Chad flung him a glance. "Is there anything so wrong with that? You're an attractive man, and I have needs. I know I'm older and I have to compete with much younger men all the time. And they seem to be getting younger by the day lately."
Treston almost felt sorry for him. He detected a familiar hint of fear in his voice. But not quite. "Oh, you're good. But if you think I'm going to fall for a sob story, you have another thing coming. Pardon the cliché, but I've been down that road before, too. You know damn well you're extremely attractive and you know you can still get any man in town into your bed. You don't look a day over thirty-five. And those streaks of silver only make you better looking. So save that one for the next poor sonofabitch that comes along, because I'm not buying into it."
"You like the silver?" Chad asked. "Dare always told me I should dye it."
So the blond guy's name was actually Dare. After Treston cringed, he shrugged and said, "The silver only makes you even more attractive. And don't you ever think of coloring it."
Chad sent him a glance. "I guess it doesn't matter one way or the other, because I know I'm going to get into your pants regardless of this conversation. You love dick, and you love men like me."
"You're right about that," Treston said. "We all have our flaws and I'm at least willing to admit mine. But don't expect anything emotional from me. In spite of your blue eyes and sexy silver streaks, and everything else about the way you look, I know a guy who is up to no good. And if you do get into my pants tonight at some point, as you so crudely put it, it's because I let you get into my pants and it's because I do like dick. I'm not afraid to admit it. It's a choice I made because I wanted to do it, and not because you wanted me to do it, pal."
"You're trouble."
"Ha. You make me smile."
Chad looked into his eyes. "Did someone really take your money and leave you naked at Lake Mead?"
"I'd rather not talk about it. What's done is done."
"You're wrong about one thing," Chad said. "I really do worry about getting older and I worry about that day when I'll be too old. I know I'm only hanging on right now by a thin thread. One day soon I'll wake up and be too old. And guys like you will only be with me for the money, not the dick. No one likes tea-bagging an old man's nuts unless there's something fundamentally wrong with them. And it's damn scary when you're on a twenty-four-hour cycle."
"What's a twenty-four-hour cycle?"
Chad pointed to his crotch. "I used to be able to get it up every twenty minutes, then it turned into every two hours, and now I'm on a twenty-four-hour cycle. It sucks."
Treston wished he could feel sorry for him, but he couldn't forget all the times men like Chad had screwed him over. The best he could do was squeeze his hand and say, "Welcome to the club, Mr. Pratt. We all worry about that." Treston figured he had worse problems than a sexy billionaire who could get anything or anyone he wanted, and he wasn't in the mood to hear Chad's lame complaints.
Chapter Seven
The driver pulled up to a small restaurant hidden between two high-profile casinos Treston had heard about from a few of his wealthier clients at the strip club. It was one of the few discreet places in Vegas that didn't cater to families and tourists with early bird specials. There was nothing Disney World about it. You couldn't just walk in and get a table on a whim. They didn't open the door until nine o'clock each night. And because it was so small and so exclusive, they only took reservations a month in advance.
They did take a few people in without reservations or questions, and Chad Pratt was one of them. When the driver pulled up to the door, Chad grabbed Treston's hand, pulled him out of the backseat, and led him into the restaurant. They sailed through the front door, where Chad and a man in a dark suit exchanged a quick nod. The moment they entered the main dining area, a handsome young man in white pants and a black shirt escorted them through an indoor container garden of tall palms in gilded cache pots to a small private table at the back of the restaurant. The Louis IV chairs had fruitwood trim and had been upholstered with a soft snow leopard print.
Though it was one of the smallest most private restaurants Treston had ever seen, he had a feeling if he spoke above a stage whisper everything he said could be heard from one end of the room to the other. Aside from the low-pitched murmurs coming from the people at other tables, the only sound Treston heard was a soft jazz version of an old song called The Glory of Love. He knew the song because it had been featured in one of his favorite old films, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, with Katharine Hepburn. Although he wasn't huge fan of jazz as a rule, the familiar melody calmed him and helped him concentrate on not making a fool of himself in a place where he never imagined he would be dining a celebrity billionaire.