Chapter Three

Riley McGregor strode through the lobby of the Mirage. He’d come a day early for his microbrewers’ convention, eager to get a little taste of Vegas; first time and all.

The hairs on the back of his neck stiffened, and he whipped around. A guy with spiky pink hair and a pair of antennae watched him closely. He stood next to a slot machine, his jean-clad hip leaning against the side. He broke eye contact and melted into the crowd.

A sudden compulsion tugged at Riley. He found himself walking toward the slot machine.

Huh. Still had some credits. He pulled on the lever and the bell rang. Beginner’s Luck!

Out swished an envelope, his name imprinted on the front. Freaky.

Curious, he tore open the envelope. The freaky quotient skyrocketed. Was this some kind of joke? How the fuck did anyone know his name?

Several hours later, Riley blew out a deep breath, stared at the entrance of the Rivenbark Hotel & Casino, and did some loin girding. Was he really going through with this? Honest to God, it felt like his loins gave a thumbs up. Pipe down. This isn’t for your benefit, buddy.

He couldn’t blame the poor guy, though. It had been over a year, voluntary, but still. The truth was, the type of women he met as a microbrewery owner-founder no longer interested him. At first, yeah, bring on the female attention. It certainly helped shed the last of his natural shyness. But after a while, fending off the tight-shirt bimbos who worked the endless promotion parties grew old. And every time they discovered his inner geek, they skedaddled.

So, when he received that invitation, he’d seen it as a sign—nothing to lose and everything to gain. He’d filled it out, squeezed in a quick workout in the hotel gym, and showered, excitement buzzing in his veins.

Yep. Ready.

He strode through the automatic door and across the marble-tiled floor to the reception desk, his steps echoing in the huge lobby.

“Welcome to the Rivenbark,” the older man behind the desk said. “Do you have a reservation?”

“No. I was told to let you know my name? Riley McGregor. Someone’s expecting me.”

“Oh, yes, sir. Hang on.”

Riley scrubbed his hand through his hair while the concierge called someone on the phone.

A guy passed by, dressed as the king in Monty Python’s Holy Grail, complete with his sidekick beating two coconuts together. Riley grinned. Looked like the convention here would be shit-tons more entertaining than his.

He glanced at his palm—”Mirjam” inked across in blue. The only information the follow-up note from the bellhop had told him after accepting the invitation, a first name and where and when to meet. Oh, and the cryptic last sentence: “Be in the moment and you will find the answer.” What answer? He didn’t feel like he knew the damn question, though he was questioning his own sanity for agreeing to this weird-ass date. Somehow, he’d felt certain, in his gut, he needed to answer ‘Yes’ to the crazy invitation he’d received from a guy named ‘Jim.’ A night with the ‘woman of his dreams.’ He rubbed the name away. No sense looking like a complete dufus.

“Here’s the gentleman requesting to meet you,” the concierge said, interrupting his thoughts.

Shit, no time to rethink this. Or take a breather. He took a calming breath. Keep your head in the game, Riley. A chance for a date with a decent girl, see what that is like. Nothing more.

“I’m Stefan,” said the man who approached him wearing a pink bow tie. “Your date is waiting for you by the pool. This way, sir.” Stefan escorted him through the lobby and out to a terrace. They wended their way around the glittering pool to a darker section. Torches lit the area every few feet, highlighting potted plants somehow kept alive in the desert heat. Gentle lapping from the pool blended with other guests’ murmurs. He followed Stefan up a short flight of stone steps set against a wall.

At the top, his guide swept back a leafy frond, revealing a granite table surrounded by lush foliage and a high stone wall. More torches blazed in each corner, casting enough light to see but adding a ton of atmosphere. A little hideaway for two, the elevation affording an extra layer of exclusivity.

His date faced the far wall, head tilted to the full moon looming above. Torchlight flickered across the ash-blonde hair tumbling down her back. He swallowed hard. Shit, if he were the romantic type, he’d be in hog heaven with this setting.

She slowly turned and faced him.

His breath caught. Dear God, he was in heaven.

“Mirjam?” His voice was a hoarse whisper. Surely, it couldn’t be that Mirjam. Mirjam was a common enough name, right? Well, no, actually it wasn’t. It’d been common only in the predominately Finnish town where they’d gone to high school in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

Frak. All at once, he stared at her from the eyes of the gawky teenager he’d been the last time he’d seen her in, what…tenth grade? Right before school ended for the summer and his parents moved to yet another town. He’d always thought of her as the one who got away, which was whacked since he’d never even kissed her. Had he ever grown a pair and talked to her? No. He swallowed again.

“Riley?” Recognition flashed across her face. She stood gracefully.

He allowed his gaze a single sweep down her hourglass figure, and his mouth dried.

“Riley McGregor?”

Thumped into the present by her sweet voice, he crossed the space between them with probably the stupidest grin on his face a guy could have. This was his date? Thank you, Jim!

If someone had asked him to describe his ideal woman, he’d describe Mirjam. Who was Jim? A freak with the mind reading, for sure.

He shook his head to clear it. Stay focused. Don’t read into it.

“One and the same,” he answered. How to play it? He hadn’t known her well enough to warrant a hug, but she was his date. He’d follow her cues.

She held out her hand. He shook it firmly. A spark of desire at the touch of her smooth skin jolted him. How would those small, hot fingers feel touching, stroking… Fire rushed through his veins. Well, I’ll be damned. He pulled her chair out for her then sat opposite, trying like hell to keep the sudden bulge in his pants out of sight.

Their waiter materialized beside them. “For you, ma’am?”

She leaned forward and studied the menu, her hair swooping down. Her face angled up to talk to the waiter. God, she was stunning. The pretty but shy bookworm he remembered from high school had grown into a woman. A luscious, gorgeous…

“Riley?”

Both eyed him expectantly. Oh. “Sorry. I’ll have what she’s having. And one of your local microbrews.” After the waiter disappeared down the stairs, he said, “I can’t believe you’re the Mirjam I’m with tonight.”

A wary look crossed her gray eyes. “Um, well, we could just eat dinner and be done with it, if you want.”

Fuck. Smooth, Riley. His hand shot out and grabbed hers, awareness washing over him. He cleared his throat. “No, I’m glad it’s you.”

Ecstatic actually, but no sense scaring her off with his choice of words.

Her tentative smile lodged deep inside, somewhere near his protective instinct. Damn. Was the setting a freaky magic thing morphing him into some romantic idiot? He felt like gushing, he was that fucking pleased to see her. Get a grip, Riley. “So, who’s going to go first and ask the cliché?”

She frowned and tilted her head.

“You know.” He leaned in and caught a fleeting wisp of her scent—feminine and flowery, but not cloying. Mmm.

He pitched his voice higher, more eager. “What’ve you been up to since high school?”

She laughed. The rich, deep sound resonated within him, drawing him closer.

“Do I have to answer?”

The waiter appeared with their drinks, hers bourbon and soda. Thank God for the interruption, as it helped normalize the situation. He took a sip of the beer and savored the hoppy flavor.

He inched forward again. “Okay, I’ll start. College at UNC, English major. Never married. No kids. Own my own microbrewery in Richmond, Virginia. Your turn.”

Her eyes twinkled. They goddamned twinkled. Was he coming down with something? He took another sip.

“Bravo. Yeah, I’ve always hated that question, because, you know, a lot does happen, but it’s not something easily condensed, so we’ll just get it out of the way.” She took a deep breath. “College. Duke—”

He pretended to snarl. She chuckled.

“—Political Science with a minor in Russian. Never married. No kids. Software developer in Ann Arbor.”

Damn if he didn’t love smart women. Strike that. Smart, sexy women. God, the way the torchlight licked her skin, especially the swell right above her breasts… A wavy lock of her hair lay right there, practically begging him to move it aside, “accidentally” brushing his fingers across the creamy skin.

“So, cliché question number two seems glaringly obvious.” She took a sip of her drink and set it down, pinning him with her gray eyes.

Shit. Had she caught him staring?

“What’s a guy like you doing on a blind date?”

Fuck. How to answer without sounding pathetic? He wiped his hands on his khakis. “I’ll answer if you will.”

That smile again. “Seems fair.”

He rotated his mug, watching the light play across the amber liquid. “In my line of work, I wasn’t, well, I wasn’t meeting my type, and I guess I’ve been too busy to look elsewhere.”

He took a quick drink. Pretty much the truth. The full truth was his good old boy looks, coupled with the partying and schmoozing his work lifestyle required, meant smart chicks like her didn’t look twice at him. Or even once. He’d finally sworn off dating, thrown himself into his work, and burned excess energy by running every morning.

However, while he loved hanging with the guys, watching football, and swigging beers, he wanted more. Man, his buddies would rag him if they knew what he was thinking. What he wanted. His balls tightened again thinking of what else he wanted.

“Wow. That’s pretty much my reason too.”

“Pretty much?”

“Too busy to look.”

Their waiter arrived with their food. God love her, she’d ordered the grilled rib eye with truffle mashed potatoes and haricot verts. He grabbed his glass and held it up. “To our date, whatever happens.”

She smiled and blushed a luscious pink. “To our date,” she returned, clicking his glass. “Whatever happens.”

He waited for her to take the first bite, enjoying the sight of steak disappearing into her mouth.

“Mmm. Nothing like a good steak,” she murmured, her tongue quickly licking her lip.

Shit. Just watching her eat was killing him. He forced his gaze to his plate and concentrated on his own meal.

Before long, they were talking like old friends, finding they had much in common. He didn’t even freak out about conversational pauses. It somehow seemed okay. The more they talked, the more he wanted to know about her. Talk about a study in contrasts: easy to be around, but sexy as all get-out; beautiful, but didn’t seem to realize it; feminine without being girly; smart but perfectly happy discussing stupid stuff too. Oh, yes, he wanted more than one night with her. Looked like his secret desire for the evening could come true.

She could be his.

Well, shit, that certainly raised the stakes. If he wanted to convince her to see him again, he couldn’t mess this up. The possibility of more than one night threatened to blow his calm.

Enough. He’d enjoy the night for what it was, whatever it was. Take things slow. Focus on the original goal—a chance to be in the company of such a woman.

Their conversation meandered to the endless Hollywood remakes. “My theory on the whole thing is… Well, it’s… Jeez, what’s the alcohol content of this beer anyway?” He peered at the frosted mug as if it were stenciled on the glass.

“Spit it out, Miss Anne Elk.”

His head jerked up. A Monty Python fan? God, could she be any more perfect?

He gave a pretend, high-pitched throat clearing and imitated John Cleese. “My theory, which belongs to me, is as follows—”

“—All brontosauruses are thin at one end. Much, much thicker in the middle. And then thin again at the far end,” she jumped in, giggling, her eyes doing that damn twinkling thing again.

“Hey, you cut me off,” he said in mock outrage. “I had more impressive throat clearings and theory-which-is-mine stuff.”

“Lord, save us!”

Her kissable lips quirked in a smile and he couldn’t look away. A cool breeze skimmed across their table, surrounding him with her unique scent. Fuck, slow. He took her hand like he’d wanted to since they’d first sat. To keep from going too far, he forced himself to ask, “Dessert?” His voice hoarse and uneven from the sudden emotion he struggled to control.

With her thumb, she rubbed his knuckles. She leaned toward him, and with her twinkling eyes never leaving his, she said, “I’d rather have a different kind of dessert upstairs in my room.”

Heat flooded his veins. His cock twitched and hardened.