Page 3 of 3 Times the Heat

A bartender stands at attention in the back of the room, formal in his white sleeves and striped vest. I don’t know his name, but it doesn’t matter because we’re all watching the three men at the table. These must be my customers.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” I greet throatily while mincing into the room. “I’m Tamara, and I’ll be your hostess tonight. Welcome to the Corinthian Hotel.”

The three guys turn to look at me, and my heart begins to accelerate because these men are absolutely gorgeous. They’re impeccably clad in dark suits, and the blinding white of their cuffs and collars creates a stark contrast against tanned skin, handsome features, and dark hair. I’ve always been a girl who adores a man dressed to the nines, and these guys fit the bill.

But it’s not just the clothes, the expensive watches, and the buffed shoes. It’s also the men themselves because they practically exude power and charisma. I recognize the one closest to me as Dane Merovingian, the owner of the Merovingian Hotel, a rival of the Corinthian. Dane is mouthwateringly handsome with a thick head of jet-black hair, icy blue eyes, and his body…oh god, his body. Even in a suit, I can tell how sculpted he is. He looks like an Olympic athlete with broad shoulders, a deep chest, and long, powerful legs.

Meanwhile, the two other men are just as heart-stopping. They too have chiseled, athletic bodies beneath expensive fabric, but one has thick chestnut hair, while the other has a streak of grey at his temples.

“Nice to meet you,” the man with the chestnut hair speaks. The dimple in his left cheek has me weak-kneed, and I force myself to focus as his lips move. “I’m Chris Eckhart, and this is Jamison Worth. We’re both friends of this guy,” he claps Dane on the shoulder. “This is Dane Merovingian. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. He’s a big dog around these parts.”

“I think I have,” I smile with a nod. “Any relation to the Merovingian Hotel?” I ask, pretending ignorance.

Chris and Jamison hoot with laughter.

“This dude owns it,” Jamison grins slyly. “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Ah, I see,” I nod again. “Well, welcome to the Corinthian, Mr. Merovingian, Mr. Eckhart, and Mr. Worth. I hope your time here is enjoyable. Can I fetch you gentlemen a drink?”

“Sure, whiskey all around,” Jamison speaks in a baritone. “Make sure it’s the real stuff, and not that malt shit they sometimes serve on the Strip.”

“Of course,” I say with a nod of my head. “We would never serve a malt beverage in place of the real thing,” I add before turning to retrieve the drinks. Then, I spin on my heel and make my way to the back of the room, where the bartender waits silently at his station. The men groan soundlessly, and I know what they’re looking at: my ass, as it jiggles and sways.

Within minutes, I’m back with three tumblers of whiskey.

“Here you go,” I murmur, placing the drinks at their elbows. “Anything else I can get you?”

“No,” Jamison growls, studying his cards. “But tell me, sweetheart. What was your name again?”

“I didn’t say, but it’s Tamara,” I reply in a sweet voice.

“Tamara,” Jamison nods, eyeing me with those blue eyes as he looks over his cards again. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks. It’s my name, but don’t wear it out,” I say in a playful tone. With that, Jamison reaches one big arm out, and before I realize it, he’s pulled me into his lap.

“Goodness!” I whisper, turning wide eyes to him. “That was fast.”

He nods, one strong arm around my waist as he continues to play.

“Sorry if I took you by surprise,” he says in a deep baritone. “But I need a bit of womanflesh in my lap if I’m going to win this hand. Oh shit,” he grunts when the dealer flips a five of spades. “Fuck this,” he grunts, folding and pushing his cards to the center of the table. Then, he turns his full attention to me.

“So how did you end up with us, Tamara?” he asks. “Or should I call you Tammy?”

I giggle, already lost in the intensity of his gaze.

“Don’t call me Tammy! I hate that nickname so I always go by Tam or Tamara. But to answer your question, Mr. Worth, I don’t get to choose which tables I work. The hotel assigns me to a room, and then I serve the clients within.”

All three men share a look before nodding.

“Yeah, that’s how it usually goes,” Dane Merovingian drawls as he scrutinizes his cards again. “My hotel’s the same way.”

But his comment makes me nod in agreement.

“But if I may ask, Mr. Merovingian, why are you here? Aren’t the Merovingian and Corinthian Hotels rivals?”

The handsome man shrugs before shooting me a smirk.

“Yeah, but we’re hitting this place for a change of pace,” he drawls. “Plus, as a fellow hotel owner, I need to keep an eye on the competition. I fucking hate Stone Thompson, but he knows his shit. This place is nice,” he says, looking around at the triple-height ceiling, lavish pendant lamps, and overall luxe décor. “The food, the alcohol, the women…”

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