to our suite and Cary gave a long, low whistle.
“Hell yeah,” he said, hustling me into the room with a hand on my elbow. “Look at the size of this place. You could do cartwheels in here.”
He was right, but I’d have to wait until the morning to prove it. My legs were still shaky from my induction into the Mile-High Club.
Directly in front of us was a dazzling view of the Vegas Strip at night. The windows were floor to ceiling, wrapping around a corner that was filled with a piano.
“Why are there always pianos in high-roller suites?” Cary asked, flipping up the cover and tapping out a quick tune on the keys.
I shrugged and looked toward the manager, but she’d already moved off, her stilettos moving silently over the thick white carpet. The suite was decorated in what I’d call fifties Hollywood chic. The double-sided fireplace was faced with rough gray stone and decorated with a piece of art that resembled a hubcap with spacey spokes protruding from the center. The sofas were seafoam green with wooden legs as slender as the manager’s heels. Everything had a retro vibe that was at once glamorous and inviting.
It was way too much. I’d expected a nice room, but not the presidential suite. I was about to refuse it when Cary gifted me with a big grin and two thumbs up. Having no willpower to refuse his joy, I gave in and hoped we weren’t putting Gideon out of a more profitable reservation.
“Still want a cheeseburger?” I asked him, reaching for the room service menu on the console table behind the sofa.
“And a beer. Make that two.”
Cary followed the manager into a bedroom on the left side of the living area, and I picked up the vintage rotary phone to place our order.
Thirty minutes later, I was fresh from a quick shower and dressed in my pajamas, eating chicken Alfredo cross-legged on the area rug. Cary was plowing through his burger and looking at me with happy eyes from his position on the opposite side of the coffee table.
“You never eat a massive pile of carbs this late,” he noted between bites.
“My period’s coming.”
“I’m sure the workout you got on the way here helped, too.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “How would you know? You were passed out.”
“Deductive reasoning, baby girl. When I went to sleep, you looked irritated. When I woke up, you looked like you’d just smoked a fat joint.”
“How did Gideon look?”
“He looked the same—tight-assed and hot as hell.”
I stabbed my fork into my noodles. “That’s not fair.”
“Who cares?” He gestured around us. “Look how he puts you up.”
“I don’t need a sugar daddy, Cary.”
He munched on a French fry. “Have you thought any more about what you do need? You’ve got his time, his rockin’ bod, and access to everything he owns. That’s not bad.”
“No,” I agreed, twirling my fork. I knew from my mom’s many marriages to powerful men that getting their time was the most important thing of all, because for them, it was truly the most valuable thing in their lives. “It’s not bad. It’s just not enough.”
* * *
“This is the life,” Cary pronounced, while lying like a god on a lounger by the pool. He wore pale green trunks and dark shades and caused an unusually large volume of women to walk on our side of the pool. “The only thing missing is a mojito. Gotta have alcohol to celebrate.”
My mouth curved. I was sunbathing on the lounger beside him, enjoying the dry heat and occasional splashes of water. Celebrating was habitual for Cary, something I’d always considered quite charming. “What are we celebrating?”
“Summer.”
“Okay, then.” I sat up and slid my legs off the lounger, tying my sarong around my hips before I stood. My hair was still damp from an earlier dip in the pool and pinned atop my head with a lobster clip. The scorching sun felt good on my skin, a sensual kiss that was nearly enough to make me less self-conscious about the water I was
“Hell yeah,” he said, hustling me into the room with a hand on my elbow. “Look at the size of this place. You could do cartwheels in here.”
He was right, but I’d have to wait until the morning to prove it. My legs were still shaky from my induction into the Mile-High Club.
Directly in front of us was a dazzling view of the Vegas Strip at night. The windows were floor to ceiling, wrapping around a corner that was filled with a piano.
“Why are there always pianos in high-roller suites?” Cary asked, flipping up the cover and tapping out a quick tune on the keys.
I shrugged and looked toward the manager, but she’d already moved off, her stilettos moving silently over the thick white carpet. The suite was decorated in what I’d call fifties Hollywood chic. The double-sided fireplace was faced with rough gray stone and decorated with a piece of art that resembled a hubcap with spacey spokes protruding from the center. The sofas were seafoam green with wooden legs as slender as the manager’s heels. Everything had a retro vibe that was at once glamorous and inviting.
It was way too much. I’d expected a nice room, but not the presidential suite. I was about to refuse it when Cary gifted me with a big grin and two thumbs up. Having no willpower to refuse his joy, I gave in and hoped we weren’t putting Gideon out of a more profitable reservation.
“Still want a cheeseburger?” I asked him, reaching for the room service menu on the console table behind the sofa.
“And a beer. Make that two.”
Cary followed the manager into a bedroom on the left side of the living area, and I picked up the vintage rotary phone to place our order.
Thirty minutes later, I was fresh from a quick shower and dressed in my pajamas, eating chicken Alfredo cross-legged on the area rug. Cary was plowing through his burger and looking at me with happy eyes from his position on the opposite side of the coffee table.
“You never eat a massive pile of carbs this late,” he noted between bites.
“My period’s coming.”
“I’m sure the workout you got on the way here helped, too.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “How would you know? You were passed out.”
“Deductive reasoning, baby girl. When I went to sleep, you looked irritated. When I woke up, you looked like you’d just smoked a fat joint.”
“How did Gideon look?”
“He looked the same—tight-assed and hot as hell.”
I stabbed my fork into my noodles. “That’s not fair.”
“Who cares?” He gestured around us. “Look how he puts you up.”
“I don’t need a sugar daddy, Cary.”
He munched on a French fry. “Have you thought any more about what you do need? You’ve got his time, his rockin’ bod, and access to everything he owns. That’s not bad.”
“No,” I agreed, twirling my fork. I knew from my mom’s many marriages to powerful men that getting their time was the most important thing of all, because for them, it was truly the most valuable thing in their lives. “It’s not bad. It’s just not enough.”
* * *
“This is the life,” Cary pronounced, while lying like a god on a lounger by the pool. He wore pale green trunks and dark shades and caused an unusually large volume of women to walk on our side of the pool. “The only thing missing is a mojito. Gotta have alcohol to celebrate.”
My mouth curved. I was sunbathing on the lounger beside him, enjoying the dry heat and occasional splashes of water. Celebrating was habitual for Cary, something I’d always considered quite charming. “What are we celebrating?”
“Summer.”
“Okay, then.” I sat up and slid my legs off the lounger, tying my sarong around my hips before I stood. My hair was still damp from an earlier dip in the pool and pinned atop my head with a lobster clip. The scorching sun felt good on my skin, a sensual kiss that was nearly enough to make me less self-conscious about the water I was
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