clear of the slots,” he offered, totally deadpan. “Nothing says compensation issues like a man clinging too closely to a twelve-inch rod of metal.”
It took more than she’d thought she had to do it, but once Megan reined in her laughter, she pulled a mock scowl. “Seriously, how long have we known each other—and you think I’d hit the slots?”
This time it was Connor cracking the half smile that seemed his equivalent to a full-on belly laugh. “Right, I should have had more faith.”
She nodded, scanning the casino floor. “Roulette tables are where all the quality swimmers hang out.”
Another wry twist of lips. “I’m forced to disagree with you. Any guy lingering around a game based solely on luck is delusional. Probably believes in Santa and fairies. Doesn’t bode well for mental stability. You want the probability of psychosis spiraling through Junioretta’s double helix?”
Another stifled giggle. “No, definitely not. How could I have been so off base?”
“Sometimes I wonder about you.”
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had so much fun. Couldn’t remember a guy she’d been so instantly at ease with. Of course, that last bit probably had more to do with knowing this wasn’t leading anywhere. Which took the pressure off tremendously. She could simply enjoy the attention of this incredibly attractive, charming man without worrying about...anything.
“Blackjack, then?”
They’d made it halfway across the floor when Connor caught a passing waitress, giving her their order before returning his attention to Megan. “Also delusional. He thinks he’s in control when it’s a game of chance. Unless he’s counting...and then you have a criminal element to consider.”
Playing devil’s advocate, she asked, “But wouldn’t counting suggest a higher level of intelligence?”
“So you’re a single mom, strapped from the cost of the private academy his ‘genius’ demands. How much time are you going to have for all those trips to visit little Buster in juvie?”
Megan let out her best indignant cough. “You’re implying my baby is going to be some kind of delinquent?”
One oh-so-arrogant brow shot high. Sexy and confident. “Not if you play your cards right.”
“Fine, fine.” She laughed, wiping the tears at the corners of her eyes with the backs of her thumbs. “So we’ve been through the slots, roulette and blackjack. If none of those are right, then what—offtrack betting?”
Connor drew to a stop, turning to consider her more closely than the question called for. Closely enough she could feel her body respond to the touch of his eyes at every point of contact. His smile was pure arrogance as he answered, “You want to win the genetic jackpot, then skip the pit stop at Gamblers Anonymous altogether. Obviously your best bet is me.”
* * *
Megan laughed, head thrown back, eyes closed, and the sound of it hit him right in the center of the chest. And when those big blue eyes blinked back at him, her cheeks a rosy red, the hot rush and warm pull of attraction firing through his body nearly knocked the reason right out of him.
Fortunately, she didn’t seem to notice as she turned to accept her cocktail from the approaching waitress. “In the nick of time. I’ll definitely need another drink before I buy into that one.”
With a jut of his chin, he urged, “By all means, then, bottoms up.” Tossing back a swallow of his own, he grinned. “I’ve got all night.”
Damn, she had a gorgeous laugh. Even after it left her lips...echoes of it lit her eyes. Those sparkling eyes that were staring up at him like maybe he had the solution for anything. And suddenly, the idea of this strong, fiercely independent woman needing something from him appealed on an almost primal level.
“What?” he asked, chalking up the low timbre of his voice to a dry throat and remedying the obvious problem with a gulp of scotch.
Megan reached for the lapel of his jacket, her slender fingers curving around the fabric in a move both needy and intimate—a move that did something to him he wasn’t quite sure he should like quite so much.
Pearly-white teeth sank into the soft swell of her bottom lip before pulling free and he stopped breathing altogether.
“Megan.”
She sighed. “I’m starving.”
For a beat he stared down at her. And then those fingers tightened and she gave his lapel a little shake. “Star-ving.”
A single nod.
Food.
Yeah, he was pretty hungry too. For something, anyway. So it was time to stop staring down into her pretty, freckle-kissed face.
“Right.” Downing the rest of his glass in one swallow, he handed off the empty to a passing server. “Then I’m your man.”
Seven hours earlier...
He’d thought it couldn’t get any better than the laugh. But then he’d heard the laugh coupled with the squeals of delight and gotten an eyeful of Megan’s sensational and perfectly displayed backside. Shimmying in some victory dance as her winning machine counted up at the far end of the waffle buffet their surprisingly reliable cabbie had recommended.
Damn.
She’d caught him by surprise. Again. Lulling him into too easy a conversation and then giving up the details of her life as easily as this machine had given up her winnings. All it had taken was the right question at the right time, and she’d opened up, revealing new insight into the engaging creature he’d managed to capture for the night.
She was a self-proclaimed recovering romantic. A woman who believed in love but had discovered through a lifetime of experience the heights of that particular romantic elevation to be beyond her reach. And she’d accepted it, wasn’t interested in the futility of an unattainable pursuit. She was a brainiac beauty. A freelance software engineer, successful in her own right. Confident where it counted and modest in the most appealing ways. Independent to an extreme and unafraid to buck convention when it came to the achievement of her goals. Kind, funny and sexy.
Now he stood behind her, their latest round of cocktails set aside—which maybe wasn’t such a bad thing considering the kind of detours his head had been taking—as he shrugged out of his suit jacket, giving in to the absurdly out-of-place bit of possessive insanity going nuts thinking about anyone else seeing this heart-shaped perfection.
“Here, put this on,” he said, slipping it over her shoulders.
“I can’t believe it!” she gasped. “I never win. I never, ever, ever get lucky like this.”
Connor grinned, watching as the bare length of her arms disappeared within the sea of his coat. Reaching over, he adjusted the lapels, telling himself she’d looked cold. Then before he gave in to the temptation to linger near that tantalizing V of feminine flesh, or God forbid let his knuckles skim the softness there, he moved on to cuff her sleeves. Rolling up the arms until the slim band of her wristwatch shone beneath the flashing lights of her winning machine. It was a delicate
