“Sis, you’re a genius. I gotta go. Cover me with Dad, okay? I have to catch a flight to Vegas.”
“What are you going to tell her?” Maddy asked as he kissed her on the cheek.
A big smile spread over his face, and he began walking backward. “That I want her crème brûlée.”
Chapter Three
Ivanna Climacks…
Alyssa stood at the bar, sipping on a brandy old-fashioned and trying to think of names she’d have if she were a Bond girl. In her current getup she felt more like some sexy alternate version of herself. So far she wasn’t convinced it was an improvement over the normal, albeit plainer, Alyssa Miller. However, with her red halter dress bear-hugging her body and the aptly named fuck-me boots slicked over her legs, she’d been hit on by several men who normally wouldn’t have given her the time of day.
Unfortunately, they’d all been employees of the hotel or “industry professionals” who were either old enough to be her father or married enough to be…well, very married. That was enough for her confidence to take a serious nosedive. Turned out the blonde-bombshell business was harder than she’d thought. Hence, why she’d bellied up to the bar and started entertaining herself with the Bond Name Game.
Anita Goodlay… Ryda Johnson…
Well, she wanted to, but it was starting to look like her plans were a wash for the day. Exhaling a deep breath, she blew a stray curl off her face and stabbed at the ice in her drink with the tiny straw.
A martini glass slid into view with a pale yellow drink, garnished with a sugar-coated rim and a curly lemon rind. “Vodka for your thoughts?”
Alyssa tensed as she turned toward the dark-haired man sitting next to her with an identical drink to the one he’d offered her. He picked up his own glass with a delicate hold on the stem and took a sip. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he made an oh-my-God-that’s-so-good sound before returning his attention to her.
Something told Alyssa this guy wasn’t about to hit on her—or any girl—either, but instead of disappointment, she felt relief and a certain instant kinship. The warmth radiating from his brown eyes and dimpled smile invited conversation.
Returning the smile, she said, “Did you know that drinking an ounce of vodka every day has numerous health benefits? It lowers high blood pressure and decreases your risk for strokes, Alzheimer’s, and type two diabetes to name a few.”
“If that’s true, then I should live forever,” he said with a wink. “What I do know is that when a woman dressed to kill looks like someone kicked her puppy, she needs a better drink than that disgusting thing. Meet the lemon drop martini.”
Yikes. She hadn’t realized she’d looked so morose. She usually had a better poker face than that. Offering her thanks, Alyssa lifted the glass and tried the fancy drink. The alcohol-enhanced lemon flavor hit her taste buds with a tart zing, quickly soothed by the sugar as her lips left the rim of the glass. She loved it.
“So what’s your story, Morning Glory? Someone stand you up? I’m Trent, by the way. Party planner extraordinaire here at the Masquerade hotel and casino. You need connections for anything in Vegas, I’m the guy to see.”
“Good to know. I’m Alyssa,” she managed to say instead of one of her new spy names. “And not exactly.” She took another drink as she contemplated how much to tell him. Then decided to screw it. It’s not like she’d ever see Trent again. “I came here with the intention of letting loose and ending my…you know…dry streak with one of the cover models. But even dressed like a high-priced hooker, I can’t seem to grab their attention.”
Mia Verra-Horney.
Trent snorted behind his hand. “You mean these cover models? Honey, those trees aren’t meant for you to climb. You have the goods, but they’re not buyin’ what you’re sellin’.”
She took a minute to think about his cryptic statements, wondering if she might be misreading them. Was he really saying the models were gay? Scanning the crowd, Alyssa paused to study each of the costumed models as they interacted with the women around them. They winked, smiled, laughed, waggled their eyebrows… “No. You must be mistaken. There’s no way.”
He turned around and pointed at the model in the army gear. “He has a boyfriend of five years.” Then he pointed to the construction worker. “He can’t get it up, but it doesn’t matter ’cause he’s bottom bunk all the way.” Another gesture directed at the one dressed as a cop. “Been there, done that, and trust me, he doesn’t have much to work with anyway.”