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“Oh?” She used the short word she’d learned would get people to elaborate.
Devon nodded.“New place that belongs to a buddy of mine. He’s been after me for a while to try it and give him a critique, and since I have the pleasure of your company tonight, it seemed like a great time to go. He gets extra input; we get great food. Win-win.”
Eve watched him click the paddle shifters to change gears and wished he would have let her do the driving. But Devon never let anyone else touch his“baby.” She couldn’t wait for the ride back, when they could have the top down. For now, she’d asked him to leave it up because she wanted to keep her hair from looking as if it had been styled by Cuisinart.
“Might I have heard of this place?”
“Highly doubtful. It’s in a private club.”
Oh, he was underestimating her. She had visited every private club in Vegas at least once.“Try me,” she challenged.
“It’s quite exclusive.”
She raised one eyebrow.
The grin he flashed her was nothing short of rakish.“It’s called The Mile High Club.”
•
Whoever had designed the building had either been in love with aviation or had intended to give all of Las Vegas the bird.
The Mile High Club soared twenty stories high, shaped like an Olympic brazier, with the glass restaurant where the flame would be.
“It’s a control tower!” Eve exclaimed.
“Uh-huh. I thought you’d appreciate that.”
A bullet-shaped express elevator took members to the top. As they ascended in the polished steel cabin, Devon’s green eyes blazed. Eve suspected why, of course. But they had been joined by five people, so, to her amusement, all he could do was stare at her with lust.
He presented an oval metallic membership card to the hostess, who showed them to a table by the window.
“Every key is made of metal from the fuselage of salvaged old airplanes,” he explained as they walked.“They cut off pieces of the skin, stamp the ovals, and craft each one. No two are alike. See?”
He showed her the metallic fob, half white, half turquoise.“This used to be a KLM 747.”
“Neat.” Eve smiled. Anything airplane-related was exciting to Devon.
She placed her clutch on the white linen tablecloth and settled in the sky-blue velvet chair he’d pulled out for her. Smoothing her skirt, she looked through the panoramic window to the horizon. The sun was setting, and golden-orange light gilded the clouds where the mountain range met the endless sky. From here, the buildings below looked matchbox size.
“This is spectacular.”
He grinned.“It rotates too.”
Indeed, the entire place turned imperceptibly, constantly changing the view. In the middle, in front of mirrored shelves that held what looked like every spirit ever produced, two bartenders in white shirts and sky-blue bow ties expertly mixed drinks behind a wing-shaped counter. Steel jet plane mockups, suspended from the ceiling, gleamed, nose up, under strategically placed spotlights.
Eve opened her menu. It was thin and replicated what she had received when she had flown first class.“You have to be a member to eat here?”
“Yes. And a pilot. Members can bring guests who are not flyers, but for membership, you need to be me.”
“No one can be you, Devon.”
“True, true.”
The place had a soothing, low-key vibe. Silverware clinked, and soft music mixed with the buzz of quiet conversation. The clientele, gathered at round tables topped with crisp white linens, was primarily men, most wearing the uniforms of different airlines, their flight bags and Rollaboards beside their chairs.
“When does the show start?” she joked.
“The show?”