I thought a cup of coffee would kill this bastard behind the eyes, but apparently I was wrong.

I’m sitting in the Café Bellagio, a high-ceilinged room with a faux French country furniture design and a loud carpet pattern of crimson red and abstract gold lines. I’m sitting here, rubbing my temples and wanting to die, while Tyler talks about . . . something. Probably something related to sex, but I’m barely paying attention right now.

Vegas is the capital of noise. The faux European ambiance does nothing to inspire a restful atmosphere. There’s a sea of people all around us, people taking pictures of everything with their phones and yelling to each other. Every shouted word is like a bomb going off in my brain. I swear, I think my head’s about to explode.

“Dude, that Shanna girl was fucking rad,” Tyler says, sucking down some kind of papaya cold press concoction. I don’t even know. “Writes about aliens, huh? Kinky ray gun submission fantasies. Princess Leia in a gold bikini. Oh yeah.” He waggles his eyebrows.

I have no idea what any of that means. At least Mike and Stacy are here to even things out.

“I don’t know, Tyler. You seemed pretty into that older lady, the one with the really filthy mouth?” Stacy says, laughing. She and Mike are sitting side by side, his arm slung around her chair. Something about that image of closeness right now just makes my head hurt even more.

“I mean, sure. But, uh, she’s old enough to be my mom,” Tyler says. Is it just my imagination or does he sound defensive?

“Nate. You look like you’ve come back to the land of the living,” Mike says. He whistles. “You must’ve gotten shitfaced last night. Hope you had a good time.” He’s giving me knowing eyes.

“You know what I did last night?” I ask, feeling desperate. “Where I was?”

My total sincerity makes them stop laughing. Stacy puts a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, honey. Blackout drinking? That’s fucking dangerous,” she says. Mike leans in over his half-eaten eggs Benedict.

“Dude. How bad is your hangover?” he asks.

I’m about to tell him everything—me waking up with Julia, the gaping holes in my memory—when there’s a cough right next to my chair. Someone is standing beside me, waiting for my attention.

“Sir, excuse me,” the man says. I look up. My double vision condenses down to one image of a gray-suited man with steely eyes. “I’m Todd Andrews, hotel management. I need you to come with me, please.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. It’s taking a moment, but my lawyer senses are kicking back into gear. Mike, Stacy, and Tyler all share freaked out looks.

“It’s about a video, sir. Security has a few questions.”

Of course Julia’s here, too. I sit down next to her in a small room at a stainless steel table. Mr. Andrews sits opposite us. A video monitor is off to the side, and my stomach lurches. Whatever I’m about to see, I doubt it’ll be good.

“What’s this about?” I say again. Julia nods and points at me.

“Him. He’s a lawyer. He knows lawyer tricks.” She squints. “You are a lawyer, right? Yesterday’s kind of a blur.”

Thanks for the help. “Yes. I’m a lawyer,” I say, my voice flat. She rolls her eyes.

“Thank you, wielder of the mighty sword of condescension.”

“If I can have your attention,” Andrews says, and hits play.

I watch, and there I am. With Julia. At—checking the timestamp—five-thirty in the morning. Well, that’s something at least. Now I know where I was just before dawn. We’re in the enormous Bellagio fountain, dancing right on the lip of it. Dancing. I kind of want to bang my head on the desk, but lawyerly cool must be maintained at all times. Especially when Julia is making more panicked and “I’m guilty” faces with every passing second.

Now we’re stripping down to . . . okay, nothing. I join her in the fountain, lurching around. Now she’s got her arms around my neck, and we’re kissing. Deeply. Passionately. And my hands are very actively going down her body.

We each snatch glances of the other out of the corner of our eyes. I can’t remember anything about this, and it’s clear she can’t either.

Finally, mercifully, the video ends. Andrews turns to us, his lips pursed in victory. “Would you care to explain, Mr. Wexler? Ms. Stevens?”

“Okay, so—” Julia begins, and I know she’s going to incriminate us hopelessly.

“Is that the only footage you have?” I ask, putting my clasped hands on the table. Business. Professional. Pitcher of iced drinking water. Pretend we’re back in my office on Wacker Drive. Pretend you have tickets to the Bears after legally destroying the man sitting right in front of you.

“Yes,” Andrews says, narrowing his eyes. “What’s your point?”

“There is no way to be certain that those images are of myself and Ms. Stevens. The picture is too grainy. It would be impossible to accurately identify facial features.”

Beside me, Julia’s eyes are bulging and she’s biting her lip. But she starts nodding.

“I can’t tell, honestly. No way to be sure,” she says. Good.

“I’m pretty damn sure,” Andrews says, but he’s looking a little uncertain. “We have footage of you two entering the hotel lobby twenty minutes later. Wet.”

I’m sure he does, but I shrug. “We were at the Mandalay Bay, attending a pool party. I believe we came home sometime close to six.”

“I remember. Definitely around that time,” Julia says. “Pool parties. Vegas, right?”

“Right,” Andrews says, though his face is falling. I’m sure he doesn’t believe it, but again, there’s no way to prove that there was no pool party. And if I call my contact over at Mandalay Bay, he’ll tell them I was there the entire day. No lie is too big for the lawyer who saved him from fifty million in alimony.

“Unfortunate coincidence, isn’t it?” I ask. Now to go in for the kill. “Considering you apprehended myself and Ms. Stevens in front of colleagues and friends, your hotel has done significant harm to our reputations.”

“I may not be able to work again,” Julia says, her voice mournful. She even sniffs and wipes her eyes. Good. A little high school playish, but effective.

Andrews freezes; he knows he could get sued.

“Imagine my children, out on the street, freezing in the winter snow,” Julia moans, laying her head on the table.

Okay. Don’t overplay it.

“You have children?” Andrews asks. I press my foot on top of hers under the table, telling her to play it cool. She responds with a swift kick in the shin, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from shouting.

“Kittens. Three kittens,” Julia sighs. Cat lady. I was right. I usually am.

“The point is, you should let us go. Chalk it up to a misunderstanding. I don’t want to take any kind of action,” I tell Andrews, my voice as cool and smooth as silk. “I would like to spare you from that kind of embarrassment.”

Andrews squares his jaw, and I have a moment where I fear I’ve overplayed my hand. Even I have to acknowledge that arrogance is one of my failings. But instead of pushing it further, he nods once and grunts.

“All right. I’d recommend staying clear of the fountains for a while. Just to be safe.” He looks from Julia to me. We’re both the image of silent cooperation.

With that, Andrews rises up and buttons his coat. Julia sighs, batting her eyelashes. Her eyes are dewy.

I have to admit it—once she stops the larger than life theatrics, she’s a damn good actress.

“Thank you so much,” she sniffles, and we walk out of the room. She even slips her arm through mine, playing up to the idea of being desperately in love. Cute. Once we’re back in the hotel hallway, we pull apart so fast she nearly rips my sleeve.

“Careful. This is Armani,” I snap. Julia yanks me to the side, puts her hands on her hips, and frowns.

“Okay. What the hell happened last night?” she asks. Her face flushes pinker.

Despite all my annoyance, I have to force myself not to notice how sexy she looks when . . . wait. Flushed face. I have a memory of that, a quick one. My expression must change, because Julia notices.

“What? Keep me updated on the brilliant thoughts coming in over the wire.”

“I don’t know what happened. But now I’m worried,” I say, checking over my shoulder. We don’t need Andrews to see us conspiring together in the hall.

“Why? Think I gave you the clap?” she deadpans.

“No, of course not! Wait. You don’t have it, do you?”

Oh shit. Tell me we used a condom, if we did anything. That’s all I ask.

“I kind of want to say I have a bunch of communicable diseases just to see the look on your face.” She groans and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Look. Let’s get a coffee and talk it over. All right?”

“Fine,” I say. “We can’t take too much time.” I check my phone. Half past ten. “My friends’ wedding starts in less than seven hours.”

“You don’t have to spend your day running around with me, you know,” she says, folding her arms.

“Actually,” I say, “I do.” Because if that video was any indication, Julia Stevens and I had a hell of a good time last night. And on the off chance any of that good time was illegal, it’s probably in my best interest to find out what happened.

“You think we committed crimes?” Julia asks, her eyebrows shooting up. She blows on her mocha, a smile spreading over her face. She even bounces a little in her seat. “Oh my God. This is epic. Sort of Bonnie and Clyde, but we don’t get shot at the end. Wait.” She rummages through her pocket—of course her dress has a pocket—and pulls out her phone. The phone case is the same blue box weirdness she got tattooed on her ass. Naturally. “Vegas Bonnie and Clyde would be delicious for my new romantic thriller series.”

“Would you concentrate?” I take a sip of my mint tea. I don’t imbibe any caffeine after my first cup of coffee. I don’t like to be dependent on anything. “Skinny dipping might be the least of our worries. If we were out of control, and people find out, it could do damage to our careers.”

“Maybe to yours, O Great Divorce Attorney. My fans would probably eat it up. They like to think I’ve culled all the wild, romantic escapades in my books from experience.”

But Julia’s not as flippant as her remarks would make her sound. She’s chewing on her lip, a clear tell of nerves. I stare at her mouth. Her full, soft lower lip does look very bitable.

Don’t let your dick lead you around, Wexler. So far this girl hasn’t brought you anything but migraines and a possible criminal record.

“Let’s start with you. What’s the last thing you remember doing yesterday?” I ask. I grab a paper napkin, take my pen out of my coat pocket, and get to work. When discussing techniques and strategies with clients, I like to sketch out the plans. It helps when I see something in front of me.

Julia groans.

“I don’t remember doing you. That’s a shame.” She puts her chin in her hand. “You were probably good, given the video footage.”

How the hell do I respond to that? “We couldn’t see the expressions on our faces,” I say at last. Clearing my throat, I continue. “No way to get a proper reaction.”

“No, but from your body language, I could tell you were very excitable.” She grins and chews on an almond biscotti.

If I didn’t have to make damn sure I haven’t murdered anyone . . . . It’s okay, Nate. You just have to keep it together until we piece together last night’s timeline. Then you’re out.

“Again. What do you remember?” I say. Apparently I’m being too businesslike about this, because she sighs in annoyance.

“Wow. Lighten up, Nate. I’m just as worried about this as you are.” She frowns.

“Clearly you’re not, because I’m the one trying to make a plan and you’re the one making jokes.” My headache is coming back, a dull pounding behind my eyes.

“I like to think of it as ‘I’m trying to keep us calm.’ You’re dead certain we’re headed to Alcatraz.”

“Alcatraz isn’t a functioning prison anymore,” I say.

“You’re a functioning prison,” she says.

“That doesn’t make sense!”

“Neither does splashing and frolicking and groping your dick in the Bellagio fountain, but in case you hadn’t noticed, there’s a whole buffet of doesn’t make sense going on right now. So load up your plate, grab the crab legs before they run out, and eat.” She huffs, running a hand through her eternally frizzy hair. “All right. I remember meeting everyone for the Cirque de Soleil show here—O, I think, that’s the name. Then we went for a drink afterwards before going to dinner. That’s all I—”

“You remember the bar?” I ask.

She screws up her face. “Yeah, the Lily Bar and Lounge. How many bars does one hotel need, you know?” She shrugs.

“Let’s go,” I say, turning and heading like a shot for the lobby. I slow down, pause. Julia sidles up next to me.

“You don’t know where it is, do you?” she asks, smiling sweetly.

I hate Vegas.

“I remember you,” the bartender says, grinning at Julia. He’s a handsome guy, mid-thirties with thinning blond hair.

He wipes down the bar while I stand beside her. The place is intimate, wood-paneled walls with some purple velvet hangings. It’s closed, but he’s setting up for the afternoon.

“This your boyfriend? Fast work.” He winks at Julia, who laughs a little.

Somehow, their flirtation irritates me.

“Can I ask you a crazy question?” Julia says, putting her chin in her hand and looking up at the guy. That would be disarmingly attractive if I didn’t know her. “What did I do after I came here last night?”

“You kidding?” the guy says, raising an eyebrow. He leans against the bar. “You didn’t have that much to drink here.”

“I’m guessing I did shots somewhere along the way. This bar was the only thing that stood out in the haze,” she says. God, she even winks. “Or maybe this bartender.”

“Bam.” He claps a hand over his chest and laughs. “Right through the heart.”

We’re wasting time here. That’s why their flirting is getting on my nerves. Probably.

“Can you help us or not?” I say. I’m trying for glassy, lawyer cool. The bartender smirks.

“All right. You said you were going to some Brazilian steakhouse. Vio, or Via, or something like that. It’s down along the Strip. Not too far.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning around at once and heading off. I have to wait as Julia talks with the guy a little more, then finally decides to get up and join me. She sashays a little, a pleased smile on her face. “Anything else coming back to you?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s coming back all right.” She points to herself. “The flirt machine hasn’t gotten rusty.” Then she does some kind of victory dance.

Why the hell couldn’t Stacy and Mike have gotten married in Evanston?