‘Hell!’ He ripped the sheet of paper off the jotter, balled it up and sent it flying into the trash. No wonder he couldn’t think—a certain blue-eyed pixie with blonde hair and an attitude problem kept popping into his head.
Why did Kate Denton fascinate him? She was pretty, but she was hardly his type. He liked his women sleek, sophisticated and most of all predictable. On the evidence of their brief encounter, Little Miss Proper Knickers was about as predictable as Lady Luck.
He stood up, dumping the pen on the desk, and rubbed the back of his neck.
Maybe that was it.
Since he’d given up gambling ten years ago, invested all his time and money into building his hotel empire, the women he’d dated had looked beautiful, behaved impeccably and never once made him work for what he wanted. They’d certainly never talked back to him, challenged him the way Kate Denton had. How many years was it since he’d felt the thrill of the chase?
He’d once thrived on the rush of adrenaline that came with the turn of the cards, and he’d transferred all of that drive, all of that ambition into his quest to change his life—to drag it out of the shadowy world he’d grown up in of gambling dens and back-alley casinos. At thirty-two, after ten long years of hard work, he’d been featured on the cover of Fortune magazine, was ranked as one of America’s top-ten entrepreneurs by Newsweek. He owned a beach house in the Bahamas and a Lear jet. And The Phoenix franchise had evolved from a small casino hotel in Vegas into the most vibrant, soughtafter hospitality brand in the South West.
He strolled over to the office’s window. Resting his hand on the glass, he looked down. Twenty floors below, the afternoon sunlight laid The Strip bare. Without the cloaking spell of nighttime, the glamour of a million colourful neon lights, the famous street looked jaded, its seedy underbelly plain for everyone to see. This was a town that had been built on the promise of an easy buck, the promise of a quick green-backed fix to life’s woes. It was a promise that could destroy lives—it had almost destroyed his—and he’d decided over the last decade that, if he was ever going to truly escape his past, he couldn’t be a party to that promise any more. He’d already expanded The Phoenix brand into New Mexico and Arizona with huge success and now, at last, he was ready to sell his flagship hotel and get the hell out of Vegas—and the casino business—for good.
He let his arm drop back to his side. From what Monty, his best friend and business manager, had said in his call from California yesterday, Zack was only a few weeks away from taking that last crucial step into the light. He didn’t really need any distractions right now.
But with his dream about to be realised, why did he still feel as jaded as the city he had come to despise?
After his run-in with the feisty, fascinating Kate Denton and her big mouth, it occurred to him that fulfilling his longterm business plans was only going to solve part of the problem. His personal life needed a makeover too. During the last ten years he’d allowed himself to drift through a series of lazy and unfulfilling affairs. What was that old saying about all work and no play? He had a few days off for the first time in, well, for ever. Surely there’d never be a better time to play.
Zack turned to stare at the empty chair opposite his desk. Yeah, Kate Denton would be one heck of a distraction. But she’d also be a challenge. And he always thrived on challenges.
As Zack picked up the phone, he pictured her captivating face, the wild blonde hair, those striking sky-blue eyes, her plump, kissable Cupid’s bow mouth, and didn’t try to deny the sharp tug of sexual desire.
Volatile or not, she’d be worth the effort, he’d lay odds on it.
As he tapped out the concierge’s number Zack let the heady mix of adrenaline and arousal pulse through his veins. Damned if he didn’t feel better already. More alive, more excited than he had in years.
They might only have a couple of days to enjoy each other, but he planned to see a whole lot more of Miss Kate Denton and her ‘proper knickers’.
CONTRARY TO POPULAR opinion, Kate didn’t believe crying ever made anyone feel better. In her experience, crying made you feel rubbish—and look even worse—and now she had conclusive proof, staring back at her out of the bathroom mirror.
Dabbing at her puffy, red-rimmed eyes with a damp tissue, Kate willed the tears to stop. She’d been at it for over twenty minutes and it was giving her a blistering headache. She wasn’t even sure what she was crying about any more.
Yes, Andrew had been a creep, but she should have seen that one coming. She’d convinced herself his interest in her had stemmed from admiration and mutual respect. But she should have known better. Since when did guys admire and respect women like her? Women who had an opinion and voiced it. She should have guessed something was wrong as soon as Andrew said he liked her sassiness. No man ever had before, starting with her father.
Kate watched her brow furrow in the mirror, felt the wave of sadness and inadequacy that always accompanied thoughts of her father.
James Dalton Asquith III had only wanted her mother for one thing—and he’d certainly never wanted a daughter. When he’d been forced to take her in after her mother’s death, Kate had tried desperately to please him, to be who he wanted her to be. At seventeen she’d finally accepted the truth—that the fault lay with him, not her—which made it all the more galling that in some small, forgotten corner of her heart his rejection still hurt.
Running away from home all those years ago had been the smartest thing she’d ever done. A liberating experience that had made her realise she didn’t need her father’s approval, or his charity. She took a slow, calming breath and gave her cheeks one last swipe with a fresh tissue from the vanity unit.
Finally figuring out what a heel Andrew was could well be the next smartest. She breathed out again, glad not to hear a single hitch. She’d cried her last tear over Andrew Rocastle—and her father for that matter.
She screwed the tissue up and shoved it in the pocket of the bathrobe. Flushing the toilet, she walked out into the living area of the suite. Her stomach knotted as she spotted the soft leather sofa where Andrew had been sitting when she’d walked out of the bathroom in her underwear.
Surprise had quickly given way to fury when she’d discovered what Andrew had in mind for their so-called business trip. Didn’t she realise where their relationship was leading? he’d said. As if she’d been a party to his ridiculous fantasies. Frankly she’d been more turned on by one look from Zack Boudreaux, the hotel tycoon from planet sexy, than she had by all Andrew’s attention in the last few weeks. He’d accused her of sending him mixed messages. Tears of humiliation clogged up her throat as she recalled how he’d shoved her out of the suite while she’d been giving him another message entirely, at top volume.
Kate sniffed the tears back and gave a weary sigh, pushing the aggravating memory to the far reaches of her mind. She had other, more pressing problems to deal with now. She was back at square one, right where she’d been when she’d walked out on her father and his indifference ten years ago—broke and ‘scrubbing johns’ for a living. Except this time she was doing it thousands of miles from home with a distinct lack of clothing.
She plumped herself down on the sofa.
At least she’d learned something from this situation. Never trust anyone, and don’t kid yourself. If something looks too good to be true, it is.
Picking up the TV remote she switched on the huge plasma screen that took up the opposite wall of the suite.
Perma-pressed chat show hosts and adverts for haemorrhoid cream flicked by as she trolled through the channels. Her thumb stopped dead as a raunchy scene in a daytime soap opera flashed onto the screen. A buxom blonde appeared to be Unibonded