Mac stitched the last section of Kerry’s wedding dress hem by hand. Neat, even stitches that wouldn’t pucker the dress’s flowing fabric, a painstaking task that required all her concentration to slip the needle through the satin’s fine weave. And blinkers-on concentration was what she’d required this past week just to get through it with sanity intact.

She was going to Vegas. For seven days. With Joe. Tomorrow.

“This wasn’t how I’d envisioned our first vacation away together,” he’d said to her when they’d got off the phone with Kerry. “But would you hold my hand as my little sister walks down the aisle?”

She’d given her answer in the form of a kiss, one that had led them back to Joe’s bedroom for another tumble between the sheets.

Joe had arranged everything. Flights, a room at The Venetian, and a rental car in LA road trip with—and she was beyond denying it now—a man she was falling for.

MacKenna clipped off the last thread from the dress and stood back to admire it. It made even the plain white dressmaker’s dummy look glamorous. The long, clean lines were reminiscent of a 1940s gown, with an overlay of ivory lace that finished in pretty cap sleeves and a V-neck secured with a hand-stitched beaded rose. She gave herself a little hug and a pat on the back with a most un-Mac-like giggle then let out a little chirp of excitement when the doorbell buzzed.

She sprinted to the door, opened it, and leaped into Joe’s arms.

He caught her with a laugh. “How’s the craic?” he asked, then kissed her soundly.

Gripping his waist with her thighs, she flung up her arms. “We’re going to Vegas, baby!”

“Maybe I should take you away more often.”

He carried her into the entrance and set her down, then returned outside to drag in one medium-sized suitcase.

“Where’s the rest?” she teased, pretending to crane around his shoulder to look at the car parked outside.

Joe tapped the suitcase handle. “Shorts, shirts, sunblock. What more do I need?”

He grinned, and her heart gave a little squeeze at how relaxed he sounded. Perhaps the few days they’d spent apart were enough to calm him down after the shock of his sister’s elopement plans.

“Where’s yours?”

Mac pointed to the entranceway wall, where one large suitcase bulged at the sides, and a medium-sized empty one, which Kerry’s dress would be carefully packed into later, rested.

“I’m glad I booked a car in LA with bigger than usual trunk storage,” he said then froze as his gaze zipped past her to the wedding gown. “Is that Kerry’s?”

“Yes.”

And when he continued to stare, saying nothing, she quickly filled in the gap.

“I kicked Reid off this project and worked on it myself. I wanted it to be perfect for her. She’ll look so beautiful on her wedding day, don’t you think?”

“You did an amazing job,” he said. “I’m touched you went the extra mile.”

A warning prickle skimmed over Mac’s scalp at Joe’s avoidance of the upcoming wedding, but she shoved it down deep.

“I miss construction.” She slipped an arm around Joe’s waist and leaned into him. “The practical sewing bit was always my favorite at design school. Getting to turn something two-dimensional and shapeless into something beautiful. It’s a rush, and one I don’t get often now with the wedding planning and overseeing of the shop. I let Reid and Laura do their thing, and I do mine, making sure everything runs like clockwork.”

“And does it?”

Mac slid a glance toward Reid’s room. He was out tonight, but she’d gotten a funny vibe off him when she’d announced she’d be sewing Kerry’s dress. A year ago, and he would’ve fought her, telling her to butt out, it was his job, but this time he’d merely shrugged. As if he were relieved not to add the gown to his workload.

She was probably imagining things.

“It’s worked well for years. We’re a team.”

“With you holding the tight reins of control,” he said.

“Someone has to take charge.”

Mac scooted around to face him and placed her hands on his hips, drawing them into alignment with hers. She rose on tiptoe, brushing her mouth over his, thrilling to the bigger rush that swept all her doubts aside when Joe cupped her face and kissed her again. Once they were both gasping for air, he pulled back and scooped her into his arms. She wrapped an arm around his neck as he carried her up the stairs toward her bedroom.

“Why don’t you take charge for the next hour?” he said. “Then we’ll switch.”

Mac laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. Joe had the best ideas.

* * *

“What do you think?” Joe asked.

Mac squinted at the long, box-shaped convertible that gleamed under the Californian sun in a parking lot of other enormous cars, all with tires probably melting in the relentless heat. She wriggled her toes in her flip-flops, which the sun-baked asphalt was also probably melting.

Go to the States, they said. It’s lovely there in September, they said. Yeah, if you weren’t an Invercargill girl not used to the US temperatures of low seventies. A nice fall day, according to the rental car guy. But after a thirteen-hour flight crammed next to Joe—who, by the way, slept like a baby the whole trip—she’d been looking forward to a nap. A nice long nap that wasn’t gonna happen in a convertible.

“It looks like a giant blue Smurf,” she said. “If the Smurf was blown up and tortured on the rack.” She wondered if she should just head out to the palm-tree-lined street and find a cab driver willing to make the five-hour drive to Sin City.

“It’s a 1967 Lincoln Continental.”

Joe picked up one of her suitcases and dragged it over to the blue monster. He opened the boot—trunk, Mac corrected herself—and turned back to her.

“Isn’t she grand?” he asked.

Okay, his boyish glee was kind of adorable. Annoying for someone who’d had only two hours’ sleep in the past twenty-four hours and could feel a tell tale sunburn tingle on her winter-white skin, but still, adorable.

“A classic.” She forced an I’m having so much fun smile as the monster’s gaping maw swallowed her first suitcase and then had seconds and thirds. Man, she really needed a nap—a shower and a nap. And coffee.

He slammed the trunk and turned a dazzling smile her way. And she was dazzled—even sleep and caffeine deprived and probably smelling more like a hobo than the deodorant she’d reapplied in LA International’s restroom—Joe’s smile dazzled her. And she found herself returning a goofy, sappy smile back because all things aside, there was nowhere and no one else she’d rather be with.

“Let’s Thelma and Louise this thing,” she said and climbed into the Lincoln. And promptly leaped up again as—holy cow—her butt had just caught fire from the black leather bench seat.

Joe threw back his head and bellowed out a laugh.

“I really, really don’t like you, you know,” Mac said, her butt cheeks still raised a few inches above the burning seat.

His eyes twinkling, Joe climbed in beside her. Since he wore longer length shorts, his butt was fine. Bastard. Mac gingerly lowered herself back onto the seat, and Joe stroked a hand down her bare thigh. That almost made up for the fact her bottom was on fire.

“Just for that,” she grumbled as the engine roared to life, “I’m not going to share my sunscreen with you. You, smartass, can burrrrrn.”

His wandering hand tickled her upper thigh then dropped away to slot the transmission into gear. He slanted her a glance that nearly singed her panties to ashes.

“Oh, I’m burnin’ up already, darlin’.”

They stopped for coffee along the way, MacKenna coming back to life with the buzz of caffeine and the sheer excitement of the adventure. And while her hair looked like a crazed bird’s nest—until she tied it in a ponytail and tugged on the LA Dodgers cap she’d bought from a store next to the coffee shop—she was enjoying the hell out of being with Joe in the blue behemoth. Classic rock poured through the speakers, and the air grew drier and hotter as they continued on the I-15. Who needed to nap when there were miles of desert landscape so different from home to look at?

Lunch was at a small-town diner where, after creamy, cold milkshakes and burgers, they’d taken selfies with Elvis and The Blues Brothers statues positioned in the dining room. He’d even dragged her across the Lincoln’s bench seat and kissed her soundly under the endless blue arch of the Nevada sky once they crossed the state line.

“A little different from Invers?” he asked as Vegas towers of glass and steel rose above the desert horizon.

“Definitely not in Kansas anymore,” she said. “Look, there’s the pyramid!”

Traffic crawled as they headed to Las Vegas Boulevard. MacKenna tried to look everywhere at once at the glittering signs, crowds of people, and the trucks towing billboards advertising beautiful women in string bikinis.

“This is insane,” she said as Joe guided the Lincoln under The Venetian’s portico and parked.

Black-and-red-uniformed valets and bellboys moved rapidly between the other cars, and a busload of future gamblers was disembarking, their voices raised above the rumble of motors.

A valet opened her door with a wide smile. “Welcome to The Venetian, ma’am.”

MacKenna had to keep her teeth locked together to prevent her jaw from sagging as she stepped into the hotel’s lobby. Flamboyant yet tasteful at the same time, the marble tiles and muted color scheme seemed to glow between the many columns, thanks to the light streaming over the fresco-painted arched ceiling.

Joe waved her over to the elaborate gold fountain in the lobby center, while he stood in line to check in. Twenty minutes later, an elevator whisked them upward to their room on the sixteenth floor.

“Oh. My. God,” Mac whispered as they entered the suite. A king-sized bed stood against one wall, and huge windows overlooked the snarls of traffic on the Strip many floors below. “Would you look at that? I’ve died and gone to heaven.”

“I agree. My arse is quite spectacular,” Joe said, bending down to set Mac’s suitcase onto the luggage rack. “Perhaps you’d like to cop a feel of it while we mess up those sheets before dinner.”

Mac continued to gaze lustfully into the all-marble bathroom and giant tub that could easily hold a wedding party of six. As much as she wanted to soak in a tub filled with bubbles, if she wasn’t to be a complete wreck meeting Joe’s family later, she needed to crawl beneath those sheets and sleep for at least an hour.

“Shower and sleep,” she said. “I’m on an unstoppable trajectory to get clean and unconscious.”

“Party pooper.”

He grinned that sexy, promising a good time grin, and she nearly caved. Before Mac changed her mind, she ducked into the bathroom and shut the door. Locked it. Keeping temptation out of reach—for her, not him. Tapping her phone, she selected her favorite playlist and cranked up the volume. Nothing like Freddy Mercury’s soaring vocal plea for someone to love to set the mood for a refreshing, loooong shower.

Mac sang along—too bad if Joe didn’t like her voice—and took her time under the steaming-hot jets while Freddy gave way to Madonna, Bryan Adams, and Simple Minds.

Once her fingers started to prune, she relented and got out, pouncing on the free bottle of expensive body lotion. While Cyndi told the world about girls just wanting to have fun, Mac finished slathering on the lotion. She’d been a little premature turning down the opportunity to mess up the sheets with Joe because parts of her were very refreshed.

She flung open the bathroom door, shimmying everything she had, the chorus on her lips—and met the startled gaze of Joe, beer bottle in hand…and two other men.

One sat on the sofa, the other reclined on their bed, beer balanced on his flat stomach. Three pairs of eyes locked on her assets, jaws sagged, followed by wide, appreciative smiles by the two strangers. Joe turned a murderous stare at the two men—who were obviously his brothers, judging by their same coloring and bright blue eyes.

Mac froze momentarily, like a possum in a hunter’s spotlight, a flight or fight response kicking in, even though in this case, embarrassment would kill her before the adrenaline overdose. She bit down on the urge to shriek like a train whistle and slapped an attitude-infused hand on her waist instead. What was the point of rushing away when men had a photographic memory for boobs and bums? They’d be retelling this story for years.

“You must be Joe’s brothers,” she said. “Nice to meetcha.” As if she met her boyfriend’s family bare-assed every day of the week.

“Pleasure is all ours,” said the brother from the bed, lifting his beer in a silent toast. “I’m Kyle.”

“Luke,” the older of the two men said, from the sofa. “We brought beer.”

Both men, after their initial surprise, met her gaze squarely without their gazes lowering to her…assets. Now if she could just figure out how to make a graceful exit…

Joe solved the issue by hauling the gold-and-purple bed runner off the comforter and crossing the room in double time to wrap it around her, using the bulk of his body to block his brothers’ view.

“Flippin’ hell, Mac,” he muttered, tucking the tail of fabric between her breasts.

His voice was gruff, but not with the chastisement she’d assumed. His face told her he was caught between laughter, annoyance, and possessive arousal. Suddenly, she wanted the Whelan brothers gone. Suddenly, she didn’t need a nap, she just needed Joe.

He tucked her against his side, probably to help prevent the slippery length of fabric from causing another wardrobe malfunction.

“You’ll catch your death, baby,” he said. “The air-conditioning’s freezing in here.”

MacKenna slipped her hand behind him to not-so-subtly pinch his butt. “Then you’d better warm me up.” She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Get out, you lot,” he said without dragging his gaze from Mac’s face. “We’ll see you at dinner. We’ve jet lag to sleep off.”

“Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?” Luke uncoiled from his spot on the sofa and crossed to smack his younger brother’s crossed ankles. “C’mon, let’s head down to the casino for a flutter.”

Kyle rolled off the bed. “Sure you don’t want to leave the old fella to his grandda nap, and come with us? Luke and I will show ya a good time. Promise.”

Kyle’s eyes, so much like both his older brothers’, creased in the corners with teasing but no trace of lustful intentions. He was baiting Joe, but even as an only child, Mac recognized it for what it was. Sibling one-upmanship.

She grinned back at him. “Sorry, but I think the old fella can deliver a better time than you can by staying right here.”

“Precisely,” Joe growled, but the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Now, piss off.”

Luke sauntered past her, giving her a wink. “Maybe later then?”

“You’re on,” she said. “I play a mean game of blackjack.”

Kyle filed past next, ducking down to drop a quick peck on her cheek. “Lovely to meet ya, Mac,” he said. “Bloody brilliant first impression.”

Joe reached out and cuffed his younger brother’s head. Kyle laughed, and the two men slammed out of the room. From the bathroom came the soulful sound of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing.” Mac hooked a hand around Joe’s neck, using the other to loosen the bed runner so it slithered to her feet.

“The perfect soundtrack for a grandda nap.” He pulled her in close and stroked a hand down her spine to cup her bottom. “How ’bout it?”

“Bloody brilliant,” she said.

* * *

The Strip’s lights were blazing against the deepening blue sky as Mac stopped to check out her little black dress one more time in the mirror before she and Joe left their room. Luke had sent a text to Joe ten minutes ago, saying they were waiting in the main lobby and would he and Mac hurry the hell up? Ma was getting itchy feet to explore Fremont Street.

“You’re breathtaking,” Joe said to Mac.

A variation of the five other compliments he’d paid her during the past five minutes to try to reassure her and keep her from having a last-minute panic attack at meeting the whole Whelan clan.

“And as long as Kyle doesn’t make a comment about you looking good with clothes on, you’ll be fine,” he added.

“Oh, that’s grand,” she said.

She stood, tapping the toe of her high-heeled strappy sandal with the black bow thingy at the back, which could cause a man to develop a foot fetish, and glared at him.

“Your mother will think I’m trying too hard.” She twisted at the waist, skimming a hand over the curve of her arse and tugging down the skirt for the umpteenth time. “You sure I don’t look trashy? Like the kind of girl three of her sons have seen naked?”

“Just count yourself lucky Da didn’t come with the lads, otherwise the news of it would’ve spread across Dublin and into the countryside.” He kissed her cheek then slid his mouth down to her lips to capture them in a kiss he hoped would distract her from the upcoming ordeal.

Mac sighed into his mouth then abruptly pulled back.

“Lipstick!” she said with a palm to his mouth before he could reel her in for another kiss. “I can’t show up to meet my man’s parents with smudged lipstick.”

Joe grinned down at her, a bubble of warmth rising in his chest at her simple declaration that he was her man. “I checked your make up bag. It’s the non-kiss-off-able kind.”

“Aren’t you devious?” She ran a thumb along his lower lip.

Whether she had transferred some of the pretty plum shade coating her mouth to his, he didn’t care. He would’ve been happy to spend the evening just trying to kiss her non-kiss-off-able lipstick off. But duty called.

“It’ll be fine, Mac. This is Aaron and Kerry’s circus, not ours. That’s where Mam and Da’s focus will be.”

Until Mam got a chance to get Mac alone. Then all bets were off. That he’d brought a woman with him on this trip spoke silent volumes about his feelings toward her—and while Aaron would be first in line for interrogation, she’d have plenty of energy left for Mac in second place.

“Let’s get this over with.” She sighed.

The Whelans and Aaron were clustered by the lobby’s ornate fountain, nattering among themselves. Kerry spotted them first and rushed over, hugging Mac as if she hadn’t seen her for months. His sister gave him the cold shoulder, dragging Mac forward to meet the rest of Joe’s family. She was passed from one to another and hugged, kissed, and patted on the back, his parents and brothers all talking to her at the same time. And Mac handled it like a champ.

His mam, putting on her maternal boxing gloves, waited for a conversational lull.

“Joe, you’ll take Aaron and the boys in your car. Rick and I will take the girls. We’ll meet at the base of that Fremont Street thrill ride I read about online.”

She gave Joe a meaningful stare, which meant she’d have his bollocks if he dared disagree or considered throwing her future son-in-law off the according-to-Google, twelve-story-high zip line.

“Right, then.” Joe sent Aaron a guy eyebrow lift, his first acknowledgement of the man’s hulking presence toward the back of the group. “Let’s paint the town red.”

Kyle clapped a hand on Aaron’s shoulder. “Hopefully not with your blood, eh, mate? Stuck in the car with the three of us.”

A smile split Aaron’s face. The kind of relaxed smile a man got from knowing he could take care of himself in any situation. “You can’t be worse than a busload of teenage boys hopped up on testosterone.”

“Behave,” his mam warned and looped her arm through Mac’s. “Now, off with you.”

As if part of a conspiracy, Kyle and Luke angled in and took the Lincoln’s back seat, leaving Aaron to ride shotgun. They headed away from the casino, his brothers making smartarse comments about the car’s size and Joe “over-compensating” for something.

Aaron sat at ease beside him, an elbow resting on the door frame, his head tilted back to stare at the craziness of the Strip, as if he were just on a Sunday cruise with a bunch of mates. How could he be so damned casual? He was marrying Kerry the day after tomorrow.

Maybe.

Joe’s gaze narrowed on the slow-moving truck towing yet another movie billboard trailer in front of them.

“The ’67 Continental has a four-hundred-and-sixty-two-cubic-inch V8, doesn’t it?” Aaron said from beside him.

The admiration in his tone was unmistakable.

“Yeah,” Joe said. “It’s a bit more grunty than my Honda.”

“She purrs. Love the sound of the V8 growl. How was she on gas from LA? Eleven miles to the gallon?”

“Ten. Couldn’t afford to run her for long back home with petrol costing two bucks a liter.”

Aaron snorted out a laugh. “Ain’t that the truth? The Chevy Camaro used to cost me a small fortune when I filled her up. But she was mint, a real sweetheart, so I didn’t mind.”

“You’ve got a Camaro?”

“Nah. Sold it.” A muscle bunched in his jaw then flattened. “Some things are more important than cars, right?”

“Right.” Joe dragged his gaze away from Aaron and concentrated on the traffic flow.

“Besides,” Aaron continued, “my brother-in-law’s restoring a ’72 Buick Rivera. I give him a hand mucking around with it in his garage sometimes.” He shrugged. “If you like classic Americans, you and Mac should come up for a weekend. Jay’s got a ’67 Chevy Impala in storage. He thinks his wife—my sister, Claudia—doesn’t know about the ’69 Corvette Stingray he bought as his next fixer-up. Fool.”

Aaron inviting him to do guy things? Even though Joe had made it more than obvious that Aaron was public enemy number one. Joe blinked and refocused on the other scrap of information he’d been given.

“You’ve got a sister?”

“Two,” Aaron said as the Lincoln cruised into downtown Las Vegas. “One older, one younger. Claudia’s two years older and married to Jay for five years. They’ve got two kids, Marlin who’s four—he’s a petrolhead in training—and Tammy. She’s nearly three and tells me she’s going to be an astronaut. She will, too, because she’s just like her mum.” He shot Joe a loaded glance. “And her Auntie Kerry. Tammy’ll grow into a strong woman, like them.”

Joe schooled his features into what he hoped projected bland neutrality. “And your younger sister? Is she married?”

“Dating. And talking about moving in with him. Abbi’s the youngest of the six of us. I have three brothers, two of us like her boyfriend; two of us think he’ll break her heart.”

“And which camp do you fall into?”

Aaron’s dark eyes met his across the car. “The one who knows Abbi’s twenty-four and smart enough and strong enough to know her own mind without it mattering what her big brothers think.”

“So you think he’s a wanker, then?”

A flash of white teeth and Aaron chuckled. “A complete douche canoe. And if Abbi wouldn’t make my life a living hell for the next thirty years for butting into her business, me and Si would kick his ass into the middle of next week.”

Kyle leaned forward, bracing his forearms on the back of Aaron’s seat. “The Whelan boys are always available if you need assistance for an arse-kicking, right, Joe?”

Joe grunted. “If his Abbi is anything like our Kerry, we’d be the ones getting our arses handed to us.”

“Amen to that,” Aaron said as they pulled into a covered parking lot.

Five minutes later, they left the massive parking lot and entered the insanity that was Fremont Street. Crowds of people mixed with scantily clad showgirls who posed for tips with a flamingo-long leg raised high above their heads. Music pumped, cooling mist sprayed, street hawkers hawked, and more women shook their bikini-covered arses on top of the outdoor bars selling overpriced drinks. Overhead, psychedelic images burst to life under the massive canopy that ran part of the length of the pedestrian walk between casinos. People stopped to gawp upward at the ever-changing colors while pop music grew louder.

The four of them, engrossed in a friendly argument about the merits of New Zealand hiking trails compared to the US counterparts, dodged around the non moving crowd and crossed the street to where the unmistakable Slotzilla structure rose above the surrounding lower buildings. As Joe strolled, the conflicting scents of cigarette smoke and fried food filled his nose, and four shrieking riders flew over their heads on the zip line, swooping beneath the canopy.

“Grand Canyon, Grandview Trail. Makes Ben Lomond Track in Queenstown look like a six-year-old’s trip to the playground,” Luke said.

“Mate,” said Aaron. “Don’t you have donkeys or something carrying all your shit down into the canyon for you? Man up, and carry your own pack. You’ve been away from home too long.”

Maybe he’d been a little bit wrong about Aaron. Even though the guy didn’t like beer—he was a whiskey man, apparently—and he had crappy taste in movies and liked golf, Joe conceded maybe, just maybe, under different circumstances, he and Aaron could’ve been friends. Mates, even.

“You’re all a bunch of pussies,” Joe said. “You’re not a real man until you’ve hiked the Rakiura in winter, fighting through a southerly gale with mud up to your eyeballs.”

Uproar ensued, Joe’s brothers shoulder-checking each other and even Aaron getting in on it. By the time Kerry, Mac, and Joe’s parents came toward them, the ribbing was over, and he and Aaron were giving each other the mock evil eye as Aaron refused to concede the Rakiura Track was more a test of stamina than the Ben Lomond.

Joe was about to radically blow up his intentions to keep Aaron at a distance with a challenge to walk the Rakiura with him come summer when Kerry was right in Joe’s face. Eyes red, mouth in a furious line, she smacked his arm hard enough to sting.

“Hey, watch it,” he said.

“You leave him alone, Joseph Michael Whelan!” Kerry smacked him again. “I’ve tried to make you see reason, you big eejit, I really have, but now I wish I’d never let Aaron talk me into inviting you if this is the way you’re going to bloody behave. For feck’s sake, man.” She sucked in a huge breath, her eyes going suspiciously shiny. “You’ll not break up my engagement like MacKenna broke up yours. I’m getting married in two days’ time, whether you like it or not.”

If “A Little Less Conversation” hadn’t been blasting overhead, he could’ve heard a pin drop as every Whelan family member’s stare locked on Mac. Joe’s gaze slid to her, too. Her eyes were still open wide, and her plum-slicked lips were parted in surprise. His stomach flipped down to the soles of his shoes as her mouth snapped shut. She took a step away from his mam and da, whom she’d been standing next to, as if she expected them to recoil in horror.

“Babe.” Aaron stepped forward and wrapped an arm around Kerry’s waist, hauling her close against him. “It’s not like that. We were talking about hiking, and Joe wasn’t trying to break up anything.”

“Oh,” Kerry said in a small voice. “Oops.”

Yeah, oops.

Mac looked as if she wanted to bolt into the crowd and disappear. He crossed to her before she could and linked his fingers through hers. He squeezed, and she glanced up at him, drawn lines either side of her mouth. He bent and brushed his lips against hers.

“I need a drink,” she whispered.

“Chin up,” he whispered back. “It could be worse. Vegas could’ve run out of booze.”