I gawk out the window as we drive, feeling a bit like an eager puppy taking in the sights. I don’t even gamble much, and I still love Vegas. I think I feel a camaraderie with it. We’re both a little bit tacky sometimes.
We pass the iconic Caesar’s Palace, and moments later, pull up in front of the magnificent Starfire Resort. The drive circles a fountain, and I watch, mesmerized as colorful columns of water rise and fall.
A bellman hurries to open my door while a valet takes the car from Ryan.
“Shall we?” Ryan asks, taking my arm.
“I’ve never stayed here before,” I say. “I’m pretty much a low-rent end of the Strip kind of girl.”
“You’ll love it. And I’m not surprised the producers are putting the actors up here. Starfire is one of the most luxurious hotels on the Strip.”
I’d received the follow-up e-mail from Georgia while we were on the road. The station has booked me a room at the Starfire, and I have an interview scheduled the next morning with Ellison Ward, a British actor who is all the rage now that he’s won an Oscar. They’ve even flown in a cameraman to do the filming. All I need to do is review the file, tweak the suggested questions, and not screw up.
When I first read the e-mail, I was surprised that a Dallas station could arrange a one-on-one with somebody of Ward’s stature. But after I read the research material, I understood. Apparently Ward’s mother lived in Texas for a few years and had a fondness for The Metroplex that she’d passed on to her son.
Honestly, it was quite a coup for the station and for me. Undoubtedly, the piece would go national, and I’d get some serious exposure, all of which would help in my quest to get back to LA someday.
That, of course, only made the “don’t screw up” part of the equation all the more important.
An efficient young woman in a pencil-style skirt and tailored blouse meets us as we step into the stunning lobby decorated in what I think is an Art Deco style. “Mr. Hunter, Ms. Archer. We have you all set. Would you like to follow me?”
“That’s okay,” Ryan says. “We need to go to the casino first. The room is ready?”
The girl nods. “Absolutely. Enjoy your stay, and don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”
I glance at Ryan, slightly confused. “Efficient staff.”
“Very,” he says as she moves across the tiled floor to the registration desk.
“Time for roulette?” I ask, the word alone sending a few tingles running through me.
He trails his fingers down my arm. “Roulette,” he confirms.
The casino opens off the lobby, and we can hear the noise and bluster as we head down the set of staircases to the wide, slot-machine lined entrance. It’s like entering a different world. Noise and lights. The chatter of patrons, the calls of the staff. And beneath it all, the clink and clank of coins.
“This way,” he says, leading me down a tiled path that is cut through the carpeted areas that hold the banks of slot machines, tables for blackjack and other card games, craps, and the like. We find the roulette tables on the far side, and by the time we arrive, I feel as though I have walked a thousand miles.
“Pick your table,” he says, and since they all seem the same to me, I choose the closest one. He pulls a fifty dollar casino chip out of his jacket pocket, which strikes me as a bit odd since I never saw him exchange any money for chips. I don’t have time to think about it, though, because he places the chip in my hand and tells me to bet.
Immediately, I put the chip on red.
Ryan laughs, then lifts my hand and kisses my fingertips, the touch as gentle as a butterfly’s wing and at least as sensual.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You’re giving away your secrets, kitten,” he says, nodding to the table where I’d placed my bet. “You know what red means.”
“I do,” I say, and then, because I’m feeling bold and I really do want it, I move to his side and lift myself up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. “It means that I’m at your mercy,” I say, and then slowly—very slowly—I run my tongue over the curve of his ear.
I’m holding on to him as I do it, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back. I feel the way his body tightens beneath my touch. I hear the low groan that he tries to stifle, and, yes, I smile.
“Naughty,” he whispers as I lower myself. But I just gaze innocently at the table and the wheel that has started to spin.
I hold my breath as the ball bounces, around and around, and then—yes—it lands on red. I glance sideways and see that Ryan is watching me. I smile triumphantly. “I had to want red,” I tease. “There was no way I could come up with enough cash to pay you.”
He laughs. “Fair enough, kitten. I promise, though, that I’ll make sure that landing on red was very much worth it. For both of us.” He nods at the table as the croupier pays out our winnings. “Care to stay in the casino and gamble a bit longer? I’m feeling lucky.”
“I’m feeling lucky, too,” I say. “And I absolutely do not want to stay.”
He makes a noise I interpret as satisfaction, then pockets our winnings. He takes my arm and leads me out of the casino. I’m completely turned around, but I’m pretty sure we’ve been moving away from the lobby. My instinct is confirmed when I realize that we are in a wide-open, bright shopping area. The ceiling is a mural of the sky, arching across the space above our heads from sunrise on one side to sunset on the other, with day and night between.
In the area in which we are standing, the night sky is spread above us, and thousands of small electric lights wink down at us. It’s cheesy, but it’s also romantic, and when Ryan takes my hand to lead me through the mall, I cannot stifle my little sigh of contentment.
For right now, anyway, all is well in my world.
Like most of the shops on the pricier section of the Strip, the ones that fill this mall are high-end, full of designer goods and hefty price tags. Those extravagant items are balanced with markdowns so that the overall result is a store full of products for both the lucky and not-so-lucky gambler.
We pass by a window display overflowing with diamonds and emeralds, along with price tags that make clear that this is not the store for part-time gamblers and two-bit winners. This is where the high rollers come to shop.
Ryan takes my hand and leads me inside.
“That would look lovely on your wrist,” he says, pointing to a diamond and platinum bracelet that costs more than my condo.
“You’re insane,” I say.
He grins at me. “Not your style?”
“No,” I admit because my taste tends toward funkier.
He eyes me critically, his gaze skimming up and down. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re right. You need something more...” His voice drifts off as he walks the length of the glass counter. A clerk comes by, apparently sniffing a sale, but Ryan waves him away with a flick of his hand. “Like this,” he says, pointing to a circle of lovely pounded silver. It is a choker-style necklace made so that it catches the light at a variety of angles. There is a hinge on the back with a pin that fits through a corresponding cylinder to keep the thing in place. At the center there is a single loop upon which one could hang a charm.
We pass the iconic Caesar’s Palace, and moments later, pull up in front of the magnificent Starfire Resort. The drive circles a fountain, and I watch, mesmerized as colorful columns of water rise and fall.
A bellman hurries to open my door while a valet takes the car from Ryan.
“Shall we?” Ryan asks, taking my arm.
“I’ve never stayed here before,” I say. “I’m pretty much a low-rent end of the Strip kind of girl.”
“You’ll love it. And I’m not surprised the producers are putting the actors up here. Starfire is one of the most luxurious hotels on the Strip.”
I’d received the follow-up e-mail from Georgia while we were on the road. The station has booked me a room at the Starfire, and I have an interview scheduled the next morning with Ellison Ward, a British actor who is all the rage now that he’s won an Oscar. They’ve even flown in a cameraman to do the filming. All I need to do is review the file, tweak the suggested questions, and not screw up.
When I first read the e-mail, I was surprised that a Dallas station could arrange a one-on-one with somebody of Ward’s stature. But after I read the research material, I understood. Apparently Ward’s mother lived in Texas for a few years and had a fondness for The Metroplex that she’d passed on to her son.
Honestly, it was quite a coup for the station and for me. Undoubtedly, the piece would go national, and I’d get some serious exposure, all of which would help in my quest to get back to LA someday.
That, of course, only made the “don’t screw up” part of the equation all the more important.
An efficient young woman in a pencil-style skirt and tailored blouse meets us as we step into the stunning lobby decorated in what I think is an Art Deco style. “Mr. Hunter, Ms. Archer. We have you all set. Would you like to follow me?”
“That’s okay,” Ryan says. “We need to go to the casino first. The room is ready?”
The girl nods. “Absolutely. Enjoy your stay, and don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”
I glance at Ryan, slightly confused. “Efficient staff.”
“Very,” he says as she moves across the tiled floor to the registration desk.
“Time for roulette?” I ask, the word alone sending a few tingles running through me.
He trails his fingers down my arm. “Roulette,” he confirms.
The casino opens off the lobby, and we can hear the noise and bluster as we head down the set of staircases to the wide, slot-machine lined entrance. It’s like entering a different world. Noise and lights. The chatter of patrons, the calls of the staff. And beneath it all, the clink and clank of coins.
“This way,” he says, leading me down a tiled path that is cut through the carpeted areas that hold the banks of slot machines, tables for blackjack and other card games, craps, and the like. We find the roulette tables on the far side, and by the time we arrive, I feel as though I have walked a thousand miles.
“Pick your table,” he says, and since they all seem the same to me, I choose the closest one. He pulls a fifty dollar casino chip out of his jacket pocket, which strikes me as a bit odd since I never saw him exchange any money for chips. I don’t have time to think about it, though, because he places the chip in my hand and tells me to bet.
Immediately, I put the chip on red.
Ryan laughs, then lifts my hand and kisses my fingertips, the touch as gentle as a butterfly’s wing and at least as sensual.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You’re giving away your secrets, kitten,” he says, nodding to the table where I’d placed my bet. “You know what red means.”
“I do,” I say, and then, because I’m feeling bold and I really do want it, I move to his side and lift myself up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. “It means that I’m at your mercy,” I say, and then slowly—very slowly—I run my tongue over the curve of his ear.
I’m holding on to him as I do it, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back. I feel the way his body tightens beneath my touch. I hear the low groan that he tries to stifle, and, yes, I smile.
“Naughty,” he whispers as I lower myself. But I just gaze innocently at the table and the wheel that has started to spin.
I hold my breath as the ball bounces, around and around, and then—yes—it lands on red. I glance sideways and see that Ryan is watching me. I smile triumphantly. “I had to want red,” I tease. “There was no way I could come up with enough cash to pay you.”
He laughs. “Fair enough, kitten. I promise, though, that I’ll make sure that landing on red was very much worth it. For both of us.” He nods at the table as the croupier pays out our winnings. “Care to stay in the casino and gamble a bit longer? I’m feeling lucky.”
“I’m feeling lucky, too,” I say. “And I absolutely do not want to stay.”
He makes a noise I interpret as satisfaction, then pockets our winnings. He takes my arm and leads me out of the casino. I’m completely turned around, but I’m pretty sure we’ve been moving away from the lobby. My instinct is confirmed when I realize that we are in a wide-open, bright shopping area. The ceiling is a mural of the sky, arching across the space above our heads from sunrise on one side to sunset on the other, with day and night between.
In the area in which we are standing, the night sky is spread above us, and thousands of small electric lights wink down at us. It’s cheesy, but it’s also romantic, and when Ryan takes my hand to lead me through the mall, I cannot stifle my little sigh of contentment.
For right now, anyway, all is well in my world.
Like most of the shops on the pricier section of the Strip, the ones that fill this mall are high-end, full of designer goods and hefty price tags. Those extravagant items are balanced with markdowns so that the overall result is a store full of products for both the lucky and not-so-lucky gambler.
We pass by a window display overflowing with diamonds and emeralds, along with price tags that make clear that this is not the store for part-time gamblers and two-bit winners. This is where the high rollers come to shop.
Ryan takes my hand and leads me inside.
“That would look lovely on your wrist,” he says, pointing to a diamond and platinum bracelet that costs more than my condo.
“You’re insane,” I say.
He grins at me. “Not your style?”
“No,” I admit because my taste tends toward funkier.
He eyes me critically, his gaze skimming up and down. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re right. You need something more...” His voice drifts off as he walks the length of the glass counter. A clerk comes by, apparently sniffing a sale, but Ryan waves him away with a flick of his hand. “Like this,” he says, pointing to a circle of lovely pounded silver. It is a choker-style necklace made so that it catches the light at a variety of angles. There is a hinge on the back with a pin that fits through a corresponding cylinder to keep the thing in place. At the center there is a single loop upon which one could hang a charm.
