hungry? Let's eat."
Dylan's hand slid onto her knee for the fourth time just as the Renaissance's special medieval dinner was served.
Stacey held her breath and looked down. His tanned, muscular arm stretched right across her lap with two hundred proof masculine assurance, and his hand cupped her knee as though it belonged there. Slowly, his fingers spread wider, then started inching up the inside of her thigh.
She waited for him to goose her like he had the first two times. He didn't. Instead, his palm skimmed higher on her leg, then stopped just below the hem of her sundress. Beneath it her skin prickled, not because the huge, arena-style theater was cold, or because the rustic wooden benches they sat on were too rough, or because of any other harmless thing she could name. Just because it was Dylan touching her. Dammit.
Their waiter approached, dressed in a laced-front medieval tunic, some sort of buccaneer sash, and brown leggings. Apparently somebody had decided a true 'Middle Ages' look required lots of spandex. Stopping in front of the long wooden table she and Dylan sat at side by side with the rest of the show-goers, the waiter brandished a pitcher of something and smiled.
"Shickenzoop?" he asked.
They both stared up at him. "Pardon me?" Stacey asked.
He twitched the pitcher. "Shickenzoop," he said as though that explained anything, mimicking pouring it into the teacup-sized pewter bowls i
n front of them.
She looked into her empty bowl. It, along with a matching pewter plate, a mug of water, and a heavy cloth napkin, had been at their table when they arrived. Dylan looked into his bowl, then at her.
"Shi—cken—zoop," repeated the waiter, scanning the long row of pewter bowls lining the rest of their table. He sighed, looking as though he might pour the contents of his pitcher on their heads if they didn't catch on pretty soon.
"Shi—cken—zoop," Stacey repeated, speaking slowly enough that he'd be sure to hear her plainly.
Dylan's lips nuzzled her ear. "Gib—ber—rish?" he whispered. His tentative tone matched hers perfectly.
"Cut it out," she whispered back, but she couldn't help smiling.
The waiter looked into his pitcher and nodded. "Shickenzoop." That's what I said.
"Sure, why not," Dylan said, pushing his bowl forward with his free hand. She felt his shrug all along her thigh as his arm moved with his shoulder. "We'd love some."
The waiter poured milky broth into their bowls, then moved on down the row. "Shickenzoop," he said loudly, like a peanut vendor at a ballgame. He stopped in front of the next couple at their table. "Schickenzoop?"
Interrupted in the middle of the tankard of ale they were sharing, they both looked up at him with puzzled frowns. "What?"
"Just take it," Dylan said. "It's easier that way."
He turned his smile on Stacey and caught her in the middle of trying to twist her wedding ring from her finger. She started scratching furiously in the hope of faking a massive itch beneath the gold band.
He raised an eyebrow. "Allergic to rings?" he asked. "Or allergic to marriage?" She didn't answer, and he added, "Or is it just that ring in particular that's giving you trouble?"
Actually, it was the fact that she couldn't wrest the darn thing from her finger that was giving her trouble. She'd gained a few pounds since her wedding to Charlie four years ago, but Stacey would rather die than admit her ring was too tight to take off.
She plunked her hands in her lap. "Acupressure," she mumbled, staring into her bowl of Shickenzoop. "Massaging your ring finger relieves stress."
"I know a lot of single guys who'd agree with you. They like to keep that area nice and limber. And unencumbered."
