Inside Bet: Vegas Top Guns, Book 2 (11 page)

So no alcohol at lunch, even if she could’ve used the means of relaxing. Work was work. She kept her personal life and her professional ambitions well apart, having renounced trusting her judgment if the two collided.

When the waiter announced the day’s specials, all of which were in French, Heather found herself back on that couch in The Palazzo, with Jon murmuring against her thighs. God, he’d sounded amazing, his voice rough with passion. She crossed her legs under the table.

Le passé n’a aucun prise a toi, quand meme amoureuse.

The past has no hold on you, lover.

She spent long hours trying to blame him. Had Jon kept their play wholly sexual, she wouldn’t have had a problem seeing him again. She might have even sought him out for her birthday evening. The best present was one that could be enjoyed over and over again.

He’d changed, subtly. Nothing she could pinpoint, nothing she could explain. All she knew was that his brief bout of tenderness had been too much to take—when he’d combed her wet hair, his hands so gentle after having just been wrapped around her neck. Such unexpected compassion had thrown her blind, idiotic heart into overdrive. Hoping. Making plans.

Not with a man like him.

“Here’s to Heather.” Mr. Quinn raised his iced tea. “Many happy returns.”

Kyle and Grant echoed his toast, with a particularly attentive smile on Grant’s face.

She should just be happy. Enjoy this. Her colleagues trusted her and respected her. The bottom line in her various investment accounts, though not untouched by the market’s volatility, was still solid. She would have money for her parents’ future, paying them back for all they’d done to get her through tough years. The future was hers to determine, not a brick wall waiting to crack her open.

The office was only two blocks away, which was manageable in the August heat, but only just. Even three years in Vegas hadn’t acclimated her to the oven-strong temperatures. College summers in Pennsylvania could get warm and sticky, but not like a blow dryer frying her face. Sweat dampened her forehead as the hundred-plus heat wilted her hair.

Grant walked beside her, his broad shoulders hunched against a nicely cut suit. “Do you have any plans for your birthday?”

Heather kept the rhythm of her walk, although the question caught her off-guard. Grant was in his mid-forties, recently divorced, well-established with the firm. She liked his salt-and-pepper hair and easy smile. The possibility of going out with him was rather unnerving, though, because thoughts of him were still colored by his ex, Tina, and their three sons.

And no mingling sex and work. She couldn’t afford to slip. Her promotion and her reputation were simply too important.

“Probably not,” she found herself saying. “I think a rental and too much chocolate.”

“I could join you, if you wanted company. Maybe bring a bottle of wine?”

He held the door as she slipped into the cool lobby. Air conditioning was such a miracle. She faced Grant, looking him over with an attempt at fresh eyes. He kept good care of himself, which apparently had been part of the trouble behind the divorce. Too many hours at the gym…followed by one too many late-night cocktail parties at the clients’ casinos.

He was a nice-enough guy, if one didn’t have plans to get involved. The ex, the kids, their status as colleagues—all too complicated.

The trouble was, Heather had already found her good time. She tried to imagine Grant’s teeth on her nipple ring, Grant’s cock pressed against her ass, Grant’s hands on her throat. She couldn’t do it. Jon had left a mark on her sex life. She only hoped it wasn’t indelible. The idea of comparing future lovers to what she’d shared so briefly with one particular Air Force captain was just awful.

“That sounds…nice, Grant,” she said cautiously. “Really, it does. But I think I’ll have to pass. For now. I’ve been out of sorts lately.”

He managed a wan smile and was sweet enough to change the subject. Heather didn’t breathe normally until she made it back to the safety of her private office, which had a maddeningly perfect view of the Strip. When emails piled up and she didn’t know where to start on the tasks laid out before her, she located The Palazzo along the skyline.

Snap out of it.

Leaning her elbows on the desk, she held her head. For the first time she wondered if she’d made a mistake in leaving him.

What could it hurt?

No
.

There was nothing more to be had from her fabulous hours with Jon Carlisle. He was her early birthday present—one she’d remember with a naughty smile for the rest of her life. Everyone in Sin City knew how the house operated. With each successive bet, a person reduced his odds of earning a profit. It was Las Vegas 101. The theorem of the gambler’s ruin—one of the oldest formulas in mathematics. Any game of chance based on a negative expected value would eventually exhaust finite resources.

Such was the equivalent of time spent with a hedonist like Jon. Each return would become more dangerous than the last. Hearts got involved. Hearts got broken.

She wanted her bets to be as safe as possible. One day she would find a stable, normal guy who treated her with love and respect. He would reinforce her hard-earned restraint, not encircle it with dynamite. There would be mutual trust and sharing.

Like you trusted Jon? Like you shared one another?

Nope. Brick wall.

She tried to work, but her thoughts were a jumble. Worse, she was physically edgy, tense in a way that could only be described as
horny
.

Heather was just about to head home early, intending to cite her birthday as an excuse, when someone knocked on her office door.

“Come in,” she called.

A woman in a white T-shirt and a pair of bright blue dungarees opened the door. The logo on the shoulder of her T-shirt read
Lilies of the Field
. “Are you Ms. Morris?”

“Yes.”

“Got a flower delivery for you.”

The woman produced a slender vase. Gold filaments wove through the delicate glass, subtly catching the light. Curved like the spine of a woman, it held a single purple morning glory that exactly matched those of her tattoo.

Heather could only stare at the gift, knowing exactly who’d sent it. They had parted almost anonymously, but Jon had sought her out.

After signing for the gift, she watched the delivery woman close the office door. Heather was alone. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the tiny cream-colored card. Its gold filaments echoed those in the vase. Every detail bore his stamp—meticulous, classic, designed to pry underneath her skin.

What’s done is done?

Your call. Happy 32nd.

Jon

And his phone number. That was it.

She shivered at that reminder of
Macbeth
. Leave it to Jon to turn a bit of Shakespearian tragedy into the classiest come-on of all time. Her nipple ring tugged against her bra, suddenly too sensitive to bear. She pushed the card against her lips, as if she’d be able to smell him there, but it was just printer ink on cardstock.

Closing her eyes, she fought a battle that had no good outcome. No erotic images came to her. No pictures of Jon’s body or their bodies together. Instead she was stuck on the idea of how she’d spend her birthday evening. Alone in her house. Sick on chocolate. Hoping the rental was good enough to hold her attention. Then what? A sex toy and early bedtime?

The voice she heard in her mind was Jon’s as he’d ripped off his condom, losing control, ready to come on her breasts.
Fuck it.

She grabbed her BlackBerry and dialed before she could think. Her fingertips were numb, her thighs hot. Every gulp of air reminded her of his hands controlling whether she took another breath. The phone rang and rang. Would she leave a voicemail or simply hang up?

“Yo, this is Carlisle.”

She spoke past her dry tongue. “Afternoon, Captain.”

A long pause followed. She counted her heartbeats as they sped past. Her thumb hovered over the button to switch off the call.

“You got my present,” he said.

“I did, thank you. It’s beautiful.” Her slingback heels fidgeted up and down until she forced them to still. “What do you have in mind?”

“Dinner.”

“Where?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“Any place nice will need reservations.”

He chuckled softly. “Don’t worry about that.”

The scream of an airplane’s engine forced Heather to hold the phone away from her ear. Something primal knotted in her gut, timeless and needy. He was a fighter pilot, for Christ’s sake. He lived for danger and novelty, a connoisseur of fine, rare things.

And he wanted her.

That tugged her spine a little straighter. She deserved to be desired by such a man on her birthday. She needed this. Again. For herself.

“Sorry about that,” he said after the plane had passed.

“You’re still at work?”

“Just paperwork now. I’m done flying.”

Another shiver. Jon sweaty and rushing on adrenaline, his lean welterweight body climbing down from a fighter’s cockpit. God, he would have such a swagger.

“Can you pick me up?” she asked.

Another long silence. Was he trying to teach her a lesson for dropping him? Was he regretting having sent the flower? She curled her fingers into her palm, ready to pierce her own skin out of anticipation.

Finally he cleared his throat. “I need time to clean up here. How about your place at seven?”

“Seven.” She glanced at the wall clock. Four hours away. Now that she’d given herself permission to indulge, that time was agony. “Make it six, Captain.”

“Very well.”

Heather recited her address, breaking down another barrier between them. He would see where she lived. That intimacy made her pulse quicken.

“But you should do something for me,” he said, almost offhandedly.

She soaked in the rumble of his voice. Low. A little scratchy. He sounded just as he had when they’d fucked. With Jon, sex and desire had a particular timbre.

“Tell me.”

His voice dipped again, as if there was a possibility he would be overheard. “Touch yourself. Right now.”

A denial leaped to her tongue. Of course she couldn’t.

She swallowed her protest. After a quick trip to the door, locking it, she returned to her desk. What was the use of a private office if she didn’t make the most of it?

“Do any of your colleagues speak French?” she asked.

“Not that I know of.” She heard the smile in his words. “Shall I?”

“Yes, please.”

She swiveled in the chair, turning until she could reclaim her view of The Palazzo. Just that glimpse was enough to set her blood alight, as Jon’s whispered French slinked past her defenses. Heather lifted the hem of her brushed-silk skirt. Her hand became his hand, the feel of his fingers caressing, circling, dipping inside.

From the phone she heard the sound of a car door closing. “Now we’re alone,” he rasped. “I want to hear you come. Let me hear you.”

“I can’t.”

“You can. I don’t need loud, Ms. Morris. I know how you sound. Just close your eyes and let me hear you breathe.”

Heather pulsed her fingers in faster circles. The finish was close now, her lungs heaving. She sucked in a hard breath as a slow, honeyed orgasm filled her world, all blazing color and hot light. She stayed quiet, only permitting a slow, controlled exhalation. He could have that.

The rest was hers to keep.

“
Merci
, Heather love. I’ll see you at six.”

Chapter Fourteen

Sweltering, Jon sat in his car. He hadn’t wanted to take the time to kick on the engine and let the A/C roar. He’d been too focused on hearing Heather. More specifically, hearing her come—the soft hitch in her breathing, then the gusty exhalation. Just listening to those sweet sounds was enough to get him going.

He tapped the phone against his closed lips as he stared out the window. Technically his only view was the side of the 64
^th
Aggressor Squadron’s headquarters, but that didn’t stop his imagination. Heather’s graceful fingers, tipped with the tasteful French manicure and dipping in her wet pussy, still layered across his vision.

Ordering the flower had almost been impulse. Almost.

He’d spent a little too long determining what to write on the card to fully merit that level of insouciance.

He’d decided to go through with it because he hadn’t been able to unravel Heather. Was she the bold, fearless woman he thought her? Or something less…intriguing? He’d believed he would know from the tone of her voice—if she even called—but an air of mystery still surrounded her.

The only thing he’d confirmed was that speaking French got her hot. At least that was something he could work with.

A sharp knock clicked on the driver’s-side window, only inches from his head. He kept his reaction down to a fast jerk.

Major Ryan Haverty and Captain Leah Girardi stood outside his door, wearing matching expressions of amusement.

Sighing, Jon pushed the ignition button and lowered the power window. “You two have a problem?”

Ryan leaned a forearm across the top of the car and bent to bring his head low. The man was such a beef-fed All-American. Tall as a house and almost as sturdy. “No,
mon ami
. Not at all.”

Leah grinned and blew air kisses. Her dark hair skimmed straight back from her face and wound into a bun that met regulation. For now. Off-duty hours would find it a mess. “
Oui, oui
,” she whispered like a breathless Marilyn Monroe.

Fuck. They’d heard him.

He kept his posture loose in the leather bucket seat, then smiled. “If your only intent is to give me a rash of shit, can we get on with it pronto? I’ve got to turn in my inventory. I’m getting out of here on time, hell or high water.”

“Got plans, Dimples?” asked Ryan, a smirky grin on his face.

The major had earned that one, probably a couple times over. Not that long ago, Jon had busted Ryan’s balls about his plans—or lack of them—one night when Cass had shown up in a very interesting costume. “As a matter of fact, I do. Hence my need to get out of here.”