by Lisa Plumley
"You among them?" She picked up her bowl and sniffed, trying to seem as though his answer didn't matter one way or the other. It didn't, Stacey told herself. It was simply idle curiosity among friends that made her ask, nothing more. What did it matter to her if he felt like remaining a bachelor the rest of his life?
"Are you kidding?" Dylan stroked his thumb over her bare thigh and gave her an exaggeratedly goofy grin. It was, she was beginning to realize, his 'newlywed husband in love' look. "They could slap a pair of handcuffs on us and I wouldn't mind," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "There's nobody I'd rather be hog-tied to than you, babe."
"Hog-tied, huh? I'm flattered." She sipped from her cup, and Dylan did the same. The broth inside tasted salty, slightly meaty ... she thought she even detected a noodle. Lowering her cup again, Stacey peered inside. So did Dylan.
"Shickenzoop," he said, "is ... ."
"... chicken soup!" she finished, laughing. "No wonder the waiter looked at us so strangely."
The rest of the meal arrived in less cryptic form—savory roasted game hens, chunks of potatoes, broccoli spears, and individual loaves of crusty bread. The waiter served everything with an elegant dip of his medieval spandex-clad knee, then retreated as the lights lowered, signaling the beginning of the Renaissance's featured show.
"Excuse me!" Stacey called after him. He turned, and the linen cloth he carried over his bent arm whipped along with him, passing mere inches from another diner's eyebrows. She ducked, then glared toward the source of the trouble.
"Sorry!" Stacey called with a wave.
The waiter stopped in front of their table. Assuming his presence meant he was listening, she asked, "May I have some silverware, please? There doesn't seem to be any at my—"
"We don't use utensils in the Middle Ages," he said, glancing meaningfully at the other diners' place settings. They were all, Stacey saw, devoid of utensils. "Perhaps your ..." His gaze shifted to Dylan, and he arched his eyebrows.
"Husband," Dylan supplied helpfully, wrapping his arm around Stacey's shoulders. "We're newlyweds."
"Husband," the waiter went on, "can help you." With that suggestion, he glided away from them—to retrieve his Shickenzoop pitcher, no doubt.
Biting her lip, Stacey looked down at her plate. Around her, the other diners had begun biting into tiny roast drumsticks and breaking off chunks of bread, and spotlights played over the arena and the packed-earth floor in its center. The show was about to begin.
"Guess we'd better make like newlyweds," Dylan said, scooting closer. He raised his hand, and something warm and spicy-smelling nudged her lips. A piece of roast chicken, she guessed.
"I—" As soon as her mouth opened he slipped the first bite between her lips, leaving her no choice but to chew. She did, and was surprised to find it tasted delicious. "Mmmm, it's good, but I—"
But I can't get a word in edgewise, between bites. Next came a piece of warm bread with butter. It melted in her mouth, rich and yeasty and exactly as chewy as good bread should be.
"Mmmm." Dylan watched with a smile as she chewed and swallowed, then he used his thumb to brush away a crumb from the corner of her lips. "Really, I can do it my—" she started to say, but he only shook his head and fed her a bite of herb-scented roast potato.
"We're newlyweds, remember?" he said. "We've got to make this look good. Besides, don't you find this romantic?"
Actually, considering the way he did it, she did. His attention was all for her, his actions focused on selecting just the right morsel to satisfy her, his gaze centered on her lips as he gave her one taste and then another. To be the focus of so much attention was more than Stacey had expected—more than she'd experienced in a long time, too. Maybe ever. At the end, she and Charlie had rarely shared meals together at all, much less tried anything like this. With a sexy half-smile, Dylan broke off a thin spear of broccoli and brought it to her lips.
Yuck. Broccoli was way too ordinary for a setting like this. Raising her head, Stacey made a face and pressed her lips together.
"What, you don't like anything that's good for you?" Dylan asked, following her movements with the broccoli. Slowly, he drew it across her lower lip, and the sensuous glide of it nearly made her open her mouth without thinking. Good grief! Leave it to a guy like Dylan to figure out how to make vegetables sexy.
"And I had you pegged as a good-girl type," he teased, tracing the edge of her mouth again. "Still no? Then maybe you're in the mood for something a little more dangerous."
His gaze met hers, and it was as though he was seeing her, really seeing her, for the first time. The sense of discovery she saw in his eyes made her mouth go dry and her pulse beat faster. Around them, the lights dimmed all the way and festive show music began playing, but those things might have been a hundred miles away for all the notice Dylan paid them. He must have dropped the broccoli onto her plate because she didn't feel it against her lips anymore, but Stacey didn't want to look away to find out.
"On the other hand, you and I have different ideas about what's dangerous, don't we?" he murmured, lifting his goblet of water from their tabletop. Ice cubes clinked together softly as he raised it between them, then swirled it. "To you," he said, "this is just water. Plain and cold and that's all. But to a man who hasn't drank for hours, a thirsty man, it's everything he needs." His gaze joined with hers, then lowered again. "And to me, it's opportunity."
"Opportunity?"
"Mmmm-hmmm." Dylan stroked his fingertips against the goblet, leaving slippery trails of condensation on the glass. He raised it higher, gazing into the water as though considering whatever opportunity he'd meant, and then brought the goblet nearer to her. Stacey sensed its chill just above the bare skin at the neckline of her sundress. "Opportunity for sensation," he explained, raising it to her lips. "Maybe for you, that's a little dangerous." Slowly, he tipped it forward, allowing her to drink.
She did, knowing he watched her and feeling acutely aware of her reliance on him. Dylan knew her thirst, controlled the glass ... and her satisfaction. The water slid down her throat. Shivering at the icy wetness of it, Stacey leaned forward for another sip.
He tilted it away. "More?" he asked, watching her over the goblet's rim. She nodded, but still Dylan held it away. "Tell me what you want," he said, and his low, rough voice sent a shiver through her. "You have to tell me what you want, because it's all up to you. Everything." He leaned closer, and his body heat mingled with hers and the iciness of the water between them. "I have what you need," he said. "You only have to ask."
Stacey couldn't speak, couldn't move. This was more than thirst they spoke of, more than anything they'd shared so far. He was asking for her trust, offering her the freedom to choose what she wanted ... and she didn't, she realized as she stared into the goblet, really know what that was.
"What you need depends on how you feel," Dylan went on, raising the goblet to her cheek in a sort of caress. Cold bloomed where it touched her. Stacey gasped at the delicious sensation it aroused, automatically arching her neck to expose more of her overheated skin to the glass's icy touch. He pressed it gently closer, lowered it to her throat, and goosebumps prickled along her arms in the wake of his movements.
"See?" he asked, watching her. "This feels twice as cold because you're so hot." He moved it to her lips again. "More?"
More what? her poor muddled mind asked. The thread of their conversation was lost to her, swept away beneath the giddiness she felt at his words—her, hot?—and the incredulity of her response to him. He's dangerous, her heart whispered. But the rest of her couldn't have cared less for the warning.
"More," she answered.
Dylan's eyes gleamed, green and wicked in the arena's dim light. He raised the goblet to her lips. Stacey brought her hand to his wrist to steady it, but rather than let her drink, he tipped the glass away again. "I'll do it. Much as I'd enjoy seeing you in a wet T-shirt, er—" His gaze roved over her body, then lifted. "—Wet sundress contest, that's not what I have in
mind." A smile crooked his lips as he raised the glass. "For now, at least. Trust me."
Trust me. Easy for him to say—he wasn't the one risking a lapful of ice cubes. Nevertheless, Stacey let him tip the glass to her lips. She sipped the icy water, wildly conscious of him watching her, and dared to raise her gaze to his.
Dylan was staring at something over her shoulder. Bam! The seductive mood he'd woven went straight down the tubes, right along with her thirst for his attention. Dummy. She should have known better than to think he'd have eyes for her alone.
Stacey quit drinking and slid sideways on their bench just in time to avoid the unbalanced goblet's descent. Dylan wasn't so lucky.
"Youch!" He jumped partway up, sending the goblet tumbling the rest of the way to the floor. Water and ice cubes dripped from his shorts. Twisting to look over her shoulder, Stacey spotted the hotel employee he'd been staring at—a flower girl selling roses to the diners—and shook her head. She really should have known better.
"Maybe that'll cool off your libido a little bit," she told him, smoothing her dress down and gathering her purse so she could leave. "Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore." A few yards away, two knights on horseback galloped into the arena to prepare for the first joust, and the crowd cheered.
Dylan shook his hands dry and gave her a dumbfounded look. "What?"
"Your libido," Stacey said louder, trying to make herself heard over the thundering hoofbeats of the jousters. "Cool off your libido." The music swelled along with the crowd's enthusiasm and drowned out her words.
"What?"
"Oh, for Pete's sake." She looked at him, dripping and shivering, and decided he'd had enough punishment already. "Never mind," she said. "I'm leaving."
Chapter Four
Outside in the shimmering August night, Stacey hailed one of the taxis parked beneath the Renaissance's piazza and hurried toward it with her heart still thumping from her race through the casino. Near as she could tell, Dylan hadn't followed her from the arena.
He was probably busy getting the flower girl's phone number, she thought sourly as she slipped into the back seat of the taxi. Going to dinner with him had been a bad idea. She should have listened to herself and refused to go along. Next time, at least, she'd know better than to give Dylan the benefit of the doubt.
Leaning forward into the arctic air-conditioned blast coming from the taxi's dashboard vents, Stacey told the driver her destination, then settled back against the upholstered seat as he maneuvered into the heavy Las Vegas traffic. Judging by the number of cars and pedestrians on the infamous 'Strip,' it could take days to reach her hotel again.
Shaking her head, Stacey scrounged in her purse for a compact and lipstick to try and put herself together with. She might feel like she had 'gullible' tattooed on her forehead, but that didn't mean she had to look the part. If and when Dylan caught up with her, she wanted to look as polished as possible. Maybe then he wouldn't guess how close she'd come to making a complete fool of herself over him. Again.
She cracked open the compact she'd found and swiveled up her lipstick with a shaky hand, then peered into the mirror to put it on. Dummy, her expression said. Dylan wants something, all right, or he wouldn't be here—but it's not you.
Let me convince you, Stacey. Give me another try, he'd said, but what did that mean, anyway? Did he want to start dating again? Did he only want to keep his word to Janie and Richard, and help her pull off the honeymoon suite charade? Maybe, she thought dismally as the taxi inched forward in traffic, Dylan had realized he'd spoiled his studly dating record by dumping her before sleeping with her, and now he just wanted to seduce her. Then dump her. Again.
Lipstick accomplished, Stacey stared out the taxi window at the flashy casinos they passed, feeling morose. It wasn't that she honestly believed Dylan was as bad as she made him out to be. It wasn't even that she was worried about her honeymoon imposter status being found out. At least not much. No, what really bothered her was her own indecision. If she couldn't even trust her own judgement anymore, what did she have left?
The last time she'd been involved with Dylan, Stacey had been freshly-divorced and about as eager to start dating again as a fish was to rumba on the beach. She'd only agreed to go out with him as a favor to Janie and Richard, who'd gone to college with Dylan and thought he'd be the perfect dating re-entry partner: good-looking, successful, and not the least bit interested in a serious relationship. Tailor-made for a skittish divorcée.
Or so she'd thought.
Until she'd started falling for him.
Dumb, dumb, dumb. The very instant she'd started having couple-type thoughts about Dylan, he'd sensed it and scrammed. Did men have early commitment warning systems, or what? It wasn't as though she'd wanted to nail him down and marry him on the spot. She needed to get used to running her own life again before getting involved with another man. She needed ...
She needed to find out if that flash of black and red had really been Dylan running alongside the taxi, or if she'd only imagined it.
Craning her neck, Stacey stared out the taxi's side window toward the sidewalk bordering the 'Strip.' Pedestrians in summer clothes surged along the narrow space, passing each other singly and in groups of camera-toting tourists. Multi-colored flashing casino lights lit their nighttime paths and brightened their faces, but none of those faces, it seemed, belonged to Dylan.
Whew. She had imagined that glimpse of him. Maybe a guilty conscience could do that to a person, although why she should feel guilty, Stacey didn't know. After all, he was the one she'd caught ogling another woman in the middle of their 'honeymoon' date.
Except she did feel guilty. Guilty for dumping ice water in his lap and foolish for running out on him like she had. If she was going to pull of the honeymoon charade, she'd have to think first before acting.
The driver stopped the taxi at a corner to let a stream of tourists pass and Stacey settled back again, trying to put the evening's dinner debacle out of her mind. She put her things back in her purse, gazed out the windshield at the red traffic light overhead—and something slammed against the passenger-side window.
Dylan. His face, penitent and pleading, pushed close to the glass. He rapped on it, motioning for her to let him in, saying something she couldn't hear clearly.
Not that she wanted to hear it. Whatever interest she had in listening to him or relieving her former guilt attack evaporated once she saw the huge bouquet of red roses he cradled against his chest. So, he thought he'd buy her off with flowers, did he? He had another think coming.
Stacey surged across the backseat and slammed her palm onto the knob that locked the taxi door. At almost the same instant, the traffic light changed and the taxi drove forward.
Dylan jogged beside it, dodging pedestrians and a bicyclist. "Roll down the window!" he yelled, mimicking cranking the handle down. She didn't and he jogged faster, trailing fallen rose petals along the side of the street. Noticing that fact, he held the bouquet closer.
"For you!" he called, catching up with the taxi as it idled in traffic again.
Stacey glanced at what had to be at least three dozen long-stemmed flowers bundled against his chest. He must've hit on every flower girl at the Renaissance to accumulate that many. The cad.
She leaned closer to the driver. "I'll pay you fifty bucks if you can get me to the Atmosphere in the next five minutes."
He grinned at her in the rear-view mirror. "Yes, ma'am," he said, and accelerated.
Stacey fell back against the seat. Dylan's voice, "Staaaceey ... !" faded like a bad Brando impression, and she caught one final glimpse of him waving the roses overhead before the taxi changed lanes and left him behind.
They changed lanes again, shot across the 'Strip,' ran a yellow light, and screeched to a stop in the next clump of traffic. Jittery and soon-to-be fifty dollars poorer, Stacey swiveled in the back seat and looked out the rear windshield.
No sign of Dylan. Whew! She'd lost him.
So how come she
didn't feel relieved?
Dylan revved his jeep up to the Atmosphere, swearing under his breath at the two police cars and taxi that blocked the curved drive to the casino's entrance. Must be a fender-bender, he thought. Great. Shoving his fingers through his hair, Dylan stared up at the palm trees bordering the drive, wishing the muggy nighttime air held at least a hint of a breeze to cool him off. He'd taken off the jeep's hardtop earlier, and between his impromptu jog down the 'Strip' and this new delay, he was starting to regret the resulting open-air drive.
But not as much as he regretted pushing Stacey so hard during dinner.
Damn. He should've known she'd be looking for an excuse to bolt. Like an idiot, he'd come on too strong, and now it would be twice as hard to get through the weekend with her. He'd probably lost every inch of ground he'd gained, and all because of his stupid roving eyeballs. And the roses, of course.
Reminded of them, Dylan glanced down at the bouquet on the passenger-side seat. A little wilted from being waved about, but still pretty nice. He'd had to buy out both flower girls at the Renaissance to get them, and had almost missed catching up to Stacey because of it.
"What do you mean you won't take a check?" came a woman's voice from near the taxi-police car clump. "You just got done telling me you wouldn't take a credit card, which I don't have anyway, so that's kind of beside the point, but how am I supposed to pay you? What else is there?"
Stacey. He'd have recognized her voice even at normal decibel levels. As it was, she was nearly wailing. Dylan whipped out his jeep keys, grabbed the bouquet, and hefted himself upright using the jeep's rollbar. Yep—there she was, standing in the middle of the parked cars beside the squat taxi driver and two uniformed policemen.
"Cash, lady!" yelled the taxi driver, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in a show-me-the-money gesture that spoke every language. "Ya heard of it?"
