Raising the Stakes

“You’re never free?” He shook his head in pretended disbelief. “That’s one hell of a work schedule.”

“Mr. Baron—”

“Gray.”

“Mr. Baron,” she said coldly, “I am extremely grateful for your generous assistance yesterday, but—”

“But, you wish I’d disappear.”

Color rose in her cheeks again, straining the polite mask she maintained. Being polite was part of her job and he was making it hard for her to do it.

“No. Certainly not. Again, what you did yesterday was—”

“I know. I was a real Boy Scout. Now, I’m Jack the Ripper.”

No smile, not even a false one. “I don’t date guests.”

“House rule?”

“My rule,” she said firmly. “Is that all, Mr. Baron?”

“No, it isn’t.” Gray leaned forward and examined the white placard. “Special Services Desk,” he said, slowly and distinctly. “Special Services for Special Guests. If You Need Our Assistance, Please Dial—”

“Seven seven seven,” Dawn snapped. God, the man was impossible, standing there with his hands on the desk, a smug look on his face and a tone in his voice that made her want to tell him what she really thought of him. Didn’t he get the message? “I know what it says. And I assure you, the Desert Song prides itself on courtesy to all its guests, Mr. Baron—Gray,” she said quickly, correcting herself before he could, “ but—”

“But I have halitosis. Dandruff. A social affliction you can see even though nobody else can?” He smiled, pleased with how light he was keeping it, telling himself the knot in his gut had everything to do with wanting to get under that cool, brittle exterior only so he could do his job and go home.

“But,” Dawn said frigidly, “this desk serves as an adjunct to the Special Services office. It is not a dating service. And if you want tickets for a show, the concierge at Reception will be happy to help you.”

“I’m happy being helped right here.”

“I just explained that this is the Special Services office.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Obviously not.” Dawn took a deep breath, let it out while she reminded herself that part of her job was knowing how to deal with pests. “It’s a VIP office.”

“A VIP…” Gray’s eyebrows rose. “Well, that’s fine. What do I need? A platinum credit card? An airline mileage account? Do I have to check myself out of my room and onto another floor?”

“You don’t have to do anything. The hotel makes the determination as to which guests are deserving of VIP treatment. Those are the guests with whom I work.”

It took Gray less than a second to figure out what she was telling him. This was Vegas. Any other place, VIPs would be guests who were willing to pay for a room on a special floor where you got a little pampering for the extra bucks. Here, a VIP would be somebody willing to dump a small fortune at the tables. Things were different at the Song—and different for this woman, who dealt with wealthy men.

“Ah,” he said softly, “I get it.” His eyes met hers. “You offer your services to the highest bidders.”

Her face whitened. He almost said he was sorry, that he hadn’t meant that to sound the way it had…but maybe it was the truth. Harman said his wife catted around. Gray had envisioned a bored woman sleeping her way through a town filled with shifty-eyed Harman-clones. Now that he’d seen Dawn, he knew she was beautiful enough to pick and choose the men she slept with, and he’d have bet his last dollar that not a one of them would resemble her redneck husband.

Something flashed in her eyes. Anger? Rage? Pain. Jesus, it was pain.

“You—you have no right,” she said in a shaky whisper. “I’ve never—I would never…” She took a breath so deep he saw her breasts rise and fall; her eyes cleared and the mask fell over her face again. “Goodbye, Mr. Baron. I don’t think we have anything more to say to each—”

“Wait!” He reached out, clasped her elbow. That was all he needed, that she’d bolt because he’d said something incredibly stupid. She stiffened under the pressure of his hand and he let go. “Dawn,” he said, and cleared his throat. “Miss Carter. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. “

“Didn’t you?”

“No. I just meant…I guess it’s different here, that the hotel determines if a guest is a VIP based on how much he spends. Am I right?”

“That’s part of it.”