What Happens in Vegas…. Kimberly Lang

to the Dallas Beautification Committee’s president and doubled the amount of the company’s donation to make up for implying that new benches in the city’s parks weren’t equally as important as curing cancer or feeding the hungry.

      No one reported that in the paper. No, they were too busy getting as much ink as possible out of her big mouth. Again. Then Will had jumped on her case about it, and she’d gotten a nice long talking-to from Uncle Marcus—again—about not embarrassing the family—again—but neither of them was sitting through endless brunches and endless speeches just to be the smiling face that presented a check on behalf of HarCorp International.

      Why had she even bothered going to college? A trained monkey could do her job. Hell, a well-trained monkey might manage not to make the paper while doing so.

      So what if Will was all bent out of shape that she was AWOL? It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wanted to strangle her, and it probably wouldn’t be the last time, either.

      Her phone vibrated again. This time it was Gwen’s number. Did Will honestly think she’d answer a call from his wife’s phone when she wasn’t taking calls from him? How dumb did he think she was?

      She made a face at the phone before she tucked it back into her purse. With Bennie off with her new friend, Evie reassessed her options for the rest of the evening. She could be good and go back to the hotel, but that defeated the entire purpose of running away from home in the first place. She just needed a time-out from her life, the chance to have some fun without worrying everything she did would end up in the papers.

      That ad campaign for Las Vegas claimed What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas. That sounded fantastic.

      It was time to go find something to do.

      Whoever designed this club should be shot. It was possible to take a theme too far. And if they were aiming for a zoo theme, why on earth were jungle vines hanging from the ceiling?

      Nick Rocco mentally tallied up how much it would cost to completely gut and refurbish the interior of The Zoo and added it to the total cost.

      If he bought The Zoo—and that was still an if—he’d have to close it completely during renovations. But it was in a prime location, and a big, splashy, grand reopening might give the club a boost and added publicity. Any loss from the closure could be recouped if he handled the reopening properly.

      Even with the added cost and delay, adding The Zoo to his collection of properties made good business sense. He’d also readily admit it gave him no small sense of satisfaction to purchase a place where he’d once mopped floors and tended bar. Even if it hadn’t been called The Zoo back then.

      Nick made a practice of visiting any potential purchases during business hours before making firm offers to get a true feel for their potential. And any potential problems. That’s why he was here on a Friday night, trying to blend in with the clientele.

      The dance floor heaved with bodies, most of the low sofas and chairs were occupied, and the waitresses and bartenders were moving at a fast clip. It wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t dead, either. If The Zoo could pull in this much business as is, a makeover and a fresh launch could turn it into a gold mine.

      Kevin O’Brian, who handled much of the day-to-day business and promotions at all of Nick’s clubs, returned from his reconnaissance mission and joined him at the bar.

      “Well?” Nick shouted over the thumping bass line.

      “Other than the occasional drunk-and-disorderly, the cops aren’t required to come by very often. I asked around, and no one seems to be picking up tricks or selling anything this place isn’t licensed for.” Kevin had the kind of friendly, good-ol’-boy personality that made gathering that kind of behind-the-scenes information easy. People opened up to Kevin without any effort on his part, but Nick himself didn’t have the patience—or Kevin’s unassuming frat-boy looks—at his disposal. The ability to play good cop/bad cop was one of the secret weapons in their business arsenal. Kevin was a valuable asset to Nick’s business—as well as his oldest friend. “You’ll need to fire that DJ, though.”

      That got his attention; Kevin rarely weighed in on staffing issues. “Why? You think he’s—”

      “No. His taste in music sucks.” Kevin grinned and motioned for the bartender to bring him another beer. The blonde delivered it with a smile and winked at Kevin as she pocketed the tip. “Keep her, though. I like her.”

      “You’re assuming I’m going to make the deal.”

      “You know you are. I’d bet this beer you’ve already figured how much it’s going to cost you to expand the dance floor and pull down those god-awful vines.”

      Nick shrugged, acknowledging nothing, but Kevin knew him too well. They’d grown up together in one of the toughest parts of Las Vegas, yet unlike so many other of their childhood friends, they’d managed to get out of the circular grind of poverty and drugs. Luck had been involved—he’d helped fund his first major club purchase with poker winnings—but it was their common desire to escape that past that bonded them together in the hard work of the climb out of the Vegas projects to UNLV and finally to the top of the food chain.

      “So, we’re done now?” In the old days, Kevin would just be gearing up, but Lottie had put a stop to his partying ways.

      “Go home to your wife. I’m going to stay a little longer and see how the crowd changes after the shows let out.”

      “You could try to have some fun, you know. It wouldn’t kill you. You know what they say about ‘All work and no play…’”

      “Keeps us in the black?” Nick challenged.

      “I know the books as well as you do. You don’t need another club to stay in the black. You’re just buying this one because you can.”

      “And that, my friend, is fun.”

      “You’re twisted. Look around—there’s a lot of pretty girls here tonight…” Kevin raised his eyebrows suggestively. “I’m sure any of them would love to help you rediscover the meaning of fun.”

      Nick hadn’t picked up a woman in a bar in years. Hooking up with a party girl out for a good time was just asking for trouble he didn’t need. “Go home.”

      “Gone.” And he was.

      Nightclubs weren’t Nick’s idea of a place to have a good time—possibly because he’d spent too many years working in them, ensuring everyone else did. He scanned the crowd, making plans and evaluating.

      Two men seemed to be having words over a small redheaded woman’s attentions. From the posturing, Nick knew exactly what was coming, and he left his spot at the bar rail.

      He didn’t quite make it in time. The blond-haired one pushed the other one back, causing him to stumble backward into the crowd and crash into a woman behind him. Nick reached for the woman as she fell, catching her before she hit the table.

      She slammed into him, her weight landing in his arms as her feet nearly went out from under her. Something cold sloshed down his chest as he tightened his grip and turned her away from the combatants. A second later, a burly bouncer pushed past and put himself between the men, effectively stopping the fight by virtue of size and scowl.

      The scuffle ended before it really began, and the two men were escorted to the door by security with the redhead trailing behind a moment later. The speed and ease with which the bouncers handled the problem impressed Nick, and he made a mental note to be sure to keep them on staff.

      Looking down at the woman sprawled in his arms, he asked, “Are you okay?” as he helped her regain her balance.

      The woman pushed dark auburn hair out of her face and tugged her dress back into place, calling his attention to the length of leg exposed by a tiny silver skirt and the gentle swell of her cleavage over a black top. His body seemed to remember the feel of those breasts pressed against