over her, heating her flesh even through her sensible pantsuit. “Dance with a sexy stranger?”
From anyone else, the question would have seemed presumptuous and sleazy, but from Sloan it was, well, presumptuous and tempting. What would it be like to dance secure in his arms, to give herself up to his lead without having to worry where he’d take her? Without having to worry how he’d feel about her in the morning?
She’d never chance it. This time she leaned forward, meeting him head-on so there would be no mistakes. This tactic had worked time and again in the past. Attitude was everything, though the lock on her bedroom door had come in handy too.
She might be physically tempted like never before, but it wouldn’t show. She wouldn’t allow it.
“Let’s get this straight,” she said in a calm, nonthreatening sort of way. “I have no interest outside of helping you find your designer and launch the fall line. I’m here to do my job. Period.”
Instead of backtracking or scrambling for excuses like all the men before him under her no-nonsense glare, Sloan simply watched her lips as she formed the words, his gaze tracing every curve. The urge to moisten them with a slip of her tongue grew strong.
A satisfied expression crossed his face, as if he’d stumbled upon a secret she hid deep inside. “We’ll see,” he said simply, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, leaving her to stew in her amazement at his audacity.
We’ll see. We’ll see? He’d see nothing more than her hand making contact with his face if he tried to pull anything on her.
She knew far too much about the ways of men and the lengths they’d go to have a woman. She’d seen every trick before; nothing impressed her now. They all ended up looking at you like trash once you gave in. She’d vowed a long time ago that she’d never endure that. Respect meant everything to her. If she couldn’t have it romantically, she’d earn it through hard work and initiative in her career.
She never let herself down. That was the only thing she could count on.
Ziara kept reminding herself of that until the plane touched down late that afternoon. The Nevada heat drained her. Just walking from the airport to the taxi sparked a thirst that for once had nothing to do with Sloan.
They checked into the hotel with relative ease. The elegant suite, thankfully complete with two bedrooms with locking doors, offered an enticing view from Ziara’s balcony. Despite her resolve to focus on work, Ziara couldn’t deny the little tendrils of excitement spreading through her veins. Vegas was an animal all its own and it tempted her curiosity almost as much as Sloan and his mystery designer.
As the sunset crept over the horizon and lights sparked on, she didn’t care about the reputation of Sin City; she just wanted to indulge in a little color and stimulation.
She tried to dig some information out of Sloan during dinner in their sitting area. Knowing his plans would grant her more control and distract her from Sloan’s good looks. He’d changed into a lightweight tan suit that brought out the blond highlights in his thick hair. The blue dress shirt, with the top buttons undone, echoed the icy blue of his eyes. He projected an aura of sophisticated relaxation. She couldn’t help but envy that cool attitude.
Distraction, that’s what she needed. “What is the itinerary while we’re here?”
Sloan didn’t even look up from his filet mignon. “I’m not sure.”
She stifled a sigh. “Do we have an appointment to meet with your friend?”
“I’m afraid not.” He paused to chew a bite of crunchy fried potatoes.
How did he eat like that and still maintain those lean muscles without an ounce of extra flesh?
“This trip was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
Really? She could feel her frustration tightening the muscles along her neck. Hadn’t he planned any part of this little jaunt? Planning was her modus operandi. Besides, if the designer refused to meet with Sloan, this entire trip would be a complete waste of time.
“So is there at least a plan of attack?”
Realizing her frustration was beginning to ooze through the cracks in her calm facade, she cringed. Maybe she should just concentrate on the juicy chicken Alfredo on her plate. Then she quit caring altogether as she noticed the shake in Sloan’s shoulders.
Tilting her head, she caught a glimpse of his laughing mouth. She barely restrained the urge to kick his shin with her pointy dress pumps. Taking a deep breath, instead, she applied herself to her food in outward silence, but inside her mind was calling him every name in the book. And she knew quite a few more than people imagined.
Sloan must have decided he’d tested her type A personality quite enough, because he broke the silence. “I bought tickets for a show here tonight. Since we won’t be able to catch up with Patrick until later, we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
He studied her as if expecting a protest, but she decided to ease off the hall monitor bit for a little while. Heck, everyone needed a day off. Including her. If he wanted to take her out—strictly as her boss—then who was she to complain?
After finishing their meal, Sloan cleared everything to the room service cart and rolled it outside the door. Ziara changed into the only nonbusiness outfit she’d brought. The plain summer skirt and lack of a suit jacket evoked a sense of freedom from her responsibilities. Paired with a light summer sweater, she was ready to be entertained. The assessing look in Sloan’s eyes had her reluctantly standing a bit straighter.
Exiting the elevators, they crossed through the hotel lobby toward the theater. Passing the opening to the casino, various restaurants and shops, Ziara caught the excitement of tourists and let herself slowly slip into the mood, just a little.
A burgundy-uniformed usher led them to seats close to the front, slightly left of the center aisle. Sloan must have pulled strings to get such good seats at the last minute. As the lights lowered and the stage came alive, Ziara’s breath caught in her throat. She felt close enough to be part of the action, yet isolated in the dark, alone, with only the warmth of Sloan’s arm next to hers anchoring her.
The show was a compilation of variety acts. As Sloan’s laughter rumbled in his chest at the comedian, Ziara let herself join in. She held her breath, awed over the awesome acrobatics and stunts in various sketches.
At one point Sloan stretched out his long legs, the brush of material against the bare skin of her calf setting off goose bumps. His gaze branded her like a heat-seeking missile, taking in her reactions to the various acts onstage, reminding her to temper her laughter or excitement.
She thoroughly enjoyed the evening until the next-to-last act. As a scantily clad woman gracefully crossed the stage and burst into song, Ziara cringed in her seat.
She knew the song well—it had been one of her mother’s favorites. The scene was from a musical about a prostitute who’d found Mr. Right and hoped he’d look past her profession to the woman within. As fellow “call girls” made their way onto the stage to join in the chorus, Ziara shifted in her seat.
Like a neon sign right before her face, the scene reminded her of all she had to lose
