by Lisa Plumley
Surely before too long he'd come around to the realization that, when it came to the honeymoon charade at least, she was right.
And he was wrong.
As though reading her thoughts, Dylan tugged her hand. "Let's go, Sweetiepie," he said, grinning. "Your husband is starving."
Stacey stumbled from the high jeep seat, flew across the hot city pavement, and wound up squished up against his chest. His arms enfolded her. For a minute, their embrace felt so real and so right that she only stood there, enjoying it.
Then common sense returned.
"Th—thanks for the game," she stammered, twisting out of his arms. She stepped back and eyed the huge glass front doors of the hotel. Safety? Or just another accident waiting to happen?
"It was my pleasure." He sounded like he meant it, and all the connotations his words implied sent excitement shimmying down her spine. "Now," he went on, taking Stacey's arm and heading with her toward the hotel entrance, "where do you want to go for lunch?"
She smiled up at him. "Hey, you can be taught!"
"Ouch!"
"Sorry."
But not sorry he'd listened to her this morning. All during their golf game, thoughts of their argument over the breakfast serenade had been churning in her head. It was a relief to know her efforts in speaking out hadn't all been for naught.
"Actually," Stacey said as their reflections loomed larger in the doors in front of them, "do you still have that silver dollar we won last night? I thought we might take advantage of our good karma and try our luck before lunch. What do you say?"
"Good idea." Letting go of her arm, Dylan lunged for one of the doors and yanked it open for her. Mr. Chivalry. She liked it. Cool, dry air and yammering noise whooshed out at her as Stacey stepped into the casino lobby.
"Feeling lucky, are you?" Dylan asked, catching up with her. "That's good. So am I. Maybe we can pull off this honeymoon thing, yet." He fished around in his pockets, came up with their silver dollar winnings, and tossed the coin in the air.
"So, where should we spend this baby?" he asked.
Stacey bit her lip and looked around the casino. In every direction, rows of jangling slot machines gleamed in the multi-colored overhead lights, stretching far into the corners of the room. Coins clanked into some of their bins with the thrilling sound of winning, but obviously she couldn't pick those. They were already taken.
Yet suddenly, for some reason, it seemed very important that she choose well. Important to maintain the new spirit of togetherness between her and Dylan, important to validate the good luck they'd enjoyed so far ... important just for the fun of winning.
"I don't know," she said, turning to Dylan. "You pick."
"Oh, no. I'm not picking. If I wind up choosing a bum machine, somehow you'll make it sound like I did it on purpose, just to wreck your honeymoon charade."
Did she really seem that eager to place the responsibility for the success or failure of the honeymoon charade on his shoulders? So far, most of it had been thrust into their laps, ready-made in the form of the honeymoon surprises and their stay in the suite. It wasn't as though Dylan had anything to do with that. After all, they'd both volunteered to help Richard and Janie.
"No, I wouldn't," Stacey protested.
"It's your idea. You pick."
"Really," she said, "I don't mind if you pick."
"I don't want to."
She crossed her arms, feeling frustrated. "How about if I close my eyes and hold out my hand, and you steer me toward one of the slot machines? That way, technically I'm choosing, but—"
"Uh-uh." Behind his sunglasses, Dylan looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. "Will you just make a decision already?"
"Fine." Trying to look determined, Stacey strode to the nearest row of slot machines and examined them. Maybe one of them would seem luckier than the rest.
After a few minutes, Dylan said, "It's just a dollar. Go ahead and pick one. I thought you felt lucky."
"I do." But she wanted a lucky-feeling slot machine, too. Unfortunately, no hunches were hitting her like they did to people in the movies. The machines all looked the same.
Dylan touched her shoulders from behind. "The luck's not in one of these machines," he said quietly. "The luck's inside you. Go ahead. You can't lose."
Drawing a deep breath, Stacey looked over the machines again, then pointed to the one nearest her. "Okay. Eeny, meeney, miney, mo—"
"Arrgh!" Dylan slapped his forehead, knocking his Cubs cap askew. "I can't believe it's this hard for you to make a decision."
Defensively, she frowned at him, but he was too busy trying to wipe off the blue zinc oxide smear on the heel of his hand to notice. "The rate of inflation will rise before you manage to spend that silver dollar," he said, talking over her rhyme. "Our winnings will be worth ninety-nine percent less by the time we get them."
" ... told me to pick the very best one," Stacey went on chanting at the glittering faces of the four machines in front of her, "and you are not it!" There. One down. She started again, more quietly this time.
"Done!" she announced a minute later. She slapped her hand on the winning slot machine and shot Dylan a triumphant look.
Finally his answering expression said. Stacey didn't care. Adopting her best gambler's voice, she held out her hand, palm facing. "Hit me."
"Like, with a ruler?" he asked, grinning. "The nuns at parochial school used to do that, but I don't think you've—"
"Give me the money, you goofball."
He pressed the silver dollar into her palm. Hefting it, Stacey hesitated before dropping it into the slot machine. It felt heavy and important, its weight like a talisman of impending good fortune.
"Wait." Dylan stepped closer. Looking suddenly serious, he wrapped his hand around hers, cradling the coin within their united grasp. Heat crept from his fingers to hers, turning the silver warm in her palm. "First, a kiss for good luck."
He bent his head. Stacey's heartbeat pounded. He should have looked ridiculous, still decked-out as the ultimate tourist. She should have felt silly, standing in the middle of a crowded casino looking the way she did, with her hair all bunched up in a sweaty mess beneath her crumpled Gilligan hat and her blue zinc oxide nose and her movie-star-incognito sunglasses.
But all she felt was beautiful.
Because of Dylan, because of the way he touched her and because of the caring in his voice. Tenderly, he raised one hand to her neck and stroked the base of her throat, and all at once time stood still. The frenzy of the casino receded, leaving her aware of nothing but the anticipation between them. Stacey leaned forward, mesmerized by the gentle feel of his touch. Kiss me.
She pressed her palm to his chest and discovered his heart beating as wildly as her own. Smiling, she raised her head, and at the same moment Dylan's mouth met hers. His kiss felt hard and demanding, warm and giving, all at the same time. It swept her mind clean of everything but this moment, this man.
Their sunglasses clinked together and slid, and his hat brim jabbed at her forehead. Stacey didn't care. She wanted more of his kiss, his teasing tongue, his smooth nipping teeth that set her lips tingling with pleasure. She returned his kiss with a passion that curled her toes—and hopefully, his. Her fingers tightened in the nubbly pique knit of his shirt, seeking support in a world turned unpredictable and anchorless.
It was as though they'd never separated. Being in Dylan's arms felt familiar and bittersweet, flavored with the memories they'd shared months before. His mouth opened over hers again, his tongue stroked over hers again, and Stacey welcomed him with a fierceness that surprised her. She wanted him.
Now. Later. Both, she didn't care. She wanted Dylan and only him, no matter what his loving cost her.
He ended the kiss and awareness came crashing back to her. The music, the casino lights, the murmur of voices and the chill of the air conditioning flooded her senses. Trembling, Stacey slowly withdrew her hand from his chest.
Dylan caught her w
rist midway. Over the rims of his sunglasses, his gaze pierced straight through her own smoky lenses, and suddenly Stacey felt grateful for their partially concealing protection. Otherwise he'd certainly see her emotions, too new and exposed to hide, reflected in her eyes.
Holy cow. She wanted Dylan. Even after all this time.
"Did you—" he started to say, his voice roughened, "did you just ... ? No." He shook his head. "No. Never mind."
"What?" The steel in his grip against the heated rasp of his voice intrigued her, made her almost unbearably curious. Had he felt the same things she had? The closeness, the familiarity, the attraction?
Apparently not, she thought as Dylan released her wrist. He shoved his sunglasses back where they belonged, heedless of the smear of blue his straightening added to his eyebrow, and tried a crooked smile. "It's nothing."
He opened his hand over hers and unfolded her fingers to reveal the silver dollar within. Looking toward the slot machine behind her, Dylan said, "If that kiss didn't bring us good luck, I don't know what will."
He wasn't going to tell her. Of course, that didn't really matter, Stacey told herself. After the honeymoon weekend was over with, they'd go their separate ways just like they had before. Wouldn't they?
"Me neither," she answered, trying to push down the disappointment she felt with a smile of her own. Two could play at this game.
She raised the coin to the slot. She glanced over her shoulder. "Ready?"
Dylan held up both hands with fingers crossed. "Ready. If we win, I get to sleep in the bed tonight. Another night on that loveseat and my knees will be permanently crooked."
Stacey smiled. What were the chances of their winning with a single coin? That was a goodwill gesture she could afford to make.
"Okay," she agreed, pinching the coin between her fingertips. "It's a deal."
Closing her eyes, she wished for good luck and dropped in the money. Dylan reached around her and pulled the slot machine handle. "Here goes," he whispered, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind. He propped his chin on Stacey's shoulder, and they both watched the mechanism spin.
A bunch of cherries locked into place on the center line. Another bunch of cherries locked into place beside it. Two matches! She held her breath, and felt Dylan's chest expand against her shoulder blades with an indrawn breath of his own. The mechanism spun. A third bunch of cherries spun onto the line. Stacey blinked. They'd won?
They'd won.
Won big, judging by the high-pitched jangling of the slot machine bells. Coins clanked into the bin and just kept coming, pouring in a shower of silver. Numbly, Stacey stared at it for a second before reality kicked in.
They'd won!
She shrieked and grabbed Dylan. He looked as shocked as she did. "We won! We won!" she yelled, shaking him—probably shaking him silly, but too excited to stop. "We won!"
"I get to sleep in the bed," he muttered, gaping at the outpouring of coins. A huge grin spread over his face. "We won!"
Money just kept on clanging into the slot machine bin. Other casino patrons gathered around, pointing and talking and smiling. Somebody shoved a plastic cup in Stacey's hand, and she held it beneath the stream of money. Another cup for her and two cups for Dylan weren't enough to contain the overflow.
By the time the casino management arrived to congratulate them, the money had slowed to a steady ping-ping into the pile Dylan had started collecting in his shirt. He held his shirt hem beneath the flow of coins like a farm wife collecting eggs from the golden goose, grinning at least as happily as she was.
They were celebrities in an instant. Passersby offered their congratulations and then raced to their own slot machines with renewed faith. Winning could, and did, happen.
"Congratulations!" boomed the uniformed casino employee who arrived, partner in tow.
He looked like a ringer for a professional basketball player, tall and lean and with hair shaved to within an eighth of an inch all over his head. His partner, a petite brunette with a camera hanging from a strap around her neck, stepped forward, smiling too. They both seemed thrilled that Stacey and Dylan had won in their casino. The brunette put her hand forward and clasped both of theirs in turn, patient enough to allow Dylan to juggle his shirtful of coins before shaking his hand.
"Congratulations!" she echoed. "What are your names?"
Names, names. For a second, Stacey felt too bedazzled to say. During the handshaking, the basketball player lookalike had somehow guided her and Dylan into a standing position beside their winning slot machine, and between that and the unreality of having actually won, she could barely think straight. Beside her, Dylan seemed in a similar state, cradling his shirtful of coins with a beaming smile.
"Dylan Davis," he said.
"Stacey Ames," she said at the same time. Wow, this was sooo neat! It had to be a good omen, a positive sign for their honeymoon suite collaboration.
"Fine, fine," said the brunette, raising her camera. She edged closer as Mr. Basketball explained how to cash in their coins with the casino.
"You're our fourth big winner of the day," he said, speaking with at least as much blatant cheeriness as the hotel desk clerk brought to her job. Maybe 'chipper behavior' was a hiring prerequisite for the hotel.
"Stand a little closer to each other," directed the brunette. "Okay, now raise your cups—sir, your shirt will do nicely, thanks—and say, 'We won!'"
Obediently, Stacey and Dylan shuffled together. "We won!" they shouted in unison.
It wasn't until the brunette's camera flashed in their faces and blinded her that Stacey realized what they'd done less than a minute earlier.
They'd given out their real names.
Whoops.
Chapter Seven
"I just don't see what the problem is," Dylan said, swiping his hotel key card through the reader at the honeymoon suite door.
Stacey stared at him. He had to be kidding. They'd given away their real identities, had pictures taken to prove it, and made possibly the most public spectacle of themselves with winning. How could he not see the problem?
"We told them our real names!" Miserably, Stacey followed Dylan through the unlocked suite door. "That's the problem."
Ginger danced at her feet, shimmying with joy at their return. Stacey gave her a pat, then dragged herself to the sitting area and brushed off the remnants of what looked like chewed-up hotel stationary—Ginger's latest doggie entertainment, she guessed—so she could plop onto the loveseat. Their being gone so often wasn't fair to Ginger, she thought. Maybe they ought to spend the rest of the night in the honeymoon suite, trying to avert another doggie meltdown.
Behind her Stacey heard Dylan crooning to Ginger, saying something about chewing up his shoes instead of the curtains. A minute later he landed on the loveseat beside her, forcing her to tug her purse out of his way and onto her lap.
She hugged it. If only money really did buy happiness, then maybe she could find some way out of this mess. Her half of their slot machine winnings had to be good for something, didn't it?
Dylan leaned over, looking exaggeratedly patient. It was the same expression he'd worn since she'd whispered her revelation about their name slip-up to him at the hotel cashier's office. "I'm telling you," he said, "you're worrying too much about this."
Grrr. If there was anything Stacey hated, it was being told her worries were insignificant. She tried buying enough time to respond with a little patience by taking off her sunglasses, folding them, and stowing them along with her Gilligan hat inside her purse. It didn't work.
She still wanted to scream at him.
"Oh?" Adopting an expression of polite surprise, Stacey combed her fingers through her stringy hair. Fear of hat head had prevented her from trying to deal with it until now. A shower was definitely in order.
"Is that right?" she asked. "Exactly what makes you think I'm worrying too much?"
"All they asked for were our names. All they did was take our picture and hand us some m
oney," Dylan said. "As far as they're concerned, we're not even guests of this hotel. They didn't ask us where we were staying, you know."
He was right. They hadn't. "Probably because they already knew. We are supposed to be the honeymoon couple, you know."
"In this town, honeymoon couples are a dime a dozen," Dylan pointed out. "On the Strip alone there must be fifty wedding chapels. Maybe more. Do you think we're the only 'honeymoon' couple around?"
"But—"
"Trust me. Nothing's gone wrong. Aunt Geraldine will never catch word of this, not unless you tell her yourself." He whipped off his aviators and Cubs cap and handed them both to her, then raked his fingers through his hair. It stood on end like short brown spikes. "Are you going to tell her?"
"Of course not!"
"Because the way you're going on about this, a person could get the idea you're trying to sabotage the honeymoon charade. If you are, you might as well cut to the chase. Just call her up and spill the beans right now," he said. "It would sure free up the rest of my weekend."
"How dare you!" Stacey stuffed the sunglasses and cap he'd worn into her purse with enough force to make Dylan wince. Good. At least that meant he was paying attention. "Of course I'm not trying to sabotage the honeymoon charade. What a ridiculous thing to say."
Throwing her purse onto the loveseat—wishing she could throw it at him for making such an outrageous suggestion—she stood and stomped to the bathroom. Scowling, she picked up a comb and looked into the vanity mirror.
Her face stared back at her, flushed pink beneath a thick coating of baby blue zinc oxide war paint. That was the only word for it. Three stripes streaked across each of her cheeks. Thumbprint-sized dots marched across her forehead and chin. Her nose was a blue blob.
"Ahhh!"
Thumping footfalls sounded outside the bathroom. Dylan poked his head around the corner, his face filled with concern. His gaze whipped over her, just as though it wasn't completely obvious what was the matter.
