Page 11 of Lucky Puck

“Great idea,” Sabien says. “I think it’ll work. You can just say it’s a bug bite if anyone asks.”

“A bug bite? I don’t think so,” Brooks says, still rummaging. “There are no bugs in Vegas. We’ll say it’s a cut.”

She finally pulls a garden-variety band-aid out of her bag and takes control of my hand.

“Keep it simple, Brody. Say it’s a cut if you have to, and don’t elaborate. Chances are no one’s going to care why you have a band-aid on your finger.” She finishes wrapping it around the wedding band, and though it’s suspiciously bulky, it should pass muster since I don’t plan to hold hands with anyone in the press or the general public. Or anyone at all.

I don’t remember the last time I held hands with someone. I glance at Brooks because technically she’s holding my hand right now, scrutinizing the wedding band disguise, and I don’t hate it. Before I can contemplate what that’s all about, she drops my hand.

“It’ll do.”

Is that crease in her forehead just above her tortoiseshell glasses from worry or annoyance? Not that it matters.

There’s another knock at the door, and this time I don’t bother trying to answer as she rushes with impressive speed past me, swinging the door open.

“Oh thank god,” she says, ushering a young man carrying boxes inside the room.

“Bigelow, I presume,” I deadpan. Bigelow smiles. He’s younger than any concierge I’ve run into in my travels, by about a century.

Brooks tosses me a warning glare, then says to Bigelow, “Did you get everything? The suit in the size I asked?”

“I did my best.” He clears his throat and glances at me.

I give him a smile of encouragement because he looks like he needs it.

“This should be interesting,” Sabe says.

All business, Bianca turns to Bigelow. “Put the boxes in the bathroom. God knows there’s enough room for a party in there, so that’s where he can dress.”

“I’m right here,” I say as she refers to me in the third person, mostly to annoy her.

“Get dressed and make it fast,” she says, and if it weren’t for the hint of real worry in her voice, I’d make another wiseass comment. Instead, I nod and shut the door behind me to the bathroom.

The pants barely fit, so I’m careful not to take any long or quick strides as I re-enter the hotel suite fully dressed except for my tie, which hangs around my neck. As expected, Bianca inspects me like I’m a runway model at a fashion show about to make the walk. So I strike a pose for her.

Sabe laughs, and she frowns. I suppress my grin, and it’s a sad fact that I’m getting good at it because teasing her isn’t exactly very nice. But it’s kind of an addictive thrill. One more reason I’m going to hell.

“You look passable,” she says. “Just don’t make any sudden moves.” She stares at my pants in the vicinity of my thighs and crotch, and I wiggle my hips for her. Her eyes dart to my face, showing a nice pink blush of guilt and shame.

“I agree with Brooks,” Sabien says, diffusing the moment. He makes a great buffer between us, keeping me from going too far. It could be that I’ve been enjoying the tension between me and Brooks so much that I might have pushed her too far. Maybe I should behave because she’s trying to help me out. Trying like hell to behave professionally and pretend there’s no spark of attraction—or at least awareness—between us.

“Let’s go,” she says and turns to Bigelow. “I’ll see you later. I need one more favor.” Then she strides to the door, moving fast like we’re late.

“We have time, don’t worry,” I say, following her. Sabe snorts and jumps in front of me to put space between me and Brooks as if he’s protecting one of us. He succeeds in blocking my view of her swaying hips and world-class ass. I suppose it’s just as well because as much as the roundness of her bottom begs to be caressed, I can read the Do Not Touch sign as if it were in neon plastered to her skirt.

In the elevator on the way down, the three of us are silent, like we’re mentally preparing for something—and I don’t mean the hockey game. I push at the band-aid clad wedding band with my thumb, and a small, tiny, infinitesimal squeeze knots in my gut.

“Suppose I really am married?” I say, just before the elevator doors open.

Chapter Seven

BIANCA

Shit. I stumble, yet again, as if Brody pushed me—which he may as well have with that very disturbing question. I catch myself at the same time as he catches me, his hot hands no less electrifying this time as last—and you’d think I was inoculated sufficiently against him by now. I pull away from him with more force than necessary as his hands fall away.

Sabien precedes us into the empty space between two banks of elevators, then stops, frowning at Brody.

With my voice low and tight because I can’t help the tension, I feel compelled to try and put out my flare of concern. “You said you never left the room. Unless she brought in a JP, the chance that you’re actually married is infinitesimal.”