One More Night (Seductive Nights #3)(18)
Author: Lauren Blakely

Brent took a drink of his Diet Coke and nodded. Both men were serious now. Clay’s brother might be a jokester, but he knew that his role as wingman in this proposal plan was not be toyed with. “Everything is in place. Think she’ll say yes?”

Clay had complete and utter confidence in their love, but it was never a love to take for granted. Nor was a yes. He’d already made assumptions once and had nearly lost her. There would be no presumptions of a yes; only a great hope for one. “I hope so,” he answered plainly.

Brent smiled. “She’ll say yes.”

“Thanks again for taking care of the package today. I’ll get that tomorrow too. And I got your text that all was well, but also wanted to ask, did you talk to your friend in more detail about security? Are they watching Julia?”

“I did talk to her after Julia left with you. Mindy said there’s no special attention being paid to her. All the hotels had beefed up security after a string of robberies a few months ago at some casinos off the Strip. Can’t be too safe, she said. They thought it was mob-related. Michael Lawson is the Tony Soprano of this town; he runs a few rackets here in Vegas, but no one ever found a connection to the robberies. Besides, that’s not Lawson’s style—stealing chips. Anyway, a few were solved, but now they’re thinking the thieves are just thieves, plain and simple, and they’ve spread out into a small pickpocket ring, lifting chips here and there. Dealers are coming up short at the end of the night. That’s making the casinos more concerned in general, and some are even offering rewards for information leading to apprehension,” Brent said, and the extra men in suits thronging the hotel premises now made sense. Casinos were always going to be targets for brazen robbers, but robbers were not mobsters. They went after money, not people, so he could breathe a little easier.

“Should I be concerned about a pickpocket ring?” Clay joked. Because pickpockets? That was small potatoes and hardly anything to worry about. Hell, New York City was teeming with them. You keep your eyes open, you don’t leave your wallet in your back pocket on the subway, and you don’t nod off on public transit. Simple as that. Pickpockets were not a cause for his concern. They weren’t on the same level as Charlie. Not even in the same solar system.

“Yeah, keep your chips close to you,” Brent said, but then turned serious. “But, I gotta ask. Why would you be so concerned?”

Clay’s chest tightened. He and Julia were done with her debt and the trouble was behind her, so he didn’t want to let on, or reveal her secrets. But he’d been asking his brother to run intel, so he had to give him something. “She had some trouble with her ex. He left her with a steaming heap of problems, and they’ve been resolved, but I’m always on my guard.”

Brent nodded several times, and that was all it took, all he needed to tell him. “I hear ya. But nothing to worry about it. It’s all about the hotels trying to be pristine even when it comes to something as minor as lifting a few chips.”

Clay noticed Julia in his peripheral vision, and soon she’d rejoined them. “So, boys, what’ll it be? Are we staying for the next show?”

Brent wiggled his eyebrows, and pointed his thumb at Julia. “See? I like her. She’s up for an encore of me.”

Clay draped his arm around Julia. She raised her hand, linking her fingers through his. “We’re taking off. I have plans for her.”

“Plans?” she asked eagerly.

“Just you wait and see.”

* * *

He studied his notes once more. The man bothered him; squeaky clean, he had the reputation of a choirboy in business. Nothing shady, nothing underhanded. Damn near impeachable on paper. He scrolled through the documents he’d researched on Clay Nichols that he’d stored in his phone since the man had arrived in town. Local family, varsity football, pre-law, then Yale law school, and ten years as an attorney. No debt, no trouble. He tucked his phone in his pocket, annoyance rolling through him. Neither one had made a move yet, but he knew, he f**king knew she would any second. She was gone for the night, but he had his associate tailing her, and the two of them were at the Venetian. He had eyes everywhere so if she started hustling there, he’d be ready. He protected the Venetian too. For now, he threaded his way through the $100 tables, and found the couple she’d been hanging with earlier.

Time to make their acquaintance.

Then a bird trilled softly in his ear, and he straightened his spine, recognizing the ringtone. He snagged the phone from his pocket to double check that it was coming from a 415 area code. It was, so he did a 180, turning away from the tables. His contact was ringing him.

“I thought we had a deal,” he said as he answered the call from San Francisco.

“We did.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Friday, 11:52 p.m., Las Vegas

The music was indistinguishable. She had no clue as to the words, or if there even were lyrics. But the song didn’t need them. This was music that was felt, that thrummed through her body, that made her feel like a guitar being played.

The low bass, the rhythmic beat, and the sexy voice of the singer all did what they were supposed to do—put you in the mood to dance horizontally. Soon, she’d be doing just that. For now, she was still vertical and moving to the beat at Tao, a nightclub at the Venetian.

It was a Friday night in Vegas, and the posh club was teeming with hot, young, sweaty things wrapped up in each other. Neon-blue lights illuminated the bar, manned by fit and pretty bartenders, concocting pink, blue and orange drinks, and pouring the occasional vodka or scotch, like the ones they’d ordered and downed. Now, she was swaying her hips to the techno beat, grinding against Clay. Because that’s what you do at a nightclub. You bump. You grind. You simulate all the naughty things you want to do later. Well, maybe not all. But enough of those things, and right now her body was nearly plastered to his, her arm raised and wrapped around his neck, his hand holding tightly to her hip. She rubbed against him, and he pulled her close to his pelvis. Their constant need to touch each other, to find ways to get closer, to erase all the negative space between them was thick in the air. She stretched her neck against his shoulder, leaning back to look at him.

“What would Tad Herman say if he saw us now?”

“I don’t know. Is public copulation forbidden in your morals clause?” he whispered in her ear.

“I’m not sure. Are you planning on copulating with me here on the dance floor?”