Vegas Wedding, Weaver Bride. Allison Leigh

fingers twitched slightly, tingling. He knew exactly how her smooth, supple skin felt.

      He also knew exactly how her skin tasted. It was there inside his memory, bright and vivid, even though he didn’t specifically recall anything besides waking up with his arms full of her warm body.

      “Quinn!”

      He dragged his mind into the present when he heard his name being called from the other room.

      Penny had straightened and was rinsing another dish beneath the faucet. Shoulders hunched. Eyes averted.

      He curled his fingers against his palms but the prickling sensation didn’t go away.

      “Quinn!” Typically impatient, Ali came to the kitchen doorway. “Have beans in your ears? I’ve been calling you.”

      He ignored her. “We’ll get it worked out, Penny,” he said again in a low voice, before turning to face his cousin. “What?”

      Ali’s gaze was flipping from him to Penny and back to him again. Her cop’s mind was undoubtedly conjecturing. “Nothing,” she said after a moment. “Nothing at all.” Smiling faintly, she turned and left the room.

      “And that’s why I didn’t want to talk about it here,” Penny muttered behind him.

      He glanced at her. “You going to be one of those wives who always has to be right?”

      She flushed. Gave him a look fit to do more damage than the grenades had done. “I am not your wife,” she muttered between her teeth.

      “For both our sakes, darlin’, I hope you’re right.”

       Chapter Three

      The clerk at the county marriage bureau was polite, friendly and adamant.

      It was entirely likely that Penny Garner really was his wife.

      And the pain inside Quinn’s head rose to a new level.

      “The officiant—” the clerk deciphered the signature on the marriage certificate “—Marvin Morales, has ten days to file your certificate. We often get them within a few days of the wedding, though. Once the marriage is recorded, a certified copy is typically available after a day or so.” She handed him back his crumpled paper. She’d already told him it was merely his keepsake certificate versus the official document. If she had any personal opinion about the state of the piece of paper, she kept it to herself. “You can get certified copies in person, via regular mail or order them online.”

      Even though it was Sunday afternoon, there was a long line of people waiting behind him for their turn at the counter.

      The Las Vegas wedding business was clearly in fine form.

      “And this Morales guy. He’s legit?”

      She turned to her computer and tapped on the keys. “Certainly is,” she assured. “I’m not showing any address or organizational affiliation for him, though.”

      That didn’t sound overly legitimate to him. “Is that normal?”

      “It’s a little unusual, but not unheard of.” She smiled. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Mr. Templeton?”

      Right next to his elbow a large sign was posted, indicating the bureau would not issue marriage licenses to individuals who were clearly intoxicated. He nodded toward it. “You really enforce that?”

      For the first time the clerk looked a little miffed. “Of course, sir. We take our responsibilities here quite seriously.”

      “I’m sure you do.” He folded the certificate. “I appreciate your time.”

      “Certainly. I wish you and your bride every happiness.”

      He managed a smile as he turned away from the counter. He had barely vacated the spot when it was replaced by a young couple who were practically bouncing out of their shoes with excitement.

      Outside the building, the sun was bright and hot. A good twenty-five degrees hotter than it was back in Wyoming. He didn’t particularly mind the heat, though. He’d served all over the world. He was used to temperature extremes.

      He wound his way through the wedding-chapel vendors hawking their services outside the building and even though there were plenty of cabs he could have hailed, he walked back to the hotel.

      The moment he entered, cold air and piped music engulfed him. If he went one direction, he could head toward his hotel suite. If he headed the opposite direction, he’d end up in one of the endless casinos. Another direction and it was one of the hotel’s several pools.

      He wasn’t one for indecision, but he just stood there on the sea of gleaming marble tile, feeling the artificially cooled air blowing down over his head while he ran his thumb along the folded edges of the marriage certificate.

      “Looks like you survived the fun last night, Sarge.”

      At the greeting, Quinn looked up to see Mike Lansing a few feet away. Even if the trips hadn’t mentioned him from the night before, Quinn still would have recognized the other man. He had one arm looped over the shoulders of a bored-looking blonde and held a drink in his other hand.

      “I did.” Quinn slid the folded square in his back pocket. “You?”

      The blonde pursed her lips and looked up at Mike. “Are we going to the shops or not?”

      Mike pulled out a wad of cash and pushed it into her hand. “You go, baby. I’m gonna grab another drink with my old buddy, here.”

      The woman’s boredom visibly brightened as she tucked the money down her bra. She pulled Mike’s head down and gave him a noisy kiss. “See you later in the room.” Even though her voice was loaded with innuendo, she still ran her eyes up and down Quinn when she turned and walked away.

      “Nice girl,” Quinn commented blandly.

      Mike laughed. “Better be, considering how much she’s costing me.”

      Since that could be taken a couple of ways, Quinn refrained from comment.

      “C’mon.” Mike gestured with his half-full glass. “There’s a sweet little cocktail waitress I’ve been eyeing.”

      “What about Miss Shopper?”

      Mike just grinned and led the way toward the casino. “What about her?”

      Quinn shook his head and followed. He didn’t care at all about Mike in a general sense, but the guy had evidently been around the night before. Quinn was willing to put up with most anything if it helped jog his memory of what had occurred.

      They went straight to the lounge and had barely settled at one of the high-tops before a shapely redhead in a short black dress came over to take their orders. Mike ordered another whiskey and the waitress turned her smile toward Quinn. “And for you, sir?”

      “Ginger ale.”

      Mike gave him a look. “Dude.”

      “Ginger ale,” Quinn repeated drily to the waitress.

      She smiled at him, ignored the leer in Mike’s eyes and walked away.

      “Talk about a fine-looking pair of legs,” Mike murmured, watching her go. “Not as good as those hot cousins of yours, but still fine.”

      Quinn’s jaw tightened. “Can’t remember if you said last night what you’re doing here in Vegas.”

      Mike laughed as if it was uproariously funny. He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. “I’ll bet you can’t remember.” He sat back and finished off his drink just in time to exchange it for the fresh one the redhead returned with. “Thanks, sweetheart. What time you get off work?”

      “Soon as my