Page 5 of Wild Card

Jen looked down. She suddenly felt like the kid who’d caught her parents making out. Nobody noticed her flush, thanks to the hotel staffers pulling open a pair of double French doors on the other side of the salon. Just beyond was a spacious terrace awash in the dark amber rays of the late afternoon sun. In the center of the space was an elegant dining table, positioned beneath towering palms wrapped in white twinkle lights. The table itself glowed as well, no doubt due to the LED lights embedded beneath its surface. Red and gold roses floated on a miniature reflecting pool extending the length of the table. Nearby, waiters in tuxedoes stood at the ready with trays of filled champagne flutes. Sixty stories below, the city’s iconic Strip blazed to life as night approached, lights flickering and traffic bustling.

“Oh, my.”

Tess’s cute little blurt was the perfect slogan for what they all felt—but it also betrayed how the movie-perfect setup was an equal surprise to her. Her reaction worked a similar transformation over Dan. His growly-scary side was instantly conquered by a boyish expression. “Do you like it?”

Tess didn’t utter a word. But her teary gaze spoke a thousand on her behalf. When she finished it off by raising on tiptoes to give him a soft kiss, her “yes” was understood by everyone.

But just as the women sighed and the men groaned, a stranger stepped into their midst, prompting new silence. Tall and rugged but beautiful enough to grace an haute couture runway, the man wore a charcoal, three-piece bespoke suit, accented by a luxurious silver tie. His thick, dark hair and beard were elegantly coifed, perfect foils for piercing blue eyes that took in every detail of the room.

Was this the enigmatic Mr. Nyte? Rumor said the hotel’s owner was secretive but all-seeing, like an upscale Santa Claus…who rewarded naughty instead of nice. From the thoroughly sensual way he eyed both Viv and Mattie, the theory was proved truer.

“Good evening to you all.” His greeting was silken and smooth, accented as if he were raised in Buckingham Palace itself. “Welcome to the Nyte. I’m Laird Beckett, the resort’s general manager. Just stopping in to ensure your service and facilities are exceeding expectations.”

So the elusive Mr. Nyte still remained a mystery. Jen wanted to be disappointed but couldn’t hide her amusement when Beckett sidled closer to Tess, all urbane charm and British silkiness, only to be glared down by a none-too-subtle Dan. Or not? Mirth glowed in Dan’s eyes, betraying the gruff familiarity of old friendship. “Yeah, yeah. Everything’s fine, fancy pants. Now get your charming paws off my subm—my fiancé.”

Beckett chuckled, along with most of the men, at Dan’s little slip. “As you wish, monsieur wanker.”

Tess tossed an eye roll toward Jen’s. It wasn’t like everyone couldn’t figure things out from there, or that the word “submissive” was such a stigma, at least in this crowd. Not that Jen herself had ever tried that stuff before…

Though she’d certainly dreamed about it.

And maybe, on a few occasions, let Mr. Bliss Bullet help a little with those dreams. To be tied down. Spread wide. Utterly vulnerable to a man’s every desire and pleasure…

Fantasies for a different time. A much different place. And yes, a reality very likely never to happen. A Dominant who probably didn’t exist. A man who’d earn her submission with the strength of his character as well as his sensuality…who’d know that the power she gave was his to borrow, not to keep…and had some damn good ideas about what to do with that loan, too…

A man who wasn’t real.

But before nine months ago, she didn’t think a man like Sam could be real, either.

If he was a Dom, too…

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him.

But like a child being ordered not to look at the sun…

She looked.

To find him looking back. Intensely. Oh, God. His dark ginger lashes didn’t falter. Determination was practically carved into his cheeks and jaw. In an instant, Jen got the impression that he, too, was considering her name and submissive in the same sentence—and savoring the speculation. A lot.

Ohhhh, God.

Her stomach twisted. Her heartbeat thudded at the base of her throat. And she didn’t even want to think about what was happening between her thighs. Liar. You want to think about nothing else.

Thankfully, everyone started drifting toward the terrace. There was no better chance to excuse herself. After a break for fresh makeup—and self-composure—in the ladies room, she could re-center her balance in these shoes—and pray the same happened with her thoughts about Sam Mackenna.

At least she could do all that in comfort. The stalls in the Nyte’s ladies room were bigger than most New York City lofts, each outfitted with a commode in a separate compartment, accessed through a little sitting room with a vanity and stool. The vanity was stocked with everything from cotton balls and makeup fix-its to sewing kits and—yes—an impressive selection of condoms. She nodded in approval after sitting down and pulling out her makeup tote. Elusive or not, Mr. Nyte scored extra points for advocating safe sex.

She almost took back the approval when one of the shiny packets caught her attention. She held it up, reading the label just to be sure. “Spikes? What the hell?”

She was about to tear open the package—for research purposes only, of course—but was startled when raucous giggles shattered the stillness of the bathroom. The condom dropped from her fingers and into her tote. She didn’t fish it out, frozen in place by pure instinct. An impulse that told her the laughter wasn’t friendly fire.

Sometimes, she really hated her intuition’s accuracy.

“Honestly, if you aren’t laughing at her, you’re crying for her.” The words, battered in bitch then deep-fried in snide, were capped by a sniff that was all Mattie.

“Speak for yourself.” Viv’s comeback was accompanied by brisk clacks across the marble. She stepped into the next stall over. Jen held her breath—not helpful for the flush crawling up her face—as the woman peed with a vigor matching her tone. “I refuse to waste the tears. I mean, that shit was semi-forgivable when we were kids. Who does she think she’s fooling with it anymore?”

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