Married Till Christmas. Christine Rimmer

Bravo Construction, ordered a lot of tile. Maybe they could have done some business. Probably not now, though. Ron was just way too interested in looking down her dress. “Good night.” She spun on her stool, lowered her Jimmy Choos to the floor and set off for the lobby area and the elevator up to her room.

      But Ron was no quitter. “Hold on a minute.” He was right behind her. “Baby, don’t go...”

      Nell stopped in her tracks. When she turned, he almost plowed into her. “Look.” She pinned him with her coldest stare. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make this. I’m not interested in being jumped by you—right there at the bar, or anywhere in else in this hotel. Good night, Ron.”

      He started to speak again, but she didn’t hang around to hear it. Instead, she took off, moving faster now, weaving her way past the rows of whizzing, dinging slot machines and on to the never-ending main casino floor. She flew past the gaming tables and more bars and restaurants, her high heels tapping hard over polished floors, ears tuned for the sound of Ron’s footsteps behind her.

      Yep. The idiot was following her.

      So what? He wasn’t going to catch her. She kept going, never once looking back.

      Finally, she reached the blue-lit hotel lobby with its glittering waterfall wall and swirling peacock-colored carpet. As she veered by the concierge desk, she slipped her key card from her clutch.

      Entering the marble-lined bank of elevators at last, she pushed the button to go up.

      Unfortunately, no car was available.

      Crap. Okay, she could just keep on going out the other end of the bay and circle back around, hoping to lose Ron in the process.

      Or simply wait.

      Screw it. She waited, which gave Ron the chance to catch up with her. When he reached her, she glanced the other way. Maybe ignoring him would do the trick.

      Not so much. He grabbed her arm and pulled her around to face him. “Now, just a damn minute here.”

      “Ron. You don’t look all that handsome with that mean scowl on your face.”

      “I just want to—”

      “No, Ron. I said no.”

      “There’s no need to be rude, Nell.” He spoke through clenched teeth and he still had a death grip on her arm.

      Nell felt a burning need to give Ron the sharp knee in the family jewels he very much deserved. But she kept her cool. “Seriously, Ron? This is going nowhere good. It’s a casino, in case you didn’t notice.” She pointed at the camera mounted up where the wall met the ceiling. “The eye-in-the-sky sees all. I only need to let out a scream and your evening will be downgraded from bad to a whole lot worse.”

      His grip on her arm loosened. Before she could congratulate herself for some smooth handling of an iffy situation, she noticed that Ron’s narrowed eyes had widened and shifted upward toward something behind her.

      Yanking her arm free, she turned.

      Not possible. “Deck?” It couldn’t be.

      Oh, but it was. Declan McGrath, all six foot four and two-hundred-plus muscled-up pounds of him, right here in Vegas. At her hotel.

      “What a coincidence running into you here,” said Deck in that rough, low, wonderful voice of his.

      Nell rolled her eyes so hard she almost fell over. “Coincidence, my ass. Don’t even try to tell me you’re here for the Worldwide Hard Surfaces Trade Show.”

      “Okay, I won’t.” The corners of his mouth inched upward in the slow, delicious smile that used to make her life worth living. Years and years ago. Back when she was young and trusting, before he’d dumped her flat—twice. “God, Sparky. You do look good.”

      She gave him the same look she’d been giving Ron—a look of ice and steel. “How many times do I have to say it? Don’t call me Sparky.”

      “I just can’t help myself.”

      “You don’t want to help yourself.”

      “That’s right. I never give up. And we both know it’s just a matter of time until you give in and give me a break.”

      “You’re delusional.”

      “I prefer to call it thinking positive.”

      “Hold on just a damn minute,” Ron piped up from behind her. “What the hell is going on here?”

      Nell turned to tell the tile man—again—to get lost.

      But Deck stepped around her and took Ron’s arm.

      Ron flailed. “What the hell, man? Let go of my arm.”

      “In a minute.” Deck glanced back to pin Nell with a look. “Do. Not. Move.” And then he pulled Ron down to the other end of the enclosure and whispered something in his ear. Ron paled.

      The nearest elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Several people filed out. Nell watched them go, thinking that she should get on and get away before Deck came back.

      But then again, no. Just no. She’d been walking away from Deck for months now. Enough of that. This time he’d finally gone too far.

      Following her to Vegas? Who did that?

      She wasn’t surrendering the field this time. Not until she’d treated him to a very large piece of her mind. And maybe the kick in the cojones she’d almost given Ron.

      More elevator cars arrived and more people spilled out as Deck whispered in Ron’s ear.

      “Got it,” said Ron, blond head bobbing. “Loud and clear.”

      “Fair enough.” Deck let go of his arm.

      Ron backed away with both hands up. “But hey, like I said, she’s not wearing a ring.”

      “A ring?” Nell demanded. Not that either man was listening.

      “She’s naughty like that sometimes,” Deck said with a so-what shrug. “Now get lost.” Ron didn’t argue. He took off. Nell leaned against the marble wall, her arms crossed over her chest, as Deck turned her way again. “Good,” he said. “You’re still here.”

      Where to even start with him? “You’ve got to leave me alone, Deck.”

      He came toward her, so big and solid, all lazy male grace, in jeans that hugged his hard legs and an olive green shirt that made his hazel eyes gleam so damn bright—chameleon eyes, she used to call them. They seemed different colors depending on his mood and the light. He’d rolled his sleeves to his elbows, showing off strong forearms, all muscled and veiny, dusted with sandy-colored hair.

      It just wasn’t fair. No man should be allowed to look that amazing. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself to keep her grabby hands from reaching out and squeezing those rock-hard muscles of his.

      Because, she bleakly reminded herself, squeezing Deck’s muscles—or any other part of him, for that matter—was a big, fat never-again.

      He kept on coming. She had to put up a hand. “That’s close enough.”

      “I love that red dress. You should wear red all the time.”

      “I know, I know. Goes with my hair, blah, blah, blah. Did you tell Ron we’re married?”

      He smirked. “Worked, didn’t it?”

      “Except, well, doesn’t that make me the kind of woman who takes off her wedding ring and goes trolling for a hot date with a stranger?”

      Deck snorted. “Ron? Hot?”

      “Well, theoretically speaking—and Ron’s hotness or lack thereof? Totally not the issue here.”

      “Sparky,” he chided. “You would never cheat, I know that.