Page 37 of Madam, May I

She’d removed the bottle of Gran Patrón Platinum tequila she’d purchased from her tote and poured herself a shot, sipping from the glass as she moved about the spacious suite. Her steps paused at the adjoining door, noticing it for the first time.

Her robe had fallen open, but she clutched it closed as she turned the knob and jerked on it to ensure the door was locked. She gasped when it flew opened and hit the wall. She gasped again at the man standing in the next suite with nothing but a towel loosely wrapped around his waist.

His face changed from surprise to pleasure at the sight of her, his eyes taking her all in from head to toe and showing his approval.

Desdemona gave him a quick appraisal as well and found the man, with his Idris Elba–like looks, to be attractive. Tall, strong, with broad shoulders and a good build. Dark skin. Bright eyes. Square jaw. Grown-man sexy. Definitely in his early forties.

With a mischievous smile and a flirty wave, she closed the door and locked it. She listened to see if he did the same from his side. He did not.

Was he alone in the suite? Was there a wife, girlfriend, side piece, or lover?

She glanced back at the door, curious about whether he had dropped the towel or not. With a little smile, and ready to get her birthday night in Vegas started, Desdemona lotioned her body with toiletries she had purchased before doing her makeup with a dramatic smoky eye and a glossy lip. Her hair she wore long and straight. She had no time for calling in a glam squad.

She loved the look and feel of her strapless cocktail dress with an internal bustier that gave her figure even more of an hourglass shape. The short length showed off her legs. The jacquard print covered with floral applique and crystals made her feel beautiful.

She locked her cash in the safe, changed the password, and grabbed the do not disturb tag before heading toward the door. She stepped into the hall, pausing when she spotted the man from the next-door suite leaning against the wall by his own door. She had to admit he looked just as good in all black—blazer, shirt, and slacks.

Damn good.

“Hello,” she said, closing the door and slipping the tag on the door.

“Hello, neighbor,” he said.

Desdemona almost gasped. His voice was deep, and he had a British accent.

“Are you IdrisElba?” she asked in a whisper as if it were top secret.

He chuckled. “Definitely not,” he said, pushing off the wall.

Desdemona felt silly. “Right. I mean, you two aren’t identical. I just . . . uhm . . . the accent threw me . . . for a second,” she said, shaking her head a little as she tucked her blond tresses behind her ear.

“Brent Yarborough,” he said, extending his hand. “And you look stunning by the way.”

She opened her mouth to give him her alias but stopped herself. He was not a consort. This was her birthday. She didn’t want to be anyone but herself. “Desdemona Dean,” she said, sliding her hand into his. “And thank you.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” he asked.

Desdemona eyed him. “If you want,” she said.

“I’ve been waiting out here for you,” he admitted.

“Why?” she asked, opening her clutch with her finger and preparing to withdraw her baton if need be.

“I wanted to meet you but I didn’t want to intrude if you were with someone,” he explained. “This way I could play it off.”

She smiled. “I wondered if you were with someone as well, Mr. Yarborough,” she admitted.

“I’m not.”

“Neither am I,” she replied.

A hotel room door opened, and a crowd of twenty-something women exited it. They fell silent as the women passed by them on the way to the elevator at the end of the hall. When the hall was quiet once more, they shared a smile.

“I’m in town to celebrate a friend’s engagement,” he said, coming over to stand beside her. “But tonight, I would rather have dinner with you, Desdemona Dean.”

Life is for the living.

“Today is my birthday, and I would rather have dinner with you than eat alone,” she said, offering him her arm.

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