Page 27 of Never Marry the Best Man (Whatever It Takes #4)

Even half a block away, she could see that acceptable was the mildest of descriptions.

The Merengue’s courtyard was full of fountains that arced up three stories and, at that moment, anything that even vaguely resembled a shower looked like paradise.

The pavers in the sweeping circular drive contained some mineral that glittered like diamonds, and men in crisp uniforms were helping well-dressed guests out of cars–Ferraris?

Aston Martins?–that Ranney was pretty sure were worth more than her condo.

The Merengue should have been renamed The Mirage. Was she imagining this?

They were the only people arriving in a large, noisy tow truck with a pink Toyota on the back.

The valet guy looked puzzled, but he knew a wrong turn when he saw one. “Around back!” he shouted, gesturing emphatically. “Not here!”

“We’re checking in,” Tom informed him, helping Ranney down. “Guests of the Merengue.”

Achilles lowered his window. “My friends! This repair will take no more than one day! I will call you tomorrow!”

The valet was now forced into making a decision. He could eject these apparent scammers/riffraff/social media activists and risk a PR debacle, or he could embrace the hotel’s policy of All American Express Cards Welcome.

He chose the latter.

“Any bags?” he asked. Then, looking up at the open window of the truck: “Achilles?”

“Rogelio?”

“Oh, man, that your car?”

“Yeah, needs a belt.”

“Take it to my cousin, over on Durango! Called Repair King.”

“You take care of my friends here, okay? Newlyweds.”

Rogelio glanced at them and shrugged. “Sure. That way to the reception desk.” Seeming to remember his official position, he yelled at the tow truck driver, “Now get this thing out of here!”

As exhausted as she was, when they reached the vast glass entry, Ranney hung back, mortified.

Granted, the Las Vegas night was in full swing, but every single person in her field of vision looked ready for the red carpet.

There couldn’t be anything left on the rack at the nearest Prada shop.

She and Tom, to put it kindly, looked like victims of some mysterious disaster.

Apparently oblivious, Tom had charged ahead into the revolving door. Mid-circuit, he noticed that he was alone and kept going until he was outside again.

“What’s up?”

“I can’t go in there!”

“You can and you must, my darling. There is no other way.” His tone was patient but it was the last-fraying-thread kind of patient that you would use on a toddler or someone having a mental breakdown.

Which , she thought, is not out of the question.

“Please,” she whispered.

Hands on his hips, he blew out a breath. “Okay. You wait here. I will go and check us in, and when I signal, you can come in and we’ll go straight to the elevator. Will that work?”

“Yes,” she said in the same whisper. “Thank you.”

Leaning forward, he kissed her on the forehead, then darted back into the revolving door.

She watched him hurry across the lobby to the desk, where the attendant greeted him impassively.

For a panicked moment, she wondered if the hotel could be fully booked, no rooms at the inn, but then she realized how unlikely that was, given the size of this place.

It would be convenient if their rooms were on the same floor, though.

Never mind , she told herself. It’s only for one night. All that matters is that it have a bathtub. Oh, why is this taking so long?

As she watched Tom hand over his credit card, she realized that she should have given him her own card for her room, but they could straighten it out later. Smiling, the clerk handed Tom the key card folders and pointed to the banks of elevators.

He took a few steps away from the desk, then looked in her direction and gave a covert thumbs-up sign.

Moving to the furthest door on the left, she took a deep breath and entered, keeping her head down and walking quickly.

When she reached him, Tom held one arm out for her to take and they traversed the space, finding the elevators dedicated to their floor.

“Thank you,” she repeated while they waited. “I’m not used to having help with these things. I’m sorry about the room, I’ll reimburse you, obviously.”

“Don’t be silly.” He looked slightly miffed, an expression she hadn’t seen on his face before.

“Don’t you be silly, it’s a business expense!”

“It’s our wedding night.”

“Our…”

“Remember? We got married?”

The sense of unreality she experienced was exactly like a hyper-realistic dream, where you could swear it was actually happening but nothing made any sense.

By now they had arrived at their floor and Tom was checking the sign with the directional arrows.

“Looks like we’re down here.”

“You got two rooms, right? Are they adjoining?”

“Why would I do that? We’re married.”

“Tom! Not really!”

“Yes, Ranney, really. Really and truly. But anyway, does it matter? Wouldn’t you want to spend the night with me, no matter what?

” He’d stopped in the middle of the hallway and was looking down at her.

“Because if you’re not interested, I’ll go back down there right now and get you your own room–no harm, no foul. Just say the word.”

“I…” Biting her lip, she tried to think the situation through rationally but it was not possible in her current state.

Tom studied her for a few seconds, then seemed to make up his mind, taking a purposeful step back in the direction of the elevators.

“No!” she burst out. “No, I do, you must know I do, but…” she gestured down at herself helplessly. “I need a bath.”

“We both do.” A slow smile spread across his face. “The bridal suite was occupied, unfortunately, but I got the next best thing. There should be at least two bathrooms, maybe more. Let’s go see.”

Nodding, she followed him down the hall. What harm could it do? Regardless of any age difference, they were both adults. They could figure this out. Also, no one was there to see them and approve or disapprove.

What happens in Vegas, as the saying goes, stays in Vegas.

And they were, in actual fact, married. Now that she thought about it, that removed the no-sleeping-with-clients obstacle; a husband wasn’t just a random groomsman. A husband was permanent.

Well, in most cases.

So the question wasn’t whether sleeping with him would show poor judgment; it was whether she ever should have married him in the first place. She wasn’t sure if that was better or worse.

But when he unlocked the double door of the suite, all doubts evaporated.

A few table lamps cast a soft glow over the enormous living room.

There were at least three separate seating areas with long, deep sofas.

At one end was a double-sided fireplace; presumably, the master bedroom was on the other side of it.

The room was done in the soft, natural shades of the desert–colors that Ranney was all too familiar with after the long afternoon and evening.

But without question, the star of this show was the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. The night sky blazed with stars that were duplicated on the ground, twinkling, glittering like diamonds. It was magical. It was Disneyland for adults.

She had been driving in and around this city for twenty-four hours now and she knew the gritty reality. Las Vegas was famous for it–every stereotypical tourist attraction you could imagine, from high camp to low hustle. Elated winners and desperate losers.

General excess of every description.

Looking down on it from this height, though, there was zero grit and no visible reality. This was the glamorous myth that had been dangled in front of gamblers and vacationers since the place was founded in 1905.

I want to stay here, she thought. I don’t want my own room. I want a bath, I want a sparkly evening gown to put on, and I wish I liked martinis, because that seems like the appropriate sophisticated cocktail for this place and time.

Tom, meanwhile, was investigating a kitchen that was so sleek, it was almost invisible. You could prepare a four-course dinner in here, although it didn’t look like anyone had ever done that.

“Fully stocked,” Tom reported, pulling open a smooth wooden panel that turned out to be the refrigerator door. Inside, she could see cartons of milk and cream and eggs, drawers full of green produce, a bowl of fresh fruit. “But look at this.”

The adjoining panel was as tall as the refrigerator but narrower.

It held wine, cases of it: red, white, rosé, Champagne.

The reds were in a section of their own, kept warmer than the whites.

Ranney had stayed in some extremely nice hotel rooms in her life, for one reason or another, but this was a whole new level.

Tom rummaged around for a minute, rotating bottles to read the labels, finally settling on one.

“Champagne?” he asked. “Is that subtly romantic or am I being too obvious?”

“Does it matter?” she smiled. “But either way, I will be drinking my first glass in the tub.”

“Brilliant idea!”

“Alone!” Now she was laughing.

“As you wish, madame. I am here to serve.” Handing her a full flute, he glanced around, spotting what he wanted on the dining table. He scooped up three candles, found a lighter in a drawer, and said over his shoulder, “Let’s get you settled. Bring your wine.”

Doing as told, she followed him through a doorway on the left of the fireplace wall and, as she had guessed, found herself in what could only be the master bedroom. The same floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the same spectacular light show but in this room, you watched it from the king-size bed.

Tom paused his exploration to step over to the bedside table, where several remote controls lay. He picked one up and studied it, then pressed a button and the fireplace ignited with a quiet whoosh .

They just looked at each other; there was nothing to say.