Military Romance Collection: Contemporary Soldier Alpha Male Romance (43 page)

Chapter 1

Dalton pounded on Brock’s closed office door, hell-bent on getting in and telling him exactly what he thought of the news he’d just gotten. Not much ruffled Dalton Winslow’s feathers, a simple man with simple taste. He could roll with the punches through almost anything after the life he’d led.

But this was too much, and he intended to give Brock a piece of his mind. When the casino manager – and unofficial president of the Cobras – didn’t answer, Dalton nearly put his fist through the door, knocking so hard the hinges rattled.

“Hold on!” came an angry shout from inside, and Dalton considered just kicking it in. What the hell was Brock doing that was taking so long? He was supposed to be loan sharking, hunting down people who bet stupidly and got themselves into a world of hurt. Dalton had checked with a couple of guys on the floor and made sure the boss wasn’t in the middle of negotiating such a contract, so he knew that wasn’t the holdup.

Just when his miniscule patience ran out, he heard shuffling and the sound of the lock clicking. As the door swung open, Dalton didn’t hesitate. He shoved into the office and held up the papers he’d carried with him, now wrinkled from the tight, angry hold he had on them. “Brock, what the hell is this?”

His boss was tugging and brushing at his suit, and Dalton finally took in the scene, rolling his eyes. The large desk was a mess, papers scattered everywhere and mostly on the floor. And Tanya Fowler was still buttoning her blouse. There had been a time Dalton congratulated Brock on his conquests, but now that he had committed to Tanya and was constantly sneaking in a quickie, he had nothing to say.

Tanya was a good girl, and she didn’t make a bad old lady, but Dalton missed running with Brock and picking up women all over Las Vegas. They’d been a good team, and the chase, as it turned out, wasn’t nearly as fun with anyone else. But Brock insisted he wasn’t interested in the single life anymore. Dalton was biding his time, waiting for his old wingman to get tired of tapping the same ass every night.

“I don’t know, Dalton. What is it?” he asked in his calm, even manner. That was another thing. Brock had this smooth, James Bond persona he could don like a tailored coat, and it didn’t matter if he was angry, sad, or excited about something. He sounded the same – level headed and even keel. The ladies loved it, and Dalton considered it an asset when it came to poker.

But personally, he would rather have known what the boss was thinking. He thrust the papers at Brock and said, “This! You don’t really expect me to take care of this, do you?”

Brock looked over the paper on the front of the stapled mess briefly and handed it back. “Yes, I do. You’re my entertainment coordinator, Dalton. It falls under your job description.”

“Come on, man!” Dalton argued. “Don’t get technical on me. I book bands and comedians and magicians. I’ll even help with bachelor bashes and an occasional wedding reception. But a
fashion show
? It’s absurd!” It was true, his official title was Entertainment Coordination Director, but it was a trumped up name for ‘talent scout and booking’. A fashion show didn’t fall under his realm of experience, and Dalton had no desire to learn anything about it.

“Don’t get your panties in a twist,” Tanya said with a snigger, finally dressed again. She walked over and held out her hand for the packet. Dalton let her take it, suddenly wishing he was in a pair of leather pants, a white t-shirt, and his Cobras vest. Something about wearing a suit and tie while discussing a fashion show made him feel like his masculinity was being stripped away, bit by bit.

When she looked up from the pages, she said, “I’m no expert, but I’ll give you a hand getting started, if you want. Honestly, it’s not that much different from a concert. You need a stage with a runway draped in white, lots of lights focused on the stage, and a bunch of seating with hoity-toity appetizers served buffet style.”

“Look at the bright side, Dalton,” Brock said, his eyes dancing and his tone lilting. “Fashion shows mean models. You’ll be surrounded by gorgeous women, and you can have your pick of the litter.”

“They aren’t dogs, Brock,” Tanya told him sharply.

Dalton would rather be anywhere than in the middle of a domestic dispute between these two, maybe even in the midst of a bunch of yuppies and fashion freaks. “Who scheduled this crap anyway?” he asked.

“It’s an annual event in Vegas, Dalton,” Brock told him. “It’s been at the Grand for two years and the Luxor the year before that. We happened to get picked this year, and it’s a very lucrative event. I can charge outrageous prices for the rooms and call it a package deal, all inclusive. Fine print reads that alcoholic beverages aren’t included.” He smiled. “I’ve been waiting for something this prestigious for a while, and we finally got it. Don’t muck it up.”

Dalton scoffed. “I have more pride than that! I never muck anything up. You know that.” He shook his head and added with a grumble, “Even when it breaks my soul to be involved at all.”

He ripped the papers from Tanya’s hand and stalked out of the office, heading down the long hallway to his own hole in the wall. His office wasn’t the luxurious wonderland Brock’s was, but then, Brock entertained guests in his office. Dalton had a cramped corner office the size of a generous janitor’s closet. He didn’t really mind. He didn’t spend a lot of time in it, and when he was in there, he at least felt like he had a little privacy.

But he would rather have been at the clubhouse, sipping on a highball of whiskey and playing a mostly friendly game of Texas Hold’Em with the boys. He did the job because it provided a good source of income for the Cobras and because he couldn’t stand sitting around twiddling his thumbs. At the same time, he couldn’t stand the thought of typical employment.

Even if he’d thought about doing something like working at a mechanic’s shop, he would have been hard pressed to get a job anyway. He had a record, making some poor choices in his past, and no one wanted to hire someone with drug possession, arson, and assault all popping up on a background check. He’d lucked out finding the Cobras. He was a motorcycle enthusiast, and he’d looked around for a club that fit him. The Cobras just happened to be the best club around – and the only one that wasn’t into anything illegal.

And they owned the hotel and casino, which meant all the positions high on the ladder were filled by members of the club. It worked out in a way that benefited both the club and the individual, and no matter how much Dalton bitched about things like having to run a fashion show, he was grateful for the opportunity to clean up his life and still live on the fringes of society.

He kicked his feet up on his desk to read through the packet of information on the event more carefully, telling himself that Brock was right. He needed to focus on the beauty of having some of the most coveted models in the world surrounding him for three days. It was a lot of estrogen to handle, but he was willing to bet he could seduce at least a couple of them.

Running his hand through his dirty blond hair that was starting to get darker as winter approached and he was outside less, he flipped to the pages about the designer who was headlining the show this year. Billie Roderick. The packet didn’t give a lot of information on him, only that his line was touted as ‘couture for the masses’. Whatever the hell that meant.

Dalton didn’t mind the idea of dozens of models wandering around, and he couldn’t care less about the makeup artists and prop handlers and others in the background. He also didn’t discriminate, most of the time. He was secure in his masculinity, and he didn’t care of this Billie Roderick was gay. But he had seen enough of these kinds of designers around Vegas over the years to imagine what he’d be like to work with.

The flamboyantly gay designers tended to be divas, extremely difficult to please, and Dalton didn’t care to spend a week catering to a man who whined and complained when something wasn’t absolutely perfect.
Fabulous
. He knew he’d be sick of the word by the time this was over.

Based on previous attendance records and the number of invitations that had gone out, there was no way their hotel could accommodate every guest, so Dalton would have to call up a couple of friends on the Strip and make some deals to reserve rooms specifically for the fashion event to assure everyone had a place to stay. And with nearly two thousand people projected to attend, the place would be overrun. He needed to set them up in the gala ballroom to fit everyone in, which meant a lot of construction with easy setup and teardown going into a stage.

Resigned to the fact that there was no getting out of this one, Dalton decided he was going to take the night off. He’d be working like crazy until the whole thing was put together, and he’d be on duty almost nonstop throughout the event. He deserved a night of relaxation and plenty of women and whiskey before he started and had to subject himself to a virtual castration.

Chapter 2

This was the moment Billie had dreamed of for more than twenty years. She stood in front of the latest ‘top rated hotel and casino’ in Las Vegas, a place that had only a few months earlier surpassed some of the long standing icons on the Strip for that coveted number one position. And as she gazed around her, she realized that this city shared at least one commonality with New York.

Neither city ever slept.

Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that both cities catered to nightlife, and both were filled with bright lights. It was nine o’clock at night, and the Strip was lit up like daytime. It put Times Square to shame.

“Ma’am, I’m going to take your bags to your room for you,” the bellhop told her, catching her attention. “I’ll make sure you’re checked in, and when you’re ready, you’ll be escorted to your room.”

The boy was young, but he was polite and eager, and Billie knew he would go far in life. She’d been so young and fighting to get somewhere once. She appreciated his drive and willingness to start at the bottom and prove himself, so she slipped him a twenty without thinking twice. He bowed and thanked her and took off with her luggage on one of those large golden rolling carts.

Billie laughed out loud. Who would have thought little Belinda Consuela Rodriguez from Spanish Harlem would be headlining the most prestigious national fashion event of the year? There weren’t a lot of people who had believed in her, but she fully intended to reward those who had stuck by her side and helped her get this far.

A lot of people referred to themselves as coming from humble beginnings, but Billie was willing to bet their poverty level didn’t hold a candle to her own. When one of them could claim to have shared a one room apartment in low income housing with a single mother and three brothers, they would understand where she’d come from. That apartment had a tiny fridge and two burners for a cooktop that were at one end of the room. A small enclave with no door hid the toilet and tub. There was no shower head.

With five people in the one room, there was nowhere to put a couch. They had two queen mattresses on the floor, no box springs. The boys shared one and Billie shared the other with her mom. Desks for schoolwork consisted of flat boards they could hop up on the bed with, and the boards doubled as trays for eating meals. The television was an old 19-inch with rabbit ear antenna.

There was no air, no heat, and they wore clothes donated to the shelters. But Billie made the best of it and started cutting and sewing from the clothes they got, creating more fashionable items and unique designs for herself and, later for her brothers.

Her poverty had started her career.

Now, Billie stepped inside the opulent entrance of the hotel, finding the entrance to the casino on her right where the noise level reached her even past the mostly closed doors and the sparkling beauty of the lobby to her left. The warmth inside felt nice, and she marveled at how a city known for its desert heat could be so chilly.

“Ms. Roderick, may I take your coat for you?” The smooth, deep voice startled Billie, and she whirled to see who had addressed her. A tall, handsome man in a perfectly tailored suit smiled at her in welcome. She wasn’t sure she’d ever get used to people recognizing her. Fame had its oddities, that was certain.

She let the man slide her coat from her shoulders, and he handed it off to another bellhop, muttering some instruction to the kid before he ran off. Turning back to Billie, he said, “My name is Brock Carson, and this is my hotel and casino. I wanted to welcome you in person and escort you to the VIP suite so I could make sure you have everything you want and need to make your stay comfortable and accommodating.”

Brock Carson, the man of the hour, as far as Billie had heard. She’d expected to be greeted by a concierge or maybe a staff manager. To get the main man was flattering. She offered her hand, and he bent over it, kissing her knuckles like something out of a Carey Grant movie. She smiled at him. “Thank you, Mr. Carson. I appreciate the warm welcome. Your hotel is lovely, and I admit, I’ve always wanted to try a slot machine in a Las Vegas casino. I may have to take a stroll through it before I go home.”

“Of course, you’re welcome to visit at any time. Please, allow me to escort you upstairs and see that you’re settled in. I’ll make sure that anything lacking is addressed promptly. I had thought to give you the grand tour, but it’s late, and I’m sure you’re tired from the flight. Perhaps I can simple have something to eat or drink sent up to your room for the night, and we can reconvene tomorrow. I’ll introduce you to your event coordinator, and he can give you the tour while he shows you the plans for the event. I’ll join you for a late lunch.”

As he talked, he walked her to the grand elevators, but he passed by seven of them in favor of a very small one, and Billie found that curious. A private express elevator for VIP guests? He typed in a code on a keypad, and the door opened. As they climbed in, Billie told him, “That sounds reasonable.” She was a bit overwhelmed, and she got shy when she felt out of place. No matter how far she had climbed in economic and social status, places filled with rich, upper class people made her feel like the little girl from the ghetto.

This was one of those places.

She reminded herself she’d earned her place here, and her bank account was growing rapidly. Even though this wasn’t about the money, being financially stable had always been a dream. Being wealthy allowed her to make sure the rest of her family, who had suffered through those cramped quarters and the filth of the neighborhood right along with her, were comfortable now, as well.

There were no buttons inside the elevator, she noticed, and it moved up fast. When the door opened, there was only a vestibule with a single, heavy door leading out of it. Brock Carson keyed a code again and opened that door, and Billie gasped. “Welcome to our penthouse, Ms. Roderick. It’s reserved for our finest guests, the ones we feel lucky to have in our midst.”

The man had a way with words for sure, but Billie was still astounded at the suite. The view of the Strip was to die for, and everything in the room glistened with gold or chrome finishing. But what really fascinated her was that this penthouse had to be twice the size of her New York high rise flat, and considering what she paid to live in that place, she couldn’t imagine what this penthouse could pull in for a single night.

Double her rent? Triple?

“You’ll find an array of scented soaps and shampoos in the bathroom pantry, along with full body towels. The bed pillows are faux down and hypoallergenic. Fresh fruits are delivered three times a day, and if there is anything you want in greater quantity, say the word and it’s yours. Of course, everything is complimentary during your stay with us, and you can request an escort or chauffer to go anywhere in Las Vegas at any time. I’ll make sure the best is provided for you.”

“You’re too much, Mr. Carson,” she said, laughing with the surreal feeling she had.

“Please, call me Brock. I only let people I don’t like call me ‘Mr.’” He winked at her, and Billie could see exactly why his hotel was now the top billed ‘must see and stay’ in the city. If the absolutely pristine and quietly gaudy luxury of the hotel wasn’t enough to make it, the customer service was. And Brock Carson’s charisma and politely flirtatious matter could bring anyone – male or female – to his knees.

“Okay, then, Brock. You mentioned my event coordinator. Tell me, will I be as charmed by his antics as I am by yours?” She met his eyes for the first time since he had introduced himself. They danced with delight and a certain teasing. He wasn’t coming onto her. He just had a certain mannerism that was overly familiar without being leering.

He nodded. “I think you’ll enjoy his company. Dalton Winslow and I have been friends and colleagues for a very long time, and I assure you, no one can arrange a gala affair like he can. I think you’ll find him intelligent and accommodating, and perhaps you’ll even manage to draw out his sense of humor, something he rarely lets surface.”

He sounded like an interesting man, but Billie reserved judgment. She found that a lot of men were intimidated by her confidence, and those men usually reacted with belligerence and a tendency to belittle her. If Dalton Winslow couldn’t handle working with a strong woman, they were doomed to clash from the start.

“I look forward to meeting him,” she said.

“Excellent. I have you scheduled to meet him at ten tomorrow morning. If you go to the reception desk any time after 9:45, the concierge will escort you to our breakfast lounge, where Dalton will greet you. Of course, if you’d like something brought to you before that or would like to have breakfast earlier, simply call down or come to the desk, and we’ll accommodate you as needed.” Brock gave her a broad smile that would have devastated all of Hollywood. “Is there anything you need tonight that I can take care of for you?”

All Billie wanted was to relax in the whirlpool tub she could just see inside the bathroom. She hated flying, not because she had any fear of it but because no matter how nice the plane or how short the flight, she felt cramped and swollen when she landed. “No, thank you so much for being a wonderful host.”

“If that’s the case, I bid you goodnight, Ms. Roderick. I’ll have some crackers, cheese, wine, and juice sent up in the next five minutes to accompany your fruit, should you like a snack. If you desire anything else, let the waiter know, and he’ll take care of it. And if you want anything else to drink, there is a full sized fridge in here well stocked with sodas and other options.”

“I can see why this hotel gets such excellent reviews,” she said with a short laugh. “And please, call me Billie.” She wasn’t as free with familiarities as Brock claimed to be, but she liked this man and thought they would likely become friends and contacts in the future.

“Very well, Billie. Enjoy yourself, and I will see you at lunch tomorrow.” He ducked out of the room, and Billie waited a moment to make sure he wasn’t going to come back for any reason. Then, she did a victory dance, singing to herself and celebrating. This was the big time, and she felt like royalty. Did it get any better than this?

Yes, actually, it did. And that started with running a bath in that luxurious tub that probably would have fit three of her. She poured in some of the lavender scented bath salts she found and let the bathroom steam up as she filled the monstrosity with scalding water. She picked a thick, soft towel out of the pantry and placed it on the corner, and she climbed in, moaning at how wonderful it felt on her skin.

And still, it got better. In three days, she was going to have the world watching some of the best known runway models in the industry striding down the carpet in her designs. The biggest names in Hollywood and fashion would be in the audience, and her name would be on the tip of everyone’s tongue. She would be the talk of the town and, hopefully, the next sensation in fashion worldwide.

Little Belinda squealed with delight inside her. She’d done it. She’d accomplished her dreams. And tomorrow morning, before she went downstairs, she was going to call her mother and tell her all about it.