Sleepless in Las Vegas. Colleen Collins
of night.
She debated whether to set the damn phone on the ground and leave, but she didn’t want to fail at this. F’sure, she’d told Marta there were no guarantees to the honey trap, but what if Drake, her fiancé, told her about the weird hooker who claimed she felt pulsations through his phone, channeled his father, then stalked him into the parking lot? Hardly the techniques of a seasoned, knowledgeable private eye.
Marta would demand back every cent of the retainer.
Val would not let that happen. She had to suck it up, figure out how to salvage this mess. She and Grumpy were here now, alone. Which meant she had one more chance to sweeten the honey trap.
“You’re right, I’m a girl for sale.” Technically, she sold her investigator services, so that was true. “But I played the wrong man. You’re too smart, too hip to fall for this silly costume and come-on. I apologize.”
Her vision had adjusted enough to the shadows so that she could see his dark silhouette. He leaned against the building, and from the angle of his head, he was watching her. She remembered that gaze at the bar. The faint lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes, their smoky color. How they shone with intensity, as though he was on the verge of asking a question or in the process of formulating one. But when he angered, their color darkened to a flat, dull shade like gunmetal.
She wondered what color they were right now.
“Let’s call a truce, okay? I’ll bring your phone to you, then you can thank me.”
He didn’t respond. She had probably taken him by surprise with her no-harm-no-foul attitude. Or maybe he was mulling over her ability to actually tell the truth. That man sure spent a lot of time in his head.
She walked almost to the edge of the shadow and stopped. “I’d walk to you, but it’s not so easy to see in there, and I’d hate to fumble and drop the phone while handing it over. Of course, it might survive bouncing on the ground a few times, and you wouldn’t need to replace it, so—”
“Stay put.”
He stepped forward. Hazy moonlight slanted across his face, not enough to clearly see his features, but enough to see the pronounced line of his jaw, the bulk of his shoulders. He reached out with both hands and wrapped them around hers.
“Do you still feel those pulsations?” he asked, his voice husky, and unless she had lost her sense of hearing, more than a little suggestive.
“No,” she whispered. His hands were big and warm, triggering pulsations that had nothing to do with the phone. In the space of a heartbeat, the edginess between them had shifted, intensified, from a mental struggle to a physical one.
“Nothing at all?”
He tightened his hold, stroking his thumb in a light, lingering path on the back of her hand. Sensations sparked within her.
“Of course I feel something,” she managed to say around her heart thundering in her throat. “I’m flesh and blood, aren’t I?”
A throaty chuckle. “I like it when you’re honest. One moment, let me put the phone away.”
She realized she was holding her hands in midair, suspended where he’d abandoned them, as though they had no purpose other than waiting for his touch. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
He captured them again. With a squeeze, he drew her closer, then placed her palms flat against his chest. Through his shirt, she felt his heart pumping, its beat steady and strong. That’s how he is. Steady, strong, focused.
Raising one hand, he kissed her index finger before drawing it into his mouth. She shuddered a release of breath as he suckled it. Maybe she should admit she wasn’t really a hooker.
Slowly, his mouth released its hold on her finger and moved to her wrist, which he kissed and nuzzled.
Or maybe not.
“Do you like that?” he whispered.
“Ye—” The rest of the word ended in a small, ragged moan as his talented mouth and tongue tickled, nibbled and kissed the inside of her arm.
“What’s your real name?” His voice, rough and low, reverberated through her.
“V-val.”
These were just caresses, and some wicked attention from his mouth, yet her insides were rocking and rolling as though they were buck naked in bed. She stifled a building moan and told herself to chill, gain some ground. She was acting as if she hadn’t been touched by a man in years.
Well, she hadn’t. Two years, if she didn’t count that backseat fumble in Houston. A realization that was as depressing as it was embarrassing.
But when he lightly trailed the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip, then dragged it leisurely down her neck, his touch both deliciously coarse and gentle, the only thought she had was more, more...
“Why the wig, Val?”
“Hmm?”
“The wig. It’s obvious you’re wearing one. Why?”
She mentally fought her way through the haze of arousal. “Does it...look bad?”
As soon as she asked, she regretted it. Made her sound pathetically insecure about her looks, which was so far from the truth. If anything, she had been pathetically insecure about how she’d prepared for her job tonight.
“It looks—” he fingered a lock “—like strands of moonlight. Gives you an unearthly, dreamy quality.”
For a man who bottled up his words, he sure knew how to pour them on sweet and thick at the right moment.
“I always wear it with this outfit.” Also true.
“Interesting outfit to wear to Dino’s. Who hired you, Val?”
“Nobody.”
“Was it Yuri? You can tell me.”
“Nobody.”
Interesting, too, how he’d deftly manipulated this encounter so he was now in control. He’d plied her with his mouth and touch, worked her with compliments until her reserve dissolved, and she was ready to divulge whatever he wanted to know.
This man had taken over her honey trap!
Oh, no. Two thousand dollars, and the small but significant fact that her self-esteem needed her to succeed at her first P.I. gig, were at stake.
Time for the queen bee to regain her territory.
She had a job to do. Maybe she’d flitted here and there, floundered a little in her flight, but she would land this job, and do it right. This was her career, her future. Val Louvinia LeRoy would prove she had what it took to be a professional private eye.
“I wore an interesting outfit,” she said, sliding her arms around his waist, “in the hope I’d meet an interesting man.” You drone, me queen, sugar.
She nuzzled her face against his shirt, taking in its clean, crisp scent. Finding a gap between buttons, she slipped her tongue inside, touching the mat of hair on his chest. She probed a little farther and licked the slick, wiry strands, filling her mouth with the tangy, salty taste of his sweat. Closing her eyes, she sensed the warmth rising from his body, imagined what it’d be like to slowly undress him, piece by piece, unveiling his strong, powerful, male body...
Adrenaline surged through her veins. Ah, she felt alive, lost in the sensations. She could stay like this forever, indulging in slow, erotic play, teasing and prolonging the sweet torture until...
With great effort, she shoved down the fantasy.
There would never be an until, only these moments now. Of course she knew that, yet something inside of her splintered, the shards slicing, hurting.
“Val?” His voice was gruff, yet tender.
“Sorry.” She opened