Garrett Rocquelaire turned away from the view from his office window and left the Las Vegas Strip to itself when his PA came in. Jane was the best PA Garrett had ever had, but that wasn’t saying a great deal, since for the last ten years he’d been with Delta Force, and they didn’t exactly require him to have a PA. Garrett had found his last assistant draped across his desk, naked. She was out the door an hour after that. He didn’t even have a clue if Jane was gay or straight, and he cared even less.
He’d just had a bruising meeting with his fiancée. Shock didn’t begin to describe his response to her off-the-wall demands.
With a sigh he picked up a page of his prenup where Georgia had made her demands. Halfway down the list, he leaned back and gave Jane an incredulous glare. “She’s not serious.”
“As serious as taxes,” Jane assured him.
Garrett wasn’t looking forward to his upcoming marriage to media star Georgia G, but so far the arrangements had gone well. Georgia rarely went anywhere without cameras, and when she didn’t have those she was taking selfies with her diamond-encrusted phone. Real diamonds, apparently, presented to her by the phone company because they brought her so much business. Having people with cameras follow him every time he stepped out of his office door had made him antsy. Sure, the attention was good for business, which was the point of the exercise, but the experience might give him a breakdown. He’d nearly punched some kid getting in his face yesterday. They didn’t even make proper journalists these days, the kind he was used to. Once people spotted Georgia, everybody got out their cameras.
He liked Georgia, at least the glimpses of the woman he got under the hard, glossy exterior, but he couldn’t spend the rest of his life fighting his way through to that part. No, the marriage would serve its purpose and then they’d end it.
He took another look at the paper. “So I have to spend three fucking years racing around the globe to please my wife?”
“You signed the contract.” Jane gave him a blank stare.
How had this happened? Garrett had read the contract through, and so had his lawyers. None of them had pointed out the impossible clauses. Had they missed a page, somehow? The detailed demands were in an appendix, but they’d looked at them.
He had. He’d promised Georgia thirty days a year, guaranteed, when he’d dance attendance on her. But she’d taken it literally. She’d listed thirty separate days, days when he’d have to fly in from wherever he was, allow himself to be primped and poked for whatever premiere or photo op Georgia wanted, and then fly out again. The days were separate, scattered over the year, which turned his schedule impossible. How could he go back to the Phoenix Agency and work on covert, dangerous projects that could happen anywhere in the world if he was expected to dance attendance on Georgia? “So next February, she expects me to hi-tail my way back from wherever I am, gussy myself up and go to a fucking award ceremony? Why is Georgia going there? She’s not an actress.”
Jane shrugged. “Because it’s there, and because she’s invited.”
“What’s the Silver Mascara Wand Ball?”
“A makeup celebration.”
What use would he be at a makeup gala? Who knew such a thing existed? “Georgia wants me to attend all these?”
He’d only taken this assignment because his family assured him it was a temporary thing. Just until the casino renovations were complete and the security system firmly in place. But this would extend his place here to unacceptable levels. The marriage to Georgia was supposed to be a convenient way to get some quick publicity, not a full-time thing. “Get me out of this. I can’t do it.”
“You signed a contract.”
“I want out.” The refurbishment of the Rocque Casino had taken everything he had. He checked the list again, as if it would magically change. Nails? “There’s a world championship for nails?”
“Yep.”
He suspected Jane of grinning, but he didn’t spot anything when he caught his PA’s gaze. But he’d heard it in that single, laconic word. “She wants a puppy, not a husband.”
“A rich, handsome puppy.” There, the grin was back and Jane didn’t try to hide it.
“You know I can’t do this. Sit down and tell me how I can get out of this.” He’d walked away from the family resort business once before. He’d gladly do it again.
Jane obligingly took a seat. “It doesn’t matter what you do, who you work for. You’re bound by this.”
This whole thing was becoming a nightmare. He’d only agreed to come back to the company on a temporary basis. A year hitched to a media star would pay all his debts to his family and give the company the prestige it needed while it weathered this drastic change.
Why had he ever suggested refurbishment to his parents? He should have let the whole damned thing die a slow death. They didn’t need the money, he certainly didn’t give a damn. He’d lived quite happily on his army salary for five years. Long enough to make all this seem a bit foolish. But he refused to appear in public at a nail convention. Georgia had left him no time for work. This prenup was nothing short of demented.
“Get the lawyer.”
The short break while Jane called down to his lawyer didn’t do anything to abate Garrett’s temper. Since she’d winced at his last use of his favorite curse word, he let her leave the room. Without the word fuck the army would be mute. She’d have to get used to it, that was all.
The company lawyer looked over the contract.
“I used specialists for this fucker,” Garrett told him, “but they’ve let me down.”
The lawyer, Charles Sumpter, sighed. “You initialed the page. You signed this. It’s legally binding. Even if somebody slipped in the extra appendix, you signed it.”
Garrett sighed.
“There is one way to get out of this,” Charles said slowly.
Garrett leaned forward and propped his elbows on the table. “Tell me.”
“The contract is watertight except for one thing.” There was no trace of a smile in Jane’s face now. “At the end it says that this contract holds and supersedes all others unless there is a legal impediment that will render the agreement illegal. It’s legal-speak but there’s your loophole.”
Garrett frowned. “And?”
Charles returned Garrett’s smile with a wry one of his own. “If you’re married to somebody else, you can’t marry Georgia. That’s your legal impediment.”
Sucking in a harsh breath, Garrett shifted in his chair, the leather seat creaking in protest. He glanced at the picture of Georgia on his desk. Flamboyantly blonde, with her sweet pixie chin and impossible breasts and butt. Still, the woman had to earn a living. He didn’t hold that against her, just the assumption that he’d spend the next three years dancing to her tune.
A plan revolved in his mind. Used as he was to making instant decisions, he made one now. “Find me somebody. Discreetly. Someone who will marry me for a sum of money and demand nothing else. Draw up a draft contract.”
Charles nodded. “Don’t forget, you have to stay married to this new candidate for the length of this contract. If you divorce your bride, the previous contract comes into force. And on a personal note, whether you like it or not, Georgia’s fans are your target audience for Las Vegas. Young people with money. Do not publicly humiliate her by letting people know you bought your bride to get away from her. The only thing she will be able to explain away is a love affair.”
“So I’m fawning over a woman in public.” He got up and paced the carpet.
Charles raised a dark brow. “Just treat her like a husband usually treats his wife. With respect and love.”
Garrett sent him a snarling glare. “I’ll have to watch some romantic movies. I’m going to the security center.” He had to get out of this room. His office, huge though it was, stifled him. He had to give himself some space.
A few minutes later Garrett walked into the security center of the casino and nodded to Murray Wilson, one of his core team. Murray had followed him out of Delta Force, retiring after an op that had nearly cost them their lives. He was a friend and one of the few people Garrett would trust with his life.
Murray’s dark eyes gleamed as he turned back to the bank of monitors. “This is a great set-up.”
Garrett scanned the screens, which showed the casino from a variety of angles and positions. The tables and slots were gratifyingly full. People were enjoying themselves.
His attention was drawn to a table of women. They were wearing cheap tiaras and sashes, that said “Bride” and “Bachelorette.” He winced, reminded of his own problem.
He focused on the group of women on the screen. They were laughing and joking, all but one sat apart from the others. Her long, straight mahogany locks were brushed back from her face and ruthlessly tied back, but that only emphasized her singular beauty. The white shirt she wore over her pink T-shirt showed signs of wear, crumpled at the elbows and not quite sitting properly on her shoulders. The security cameras were so good he could see the way golden honey tones blended in with the brown of her hair. He could almost feel the silky strands of that long ponytail running through his fingers.
She looked up. Although she shouldn’t be able to see him, their eyes connected. She looked away again almost immediately, but it was like seeing a kingfisher flash across a stream. So natural, like a breath of fresh air darting across his world.
Swallowing, he looked closer. She was lovely, sure, but something else crept into him and under his skin. He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to touch that soft skin, trail his finger down from her shoulder to her hand, and then claim it for his own, a sensation so powerful that he lifted his hand to reach out to her.
Garrett had never, ever, had that kind of instant response to a woman. Lust, sure he did, he knew a lot of gorgeous women, but not that instant sense of claiming.
He’d gone without sex for too long. That had to be the reason. The pressure of turning the casino around and the recent contract he’d entered into had put his love life on hold. He was going stir crazy.
He narrowed his eyes but it took him a couple of minutes to confirm what he was seeing. He drew a breath. “That woman is card-counting.”
“You’re right.” Murray said after a minute.
“Bring her to me,” he snapped, galvanized into action. “Murray, I’ll use your office. Georgia’s still in mine. Take the woman’s passport and work up a dossier on her. I want it fast, while she’s still with me. Clear?”
People jumped to do his bidding as they strode from the room, but nobody in the casino would be aware that anything was happening.
Garrett felt newly energized.
*****
After an hour at the blackjack table of the Rocque, Las Vegas, Bonnie Miller’s pile of chips had increased considerably. Smiling, she nodded to the dealer for another card. The air around her hummed with approval of her decision. A few people watched, but nobody took much notice.
She’d come here with the five other girls from the wedding party she was here to celebrate. They’d flown over from London a few days ago. They were laughing and urging her on. For the first time she could remember, Bonnie felt part of the group, instead of set apart from it. So far this was the high spot of her trip.
She leaned forward, laughing, as the dealer pushed more chips her way.
Screams, and flashes from phones drew everyone’s attention. A petite woman with curves so exaggerated they didn’t look real had strolled along the vast floor of the casino toward the exit. Two men flanked her, obviously bodyguards, from their massive build and the way they tracked her movements. From the awed expression on the faces of people around her, Bonnie guessed should know the woman’s identity, but she didn’t have a clue. “Who’s that?”
Francine shot her an incredulous glance. “Haven’t you heard of Georgia G?”
Bonnie frowned. “Vaguely.” The name rang a distant bell in her mind. “Is she a pop star?”
“No, she’s—she’s Georgia G.”
“Ah.” That explained precisely nothing.
“Look at that contouring,” Francine breathed.
“I’m putting my picture on MediaHype,” Susie said, phone in hand. “She’s marrying the owner of the Rocque, Garrett Rocquelaire. He’s sex on a stick, but then, so is she.”
Neither name rang any bells for Bonnie, but she’d smiled and watched the beauty’s progress.
A man’s voice rumbled behind her. “Pardon me, ma’am, I need you to come with me.”
A huge African-American man in a black lounge suit waited, no expression in his dark eyes, his big hands clasped before him. He was definitely some kind of security person.
Maybe he wanted to escort Bonnie to the cash desk. She started gathering the chips, but the man put his hand over the pile. “Leave them.”
“Okay, but I have one thousand, eight hundred and fifty dollars in chips. I’ve counted.” She glanced at Francine. “Will you take care of them for me?”
Francine smirked. “Sure.” The girls did that giggling thing, when they put their heads together and laughed. Bonnie peeled her “bachelorette” sash off and handed it to Susie, the bride.
“Give her a voucher,” the man rumbled to the dealer. After one surprised glance at him, the dealer did so, printing out the flimsy paper and handing it over. The man took it.
“Hey, that’s mine!” One thousand, eight hundred and fifty dollars was probably nothing to the people here, but it meant a lot to her. She had plans for that money.
Ignoring her protest, the man tucked the voucher in his pocket.
“I’ll see you at the theater,” she said lightly to her friends. She had her ticket in her bag. She could go straight there. They’d come to the newly refurbished and luxury Rocque Casino from their own shabbier hotel to attend a performance from a male dance troupe. The Rocque was celebrating its re-opening with a gala in two days’ time, but it was invitation only, they discovered to their disappointment. They’d make do with naked men instead.
The ringing and clatter from the slot machines echoed in her ears as she got to her feet. Flashing lights and the chatter of the customers hit her with renewed intensity once her concentration was broken. Tension tightened her stomach. How could they have noticed her? She’d made sure to lose a few hands, and she wasn’t betting big. Once she knew she could do it, she planned to visit a few casinos, spread the load a bit.
The man waited courteously for her and then took her past the main elevators right across the casino floor to a small corridor. He hit a button and lift doors glided open.
Bonnie peered into the swish interior and a thread of fear curled through her. “Who are you? Where are you taking me? I’m not getting into that thing alone.”
“I’m a security advisor at the Rocque.” His stern expression melted a little as he dug inside his jacket, coming out with an official-looking pass. Okay, it was definitely his picture on the card. He took it back before she could see his name. “Do you have any ID?”
“Yes.” She always carried her passport with her. She’d been warned she might be “carded,” asked for proof of her age if she ordered a drink. Americans were awfully puritan about some things. When she handed him her passport, open at the appropriate page, he pocketed it.
“Hey! Give that back!”
“I need to check a few details, ma’am, then I’ll return it to you.”
If she ever wanted to see her passport again, she’d have to go with him. She stepped into the lift.
Bonnie watched the markers light up until they reached the fourth floor. They emerged into a wide corridor as different to the casino as night was to day. The floor was ceramic tiles for one thing, not the sticky carpet laid over most of the playing areas downstairs. Photographs of old Vegas hung on the walls. It didn’t smell of smoke, either.
Would her mother be in one of those pictures? Maybe she could ask somebody, once she’d sorted out this—whatever it was. Her stomach was churning with nerves and she had to work hard to keep her face carefully neutral.
He opened a door that said, Security, Murray Wilson, and motioned her through. “Here she is,” he said to the occupant, presumably Mr. Wilson. “Her name is Bonnie Miller.”
She stood in an office, ordinary looking except the furniture was new, renovated like the rest of the hotel. Dark browns and beiges were enhanced by touches of gold. It was as expensively discreet as downstairs in the casino the décor was glaringly blatant, with its purple and gold color scheme.
The man leaning against the desk folded his arms and raised a dark brow. His blue button-down collar reflected the deep blue of his eyes. Their gazes clashed.
As soon as she met that intense gaze the impact of this man’s presence blinded Bonnie to everything else. All she could do was stare. His strong features were essentially masculine, the lines of his cheekbones and jaw so breathtakingly clean they took her breath away. She’d never seen a man so amazingly handsome in her life before. She wanted to touch him so badly she had to clench her fists to stop herself doing it.
How could she feel that about somebody she’d only just met? Fresh air blew through the room, or was that her imagination? After days of air conditioning the sense was intoxicating. No, she had to be mistaken. The streets outside were scorching and it was pleasantly cool in here. It had to be his scent. He smelled of the air in the mountains and streams, cleansing her senses to everything but him.
He beckoned, crooking one finger in imperious command. Until the guard behind her cleared his throat, Bonnie stood stock-still, staring. Then she took half a dozen steps. The man in front of her jerked his head at her escort. The door closed quietly behind him.
Bonnie took a sharp breath, gathering courage and trying to regain her senses. “Why am I here?”
Wilson folded his arms and studied her, taking his time, as arrogant as any prince. “What were you doing downstairs?” His low voice shivered through the room, transmitting the same tremors to her inner self. He penetrated her outer shell as if it didn’t exist.
She couldn’t let him play her like this. His attitude was as calculated as the machines in the casino downstairs. “I was playing blackjack.” She tilted her chin. “Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do in a casino? Or do I have to move along every half-hour?” She got the mental vision of a bell pealing and everyone obediently moving to the next table. That would make the Rocque a bit different.
Then it hit her, a realization so strong it stopped her breath. Had he watched her play? Why would he do that? She didn’t kid herself that she was the most watchable person in the room, especially after the blonde beauty had entered it.
The man facing Bonnie fitted Susie’s “sex on a stick” description perfectly. Did all the Rocque staff look this good? “I was watching you play.” The trace of a smile flickered across his lips, but it was gone as soon as it came, if it was ever there at all. Fascinated, Bonnie fought the urge to sidle closer into his orbit. “Let me make myself clearer. What technique were you using?”
“Technique?” She had no idea what he meant. Murray Wilson made her feel stupid. She hated feeling stupid. Her intelligence was the one defense she had against people who laughed at her, or refused to accept her. She put up her chin. “What are you talking about?”
His mouth flattened. He had such a full, soft-looking mouth, but at the moment set in forbidding lines. The severity of his expression added an unexpected thrill to the fluttering in her stomach, a mixture of nervousness and—something else. Attraction, she’d have to say.
Mr. Wilson was extremely handsome, but there was more. Something called to her, invited her to get closer and discover for herself.
No doubt about it, Bonnie was losing her cool.
“Your card-counting. Which particular technique do you prefer?” His voice was cool. He’d distanced himself. Bonnie felt a pang of disappointment. She had never felt such an instant connection to anyone in her life before, but by his forbidding frown meant her attraction was definitely one-sided.
She frowned. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She consigned the phrase to her memory.
His expression lightened a bit, the frown between his dark brows lifting. “Did someone show you how to do it?” His creamy American accent rolled over her seductively, connecting with a part of her she usually tried to ignore. “Tell me what you did,” he ordered softly. “Step by step, take me through it.”
The best way to get out of this was to tell him the truth, because there was no way in a million years he’d believe her. “Okay. I sense things.”
He raised a brow. “Go on.”
“I have the gift of telling the future.” She let a smile curl her lips. “Not far in the future. You can’t do that, but about five minutes into it. Sometimes it’s not nice, because it’s not long enough to do anything really useful, but I can tell what cards are coming up, for instance. Or what horse is going to win a race, if it’s a short one. Or,” she added with a visible shudder, “when a head of state is about to be assassinated, if it’s broadcast live.”
She’d never forget that moment when she realized her gift was real, far too real to ignore. The TV broadcast of a visiting head of state to Britain, the king of a small but vital European duchy. That moment when someone had shot him and the world screamed. It was supposed to be a joyful event, with no hint of the tragedy of what was to come.
Except, five minutes before it happened, she was in screaming hysterics, her mother bent over her in worry. But her mother had given her no answers. She’d come here to find some.
Tension radiated from him, as if holding himself in. “When did you learn you could do this?” He looked up, the twin lasers of his eyes skewering her where she stood.
Shock made her catch her breath. “You believe me?”
“Why not? I have friends married to women with similar gifts.”
Finally, he slid off the desk and stood upright. Bonnie caught her breath. He must be well over six feet tall, dwarfing her five and a half feet, and he was big, too. Lifting her chin, Bonnie met his gaze boldly. He prowled toward her, then circled her and paused behind her.
His breath scorched her neck before he moved to face her again, taking his place leaning nonchalantly against the big glass desk. She caught her breath, and had to force herself to suck in air before she passed out on the spot. “Are you aware that card-counting is banned in Las Vegas casinos?”
“But I wasn’t card counting!” She’d explained and he believed her. Why would he say that?
“To all intents and purposes you were. My staff alerted me to what you were doing, and to anybody not knowing the truth, you were card counting.”
Her eyes widened when she realized how close he was. The warmth of his body radiated through the thin cotton of his shirt, beckoning her with sensual promise. But she wouldn’t give way, refused to take even one pace back.
“I can have you banned from every casino in town.” He was positively purring. “Card counters, thieves and cheats are not welcome. I daresay your employers wouldn’t be happy to hear it, either.”
“It’s not illegal.” She knew that much. She did her best to ignore his devastating effect on her. Far more important matters were at stake.
“But deceitful.”
His phone chimed, and he drew it out of his pocket to check the screen, but she couldn’t see what it said. “You’re teacher,” he purred. “This won’t look good on your resumé, will it?”
“What if I promise not to do it again?”
The sensual lips curled at the corners. “I don’t know you. How can I be sure you’ll keep your promise?”
He had her there. He had her every way, if truth were told. “You just do.” Her response sounded lame, even to herself. “What can I do to persuade you?”
He regarded her, head tilted on one side, before he said something totally unexpected. “You can marry me.”