Screwed In Sin City

But I did, and now I can't get it out of my head.

“Get over it,” I mumble again as I lower my book bag onto the concrete ground of the pool area, reaching up to pull the fitted tank top over my head that I'd wore on the way down from my room. I can't remember the last time I donned a bikini, but the lack of material and flashiness of the almost fluorescent design is a pretty clear indicator that the skimpy outfit is borrowed. I think I could have knocked Beth over with a feather when I confessed to her that I don't even own a bathing suit, let alone one that is two pieces and unarguably sexy.

I toss the shirt down onto the concrete beside my bag, pulling the book from it on the way back up. Then, I lower the sunglasses that had been perched on my head down over my eyes and stretch out on the lounge chair.

Immediately, the sun begins to beat down on me, and I know damn well that today—if I’m not interrupted for the next couple of hours—I’m destined for a pretty brutal sunburn. And the thing is, I don't care. Being from Ohio, I was raised in a place used to snow and cold in February, not the sunny, warm climate that Nevada boasts. Even if I burn to a crisp, the hours in the sun will be more than worth it.

I’ve just managed to clear my mind of the outside distractions, which include the fiesta-style music that plays quietly through the speakers that look like rocks placed sporadically around the pool area, and the prying eyes of only a handful of other people who occupy a few of the lounge chairs on the other side of the pool, when a loud splash catches my attention.

My first thought is that it has to be a kid, because no self-respecting adult would do a cannonball in the middle of a fancy pool area, especially when there are other adults in that pool area as well. But, when I raise my gaze from the words on the page to look beyond the book in front of me, my eyebrows arch high on my forehead at the sight of a grown man clad in only red board shorts hauling himself out of the pool, looking mighty satisfied with himself for having caused a ruckus.

I scoff, giving my head a slight shake at the audacity he has. Then again, this is Vegas. Anything goes here, isn't that the saying? I turn my attention back to my book, trying to pretend I didn't notice the sinewy muscles of his arms or the dark designs of the tattoos on his neck and arm that I can’t quite make out clearly.

Things are just starting to get good. I’m halfway through the story I’m reading, have a decent hunch as to who the killer is, and the suspense has built to a point where everything is about to fall into place for the main character to figure it out as well. That's when I feel the icy droplets of water rain down on me, splattering on the open pages of my book and dotting my bare skin and bikini with dark, wet spots.

I let out a startled shriek, immediately pushing my sunglasses up on top of my head and standing so I can get a good look at the jerk who is ruining my moment of peace. “Come on!” I wave an exasperated hand at the man in the red board shorts, indicating my frustration. “What's the big idea of trying to—”

My words are cut off as the man pulls himself out of the pool once more, up onto the concrete ground before me, standing tall. Without the darkness of my sunglasses shielding my eyes and the distraction of my book, I take the man in completely for the first time. It’s not the neck tattoos or the designs that mar his arm, or even the small, dark, horseshoe-shaped birthmark just above his pelvic bone that I recognize immediately upon seeing him—those aren't the things that stop me in my tracks.

It’s his eyes.

Bright, clear...and very obviously recognizing me.

“Derek.”

4

Derek

I'd have recognized those eyes anywhere. And right now, they’re even wider and more startled than they'd been last night. Not only have I never run into a woman that I've danced for—or with, or against, or on; however, you want to spin it—after a show, but I've also never remembered or given a second thought to any of the women from a show either.

This one, though? I recognize her immediately. She’s even prettier than I remember, more alluring than I'd originally realized…

And she’s pissed.

At least, she was, until my name passed her lips. Now, it’s hard to determine what the look on her face really means, whether she wants to get closer to me or just drown me in the pool.

I’m not even sure I have it in me to play it off nonchalantly, but I try, despite the fact that the sight of her has rooted me in place. “You remembered my name,” I say with a sheepish grin. “Fancy meeting you here.” I pull my hands through my hair, letting the excess chlorinated water splash down onto the concrete behind me.

She stares a moment longer, evidently uncertain what to do next. Then, she gives me a curt nod. “Yeah, fancy that.”

She turns around and immediately stalks over to the other side of her lounge chair, plucking the bag from the ground and shoving her book and other belongings back into it.

Shit, she's leaving.

“Hey, wait.” There’s a desperation in my voice that I don't understand, but at least it’s enough to halt her movements and give me the chance I need. “I'm sorry,” I say. “For splashing you. And getting your book all wet.” Even from here, I can see the pages are wet and will need to be spread out to let the air dry them.

Little Miss Jet Black Hair snaps her gaze up to meet mine, and the fire in her eyes this time isn't the heat of desire I'd seen the night before. Her eyes now hold only one emotion—fury.

“Of all the things you could apologize for, that's what you choose?” She sounds incredulous, like what I’m saying doesn't make an ounce of sense.

I arch an eyebrow, surprised at the venom in her voice. “And what exactly is it that you want me to apologize for?”

She finishes tossing her things back into the bag and slings it up onto her shoulder, looking defiant. “Oh, I don't know, how about for completely humiliating me last night in front of my friends and a whole room full of absolute strangers, or for putting your hands on me when you had no right to manhandle me the way you did, or—”

“You're going to have to excuse me for not agreeing, seeing as you willingly went there knowing what you were getting into.” I’m trying to keep my voice down, especially since this black-haired beauty in front of me is doing anything but, and the handful of other people sprawled out around the perimeter of the pool are beginning to stare, even if they are trying to pretend they're not. If I’m not careful, her demands for an apology are going to sound like something they aren't, like I did something I didn’t, so I need to diffuse the situation. Fast.

I let out an exasperated breath. “We’re getting off on the wrong foot,” I say through slightly clenched teeth. “I never meant to offend you, really. I was just doing my job.”