Текст книги "Sinful Desire"
Автор книги: Lauren Blakely
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SINFUL DESIRE
LAUREN BLAKELY
Book 2 in the NYT Bestselling Sinful Nights Series
Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Blakely
LaurenBlakely.com
Cover Design by © Sarah Hansen, Okay Creations
Photography by Steph Bowers
Ebook formatting by Jesse Gordon
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy, emotional, romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Table of Contents
Also by Lauren Blakely
Dedication
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Contact
Also by Lauren Blakely
The Caught Up in Love Series (Each book in this series follows a different couple so each book can be read separately, or enjoyed as a series since characters crossover)
Caught Up in Her (A short prequel novella to Caught Up in Us)
Caught Up In Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Trophy Husband
Playing With Her Heart
Standalone Novels (Each of these full-length romance novels can be read by themselves, though they feature appearance from characters in Caught Up in Love)
Far Too Tempting
Stars in Their Eyes
21 Stolen Kisses
The No Regrets Series (These books should be read in order)
The Thrill of It
Every Second With You
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing (November 2015)
Sinful Love (2016)
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my fabulous
ladies, Laurelin, Kristy and CD, and, as
always, to my dear friend Cynthia.
Author’s Note
Every effort has been made to present Las Vegas as readers know it, in its glittery, sinful, neon glory. However, some street names and details about where the characters live or have lived beyond The Strip have been fictionalized for the sake of the story.
Chapter One
The light was playing tricks on him.
The golden haze of the late afternoon sun, and its halo glow, was some kind of illusion. No way, no how, was it possible for anyone to be so gorgeous that she actually shimmered.
Mirage was the more plausible explanation for the platinum blonde stepping out of the Aston Martin at three o’clock in the afternoon on a Thursday in July, looking as if she belonged in a gangster movie. She was the woman they all fought over. The woman who brought the men to their knees.
From the pinup dress, to the pouty lips, to the gleaming car that stretched a city block—or so it seemed—she was…
Glamorous. Sultry. Voluptuous.
Ryan’s fantasy woman.
No question about it.
This was lust at first sight. Pure, unadulterated lust knocking around in his chest and threatening to make matters in his charcoal gray slacks harder than he needed them to be right now.
But he was willing to deal with that problem because the woman could not be ignored. A groan rolled around in his throat as he stared shamelessly over the top of his aviator shades. He walked along the palm-tree lined sidewalk that framed police headquarters, cycling through his best opening lines, even though he had a hunch a woman like that—a woman who wore a black dress with a cherry pattern and bright white sunglasses—had heard them all. Busty and bold enough to pull up to Vegas’s municipal building at midday looking like sin come to life, this woman wasn’t going to be wooed by lines or a standard come-here often?
With one hand on the car door, she glanced to the left, away from him, and pushed her sunglasses on top of her hair. In her other hand, she held a phone, a notepad, and a pen. She bumped her rear against the car door, shutting it with her ass.
What a lucky car door.
He half wished she’d drop the pen, just so he could swoop in and pick it up. Bend down, grab it before it rattled to the street, and gallantly present it.
Then he’d get her number with that pen. She’d be the type to push up the cuff of his shirtsleeve and write it on his arm.
He scoffed at himself. As if that would work. But something had to, because the clock was ticking, and he was ten feet from this heavenly vision. Checking his watch, he saw he had two minutes to spare before he met with the detective. He could do this. He could meet her in 120 seconds.
The sun pelted its hot desert rays at him, radiating off the sidewalks, as he ran a hand along his green tie and cleared his throat. She looked up from her phone, and instantly they locked eyes. Hers were blue like the sea. As she caught his gaze, she arched an eyebrow.
This was it. No time for lines. Just fucking talk to the gorgeous creature. “Seems I’ve been caught staring,” he said as he reached her, claiming a patch of concrete real estate a foot away.
“I’m afraid I’m guilty on that count, too,” she fired back, her voice laced with a torch-singer sultriness, her words telling him to keep going.
She had the pen in her hand and she twirled it once absently.
He tipped his forehead toward it. “Incidentally, I’m astonishingly good at picking up pens that beautiful women drop outside our fine city’s government buildings.”
Her lips twitched. Red. Cherry red and full. He wanted to know what they tasted like. How they felt. What she liked to do with them.
She brought the pen to her lips, danced it between them, raised her eyebrows in an invitation, and then let it drop. It clattered to the sidewalk. “Is that so?”
The pen was like a promise. Of something more. Of flirting, and then flirting back. Of phone numbers to follow. And then some. Oh yeah, so much and then some.
“That is so,” he said in a firm voice, bending down to pick up the writing implement, just as Sinatra’s ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ crooned from her phone. He rose, and she was tapping her screen, sliding her thumb across it.
“Must answer this. But thank you so much for the pen. By the way, I like your tie.” She reached out to trail a finger down the silky fabric, her hand terribly close to his chest. Then she held up that finger, asking him to wait.
“So good to hear from you,” she said into the phone, keeping her eyes on him the whole time. “I can’t wait to see you tonight at the gala at Aria,” she said, arching an eyebrow at Ryan as she emphasized that last word. “It’s going to be a fabulous event and we’ll raise so much money. My only hope is there will be some gorgeous man there in a green tie who can afford a last-minute ticket.”
He shot her a grin—a lopsided smile that said yes, the man in the green tie could absolutely afford a ticket.
He nodded his RSVP to the gala. She waved goodbye and walked down the street.
Suddenly, Ryan had plans that night.
* * *
Ryan wondered if everyone he encountered today had been hired from Central Casting. Because the detective was straight out of a script. If there was a dress code for police detectives, rule number one must be: thou shalt not tightly knot a tie. John Winston had taken that to heart and was sporting the slightly-loosened look, as if he’d been tugging on his navy tie all day, frustration increasing as he questioned belligerent suspects. Then there were the other hallmarks of the job, from the striped button-down with the cuffs rolled up, to the paper cup of deli coffee on the desk in his office. Even the stubble seemed to have been custom ordered to fit the part of homicide detective.
Funny how people could look like their jobs. Briefly, Ryan wondered if the blonde was a movie star. He wouldn’t be surprised.
“Thanks for coming in,” Winston said, shutting the door to his office behind them. Glass windows looked out over the rest of the department, and a sea of half-empty desks. Ryan wasn’t sure if that meant business was good or bad in homicide. “Have a seat.” The man gestured to a frayed brown office chair. “Ordinarily, I’d chat with you in a witness room, but they’re all full right now.”
So it was a busy day here.
“This works fine for me. What can I do for you?” Ryan asked as he sat down, eager to glean any details he could about the reopened investigation into his father’s murder.
Winston had called earlier in the week and asked him to come in. To help shed some light on the case, the detective had emphasized. “You’re not the target of the investigation. This isn’t about you. But you are a potential witness so I’d like to talk to you,” Winston had said on the phone.
Ryan was flying solo here today. Bringing a lawyer in for routine questioning would make it look as if he had something to hide. He did have something to hide, but he didn’t need an attorney by his side to keep the vault in his brain locked tight. That had been sealed for eighteen years, and no crowbar would get it open, so he wasn’t worried.
He was, however, damn curious. He wanted to know what Winston knew about his family. About his mother in prison. About his father, six feet under. Ryan quickly scanned the detective’s desk for any clue as to who John Winston was—a family photo, pictures of the detective with his kid, maybe even some sports memorabilia. But there were no telltale signs, save for an autographed baseball in a plastic case amidst a neat desk covered only with newspapers and a stack of Manila folders.
Ryan was left to his own devices to construct his character bio for John Winston, and he certainly didn’t need a photo on the desk to know the chances were good that Winston was a cop because his dad had been one, or because someone he cared about had been a victim of a crime.
That was how a man usually went into this business. He wasn’t judging Winston. Hell, Ryan fit the bill himself. He ran a private security firm, and he matched the job profile for that profession. Given that his father, Thomas Paige, had been gunned down in his own driveway when Ryan was fourteen, his job motivation was no mystery to anyone.
The detective grabbed the chair opposite Ryan. “I appreciate you coming in,” Winston said, as he held up a digital recorder. “I’m going to record this. Standard procedure whenever we talk to someone.” Ryan nodded as Winston set the recorder on his desk. “And, please, I’d like to keep what you say just between us. We’re going to be talking to a lot of people, and I want you to feel free to speak about what you know of your parents, and for others to do the same. I’m just hoping you might be able to answer a few questions that could help us in this investigation.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Ryan said, shooting him a smile. See? Nothing to hide. “You’ve got us all curious. Not gonna lie—we were pretty damn surprised when you showed up at my grandma’s house and told us the case was being reopened. Last thing I expected to hear. What have you got?”
The shooting was eighteen years ago, and his mother was doing hard time for it. She’d gone to trial quickly for murder for hire, along with the gunman, and both were behind bars. Ryan was dying to know why after eighteen years a closed case had gotten hot again.
Winston clucked his tongue and held out his hands wide, as if he was saying he was sorry. “I’m not really at liberty to say yet, since nothing has been confirmed. But some new evidence has come to light, and we’re trying to determine the validity of it.”
“New evidence about my mother’s guilt, or innocence?”
Dora Prince had steadfastly maintained her innocence. Of course, there was hardly an inmate in any prison anywhere who didn’t. Still, she was his mother, and he wanted to know if there was truth to her claim. He’d love to believe her. Hell, he’d be beside himself to learn his mother wasn’t a killer. He’d held on to the possibility for as long as she’d been locked away, grasping it tenaciously, never letting it go, waiting for a moment like this. For the chance that she might not have done it. That he wasn’t raised by a murderer. He dug his fingers into his palms in anticipation.
But the expression on Winston’s face was stony, his eyes hard. “New evidence about the crime,” he said, giving nothing away. “I know you were fourteen at the time, but is there any chance you remember some of the people your mother was associating with then?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. The answer was yes, and the answer was no. Ryan knew more than he should, but not enough to make sense of what his mother had given him, and he sure as hell didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He bought himself some time. “Can you be a little more specific?”
“We want to know who she spent time with. Beyond Stefano,” he said, dropping the name of the shooter, who was also behind bars.
“I’d just finished eighth grade.” Ryan was keenly aware of his own body language, of how he was sitting, how he was trying to strike a mix of casual and interested. Even though he was innocent, even though he didn’t have first-hand knowledge of the murder, he had intel about his mother that he didn’t intend to share, and that made him hyper-vigilant. Never say a word. He’d taken that directive from her to heart when he was younger, and as the years went on, too. Besides, what he knew would have no bearing on his mother or her freedom. But rather than focus on the classified documents inside his head, he narrowed in on the truth as he answered. “I didn’t have a great sense of the conversations she was having with that guy or any others—beyond the customers who came to our house to pick up clothes and costumes.”
Winston nodded and rubbed a hand over his chin, slowing as he seemed to consider. “We just want to get a better understanding of everything that happened. Something that might seem innocuous to you could actually wind up being a key piece of information for us. Were there new people in her life? Did she have any new friends?”
Ryan’s senses tingled as his analytical mind played connect-the-dots. “Does this mean you think there were others involved?”
Winston leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, the classic pose for trying to get somebody to open up. “Listen, I’m really just trying to get a better picture of what her life looked like at the time of your father’s murder. Trying to understand who she was involved with. It could be relevant to the investigation.” Winston made an encouraging gesture with his hands. “The customers you said would come over to pick up clothes—was there anyone new in the months or weeks prior?”
Ryan scrunched up his forehead, rewinding time. “Around then she was sewing leotards for a local gymnastics team. She tailored dresses for some of the girls in the neighborhood going to prom. She joked once that she had so much leftover fabric that she was going to start making dog jackets,” he said, and Winston’s lips quirked up in the barest grin.
“I like dogs,” Winston said.
“Same here.”
“Any idea who her clients were? Beyond the gymnastics folks? Her friends?”
“Sorry. I honestly didn’t keep track of who her friends were,” Ryan said, speaking the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
“Listen, if anything comes to you, I’d greatly appreciate if you could share it with me,” Winston said, turning off the recorder then pushing back from his seat and standing up.
Ryan tilted his head. “What is it you’re looking for, detective? It would help me if I knew what sort of info you think would be useful.”
“Honestly, anything,” he said, emphasizing the last word with a touch of desperation. “Even if it seems like nothing—even if it seems like the smallest piece of evidence,” he said as he opened the door to his office and escorted Ryan through the main office, which reeked of the late afternoon scent of TGIF even though it was Thursday, as weary cops and detectives finished phone calls, shuffled papers, and glanced at the clock as if they were all counting down the minutes ’til quitting time.
Ryan couldn’t blame them. He was eager to end this workday and get on his phone to sort out his new evening plans at Aria. He said goodbye to the detective and left, returning to the blanket of heat outside, where he dropped his shades over his blue eyes and scanned for the Aston Martin. The car was still there, but the blonde was gone.
Damn. He wouldn’t have minded another chance to drink her in. She would be a balm after that conversation with the detective, which had stirred up too many memories and far too many buried emotions. The past was such a thorny son-of-a-bitch. Diving back to his younger years was not a favorite hobby of his. Those days were messy and dangerous, and he wished he could leave them behind him.
He’d never been able to, though. They had dug claws into him. Grown knotty roots inside his head and his heart.
All the more reason to focus on the things that would take his mind off his obsession with the past.
Like tonight, and the chance to see the sexy blonde again. As he walked down the steps, he wondered briefly what kind of business she had at the municipal offices. One thing he was fairly certain about—she probably wasn’t talking to homicide detectives about an eighteen-year-old case.
A case he’d love to know more about. What he wouldn’t give to know what was inside John Winston’s head.
Chapter Two
Sophie knocked twice on the glass window. John looked up and flashed her a brief smile. Such a hard worker. Always had been. Always would be. He’d be burning the midnight oil tonight, either here at the station or at home.
Her brother, at thirty-three, was two years older than her, and she hadn’t been surprised to find him bent over his desk, one hand pushed through his dark blond hair, the other flipping through some papers. Probably some case he was hell-bent on solving, since that pretty much described her brother’s single-minded mission in life.
He came to the door and let her in. She’d just finished her phone call with her friend Jenna. Well, that call had then morphed into another one with her ex-husband Holden, but she always loved chatting with him, so the pair of them had kept her occupied as she’d strolled outside, gabbing with some of her favorite people.
“Hey you,” John said, and dropped a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Hey you to you,” she said, her voice bright and bubbly because she was still in a fantastic mood thanks to Mr. Green Tie. She was hoping that handsome man—wait, make that devilishly handsome, because he’d had a wicked glint in those dark blue eyes—would pick up the trail of breadcrumbs she’d left behind. The way Mr. Green Tie had looked at her on the street…she’d never felt so deliciously naked while wearing clothes. A man like that, bold enough to walk right up and talk to her…he was exactly the kind of man who would show up tonight at Aria.
The kind of man she’d never experienced.
But wanted to.
Oh, how she wanted to know what a direct, confident, and forward man was like.
Anticipation knitted a path up her spine. She barely knew the guy, had uttered all of ten words to him, but Sophie thrived on moments like this. Moments that could unspool into decadent possibility. She had a feeling about him. A good feeling. A sexy feeling.
Okay, fine. She supposed it was entirely possible he could be a serial killer or an axe murderer.
But that was highly unlikely.
And it wasn’t as if she’d stupidly invited him to a deserted house at the end of an isolated road. She’d invited him to a ballroom event at Aria that cost a pretty penny for a ticket, where security would be top-notch because the attendee list had the sort of net worth that required it. Not that money was indicative of a man’s character or date-ability, but she’d been able to tell by the cut of his pants and the silk of his tie that he would be able to afford the ticket.
The ticket was a pre-screening. A show of faith in his interest. A sign that he’d jump through the first hoop to see her.
She crossed her fingers that he’d show.
“You’re in a good mood,” John said then grabbed her arm protectively. He tipped his head to the chatter and hum of the men at the desks behind her. “And get in here. Everyone is staring at you. Don’t you own a jacket?”
She laughed with her red-lipsticked mouth wide open, and shook her head. “It’s July. It’s close to a hundred degrees outside. Why on earth would I wear a jacket?”
“Why on earth do you insist on wearing a dress everywhere you go? It doesn’t even have sleeves,” he countered as he tugged her into his office and shut the door behind him.
“Thank heavens for the lack of sleeves.” Sophie raised her chin up high. “And you never know who you might meet. I certainly don’t want to be wearing a sweat suit when I meet the future love of my life.”
“Perish the thought,” he muttered.
Her eyes widened. “I might bump into Mr. Right anywhere.”
He scoffed and waved broadly at the offices and desks behind her. “You better hope you’re not meeting the love of your life here.”
But really, you never knew. Her mother had run into her father at a fruit stand in a farmer’s market on the outskirts of town when she was buying a pineapple from him. They’d known each other in high school when both were involved with other people, and then they’d bumped into each other again twenty years later. They’d locked eyes across the citrus, and the rest was history—thirty-five years of an insanely happy marriage and two kids. Sophie could recall many nights when she’d sneak out of bed as a kid and find them slow dancing in the living room to Ella Fitzgerald as a breeze blew through the gauzy curtains, looking so in love.
A love launched by a pineapple.
“In any case, Captain John Buzzkill Winston,” she said, fishing around in her cherry-red purse to find what she’d come for, “here is the transponder to get into my building.” She pressed the flat white object into his palm. “Just wave it at the gate, and you can get into the garage. I have two spots. Use 121 or 122.”
“Thank you,” he said, tapping the device. “Fucking termites. I really appreciate you letting me stay with you. I’d stay with one of the guys…”
She cut him off. “You’ll do no such thing. Men who live alone live like pigs. Think of it as a vacation at the Ritz. Or really, the Veer,” she said, since Sophie lived in a penthouse condo at that luxurious building on the Strip, and it was as close to the Ritz as one could get. “I’ll be leaving at six-thirty sharp for the benefit. You sure you can’t come?”
“No time for a benefit.”
She pouted. “But you look so cute when you clean up,” she said then squeezed his cheek.
He hissed.
“Oh, you don’t scare me with your hisses. You might scare all those poor little suspects you question, but I know you’re just a hushpuppy underneath.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re killing me.”
“I know. It’s so much fun to embarrass you. I think when I leave, I’m gonna shake my rear a little bit. Would that make you crazy? If all your fellas stared at your little sister?”
He held up a finger warning her not to. “You know they all lust after you. Don’t, Soph. Please.”
Oh, but it was too fun to needle him like this. “Don’t try on my shoes tonight while I’m out. Just promise me that,” she said as she opened the door, then pressed her fingers to her mouth in an “oops” gesture. He huffed, and she walked out, winking at the mustached man at the desk a few feet away. “Hi Gavin. Don’t you work too hard.”
“I promise I won’t, Sophie,” he said, then followed her with his puppy dog eyes. “That is, if you’ll finally go out with me.”
She clasped her hand on her heart. “Oh, Gavin. You know I want to. But John just won’t let his little sister date one of the guys he works with.”
Gavin frowned, as he always did when she playfully said no, since he always asked.
Sophie said hello to another guy she knew. “Hey there, Jason. You look handsome today. Say hello to Evie and the boys from me.”
Jason gave a quick salute. “I will. She said to tell you she loved your peach pie recipe.”
“I am so pleased to hear that. My sweet mother left that one for me. It’s divine,” Sophie said, then blew a big communal kiss off her palm for the whole lot of them. As she pictured the red lips floating through the air, she caught one last look at her brother. He scowled from behind the glass in his office.
She winked then walked out.
Sophie Winston was a certified flirt. She hadn’t always been one. Growing up, she was one hundred percent geek. But those days were gone, and now she could be this woman. The one who finally flirted. Flirting was like champagne to her—it gave her a rush, and she loved it. Besides, it let her bide her time. Until it could be more than flirting. Until it could become the real thing.
Maybe someday she’d meet someone who she’d want to do more than flirt with, who’d want her in the same way. She wasn’t entirely sure what that would feel like, but she knew she craved that kind of connection. She wanted it all the way…but she’d also happily take the physical side of the equation for now, if the opportunity arose.
She’d had a mere two lovers in her life, but she knew what she wanted.
She knew what turned her on.
As she returned to her car and started the engine, an image of that man in the green tie slipped into her mind. Of the way she’d felt when he’d stared at her—as if she were being hunted. How she loved that kind of hungry gaze. How she longed to be the prey.
A man who stared at her that way was enough to make her get down on her knees, and that was exactly where she wanted to be.
* * *
As Johnny Cash leapt high to catch a Frisbee in midair in his backyard, Ryan scrolled through the search results. The sun inched closer to the horizon, pelting bolts of pure summer swelter from the sky. He’d already taken a dip in his pool to cool off when he’d arrived home a few minutes ago, and the blue water had done the trick…momentarily.
After quickly tracking down the gala details on his phone in the parking lot, and snagging a pricy ticket for a benefit to raise money for a new children’s wing at a local hospital, Ryan had headed to the gym for a quick workout. With five miles on the treadmill as he answered emails from clients, and several rounds of weights under the belt, he had some time now to dig deeper about his possible date tonight.
To learn more than simply the name of the event.
His black and white Border Collie mix raced to his side, nudging Ryan’s bare leg with the purple Frisbee, which was etched with teeth marks around the rim. Johnny Cash was addicted to this Frisbee. Ryan understood deeply the dog’s single-minded focus. His intensity. His drive.
“Ready for another?”
The dog thumped his tail on the emerald-green grass. From under the relative cool of the big yellow umbrella on the deck of the pool, Ryan cocked his arm and Johnny Cash took off racing, barreling to the far corner of the yard, around the water, and past a cluster of palm trees that shaded the edge of his property. Ryan tossed the Frisbee then glanced down at the iPad again, hunting for any clue that might yield a name for the bombshell.
She’d said something on the phone about raising money, so perhaps she worked for the hospital, heading up its fundraising, maybe. He scanned the event page more closely. Tonight’s fete was a silent auction with drinks and hors d’oeuvres, as well as a performance by a well-known Vegas torch singer. All the town’s glitterati would be there. Probably even some of Ryan’s clients, since the security firm he and his brother ran had contracts with many of the city’s top spenders.
Those were the only details he found.
He shrugged as he reached the bottom of the page and came up empty-handed in the information department. But he didn’t need her name to know he wanted to see her again. He’d already plunked down his cash for the entrance fee in the hope he’d spend time with her tonight. He was rolling the dice big time, but he had a feeling, just from those fifteen seconds on the street that the—
Wait.
There it was. In small print. On the bottom of the page.
The gala had been organized by…noted Vegas philanthropist Sophie Winston.
His dog returned to his side, depositing the Frisbee demandingly at Ryan’s feet, but he couldn’t pull his eyes off that name, wildly rolling and rattling around in his brain like pinballs bouncing off flippers.
