remember which one of them mentioned Vegas, but one of them had. He remembered the fun ride to Vegas, the fact that they’d made love most of the way there while drinking champagne off of each other, giggling and laughing.
Apparently, he’d had copious amounts of bubbly for the last couple of days. He winced behind his shades.
Vegas was bright, so bright and fun. He remembered laughing. Remembered getting a room—or suite, rather—at the Bellagio.
Gambling. Something he was good at, he knew, but rarely did at the tables. He enjoyed the everyday gamble of business. However, he was almost two hundred grand richer on this return trip. A definite plus there. He apparently played at some point. He didn’t remember actually playing, though there was a vague memory of cards, and that left a slick fear in his gut. The fact the concierge asked him if he wanted to cash out this morning when checking out confirmed he hadn’t completely lost it and robbed a bank or what the hell ever.
The rest was rather blank. Sort of. Mostly. Sort of.
He remembered the scent of her skin, the taste of her, the silky glide of her beneath him, over him, around him. He knew how husky desire tinged her voice. The way her eyes glinted with passion as he thrust into her. The way she chuckled against him. The tattoo low on her hip with one word, Trust , below a dragonfly . Love was stenciled in flowing letters along her inner left wrist. Beauty scrolled along the side of her left breast in Hindu. He’d traced every letter with his tongue. He damned well remembered that. Her strange and quirky hair reminding him of pale blue cotton candy, though the silky strands had slid through his fingers.
And.
And.
Elvis.
He remembered a flash of Elvis and this morning he’d had a ring—not cheap either, as both his and hers had been billed to his room—on his fucking finger.
A. Ring.
Holy fuck.
He thumped his head back. Then bit back another curse as his head pounded. He honestly hadn’t felt this hungover since before the Hellinski bitch. She’d given him a couple of hangovers he’d never forget.
This hangover, though, just might beat hers, and he had no one to blame but himself. Or the champagne. Bubbly was bad. All the effing bubbly’s fault.
He’d sworn he’d never get married—more than once. God knows he’d said it plenty to everyone in his family.
Yet?
Yet.
Elvis.
The. Rings.
And . . .
The note.
The. License .
He shied away from the last. The former though . . .
. . . I’m sorry. I know it’s rude to run out, more than rude. But we didn’t . . . we shouldn’t have . . . I have to go. Thanks for the great weekend and don’t worry. Call your lawyers and get an annulment or whatever and get back to me. Neither of us wants to be married. I don’t want anything except the wonderful memories. Best to you, my darlin’ Quin. ~ Ella
She’d left a five-carat diamond ring on the note for him to find. The platinum band his account said he’d also gotten her was not there.
She left the more valuable ring and kept the simple band. Why?
God almighty.
He leaned forward and gripped his head just as Roger, their pilot, said, “Boys’ll be on in a bit, Mr. Q. You need anything?”
When they were younger, the pilot and driver and whoever else had started referring to them as Mr. First Initial. Kept things easy, he supposed. Too many Mr. K’s in this family.
He almost shook his head. Instead he just waved his hand and mumbled, “Nothing. Thanks, Roger.”
The door gave a hiss as Roger opened it. Several minutes passed before the herd stampeded in.
This should be good.
Elvis? For some reason, Elvis in his mind was in drag, which made no sense whatsoever.
His family would kill him if he didn’t do himself in.
Last time he was this impulsive and stupid with a woman it liked to have killed him and his whole family—or part of them.
This time?
He’d only gotten married. God.
Who knew? He didn’t remember signing a
Apparently, he’d had copious amounts of bubbly for the last couple of days. He winced behind his shades.
Vegas was bright, so bright and fun. He remembered laughing. Remembered getting a room—or suite, rather—at the Bellagio.
Gambling. Something he was good at, he knew, but rarely did at the tables. He enjoyed the everyday gamble of business. However, he was almost two hundred grand richer on this return trip. A definite plus there. He apparently played at some point. He didn’t remember actually playing, though there was a vague memory of cards, and that left a slick fear in his gut. The fact the concierge asked him if he wanted to cash out this morning when checking out confirmed he hadn’t completely lost it and robbed a bank or what the hell ever.
The rest was rather blank. Sort of. Mostly. Sort of.
He remembered the scent of her skin, the taste of her, the silky glide of her beneath him, over him, around him. He knew how husky desire tinged her voice. The way her eyes glinted with passion as he thrust into her. The way she chuckled against him. The tattoo low on her hip with one word, Trust , below a dragonfly . Love was stenciled in flowing letters along her inner left wrist. Beauty scrolled along the side of her left breast in Hindu. He’d traced every letter with his tongue. He damned well remembered that. Her strange and quirky hair reminding him of pale blue cotton candy, though the silky strands had slid through his fingers.
And.
And.
Elvis.
He remembered a flash of Elvis and this morning he’d had a ring—not cheap either, as both his and hers had been billed to his room—on his fucking finger.
A. Ring.
Holy fuck.
He thumped his head back. Then bit back another curse as his head pounded. He honestly hadn’t felt this hungover since before the Hellinski bitch. She’d given him a couple of hangovers he’d never forget.
This hangover, though, just might beat hers, and he had no one to blame but himself. Or the champagne. Bubbly was bad. All the effing bubbly’s fault.
He’d sworn he’d never get married—more than once. God knows he’d said it plenty to everyone in his family.
Yet?
Yet.
Elvis.
The. Rings.
And . . .
The note.
The. License .
He shied away from the last. The former though . . .
. . . I’m sorry. I know it’s rude to run out, more than rude. But we didn’t . . . we shouldn’t have . . . I have to go. Thanks for the great weekend and don’t worry. Call your lawyers and get an annulment or whatever and get back to me. Neither of us wants to be married. I don’t want anything except the wonderful memories. Best to you, my darlin’ Quin. ~ Ella
She’d left a five-carat diamond ring on the note for him to find. The platinum band his account said he’d also gotten her was not there.
She left the more valuable ring and kept the simple band. Why?
God almighty.
He leaned forward and gripped his head just as Roger, their pilot, said, “Boys’ll be on in a bit, Mr. Q. You need anything?”
When they were younger, the pilot and driver and whoever else had started referring to them as Mr. First Initial. Kept things easy, he supposed. Too many Mr. K’s in this family.
He almost shook his head. Instead he just waved his hand and mumbled, “Nothing. Thanks, Roger.”
The door gave a hiss as Roger opened it. Several minutes passed before the herd stampeded in.
This should be good.
Elvis? For some reason, Elvis in his mind was in drag, which made no sense whatsoever.
His family would kill him if he didn’t do himself in.
Last time he was this impulsive and stupid with a woman it liked to have killed him and his whole family—or part of them.
This time?
He’d only gotten married. God.
Who knew? He didn’t remember signing a
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