Page 9 of Betting on her Best Friend
Trent followed her line of sight. “Mark? Yeah, he’s one of the straight ones. He also plows through every Tanya, Deb, and Harriett he finds at the conventions. Don’t waste your time, hon. You can do so much better.”
“Now you sound like my quote-unquote friend, Dylan.”
He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Why all the quotes?”
“Because we’ve been friends forever, but I started liking him as more than that and thought maybe he felt the same way. I dropped umpteen hints, but he never did anything about them, so now I give up and would like to forget all about him with a few hours of no-strings-no-judgment sex with someone I don’t know.”
Anita-Anna Conda!
Whoa. Old-fashioneds plus lemon drops equaled a very loose tongue for one Alyssa Matthews. Hopefully no one asked her for her bank account info, or she was liable to end up broke.
Without missing a beat, Trent gave her an understanding nod as if she hadn’t just committed a cardinal sin against the etiquette of polite small talk. “Okay, then you need a plan of attack.” Narrowing his eyes, he looked her up and down before flagging the bartender over. “Another two lemon drops, beautiful.” While they waited for the martinis, he turned Alyssa to face him and tugged down on the hem of her dress.
Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around herself and squeaked. “What are you doing?”
“We don’t have time to get you on an episode of What Not to Wear. I’m accentuating your breasts while bringing your hem down. You don’t want Pirate Mark to think he can plunder your buried treasure so easily. There. Now you look less hoochie and more sex kitten.”
Trent handed her the new cocktail, which she eagerly drank, grateful for the calming effect it had on her nerves. “Okay, now I introduce myself?”
He made a face. “Only if you want to strike out.” When she raised an expectant brow, he said, “Cross the room, and when you move into his path, fake being jostled into him. He’ll steady you and check to see if you’re okay. Give him your best bedroom eyes and flash him that great smile, and he’ll be all yours.”
“Seriously?”
“Cross my heart,” he said. “Now freshen up your lipstick and go hook yourself a pirate.”
Taking the tube of red lipstick from her clutch, she did as Trent instructed and then gave him a hug. “Thank you, Trent. For the martinis and the advice.”
“My pleasure. Now go, go, go,” he said, shooing her with his hands.
Alyssa took a deep breath and walked toward Mark the model. Mark the pirate. Mark the man-whore. No, she didn’t want to think about that. It didn’t matter to her how many treasures he’d plundered in the past, or however Trent said it. In fact, his experience would probably ensure a memorable night with multiple orgasms. If there’s a God.
She moved to walk past him like Trent instructed, but before she could fake bump into him, someone actually backed into her and caused her to lose her footing. Mark reacted quickly and caught her up against him. Alyssa couldn’t have planned it any better.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said in a breathy voice.
He grinned as he gave her a conspicuous once over from her face to her chest and back up again. “Yes, you are.”
Well, look at that. This was going to be easier than she thought.
* * *
Dylan’s flighthad landed only thirty minutes ago, and he was already bored of this town.
Vegas had a dreamlike feel to it, which probably accounted for people letting go of their inhibitions there more than they would anywhere else. When a city had a nickname like Sin City, a person almost felt above consequence, untouchable, like the city itself offered a deluded version of Survivor immunity from their reality back home. Ridiculous notions supported by the infamous and overused excuse, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
Only it didn’t anymore. Not when everyone had a smartphone perpetually at the ready. A more accurate slogan would be, “What happens in Vegas ends up on the internet, dumbass.”
The Masquerade was noticeable from the freeway, distinguishable by the gigantic ribbons flying from the tops of striped poles that rivaled the height of Paris’s Eiffel Tower, Vegas edition. As his cab inched through the traffic, the gargantuan white structure came into view. An overabundance of ribbons and strands of “beads” the size of wrecking balls draped the sides and towers in bold colors of gold, purple, green, red, and silver.
“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. “Wonder if good ole NOLA knows its precious Mardi Gras puked all over the Vegas Strip.”
He supposed the unique hotel impressed most tourists, but he’d done the Mardi Gras thing back in his college days and remained unimpressed. If he wanted to get drunk and see a bunch of tits, he’d go to a strip club where they’d do more than flash you for more than five seconds. But women baring themselves to him for superficial reasons wasn’t his thing, making neither atmosphere appeal to him in the least.
So, although he could appreciate the impressive architecture from a construction point of view, the theme wasn’t something he would have willingly immersed himself in anytime soon. Or ever.
At last, the car pulled into the semicircular drive that surrounded a reflecting pool that put the Bellagio’s to shame. Crowds a dozen people deep stood and kept their eyes focused on the water. Just as he paid the cab fare and opened his door, a roar of cheers and applause erupted. Dylan glanced over and did a double-take when a big-ass carriage rose from the depths of the pool with costumed dancers hanging from the sides.
