My boss had sent eleven messages with inappropriate suggestions for how to get Fenton's attention and expletive-filled demands for updates. James Cort had no fear of a sexual harassment suit, as he knew how much I wanted to take my career to the next level.
"First contact now. More soon," I typed.
"Dirty minx. Don't do anything I wouldn't."
I shook my head at my boss' response and tossed my phone back in my purse. I had built my career on a sterling reputation and I was not about to throw it away on one Vegas prizefighter. As I turned back to Fenton Morris, my resolve weakened. He leaned against the bar, his blue shirt open wider, and my fingers itched to tangle in his chest hair.
He caught my look and smiled. "I've decided you can try convincing me. After we dance."
CHAPTER THREE
Kya
I could still hear the club music. It thumped in my ears, but not as hard as the hangover. I knew it was bright on the other side of my eyelids, but I could not force them open. Flashes of the night before burst out of the fog, and I cringed in my hotel bed.
Fenton had dragged me to the dance floor, the crush of the crowd pushing me tight up against him. It seemed like the perfect excuse to let go, just for a moment. One song turned into a hypnotic loop and we kept going. I remembered my palms flat on the hard rock of his chest. The surge of desire I felt helped fight off the waves of aching hangover.
At one point, a stunning spotlight of memory, we were back in the V.I.P. Lounge, close together in the booth. He ordered champagne, and we toasted to our private corner in the packed club.
Fenton's blue eyes intense on mine, his voice soft as he had told me, "I don't know how, but you're different. I just wish we hadn't met so soon."
I had giggled, confused by the sincerity on his stubbled face. Of course now, in the painfully bright light of morning I understood. He would not sign the endorsement deal until after he won the title fight. That way, he would get more money.
I groaned and pried my eyes open. I could not laze around in bed waiting to feel better. I had to find Fenton and convince him to sign with me right away. The white sheets tangled around me were softer than any I had ever slept on. I savored one more stretch over their softness before my body went rigid with terror.
These were not the same sheets on my hotel bed. I was in someone else's room.
Suite, I corrected myself as I glanced around in a panic. The penthouse suite was enormous, all clean lines and jaw-dropping views. The Vegas Strip was far below me, already baking in the sun. Hazy swirls of heat reflected off the buildings, and I spotted my hotel, The Tropicana, across the way. The answer nagged at me, but I wondered where I had ended up.
I lifted my head off the pillow only far enough to read the stationary pad on the bedside table. The MGM Grand. I had not gone far from the nightclub. I dropped my head back on the soft pillow and squeezed my eyes shut. Another wave of memories burst in my head like fireworks.
Champagne, more dancing, and Fenton's hands on my body. The remembered heat flared over my skin again. The sureness of his strength, the precise movement of his muscles, and the magnetic pull between our bodies had been more intoxicating than the bubbly wine.
And, somehow, he had felt the same about me. Even in conversations with fans, trash talking with rival fighters, and flirty exchanges with other women, his hands had reached for me. His arm was around my waist, I slipped my hands around his bicep, and we pressed closed together, whether the crowd was around us or not.
Safe in the privacy behind my closed eyes, I admitted I was attracted to Fenton Morris more than any other man I had ever met. His thick black hair, piercing blue eyes, smirking lips, and even the rough rub of his stubbled chin and cheeks ignited my body. He made me hot, buoyant, electric, and liquid all at the same time.
It was no wonder I remembered riding the elevator up to his penthouse suite – his lips plunging over mine, the taste of him deep in my mouth.
A cold blast of panic shocked my eyes open again. I could just make out my crumpled dress, dangling over the open bedroom door. Outside, in the middle of the suite's living room, one red heel leaned against my spilled purse. Casino coins were scattered around the carpet.
"You make me want to believe in luck," Fenton had said.
The slot machine had spat out coins, as I had tried unsuccessfully to catch them in the small hem of my dress. He had knelt in front of me and scooped the coins into my purse.
"You don't?" I had asked him.
"No. I want to earn what I get. That way I know it’s mine," Fenton had said.
"Then, why do I make you want to believe in it?"
"Because if I can't say I feel lucky to have met you, then I don't know how to explain this." Fenton had wrapped me up in a searing kiss, the coins spilling out of my hands and open purse.
He was close behind me in the king-sized bed. I could feel his heat. I peeled back the covers and cringed when I realized I was wearing nothing but my black lace underwear and bra.
Could be worse, I thought, I could be naked.
Not wanting to know how far I had let things go last night, I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across the large master bedroom. I thanked hotel maintenance for a bedroom door that did not squeak. Even though my exit was silent, I glanced back to make sure Fenton was still asleep.