Betting on the Wrong Brother (What Happens in Vegas) Read online

  “Dance,” Nathan said, waving the backs of his hands toward him. “Show them what you got, soldier.”

  Fuck me.

  Ryan started moving, his body jerking around like the damn elevator. When was the last time he’d danced? Prom? From the cheers in the crowd his twitching moves didn’t seem to matter as long as he was moving.

  “Show us what you can do with your gun!”

  He peered into the audience, but with the lights in his eyes, he couldn’t tell who was yelling at him. Nevertheless, it did give him an idea. Here goes nothing.

  A quick twirl of the rifle and it was between his legs. He listened to the song, and caught the beat, rocking his hips and riding his gun. Wait! Was this manly? Probably not, but what did it matter now. It wasn’t like anyone cared and the screaming women appeared to love it.

  Hip roll. Grind. Repeat.

  Oh yeah. Good thing he was a fast learner. Shake. Shake. Shake. Damn, who knew he was such a good sport. If his hands were longer he’d give himself a pat on the back. Then again, maybe Andi would do it for him. As he thought about sweet Andi, he felt himself thicken.

  Hip roll. Grind. Repeat.

  More cheers erupted. Thank God this was Vegas and the old adage of “what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” was as true today as it ever was. At least he could climb off the stage and never have to think about this incident again.

  Hip roll. Grind. Repeat.

  A pretty blonde walked up to the stage waving a dollar. She crooked her finger. He rode his gun over, and thrust his hips forward. She shoved the bill into his waistband and ran her hands over his chest. And then the gate was open. Women came running over from every corner of the room and soon dollar bills were lining his waistband. Not a bad gig after all. If he ever suffered from writer’s block, he could don a costume and make a few bucks.

  The music stopped just when he was really getting into it, and he gave the women a salute before he slipped back through the curtain. Another man pushed past him and took center stage.

  “Not a male model, my ass,” Nathan said. “You had them eating out of your palms.” He pulled the money from his waist and held it out. Nathan pushed his hand back. “Nope, that’s yours, soldier. Use it to buy yourself a drink. You earned it.”

  Yeah, he could use a drink, or four. Good idea. “Where are my clothes?”

  Nathan made a tsk sound and wagged his finger. “You’re not done yet.”

  “Now what?”

  “Now you have to go schmooze.” He pushed him toward another door. “You have to charm the women, get your picture taken with them, that kind of thing. They’ll be casting their votes for their favorite model and the winner will be announced later tonight.”

  Photographs? No way. “I’m not really interested—”

  “But they are.” Nathan shoved him into the large banquet room and closed the door behind him. He shot a glance to the left, then the right. Maybe he could escape before anyone noticed. His luggage was still in the closet, but he could call the front desk and have the concierge retrieve it.

  He slid along the wall, and almost made it to the door when a shriek reached his ears.

  “There he is!”

  Shit.

  A group of women swarmed around him like sharks, pushing in front of each other to get their pictures taken with him. He looked at the door then back at them. It’s for literacy, dude. His resolve to flee softened. What the hell. He’d already danced for them all. How much worse could this be?

  He took his turn with each woman. They really were nice and just trying to have a good time. The last camera flashed and he blinked. Christ, he’d be seeing spots for days. He talked to them for a minute, and learned they were all romance writers, who wrote in many sub genres. When he booked the Masquerade Hotel and Casino he had no idea it was during a romance writers’ convention.

  They hovered close until the next male model entered the room, when they all rushed his way. He slid along the wall again, hoping to finally make his escape, but his efforts proved futile. Another group of writers made their way toward him, and he stopped to talk to them. They really were a fun group and he didn’t want to be rude. Cameras started snapping once again and from his peripheral vision, he caught Andi sauntering into the room, her suitcase still in hand. She waved to a few women, while others stopped to speak to her. Ryan tried to stay engaged as the women talked to him, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Andi. Even in a room of beautiful women she stood out. If he was the marrying type, she just might be the kind of girl he’d go after. But thanks to his parents’ volatile relationship and disloyalty to each other—not to mention their parents before them—he didn’t believe in wedded bliss, and wasn’t about to chain himself to something that would eventually fail. So why the hell had his thoughts traveled in that direction?

  She scanned the room, and her gaze stilled when it met his. A smirk spread across her lush mouth. Goddammit, she was grinning at him, mischief dancing in her eyes. Did she really think he was a male model, or was this some elaborate game she was playing just to mess with him? If so, she’d better watch herself.

  Andi Palmer.

  He had no idea who she really was, or what she was up to, but he sure as hell planned on finding out.

  Chapter Three

  Andi made her way toward the crowd swarming Ryan, a smidgen of guilt niggling at her insides. Did he really deserve this? Yeah, he’d been a real jerk years before, but this payback was juvenile, and so not like her. They were only teens when the incident happened, and teens did stupid things. Maybe he’d grown up and changed his ways.

  Or maybe not.

  He flashed his teeth for the camera, and pulled each woman close, angling his body into theirs in a provocative way that had them all giddy and flustered as they posed for a picture. Andi stopped dead in her tracks and just stood there watching him interact. Well, hell. Talk about a plan backfiring. The man loved every minute of it. Jerk.

  She caught another model sauntering toward him. When the ladies saw the fresh meat, they dispersed, shifting their focus. Andi sucked in a quick breath and held it when the crowd parted to give her a view of Ryan standing there in his too tight military pants, showcasing broad shoulders and a six pack that her fingers itched to touch and her tongue watered to taste.

  She looked her fill, her glance moving over the hard grooves in his body, all the way down to his fatigues and big boots. Why hadn’t she signed up for the army? He moved toward her, but she was far too slow to react. Her gaze flew to his and when his lips quirked into a smile, she knew he’d caught her staring again. Damn him.

  She turned her head, and waved to a friend, but it was too late to pretend she hadn’t been checking him out. Her heart raced as he closed the distance between them, her body firing in a way it had no right to. She didn’t want him. She hated him. Even more so now after watching him turn it on and charm the women. Guilt be damned. He was every bit the player today as he was back in the day. And worst of all, he didn’t even remember her.

  He bent, and put his lips close to her ear. “Hey,” he said, the heat of his mouth stoking the fire inside her. “Back so soon?”

  “My meeting finished early.”

  “You still have your suitcase.”

  Her mind raced, searching for an excuse. “I didn’t have time to go to my room. I was just looking for a friend.” Weak, Andi, really weak.

  “If I didn’t know better,” he paused and pointed a finger at the cowboy dancing under the strobe lights. “I’d say you were trying to catch me on that stage.”

  “Guess it’s a good thing you do know better.” She forced herself to keep her eyes locked on his. If they dropped to his body one more time, she’d have no choice but to claw them out.

  He scrubbed his hand over his stubble, the rasp sending heat to her core. “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  Nathan appeared out of nowhere, which was quite the feat for a man of his height. Then again, she probably hadn’t noticed him
moving their way because she couldn’t take her eyes off Ryan.

  “Hey, soldier,” Nathan said, and handed him his duffle bag. “Were you serious about that donation?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan turned from her and she took that moment to pull herself together. She studied his broad back, the way his muscular shoulders tapered to a trim waist. Her glance fell lower, landed on his tight ass. She just bet she could bounce a quarter off it. Her body buzzed to life again, and her insides fluttered. Okay, so much for pulling herself together. And yeah, he might not be her most favorite person at the moment, but that didn’t mean she still didn’t want him.

  “I’m in room 521,” Ryan said, his voice pulling her back.

  Nathan lifted a brow. “Room 521. Isn’t that the room—”

  “After everything is tallied, let me know, and I’ll send a check.”

  Nathan left and she was about to ask what Nathan was getting at before Ryan cut him off, but stopped when Ryan reached for her suitcase. He took it from her fingers, and handled it like it weighed nothing.

  How gentlemanly of him. She tilted her chin. “I can carry my own bag.” Sure, she believed in feminism, but chivalry was a quality she rather liked in a man, and one that was rare these days. Truthfully, the only time she came across it was when she wrote it in her books. Wasn’t that the beauty of being a writer?

  “I know,” was all he said. He leaned into her, giving her a nudge with his shoulder to set her into motion.

  She started toward the door, moving quicker than usual, and he kicked out his long legs to keep her pace.

  With a nod, she gestured over her shoulder. “What was that all about with Nathan?”

  “I made a donation.”

  Her head jerked back. “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  Once again, guilt slammed in to her. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be dressed in those fatigues—no matter how hot he looked in them—and shoved on stage.

  “That was…nice of you.”

  They walked toward the mezzanine level lobby, where writers were sitting around talking, plotting, or meeting with agents or editors. She waved to a few people she knew.

  “What can I say, I’m a nice guy.” He shrugged like it was nothing. “Plus I’m a huge advocate of literacy.”

  She crinkled her nose and gave him a once over. Twice. The Nolan she remembered was a movie buff who loved to watch scary flicks with his brother, but as far as she knew he’d never picked up a book. She did remember something else about his brother. He was a special needs child, and not able to read. What was his name again? John…Jack?

  “Elevator or stairs?” he asked.

  She gave him a look that suggested he was dense, and he laughed and guided her to the stairwell. He opened the door and she slipped past him. Funny. When he found her half naked in the elevator, there was nothing gentlemanly about him. He’d looked his fill, and made no attempt to hide his arousal. Interesting. Did soldier boy check this chivalrous side of himself at the bedroom door? Talk dirty as he cocked that big gun of his?

  Don’t visualize it!

  She visualized it.

  Heat burned her cheeks as she started up the stairs, hurrying until he caught up with her.

  They passed the first floor and he asked, “What floor are you on?”

  “Fifth. I’m in room 522.”

  “I guess we’re neighbors.”

  “What are the odds?” she muttered. Then again, she’d registered late and had to take an overflow room, and since he had checked in right after her, the odds they were in the same block were pretty good. They climbed higher and she tried not to sound breathless. She wasn’t sure if it was the steep staircase or his closeness that was making it difficult to fill her lungs.

  “This is Vegas. Usually the odds are against you,” he said.

  “Must be my lucky day.”

  He leaned in to her again. She really wished he’d stop doing that. His scent was messing with her brain.

  “Actually, I think it’s mine,” he murmured low, his voice too deep, his tone a bit too suggestive.

  Walking side by side, her gaze shot to his and the promise she caught there stole the last of her oxygen. Ryan might not remember her, remember laughing at her botched seduction and discarding her like she was yesterday’s newspaper as he moved on to the next pretty—waif thin—girl, but from the way his voice dropped to the way his blue eyes lit when he looked at her, one thing was clear. He was interested now.

  She chalked his attention up to two things. She’d lost the weight and physically, she was his type. And after the horizontal mambo in the elevator, he likely thought she was wild, brazen, like the women he normally gravitated toward back in the day.

  “Are you a romance writer?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She waited for the usual snarky comeback, and braced herself for the “oh, what a cute hobby” or “why don’t you write a real book?”

  He aimed a boyish grin her way. “Like with sex scenes and everything?”

  Oh God. She rolled her eyes. Next he was probably going to ask if she’d personally researched and participated in all the sex acts written in her books, like she was a big ol’ slut. Why did people always think that? Do they think thriller writers go around killing people?

  “Yeah,” she mumbled. “With sex scenes and everything.” Although she wasn’t exactly sure what the everything was that he was talking about.

  “Here I thought you would have done something sexier?”

  She gripped the rail, practically pulling her tired, sorry ass up the steps. “Sexier?” What the hell? Now he thought she was some kind of Vegas dancer because she stripped in public places.

  “Yeah, you know like an accountant, or actuary.”

  She laughed at his joke. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I never said I was disappointed.”

  His boyish grin turned wolfish, and her sex clenched. Dear God, her sex actually clenched. Now when she put that on paper, she’d actually know what she was talking about.

  They reached the third level platform and started up the next set of steps. “I could never write a romance novel.”

  “No?”

  “I could probably write a book about sex with goals and motivation, but romance and happy endings, I don’t believe in them.”

  She’d bet he could write a hot book. “I thought we were talking about writing a book, not visiting a massage parlor.”

  He angled his head, confusion backlighting his baby blues. “What?”

  “I think you’re getting happy endings mixed up with happily ever after.”

  He laughed hard, and the sound wrapped around her and pulled a smile. “Well, whatever you want to call it, I could never pull that off because I don’t believe in it.”

  It wasn’t in the cards for her, either. Maybe that’s why she became a romance writer in the first place. To give her characters the happily ever after she had always wanted, but was destined to go without.

  “How do you know so much about book structure?”

  He visibly tensed, then quickly shook it off. “I’m a huge supporter of literacy, and an avid reader.” He gave a low slow whistle and shook his head. “Seriously, though. Talk about pressure.”

  “Sure there are pressures, but—”

  “Not for you. For me.” She eyed him. What was he getting at now? He nudged her with his shoulder again, his grin widening. “Let’s face it, if you write about the perfect man, perfect dates, and perfect sex, I couldn’t possibly compete.”

  Wrong.

  “Guess not.” Jesus, would these stairs never end? All this talk of sex was making her far more breathless than she should be.

  He arched a brow, like he was ready to challenge her. “Or maybe I’ll have to just try harder.”

  A noise caught in her throat. A half laugh, half moan. If he tried any harder, she’d be a puddle at his feet. “Believe me, you don’t have to…” Oh shit. “I mean…”

  “I d
on’t have to what?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she shot back quickly, abruptly ending the conversation. They reached the fifth floor and Ryan wasn’t so much as winded. She, on the other hand, was huffing and sweating and seriously needed to get back on the treadmill. He opened the door and she mentally slapped herself for speaking without thinking as they walked down the hall toward their rooms. She always had the problem of her mouth working before her brain could catch up.

  She looked at the numbers on the door. “This is me.” She grabbed her suitcase from him, and her stomach took that moment to growl. Except it wasn’t just a soft, delicate sound, it was a big bear roar that rumbled down the hall like thunder.

  “Hungry for something?” he asked.

  Knowing Ryan, he’d probably think her stomach was growling for him. Which it wasn’t. Not entirely, anyway. “All they served on the plane was peanuts.”

  He hovered over her, bracing one hand on the doorframe. “Be thankful. Statistics show that a person is more likely to die from airplane food than a crash.”

  “You’re making that up.”

  The corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. “Would I lie to you?”

  Uh, yeah. Ryan Grayson—not your name. Don’t get sucked in by his charm again, Andi. This is Nolan.

  “So, about this hunger of yours. Should we feed it?”

  Were they still talking about food?

  Her eyes went to his bare chest as he leaned into her, and something slipped from his front pocket and fell to the floor. They both looked down at the keycard at his feet, room 626 on the white cardholder envelope. His brow furrowed. “Where did that come from?”

  Oh, like he didn’t know. Jerk. Here he was asking her out when he had some woman’s key. Then again, she’d seen it before, women stuffing keys in the model’s pockets. Still, this was Nolan…

  He grabbed the key, shoved it in his pocket, and focused back in on her. “So, about dinner?” he asked.