All That Glitters: Glitz, Glam, and Billionaires

by Michele Hauf

  Multimillionaire Sam Mason is sick of gold diggers. He's looking for someone who'll fall for him, not his wallet. The opportunity to disguise himself and mingle might just be the distraction he needs before embarking on his next big job. And, what harm can come from playing make-believe for a few days?

  When he meets a gorgeous redhead dressed to resemble a green-skinned slave girl, he’s entranced, and it gets even better when he realizes she’s mistaken him for a Chippendale. Between the sexual attraction and too much alcohol, he wakes up two days later married to his redheaded beauty.

  Sam’s head over heels in love with his bride, but she’s vanished. Finding her will be a lot harder than he thinks, especially when she’s played the name game, too.

  To my husband, John, whose dream it is to one day go to Vegas and attend a sci-fi convention. This will have to do for now!

  Introduction

  You never fall in love by yourself, love captures you. Love comes to you when you don't need it really, and it comes to an end when you need it the most.

  Farah Mustafa

  1

  “You’re serious? A weekend in Vegas?” Cleo James set her beer bottle on the table and gaped at her best friend, processing the idea of doing something so clearly out of character for her. She glanced down at the green splotches still staining her favorite skirt, a gift from one of her students who still didn’t understand the meaning of the word ‘no.’ She wanted a chance to break out of the rut she was in, didn’t she? Wasn’t that one of the reasons why she’d come to see Mitch this weekend? “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Why does there always have to be a catch?” Mitch looked away, unwilling to meet her gaze, and Cleo knew instinctively she was lying. There was something else involved, something she wasn’t going to like.

  “What aren’t you telling me, Mitch? After five years of teaching kindergarten, I can always tell when someone’s hiding something. Fess up.”

  “You make it sound as if I’m trying to trick you. I’m offering you four fun-filled days in Vegas, all expenses paid.”

  Mitch still wouldn’t look at her.

  “And?” she prompted.

  “It’s no big deal.” Mitch rolled her eyes. “Fine. You’ll have to dress up in a costume and help me at a book signing during the convention,” she admitted, raising her mug of draft beer to her mouth and drinking.

  Alarms went off in Cleo’s head. There it was—that partial truth she hated. “What kind of costume and what convention?” She gave her friend her strictest kindergarten-teacher, no-nonsense stare. The look worked on everyone, and Mitch was no exception. Cleo crossed her arms and waited—yep, there it was: the squirm.

  “An alien costume, and it’s a sci-fi convention, okay? Before you say no, listen to me. My publisher has made arrangements for four of its authors to be there, including yours truly. It’s a great opportunity for free publicity with people who live and breathe the genre. It’ll be fun. It’s not as if we have to spend every second at the convention. There are lots of other things to do. And let’s face it. The odds of you ever going to Vegas on your own are a gazillion to one.”

  Cleo looked around The Spaceport, Rachel, Nevada’s, alien-themed bar, and sighed. She’d gotten used to the fascination people here had for UFOs and alien conspiracies, not that she understood it. If she applied for that transfer to Alamo for the next school year, like it or not, she would be stuck right in the middle of alien-oriented tourism.

  “Let me get this straight. You want me to spend the Independence Day weekend with you at a sci-fi convention in Vegas dressed up as some space creature?”

  Mitch set down her half-empty mug and sighed. “Essentially, yes. Since I’ve got to go to Alberta to do the rest of the onsite research for my new book, it’ll be our only chance to get together until late summer, and then you’re back at work. What do you say?” Mitch fidgeted, waiting none too patiently for her answer.

  Cleo tried to get her slightly alcohol-befogged brain around the notion. She didn’t drink often, and doing so on an empty stomach hadn’t been a good idea, but lately her life had gone from bad to worse. She hated confrontations, and arguing with Dad this morning had left her edgy. Why did he always wait until the last minute to spring things on her? If he’d told her last week that he wanted to host a Memorial Day barbecue for his students, she wouldn’t have made arrangements to spend the weekend in Rachel. With Mitch’s demanding writing schedule and book tours, they hadn’t had face-to-face time together in months.

  Outraged, Dad had expected her to change her plans, but damn it! She was his daughter, not his wife, nor his social convener. How her mother had been able to put up with his moodiness and demands was beyond her. Cleo was thrilled he wanted to do something, even if it was something as simple as this, but she was entitled to a life, too.

  She’d stopped on her way home from school, picked up everything he would need for his party, then packed her bag. She’d left him a note wishing him a great weekend, reminding him she would be back late Monday. Before she could talk herself out of it, she’d headed for the Extraterrestrial Highway. She hadn’t hit Warp 7, but she’d definitely pushed the speed limit.

  “I don’t know, Mitch,” she answered, her mind trying to weigh the pros and cons. “It sounds good, really it does, and you know how much I want to spend time with you, but Vegas? It isn’t my thing.”

  “You don’t have a ‘thing.’ When was the last time you had fun? Since your mom died, you’ve become chained to that mausoleum you call home and a slave to your father. Don’t argue with me; you know it’s true.” Mitch put her hand up to stop Cleo from interrupting. “I know what you’re going to say—he needs you. Well, I need you, too. You’re my best friend, and I rarely get to spend any time with you.”

  Cleo sighed. “I miss spending time with you, too, Mitch, but life at home is complicated. You haven’t seen Dad since the funeral; he’s changed. He’s not that Indiana Jones, larger-than-life adventurer you remember. He may look the same, but he’s lost his spark. He’s become withdrawn, needy, lost, retreating into himself and espousing that strict moral code he has, and I’m worried about him. When the bottom fell out of my world, he was there for me—I want to be there for him now.”

  “Cutting loose for one weekend isn’t going to change that. Think of the possibilities. We’ll be registered under my pen name, and my publisher has sworn never to reveal my identity. You can be anyone you want to be. What have you got to lose?”

  “My mind? I’m all for going on vacation, you know that, and if it were anywhere else ... I realize I need a break, but you know how Dad feels about Vegas. He sees it as the sin capital of the world—murder, gambling, prostitution—his list goes on.”

  “Forget him and his outdated notions for a second. We’ll be staying in one of Vegas’s premier hotel-casino resorts, and the tab is one hundred percent covered. The book signings will only take a couple of hours each day, and after that it’s grown-up fun time. If you’re not having fun at the convention, we can take in a couple of shows—my treat. Think of it, Cleo. Four days in Vegas—Hoover Dam, sun, sand, and rich, hunky men.”

  Cleo frowned. “Who probably all have a gambling addiction or something. And don’t forget I work in the bastion of fundamental conservatism—even a hint of something that violates the school board’s moral code could cost me my job. We had this discussion the last time you wanted to go on vacation.”

  “I happen to know there are schools in Las Vegas, so it isn’t the city that’s the issue. According to your father, I’m not that far removed from the scum of the earth myself.” Mitch shook her head. “The professor and the other Gordon’s Grove fuddy-duddies are in a time warp. My God. I’m not asking you to sacrifice yourself on some pagan altar or do something illegal, I just want you to relax and have fun. There’s nothing wrong with Vegas. Over thirty-six million people, including teachers, travel there each year. It’s not anywhere nearly as dangerous as Chicago, Detroit, or Los Angeles
, and he’d have no problem with you going to any one of those cities. Hell, even Myrtle Beach gets bad press now and then. He just doesn’t want you spending time with me. The week I spent at your place before your mom died was a disaster, and you know it. All he did was glower at me. He’s convinced I’m a bad influence. I write sci-fi novels, a crime for which he may never forgive me, but I’ll bet if I decided to do some time travel thing to Ancient Egypt or Mesopotamia, he would be among the first to offer his expertise on the period. Hell, he might even want credit.”

  Cleo giggled, proof the beer Mitch had been plying her with was doing what her best friend had probably hoped it would.

  “He would certainly want to make sure your research was accurate, but he doesn’t dislike you, Mitch. He just feels your life is misspent.” She hunched her shoulders up squashing her neck, frowned deeply, and lowered her voice, imitating her father. “I don’t understand how an educated woman like that can waste her time selling rocks and claiming they come from space. It’s a travesty.” She relaxed her pose and chuckled. “That whole space rock internet business sets him off each time I bring up your name, but he has every one of your books proudly displayed on the living room bookshelf.”

  Mitch smiled. “I’m flattered, but owning a book doesn’t mean he’s read it. Collecting those rocks is my hobby, and believe it or not, there are hundreds of people out there willing to pay big bucks for a chunk of authentic meteor, and each piece I sell is certified and verified genuine by the Institute of Geophysics at the University of California. I’m not a shyster. Is what I do really so different from guys trying to sell authentic Egyptian or Mayan artifacts or religious icons? I’ll bet if I collected every sliver purported to be from the cross of Jesus Christ, I could build a bar twice as big as this one.” She laughed and took another mouthful of beer. “Everyone needs a hobby. You take pictures, he digs up antiquities, and I collect space rocks. Why should one hobby be more acceptable than the other?”

  Cleo pulled the elastic out of her fiery red hair and used her fingers to comb it.

  “I honestly don’t know, and I’m sick of arguing about it. Between the high-maintenance kids in the class this year and Dad’s unrealistic demands, I’m worn out. Mom’s been gone almost three years now, and he’s just as lost today as he was the day she died. I miss her too, but I can’t live the rest of my life this way. After Dave the Slug, I swore I would be content to live life on my own, on my terms, maybe get a cat or two, but damn it, I refuse to give up on my dreams—at least not yet. All I’ve ever wanted was to be normal, with a husband, a couple of children, and a house with a white picket fence. I want to meet someone who makes my toes curl when he just looks at me. I want to find a man who’ll love me with everything in him. Is that so wrong?”

  “Who can define normal these days? As the meme says, it’s just a setting on a washing machine. But wanting to find love and happiness is never wrong. If a white picket fence is what you need, go for it. Your mom would be the first to tell you that. She was the best.” Mitch picked up her mug once more and drained it. “She would want you to go to Vegas, and you know it.”

  Cleo shook her head. “You’re pushing your own agenda here, but you’re probably right. Mom wanted me to experience life. Dad stopped living the day she died, and I guess I have, too. But, seriously, do you remember what happened when you dragged me into that space convention at the hotel in L.A. four years ago just to have a peek?”

  “Don’t remind me. The look on your face...” Mitch laughed so hard she snorted.

  “We ended up fighting off those two would-be Ferengi merchants who wanted to brag about their share of the Divine Treasury while we practiced oo-mox, something that somehow would have required us to be naked, rubbing their lobes. Mom found the whole thing hilarious—even Dad could see the humor in it, although he did his best not to laugh.”

  Mitch giggled. “Well, it’s illegal for Ferengi women to wear clothes, but they were pushing the point. They weren’t talking about their earlobes either. And as far as the Divine Treasury goes, they were dentists from Cleveland. Think about it. You could have had the whitest teeth in town. We did have a few laughs—at their expense. No harm, no foul.”

  Cleo stared down at the long-necked bottle in her hand and picked at the label, letting the silence grow. Finally, she finished the beer in the bottle and smiled.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking about maybe moving out—not just getting my own place, but leaving Gordon’s Grove. Cutting the apron strings will be hard on both of us, but you’re right. Dad isn’t going to move on as long as I’m there. He needs to stand on his own two feet and so do I.” She looked up to meet Mitch’s gaze. “There’s an opening in Alamo for a third grade teacher in September. I have the state transfer application papers in my purse.”

  “Oh my God, that would be wonderful.” Mitch signaled for another round. “But right now, I need a decision. I have to let my publisher know before midnight her time; that’s twenty minutes from now. Will you or won’t you? You’ll have the time of your life, cross my heart.”

  “You can be as demanding as my father! Yes, damn it, yes. Vegas, here we come.”

  Hopefully, she wasn’t going to live to regret this.

  Cleo took another sip of the famous Witch Doctor drink Mitch had ordered for her and sighed. On top of the two glasses of wine she’d had at supper, the multi-liquor concoction had her feeling pleasantly relaxed. She’d almost backed out of this vacation a hundred times in the last month, but now amidst all the glamor and glitter, she was glad she hadn’t. Although she’d been born and raised in northwestern Nevada, this was her first visit to Vegas, and the sights and sounds overwhelmed her. She felt like a kid turned loose in a candy store. She didn’t know where to look, what to do, or what she wanted. There was too much to choose from. It would be impossible to see everything in just four days, especially when part of the time she would have to be in costume at the convention, the least exciting part of the trip.

  Although the convention didn’t start until late tomorrow afternoon, they’d arrived early this morning and so far, she was having the time of her life. Mitch, a frequent visitor to Vegas, had indulged her shamelessly, taking her to see what she considered the most memorable sights first. They’d ridden the monorail and gotten on and off several times as the desire to see something up close had taken them. They’d visited the Eiffel Tower at the Paris, the Volcano at the Mirage, and taken a gondola ride at the Venetian. They’d walked back up the strip for lunch at the Bellagio where they’d watched the famous choreographed water in the fountains before heading back to their hotel. Cleo was giddy with excitement and maybe a touch too much alcohol. Tomorrow, before the convention started late in the afternoon, they would ride the roller coaster at New York-New York, visit the medieval glory of Excalibur, and see the Sphinx and the King Tut Museum at the Luxor.

  The Rio Hotel and Casino itself was amazing. They’d had dinner at one of the onsite Italian restaurants, and were now enjoying drinks in the Voodoo Lounge at the top of the hotel, with its incredible bird’s-eye view of the Strip. Cleo stood in awe of her first view of Las Vegas at night; however, Mitch had her eyes focused elsewhere.

  Earlier in the day, Mitch had tried to get tickets to that night’s Chippendale show, but the performance was sold out. While Cleo might not admit she’d been curious about the gorgeous men performing in one of their Broadway style reviews—she wasn’t a prude even though she usually dressed and acted like one—she simply understood attending one of the shows could mean trouble. Something like that was really pushing the envelope.

  There’d been a number of teachers suspended and fired across the country in the past few years for engaging in perfectly legal activities, like attending an exotic dancers’ show, because a parent or school official found out about it and thought it inappropriate. One had actually lost her position for posting a picture of herself on vacation in Italy, wearing nothing but a swimsuit. It was okay for parents and board membe
rs to indulge in those activities themselves, but teachers were kept to a higher standard. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t been aware of that when she’d chosen the profession and signed her contract. At the end of the workday, most people went home, and whatever they did, as long as it wasn’t illegal, didn’t matter. But teachers were teachers twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, fifty-two weeks a year. The school board referred to any deviance from its strict code as moral turpitude, and those violations were subject to severe punishments, including suspension and dismissal. The old double standard was alive and well, especially in Gordon’s Grove.

  Mitch had gone into the Chippendale gift shop and bought a calendar and a few other souvenirs. Cleo hadn’t dared. The last thing she wanted to bring home was anything that would set Dad up on his soapbox with a sermon on ethics, morality, and everything wrong with today’s generation.

  As expected, he hadn’t been happy with her decision to come here, and while she’d expected to be lectured until the rapture arrived, he hadn’t nagged about it either. He’d urged her to be careful and remember who she was and the values he’d instilled in her, and had slipped her a couple hundred dollars. She loved him dearly, but there were times when he drove her nuts.

  “Mitch, for God’s sake. Stop ogling them,” she hissed when she saw her friend’s eyes openly fixed on the two hunky guys at a table not far from them. Their suits, definitely made-to-measure, enhanced their broad shoulders and although she tried to be more circumspect than her friend, Cleo couldn’t keep her eyes from straying that way either. While the blond was attractive, it was the dark-haired, dark-eyed man who sparked her interest.

  He was clean-shaven, with a Kirk Douglas dimple. His sun-streaked hair and deep tan suggested hours of hard work in the sun, rather than twenty minutes in a tanning booth. He and his friend were engaged in an animated discussion, and she’d heard his laughter at least twice. It sounded honest, not forced the way some people did when they laughed to be polite. When he looked her way, she quickly averted her eyes.