Get Lucky (4 page)

“All right. You said you were going to some Brazilian steakhouse. Vio, or Via, or something like that. It’s down along the Strip. Not too far.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning around at once and heading off. I have to wait as Julia talks with the guy a little more, then finally decides to get up and join me. She sashays a little, a pleased smile on her face. “Anything else coming back to you?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s coming back all right.” She points to herself. “The flirt machine hasn’t gotten rusty.” Then she does some kind of victory dance.

Why the hell couldn’t Stacy and Mike have gotten married in Evanston?

“
W
eren’t those clowns hilarious
?” I say as I slice away at a thick, juicy steak. It’s a healthy pink and deep red in the center, absolutely perfect. “I want to know how they stayed afloat on the roof of that house!”

O
at the Bellagio is complete magic, all water acrobatics and high dives. Probably my favorite Cirque I’ve ever seen.

The girls all nod, sipping drinks and making orgasm noises over the quality of the steak. Sometimes it doesn’t suck to be me.

“Glad you got to see some funny clowns,” Shanna says, winking as she clinks glasses with me. “That guy this afternoon was more of a sad clown.”

I laugh, then rub my forehead and sigh. That Nate Wexler asshole really got under my skin. It took a glass of champagne at the hotel bar—and the attentions of a really cute bartender—to get me out of my funk. Now I’m riding high on a cloud of good booze, good friends, and the Vegas lights. Nothing can beat this.

Wait, no. Dancing. Some kind of salsa dancing on the floor with a live band will add spice to any evening. The band strikes up, and the lights dim a little. Shanna and I laugh, and she grabs my hand.

“May I have this dance?” she says, batting her eyelashes. I pretend to swoon.

“I thought you’d never ask,” I say. We all get out of the booth and head to the floor.

The men onstage are dressed in some kind of cultural costume, with blinding white shirts and big sleeves. They wink and greet us as we start moving to the music; everyone likes to have their work appreciated. Seconds later, I’m spinning around next to Shanna. Meredith and a couple of other authors—Daphne and Toni—appear to be going under a limbo stick on the other side of the room. I don’t think salsa or limbo are really Brazilian in origin, but eh. I’m not going to complain.

“Ten four,” Shanna whispers in my ear. She bumps her hip against me. “Someone’s dancing up to you.” And then she leaves me, just like that, twirling back into the crowd.

“What?” I say, not understanding. Until I feel a presence brush up right beside me, and then it’s all super clear.

“Hi there,” someone whispers in my ear.

There’s this insane moment where I turn around and expect it to be Nate Wexler. That would be the cherry on top of this day. In fact, there’s a small part of me that hopes it’s him. Just so I can get the opportunity to stomp on his foot, of course.

But it’s not Nate, not at all. A tall man with shaggy blonde hair and a goatee is dancing right next to me. He’s doing a white guy hip swivel that counts as salsa dancing to the Nordic set, but I’m not going to make him feel bad about it. He’s close, very close, but not that thing where he dry humps your leg while you shake your ass. Classy. That’s a promising start.

“I wanted to dance with the sexiest girl in the place,” he says in my ear. He grins.

“Um. Hi,” I say. I even give a small, dorky wave.

I’m not really sure what to say or how to dance or how to think words right now. I’ve never had a
Dirty Dancing
meet you on the floor kind of moment before. I spin around, looking for Shanna. When I find her, I give her wide
help me
eyes. She frowns, points at the guy, and mouths, “Talk to him!” She wears that little crooked expression of hers, the kind that makes me feel like she’s a tiny bit sorry for me.

All right, then. I can do this. I’ve been out of the game a long time, sure. Okay, like over a year. Most nights I’m working on a deadline, getting a beer with friends, or catching up on Netflix. Maybe I’ve been a little overly cautious about going out there and having a good time, and this is my chance. I’ve got to get back in to the flirting pool, one toe at a time.

I just wish I knew what to say. Like, how do I interest a guy, seduce him, make him think I’m sexy and desirable?

I mean, if only I were a romance author or something, duh.
Come on, Julia! Screw flirting, your professional reputation is at stake here! I mean, kind of!
I turn back around, this time with a smile playing on my lips. I also shake my hips a little more, just a white lady trying her damn best. I try for coy and mischievous. Coy and mischievous are right up this guy’s street. He moves a little closer, letting his hands drift down to my hips. I do a little shake. I think he likes it.

“I’m Julia,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder while we dance. I press myself close, feel the heat of his body through his white T-shirt. In my fantasies, he’d be dressed up a little more. Ooh, like in an Armani suit, elegant and aloof. And then he’d open his mouth and tell me his name was something exotic, something like—

“My name’s Derek,” he says. Okay, that puts a bump in my fantasy. But the next words out of his mouth are, “Buy you a drink?” I already like where this is going.

What did Lola Sinclair say when she first met Archer Valmont in
Sizzling in Seattle
?

Well, she had his dick in her mouth in the first ten pages, so maybe not much in the way of dialogue.

But nothing wrong with pretending to be Lola, is there? If nothing else, girl knows how to get the job done.

“Drink?” Derek asks again, a little concerned look on his face.

Crap. I’d done the
go to another dimension
writing blackout thing. I’ve been told my eyes cross when I do that. I toss my hair and return myself to the here and now. Lola it up, Julia. Let’s do this.

“Love one,” I purr into his ear. Derek likes that. He sweeps me off the floor, finding us a cozy little booth in the corner. I slide in, and he moves in after me, casually circling his arm behind, then slowly around me. I’m a goddess right now; everyone should come and offer gifts of chocolate and mojitos. That’s my currency.

“Do you live around here?” Derek asks, once we get a couple of shots going. Mmm, shots are a sensational treat I’ve denied myself since college. The tequila burns on the way down; that’s good.

“I’m here on business.” I grin, looking up at him slyly. “Maybe mix it with a little pleasure while I’m in town.”

“Pleasure. I like the sound of that,” Derek says, running his hand down to linger on the small of my back. I push my chest forward, showing off my very nice cleavage. I’m not modest; a girl has to know her assets. Derek appreciates it. “What kind of business are you in?” he asks.

“International espionage.” Well, that was what Lola was doing—trying to crack Archer’s heavily encrypted files and getting more than she bargained for in the process. “I have to create a distraction at the Venetian hotel while my team breaks in and pulls off an elaborate heist.”

I take another shot of tequila and lick my lips in what I hope is a sexy way. Seems to be, because Derek’s hand travels a little further south and traces across my ass.

Sexy. Be Lola. Experiment, dammit.
“Oh, Mister . . . Derek. You are so bold,” I drawl.

“And you’re, like, super fucking hot,” he says, leaning in for a kiss. His breath is stenchy with liquor. Before he can claim his kiss, I laugh and kind of push away from him. That brought reality crashing back in a kind of hard-hitting way. Derek doesn’t seem deterred. Well, if he gets too out of line, I know a good karate chop. Self defense forever, kids.

“What do you say?” he asks, trailing his fingers around my ass, my hip, heading for . . . 
hello there
. I cross my legs. He pulls out his wallet, and takes out a plastic key card. “I’m in Paris.”

I almost tell him that he has his cities mixed up, when I realize he means the hotel. “Oh,” I say, super eloquently.

“What do you say, gorgeous?” He leans in for a kiss again, his mouth open, his lips . . . kind of dewy looking, actually.

In the haze of booze, part of my body is screaming
yes
, cavorting around and waving pom poms. Because it’s been a long time. Like a long, long time. Too damn long. But at the same time, much as I’d like to be Lola, Derek’s not exactly Archer. My wonderful image of me as a spy mistress falling for a debonair billionaire’s charms goes pop. I get an image of myself as I probably am right now, a sad, drunken thirty-something looking for validation from a guy who’s so bombed he’s about to pass out.

That’s not what I want my first time back in the saddle to be.

“Thanks,” I say, switching my voice from seductive Lola to chipper me. I even grab his hand and shake; it’s pretty limp. I’ll take that as a sign that any bedroom shenanigans would be pretty lacking. “I, uh, gotta go. That espionage won’t, eh, espionage itself. Bye.”

I slide out of the booth and walk back to the dance floor before Derek can answer. I also wobble a little, because man, that tequila was good and strong. Where the hell is Shanna? I turn around and around, but it’s a whirling madhouse of limbo, maracas, and what appears to be a matador egging on an actor dressed in a bull costume.

I’m just going to say it; this ambiance is very inaccurate at representing the great and rich culture of Brazil.

I burp, very sexy.

“Julia!” Shanna calls, waving to me from the bar. She and the other ladies are laughing it up with what appears to be a bachelorette party. I’d know those plastic tiaras and neon glowing necklace penises anywhere. I go over to them and hop onto a stool. I also slide off once and have to pull myself back up. Okay, maybe I’m a little drunk. But who cares? I’m awesome.

“Oh my God, you’re Julia Stevens?” the woman sitting next to me says, clutching my arm. She’s got to be the bride; her tiara has a nice little lace veil on top. She’s an attractive woman, probably in her early thirties, with sleek dark hair and a healthy tan. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . you’re kind of my favorite author. I had no idea the Romantic Style convention was happening this weekend. I couldn’t have planned a better bachelorette party!” Her eyes are actually shiny with tears.

A slow, warm happiness spreads through my body. My favorite part of conventions is meeting with fans, hands down. And if those fans are about to walk down the aisle to a happy future of their own? Even better.

“All this is going to my head,” I say, grinning. I clutch onto the bar as well, to stop the room from lurching back and forth. “Or maybe that’s just the booze.”

“I’m Stacy Kaufman.” She shakes my hand, then gives me a hug. “Oh my God, nothing but romance authors. This is my favorite part of the night!”

“Then you are having one shitty bachelorette party,” Meredith says, knocking back a shot of something and putting the empty glass down. She’s accumulated quite a collection, but she still looks steady as anything. Taking a long drag on a cigarette, Meredith winks at us. “But if it’s a bachelorette party that makes my author money, I think it’s a great time.”

“When are you due to walk down the aisle?” I ask.

“Tomorrow. I’m half afraid we’ll all be too wasted to get married,” Stacy laughs. “Luckily, our hotel’s the venue.”

“Which one?”

“The Bellagio. Very
Ocean’s 11
,” she says proudly.

A woman after my own heart.

“I hope you have a lot of sexy shenanigans before the night’s over,” I tell her, putting my elbow on the bar and my cheek in my hand. I’m getting a little sleepy tipsy. It’s the kind of buzz where you either need to party harder and wake up a little, or you go home and go to sleep. I’m thinking it’ll be the latter, but then Stacy’s eyes light up.

“Listen, why don’t you all come along?” Stacy says, bouncing excitedly in her seat. “We were thinking of maybe finding a Chippendale show somewhere.”

“Oiled men with their shirts off, gyrating to music.” I put a hand over my heart in mock horror. “Do you really think I’m that kind of girl?”

“Yep,” Stacy says. We both burst out laughing. I like this woman.

“I’m absolutely down for anyone getting naked, of any gender,” Shanna says, grabbing her purse. “I’m all about equal opportunity for hot people.”

“You’ve convinced me. Let’s go,” I say.

Stacy whoops and nearly falls off her barstool. We all pay for our drinks and head for the door. The night air is sultry, still so warm that I’m starting to feel silly for having brought a sweater.

Stacy fishes around in her purse, and a look of worry crosses her face.

“You okay?” I ask her. Daphne, Meredith, and Toni are already dancing down the street, talking about a Mexican hat dance. I swear, this restaurant really doesn’t know all that much about Brazilian culture.

“Shit. I forgot my phone. I left it.” She stops and smacks herself on the forehead. “Dammit! My fiancé has it.”

“Here, type his number in my cell.” I hand her my trusty iPhone with its blue police box TARDIS case, and Stacy dials. While she talks to her fiancé, Shanna and I look at each other.

“Are you ready for well-muscled, oiled men with their shirts off?” she asks.

“Dirty jobs for dirty minds.” Our high five connects.

“Bye, babe,” Stacy says, and hangs up. “Okay,” she says, handing over the phone. “Let’s just stay put. They’re coming for us in their car. It’ll be hard to miss— they’re rolling down the street in—”

“Ahoy fair maidens! Let’s get shitfaced!”

That voice sounds familiar. A stretch Hummer pulls up alongside the curb. A smiling, frosted hair tipped guy is standing out of the sunroof, waving enthusiastically. I remember him; Tyler, that nice bro type who was with Mike and . . . .

Oh, fuck me. And not in the nice way, where I have two orgasms and someone makes me breakfast in the morning. The door opens, and Mike and that douche lizard Nate Wexler get out. At least this time, Tightass isn’t wearing his impeccable fucking suit. He’s in jeans and a black T-shirt. Looks kind of hot, honestly.

I’m not staring. I don’t stare at jerks, even if they’re hot.

“Hey babe,” Mike says, kissing Stacy as she throws her arms around his neck. “Needed a rescue?” He hands her a phone, grinning.

“More like a pick-up from a studly man. I do my own rescuing, thank you so much,” she teases, and gives him another kiss. Mike laughs.

I’ve spent enough time writing real love to know it when it’s standing right in front of me. I smile, though I have to force it a little when the Tightass Known As Nate walks over to me.

“So. You’re joining us?” he asks, hands in the pockets of his jeans.