The Little Black Dress (Love in Las Vegas)

There’s No Such Thing as Luck

Sophie

What in the hell just happened? Did I just…

Lose the Pollock?

“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.

Leaving my bidding paddle on the floor where it landed after slipping through my fingers—much like the painting—I hop up from my chair as the auctioneer starts to describe the next item on the block. My body twists left, then right, unsure of which way to go. I have to get out of here. I have to figure out what I’m going to say to Mr. Hatfield. I have to—

My eyes narrow as they land on a trim figure heading for a doorway to the left. Him.

Without actually thinking it through, I charge after him. There’s a tiny voice in my ear begging me to calm down. To stop this lunacy and leave Peltier’s with some shred of dignity. But I ignore it and quicken my pace, determined to catch the newest bane of my existence before he escapes.

Stalking through the doorway he disappeared through, I skid to a halt just before plowing into him. He’s bent over in front of a desk… Is he writing a check? For thirty-five million dollars? Who in the hell has that much money just lying around in a checking account?

Shaking my head to clear the thoughts, I reach out and tap his shoulder, jabbing my finger against it with a little more force than necessary. Okay. Maybe a lot more.

The man straightens before turning to face me. His expression flares with recognition before tightening into a suspicious glare.

“What do you want, Red?”

“What do I…?” I breathe, then press my lips together at his insolence before snapping, “I want that painting.”

He cocks his head and crosses his arms over his wide chest. I totally don’t notice how the fabric of his expensive suit stretches at the shoulders with the movement, revealing just how hard and muscular they are. And I totally don’t have an apparent shoulder fetish.

“Then you should have outbid me.”

I narrow my eyes and copy his stance before nodding my head toward the still-open checkbook on the desk. “Is that even possible? And who still writes checks? It’s the twenty-first century, for shit’s sake.”

I know I’m being a bitch. It’s foreign ground for me to act this way, and my insults definitely need some work. But I’m freaking out because my boss is going to lose his shit when he finds out I didn’t get him the Pollock he so desperately desires.

Stephen Hatfield is used to getting what he wants.

“Probably not,” the man says, answering my first question before adding, “And mobile apps can’t handle this large of a transaction.”

“I need that painting,” I say, ignoring the condescension in his tone. “I was supposed to win.”

“No, you weren’t. You were never going to win it. It’s mine.”

His impatience is palpable, making me feel like a fly he’s two seconds away from smacking with a rolled up newspaper. Turning away from me, he bends back over to finish filling out the check. I notice the woman sitting behind the desk for the first time, her eyes darting between us before settling on the man with a hungry glint in their dark depths.

Her obvious attraction to the asshole makes my blood pressure skyrocket. My livelihood is on the line here, and instead of supporting her fellow female, she’s undressing him with her eyes. Gritting my teeth, I barely suppress the urge to stamp my foot like a child.

“But I’m wearing my little black dress,” blurts out before I can stop it.

He stills for a second before straightening and turning to face me once more. Tearing the check from the booklet, he holds it out to the woman without taking his eyes off me.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“It’s my lucky dress,” I say as if that was the dumbest question I’d ever heard.

“There’s no such thing as luck.”

I rear back as if stricken. “No such thing…?”

Is he crazy? He must be.