What Happened in Vegas.... Wendy Etherington

was Jacy Powers talking.

      She reminded the respectable Jacinda that it didn’t do any good to run from the past. Old mistakes and experiences always found you just when you thought you’d moved, even risen above.

      Great, now I’m referring to myself in the third person.

      “Shall I continue?” Gideon’s silky voice whispered in her ear.

      “Certainly not here.”

      Oh, boy, now I’m talking like Jacinda and thinking like Jacy.

      “My place?” he asked. “Or yours?”

      She bit her lip. “Mine’s closer.”

      He urged her chin around so they were face-to-face. “Is that an invitation?”

      Trembling with need, doubt and anticipation, she nodded.

      “I’ll pay the check.”

      As he slid out of the booth, she nearly called him back—and not just because he’d moved his hand from between her legs. Surely sophisticated Manhattan career women didn’t let guys feel them up in public, then invite them to their apartments for a hot, one-night stand they absolutely knew they’d regret in the morning.

      If you knew you were making a mistake as you did something, shouldn’t you stop yourself?

      Apparently not, because when Gideon reappeared at the table and held out his hand, she took it and followed him out of the restaurant.

      Was she drunk?

      She rolled her head from side to side to check for dizziness.

      When the world didn’t spin and she continued to walk easily in her three-inch heels, she figured she’d passed that test. But was that a good thing?

      She felt as if she were sleepwalking or dreaming, so she could explore what she wanted without consequences, because she’d wake up and come to her senses at any moment. But she didn’t want to wake up. And she’d just have to pay the price for whatever came tomorrow. She’d spent years being practical and smart. For once, for just one night, she wanted to let go, she wanted to remember what it was like to be wild and free.

      Gideon hailed a cab, and they climbed into the backseat.

      “Where to?” the cabbie asked.

      Jacinda looked at Gideon. And, wow, he was something to look at. Piercing green eyes, silky-looking black hair, strong jaw.

      Suddenly she realized her affliction, the judgment-robbing disease she’d come down with in the last few hours.

      Gideonitis.

      She was under the spell of Gideon Nash.

      She mumbled her address while continuing to smile like a fool at the man next to her.

      He angled his head. “Are you okay?”

      See, he’s sharp and intuitive as well as gorgeous.

      Clearly, he knows something’s off about me.

      “Ah, I’m not sure,” she said.

      “What can I—”

      “Kiss me. I need you to kiss me.”

      “Now?”

      Jacinda glanced at the rearview mirror and briefly met the interested cabbie’s gaze. He’d no doubt seen and heard stranger things.

      “Definitely,” she said, her stomach shaking with renewed doubts.

      Gideon leaned in, cupping her chin in his hand as his lips touched hers for the first time in six years.

      His mouth captured hers with confidence, his tongue sliding inside to taste and arouse. The electricity and power between them sparked to life with renewed energy. The cab disappeared, the city lights and the street noise fell away. She felt only the warm, spicy taste of Gideon.

      She clenched the front of his shirt. His heart beat rapidly beneath her fist.

      When he touched her everything seemed right and wonderful. Her doubts fell away, anticipation grew, desire rose. If she paused to think, she might change her mind about jumping into bed with Gideon.

      “Better?” he asked softly against her mouth.

      She sighed blissfully. “Much.”

      And she knew she didn’t want to change her mind. She wanted to feel, to soar.

      But she wanted those things on her terms.

      She wanted to be safe from relationships that never seemed to go anywhere, or forced her to choose and compromise areas she didn’t want to change. She knew her hesitancy for a real relationship was rooted from her years in uncertain poverty, then later cemented when she danced.

      She didn’t trust men.

      Their smiles and their promises of security always faded, or turned out to be lies from the start. Her mother’s succession of boyfriends had been a revolving door of hope and heartbreak, and Jacinda always swore she’d never fall into that trap. She’d be practical.

      She’d rely only on herself.

      So, while her friends would advise caution with Gideon, and Andrew would be jealous, she knew Gideon was simply safe. He wouldn’t require a commitment or emotional attachment. He wouldn’t promise things he had no intention or capability of delivering.

      Tonight, she intended to have her cake, eat it and not count the calories.

      

      AS GIDEON HELPED Jacinda from the cab in front of her apartment building, he stared at the long, slender length of her legs.

      His heart jumped. His erection swelled.

      He paid the cabbie in a haze of need and expectation. He ignored his practical side—well, really it was a practical section, a very small section—telling him he and Jacinda were going too fast. Reminding him that spontaneous moves hadn’t led anywhere productive last time.

      Thankfully, the other ninety-five percent of him remembered the two nights of hot sex and told his practical section to pipe down ASAP.

      Look into her eyes, not at her legs, his practical section insisted as they stepped into the elevator. Doesn’t something seem not quite right?

      Before that idea could take hold, Jacinda came to his rescue. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his hair. “I’ve wanted to do that all night.”

      He slid his arms around her waist. “Keep doing anything you like.”

      She kissed his throat, her hands gliding through his hair, her breasts brushing his chest. He closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensations flowing through his body, on the sexual friction they created.

      How had he survived so long without touching her? Both the ache and the satisfaction were equally prized. No other woman had made him appreciate the journey to fulfillment more.

      When the elevator doors opened, he spun Jacinda into the hall, keeping her tight against his body and hoping none of her neighbors were wandering around.

      “What number?” he asked against her cheek.

      “Seventeen twenty-one. To the right.”

      They moved in that direction, and as she unlocked her door, he grasped her waist, pulling her backside against his erection. He sucked in a quick breath of pain and pleasure. It was a sweet kind of torture to touch her, but not touch her completely.

      He wanted to press her against the door, release himself from his jeans and slam his way to ecstasy.

      Would this new, sophisticated Jacinda slap his face or hitch her legs around his hips and hold on for the ride? The fact that he couldn’t anticipate her reaction when he thought he knew her well was both intriguing and frustrating.

      Once she pushed