She moved to walk past him like Trent instructed, but before she could fake bump into him, someone actually backed into her and caused her to lose her footing. Mark reacted quickly and caught her up against him. Alyssa couldn’t have planned it any better.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” she said in a breathy voice.
He grinned as he gave her a conspicuous once over from her face to her chest and back up again. “Yes, you are.”
Well, damn. This was going to be easier than she thought.
…
Dillon’s flight had landed only thirty minutes ago, and he was already bored of this town.
Vegas had a dreamlike feel to it, which probably accounted for people letting go of their inhibitions there more than they would anywhere else. When a city had a nickname like Sin City, a person almost felt above consequence, untouchable, like the city itself offered a deluded version of Survivor immunity from their reality back home. Ridiculous notions supported by the infamous and overused excuse, “What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”
Only it didn’t anymore. Not when everyone had a smart phone permanently at the ready. A more accurate slogan would be, “What happens in Vegas ends up on the internet, dumbass.”
The Masquerade was noticeable from the freeway, distinguishable by the gigantic ribbons flying from the tops of striped poles that rivaled the height of Paris’s Eiffel Tower, Vegas edition. As his cab inched through the traffic, the gargantuan white structure came into view. An overabundance of ribbons and strands of “beads” the size of wrecking balls draped the sides and towers in bold colors of gold, purple, green, red, and silver.
“Holy shit,” he muttered to himself. “Wonder if good ole NOLA knows its precious Mardi Gras puked all over the Vegas Strip.”
He supposed the unique hotel impressed most tourists, but he’d done the Mardi Gras thing back in his college days and remained unimpressed. If he wanted to get drunk and see a bunch of tits, he’d go to a strip club where they’d do more than flash you for more than five seconds. But women baring themselves to him for superficial reasons wasn’t his thing, making neither atmosphere appeal to him in the least.
So, although he could appreciate the impressive architecture from a construction point of view, the theme wasn’t something he would have willingly immersed himself in anytime soon. Or ever.
At last, the car pulled into the semicircular drive that surrounded a reflecting pool that put the Bellagio’s to shame. Crowds a dozen people deep stood and kept their eyes focused on the water. Just as he paid the cab fare and opened his door, a roar of cheers and applause erupted. Dillon glanced over in subconscious curiosity and did a double take when a big-ass carriage rose from the depths of the pool with costumed dancers hanging from the sides.
So this is what hell looks like.
Shaking his head, he turned his back on the gaudy spectacle and strode into the revolving doors. The registration area was backed up with a half dozen lines. He didn’t want to wait forever just to find out where he needed to go, and Alyssa’s phone was going straight to voicemail.
Instead, Dillon stepped onto the carpet of the casino and searched for the first person who might be able to point him in the right direction.
Bingo.
Standing by a blackjack table was a black man in a black suit who carried himself as though he owned everything his eyes landed on. No, not owned, Dillon realized. Protected. Like a fierce knight guarding his majesty’s kingdom. And somehow, the fact that he couldn’t be any taller than five seven didn’t diminish his badass appearance.
“Excuse me,” Dillon said. The man, whose name tag read McGill-Pit Boss, turned those piercing brown eyes on him in a way that made Dillon want to get to the point. “Can you point me in the direction of where the romance convention is taking place?”
McGill raised a sharp brow toward his shaved-bald head as he gave Dillon a quick once-over. Dillon shifted in his work boots and forced himself not to glance down at his dirty jeans and dust-streaked, black Alexander Construction T-shirt.
“Up the escalator,” he said in a clipped tone. “Second-floor ballroom.”
Dillon nodded his thanks and wound his way through the slots to the tile floor and the double set of escalators by the registration area. Both sets were packed with people, so he was forced to stand still for the endless journey to the second floor. Impatient to find Alyssa, he glanced at the screen on his phone and cringed at the digital 9:27 screaming back at him. He’d wasted so much time already—
Speaking of screaming… He looked around. Either a parrot was being strangled in front of a microphone or that was some of the worst singing he’d ever heard. Following the line of sight where everyone else had directed their winces, Dillon saw a woman on the stage in Karaoke, killing Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” while dancing like Elaine from Seinfeld.