Page 19 of Falling

“Did you leave anything for the rest of the hotel?” I sass, sliding into one of the chairs at the small dining table.

“Don’t bite the hand that’s feeding you.”

“But you’re so very biteable,” I tease back.

“Or so you told the old couple in the elevator last night.”

“I did not.”

“You did. I think she was scandalized. He thought it was hilarious.”

“I wish I had it on video.” I laugh. The look on his face must have been priceless. “Did you pop a chub?”

“Geneva,” he scolds.

Have I mentioned how much I like the way my name rolls off his tongue? Why else would I taunt him so much?

His eyes suddenly narrow as they home in on me. “Why? Does the idea make you wet?”

“Shame on you, Peter Winsloe.” I wave a french fry at him. “Breaking your own rules.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. It’s an impressive act of multitasking.

“What would your mother say if she knew you talk like that?”

“My mother would beat me bloody if she heard me say that to a lady,” he says.

“Good thing there’re no ladies around here.”

His eyebrows draw together in a scowl. “When you say things like that, it makes me want to bend you over my knee.”

“Now that idea makes me wet,” I say.

“How about you put that mouth to better use?” I raise an eyebrow at him. “I mean by eating.”

“Eating what?” I bat my eyes at him.

“Geneva, eat.” He jabs a finger at my plate. Looks like I won this round. Peter never stood a chance.

I wolf down the burger and fries he ordered me. I know: carbs, carbs, carbs. Sue me. It’s been a long time since that salad yesterday. Peter shakes two ibuprofen into his hand,and I wash them down with a diet soda. I already feel better.

“What are we doing with the rest of the day?” I ask.

“What would you like to do?”

“Hmmm.” I think about it for a minute. I don’t think I can do another night of gambling. There’s a very good chance the last one almost killed me. “You know what sounds nice? An afternoon by the pool.”

“I don’t have a swimsuit with me.”

“Me either, but five grand will buy one hell of a swimsuit. How about if I let you pick mine out and I’ll do the same for you?” He studies me the way he always does when he thinks I’m trying to put one over on him. I’m not. I just think he’d look amazing in a Bond-style suit. After all, we’re still in Vegas. Except that the suit I have in mind, I’m hoping to see it more in Austin.

“Do you want me to book you a message after?” he asks.

“Only if you do one with me. They can finish working on those sore muscles.”

“Fine, you get dressed. I’ll make the reservations.”

He moves to the phone in the living area, and I head for the bathroom and a much-needed shower. I can smell the vodka trying to leave my body. It’s not a good smell. By the time I’m finished getting ready, Peter has everything booked. He even knows the best place to find swimsuits.

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