Hot Commodity(3)

Her mother wanted her to marry a lousy alcoholic. Fine. She’d marry a lousy alcoholic. In fact, she planned to snatch up the first alcoholic moron she came across. And then she was going to use the condom meant for Cameron Banks, and she was going to make her new alcoholic husband beg for mercy.

The elevator stopped on the first floor. Grinning one last come-hither

smile at the attendant, Olivia trailed her nails over the chest of his uniform as she stepped out into the foyer.

Suck on this, Vivian.

She lifted her chin again and sauntered out the front doors, where the cab she’d called was already waiting.

She let the doorman open the back door for her. The driver asked where she wanted to go, and when she answered, "Just drive," he complied.

From the backseat, Olivia scanned her options. There were so many places to husband-hunt. Cruising the Vegas Strip opened numerous options. Not that she felt picky at the moment.

"This looks good," she told the driver about ten minutes later.

The taxi pulled to the curb, she paid her fare, and out she slid, only to wrinkle her nose at the seedy-looking bar and swallow nervously. Good God, was she really going to do this?

Maybe she should just go back to the hotel, wait for her mother, and calmly explain she wasn’t going to sleep with some stranger, no matter how much Vivian insisted.

But then Olivia thought about how swell that announcement would go over. There was a good reason she’d never defied Vivian before. Vivian was a cruel, powerful woman. Those two qualities totally sucked when one made an enemy of her—sucked for the enemy, that is. Olivia had seen Vivian’s opponents fall under her metaphoric sword, and Olivia never wanted to get on her mother’s bad side.

Of course, there was also the option where she actually went to the dinner, met Cameron Banks, and did her damndest to seduce him. But, no. That wouldn’t work either. She didn’t want to be anywhere near one of Vivian’s crusty, old cronies, and she certainly didn’t want to invite the geezer into bed with her. Two years ago, Vivian had married the most available millionaire around. If this Cameron Banks fellow was anything like Olivia’s eighty-two-year-old stepfather, Nolan Roark, she’d gag if Banks even tried to kiss her. The mere thought made her shudder. Gross.

Forcing her rebellion to take precedence, Olivia fisted her hands and entered the bar. But she hadn’t even made it all the way inside before she was ready to leave. There were some truly scary-looking people hanging around, and they all turned to ogle her as soon as she stepped over the threshold. The door shut at her back and swatted her in the butt as it closed, making her yelp and jump a foot further inside.

Olivia sent the roomful of gawking eyes an innocent little smile as she eased a step in reverse. She might’ve been looking for the worst candidate Vivian could imagine, but she had to be able to stomach the guy too.

No one present looked to fit that bill.

As she reached behind her, she sent one last fleeting glance around the slime-infested joint, and that’s when she finally caught sight of him. Paying no attention to her, he exited the bathroom and made a beeline toward the bar. As he neared a stool that had an empty shot glass in front of it, he went to sit and missed his seat, tripping and slipping off the side. He caught himself just in time. Laughing at his own clumsiness, he ordered another drink as the bartender approached to ask if he was all right.

Intrigued, Olivia watched. She waited until he turned slightly in her direction to glance up at the television over the bar. The breath snagged in her chest when she finally caught a view of his side profile. The guy was positively gorgeous. He was dressed in a ratty pair of jeans and a holey T-shirt, yet he looked so yummy Olivia decided she could go grunge after all.

She’d always been a sucker for well-defined facial features. Pronounced cheekbones, square jaw, deep-set eyes, and a high forehead.

As the bartender set the tiny glass in front of him, he grinned at the man, thanking him. Olivia’s stomach filled with butterflies. He looked, well, he looked kind of lovable, like a happy-go-lucky drunk who didn’t care if he didn’t have a cent to his name just as long as the alcohol kept coming.

Her mother would hate him, absolutely despise the very sight of him.

"Hey, sexy," a tall, burly man said, approaching Olivia and getting so close his bulging pecs brushed her arm. "Can I buy you a drink?"

She didn’t bother to glance over. Her eyes were fixed on the bum at the bar. The drop-dead sexy bum at the bar.

"I’m with someone," she answered and proceeded to stroll her four-inch heels toward the bum.

Biting her lip as she approached, she studied his back. Even with his shoulders hunched over his shot glasses, she could tell they were nice and wide. From the side view she’d had of his face, she noticed there was at least some kind of intelligence in him. Despite the fact he was plowed, there’d been a modicum of lucidity in the ornery curve in his smile, like he knew some kind of inside joke about the rest of the world.