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  And some days, she was just plain tired.

  But all that was about to change. If tonight went as she hoped, she would soon have a husband for herself, a father for Jake, and enough money to make the need to dance ancient history.

  Ace

  Once she was sure everybody was onstage and the dressing room was empty, Chloe cracked open the bathroom door and slipped out. Sneaking over to her section of the long, lighted makeup table, she grabbed her small clutch purse, checked the drawer for anything else she might need, and hightailed it out of there, taking the back exit so no one would see her.

  Of course, even if they did, she would merely claim to be her sister. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, she was onstage right now, shaking her feathered booty in front of a hundred-odd witnesses. And the way she was dressed, she didn’t think anyone would suspect otherwise.

  Where Chloe was a girly-girl, always madeup and perfectly coiffed, going for the fancy and frilly over sensible, Chuck was the opposite. Chuck went for simplicity above everything else; easy wash-and-go hairstyle, jeans and tees, and very little to no makeup. Oh, she cleaned up nice. Real nice, if her gorgeous, identical twin sister did say so herself, but only when absolutely necessary.

  It had been kind of a thrill to dress her tonight, and spackle on about ten pounds of makeup. She wondered if Chuck knew how to get it all off when the time came, and made a mental note to leave a message on her cell, just in case.

  So while Chuck was dressed like Chloe right now, in walking Sin City Barbie attire, Chloe was dressed like Chuck. Faded low-rider jeans, low-heeled ankle boots, and a black baby doll tee with the slogan I’ll try to be nicer if you try to be smarter emblazoned across the front.

  Taking a lesser-used entrance/exit at the rear of the club, she made her way out of Lust and onto the main floor of the casino. As usual, the place was bustling. Slot machines dinging and whirring, cards being shuffled and dealt, chips being laid down or collected, and scantily-clad waitresses in their short red skirts and devil horn headbands zipping around taking orders and delivering drinks.

  The whole place was wired, cameras in the ceiling and security people milling around looking like Secret Service wannabes. There were a few dressed in street clothes, too, she knew, blending in with the crowd and keeping an even closer eye on Sebastian Raines’s milliondollar interests.

  But it didn’t matter who saw her now. Not only did she fit in perfectly with the gamblers littering the floor, but she was on her way out, and no one really cared what guests were doing unless money, cheating, or impending violence were involved.

  Wending through the casino, she headed for the hotel’s main lobby, and straight out the front doors, avoiding the bellmen and other Inferno employees as much as possible. Vehicles came and went beneath the wide portico, making it easy for her to slink along the side of the building and onto the sidewalk.

  She only had to go a couple of blocks. Even though Aidan’s brother owned the Inferno, and he could come and go as he pleased, they’d agreed to meet down the street so fewer people would be likely to see them together. Aidan was too identifiable, and his presence tended to draw a crowd.

  Tonight of all nights, she did not want to draw a crowd. Not until the deed was done and she had the younger Raines brother’s ring firmly on her finger.

  Skirting a group of boisterous fraternity boys who were whistling and sending cat calls in her direction, Chloe spotted Aidan’s sleek black Ferrari Scuderia Spider idling at the curb, and a wide smile stretched across her face.

  He always made her smile. From the moment she’d met him—backstage after one of her performances—his carefree demeanor had kept her laughing and made her feel carefree for the first time in a long time. Being with him was easy, and she hoped it stayed that way, because she intended to be with him for a while to come.

  Not for the first time, she wondered if she should have told him about Jake, introduced him to her son, and waited to see how they got along before thrusting them together indefinitely. But she was too nervous, too afraid that if she did that, everything would fall apart and she would lose her shot at the future she was trying to create for her son.

  Reaching the snazzy sports car, she climbed into the passenger seat and leaned in for a long, liquid kiss. He kissed like a dream. And Chloe should know; she’d kissed a lot of frogs before finding this prince, and none of them could hold a candle to Aidan’s lips—soft and smooth, but firm and masterful. Or his tongue—bold and seeking. Or his hands, which always seemed to be involved in his kisses, touching her, stroking her, soothing her.

  When they parted, they were both grinning.

  “How’d it go?” Aidan asked.

  “Fine. Chuck’s onstage now. I hope she’s okay.”

  As far as he knew, Chuck had agreed to take her place so she could skip work and slip off to meet him. She hadn’t filled him in on the fact that this whole thing had actually been Chuck’s idea, giving Chloe the unexpected opportunity to get away without being missed.

  “If she’s half as talented as you are, she’ll be fine.”

  Her limbs went warm and loose at his words. Oh, he was a charmer, all right. She just hoped he stayed that way, instead of being one of those men who was all sweet and kind before the wedding vows, then turned angry and controlling after them.

  “Are you ready, then?”

  Butterflies broke through their cocoons inside her stomach, flapping around and sending her pulse rate skittering. Was it excitement or trepidation? Or maybe just plain old generalized anxiety?

  She nodded, and he offered her another dazzling smile that flashed a hint of dimple at each cheek. Checking the flow of traffic behind them, he waited for an opening before putting the car in gear and peeling out. Once his hand was free, he reached for hers and held it as they tooled down The Strip, wind blowing her loose hair into a tangled mess.

  Before she knew it, he was slowing down and pulling in to the Little Blue Chapel—which was, as the name suggested, little and blue. And it looked like a chapel, small and square, with stained-glass windows, a steeple on top, and a short set of steps leading inside.

  From the moment they’d concocted their plan, Chloe had let Aidan make all the arrangements. She didn’t care where they did this, she just wanted it done before he had a chance to change his mind. So Little Blue Chapel, Chapel o’ Love, or Hank’s All-Nite Fish Fry—she didn’t have a preference, as long as it did the trick.

  Still, when he cut the engine and turned in her direction, she shot him a “really?” look.

  He shrugged. “You told me to pick one, and as long as we’re doing it this way, we’re going to do it right. Vegas style,” he added with a teasing wink.

  They climbed out of the car, and he met her on her side before she’d even gotten the door closed. Then he took her hand again and led her inside.

  The Little Blue Chapel was known for its theme of “all things Elvis,” especially of the “Blue Suede Shoes” persuasion. The chapel itself was covered in blue aluminum siding, followed by blue walls, blue carpeting, and blue curtains separating the vestibule from the main ceremonial room.

  “Well, hi, there,” a woman dressed in—you guessed it—blue chiffon greeted them with a wide, toothy smile. Her light blond, blue-washed hair was blown up into one of the biggest poofs Chloe had ever seen, a la Priscilla Presley, circa 1967 or 1970.

  “We’re here for the Raines-Lamoreaux ceremony,” Aidan told her, obviously loving all the pomp and circumstance.

  “Monroe,” she corrected with a tug at his arm. If she was going to do this without being entirely sure it was the smartest thing in the world, she was going to make sure it was legally binding.

  “Right, right,” he agreed, then told the hostess, “Aidan Raines and Chloe Monroe.”

  The woman nodded and started digging around in her paperwork. “We’ve got you right here,” she said, coming around a counter covered in Elvis memorabilia—movie posters, photographs, magazine covers
.

  “The first thing we need to do is get you changed. You step right in there and pick an outfit,” she told Aidan, pointing to a door marked LITTLE BOYS. Then she took Chloe by the elbow and tugged her toward one that said LITTLE LADIES. “And we’ll get you all decked out in a beautiful new gown.”

  Chloe let the woman lead her away with only a quick, backward glance at Aidan. She found herself in a room the size of a small closet, already half filled by a long rack of assorted wedding gowns.

  It came as quite a surprise to discover that most of them were actually white. She would have expected blue. But apparently, the Little Blue Chapel was fully traditional—in this sense, at least. Priscilla had been married in white, so they wanted to give their customers that same option. But there were also a few off-white, and yes, blue, dresses to choose from, as well.

  The hostess pulled gown after gown from the rack, holding each up to Chloe’s neck in front of a full-length mirror tacked to the wall. And though she gave Chloe plenty of time to insert her own comments, Chloe got the feeling this was really the other woman’s show, and she would wind up being married in whichever dress the Priscilla-wannabe found most fitting.

  Sure enough, a moment later, she crowed, “Perfect!” and began helping Chloe strip down to her bra and undies. In five minutes flat, Chloe found herself standing in a pair of size eight, two-inch pumps—she wore sevens and would have preferred three inches, at least—and a high-waisted white gown with thin spaghetti straps and just a sprinkling of decorative beading across the front. The gown, too, was a size too large, but the other woman fixed that with a set of safety pins she pulled out of Chloe-didn’t-know-where.

  “Now wait here,” the woman instructed after fiddling with her hair and attaching a lightweight veil with a pair of tiny combs.

  The woman slipped out, and Chloe could hear her nextdoor, oohing and aahing over Aidan’s appearance, then hustling him into—oddly enough—the staging area. Something Chloe was more than familiar with.

  Chloe stood there, heart pounding, palms sweating, as she studied her reflection. She looked like a bride. Maybe not a giddy, one-hundred-percent willing bride, but she was passable enough. And she would look good in the pictures, that was for sure.

  “All right, dear,” the woman said opening the door and ushering her out. “We’re ready for you.”

  A moment later, “Love Me Tender”—but, of course!—began to play over hidden speakers, and a bouquet of blue and white artificial roses was thrust into her hands. She clutched them like a lifeline, squeezing until real flowers would have wilted and died.

  Then the curtains were drawn back and she was shoved into the heart of the chapel, a room filled with more blue flowers, a blue carpeted aisle, and three parallel rows of short, white benches designed like church pews.

  At the other end of the aisle stood Aidan, looking eerily like a young, handsome Elvis Presley. He wore a powder blue jumpsuit, open at the throat and covered with large rhinestones in various colors leading down to the wide, bellbottomed ankles. When he noticed her perusal, he winked, then adopted a very Elvis-like pose, complete with curled lip and raised eyebrow.

  She couldn’t help but chuckle, and when Priscilla nudged her in the small of the back, she started down the aisle with only a twinge of trepidation. When she reached his side, Aidan took her arm and twined it with his own, then turned them both to face the minister, who was dressed in full, over-the-top, Elvis garb.

  His jumpsuit was black, and stretched almost beyond endurance to cover his heavy bulk. His hair was shoe polish black and about as real as most of the boobs she danced with onstage each night.

  Hers were au naturel, thank you, thank you very much, but most of her fellow dancers went the saline and silicone pump-up route. The largely male audience liked them, and an oversize rack was definitely easier to see from a distance. Not to mention a beacon for off-the-books tips and offerings of jewelry.

  But the minster’s obvious rug was styled into a giant, glossy pompadour that would have made The King proud. All of that, added to the man’s natural flabbiness and heavy jowls, definitely put him well into the “Old Elvis” column.

  He smiled widely, though, and welcomed them both to the—insert well-known Elvis drawl—Little Blue Chapel, then launched into a long, theatrical speech about love and romance and the sanctity of marriage.

  Chloe’s stomach somersaulted again at the knowledge that she wasn’t going into this with the purest of motives. Not where Aidan’s feelings were concerned, anyway.

  Then the questions began. Do you take this woman . . . ? Yadda, yadda, yadda. And Aidan answered every one with a firm, decisive, “I do.”

  The minister turned to her. “Do you take this man . . . ?” Yadda—gulp—yadda—gulp—yadda—gulp.

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again, and the words came out.

  “Yes. I mean, I do.”

  And again... “I do.”

  And again... “I do.”

  Aidan lifted her left hand and slipped a pair of rings on her finger that she hadn’t even known he had. She would have thought he’d bought them here, tonight, since a display in the lobby area made it clear wedding bands were available for sale on the spot.

  But she’d spent enough time in Vegas, enough time being wooed by men with more money than brains, to know the difference between fake gold and diamonds and the real thing. These rings—unless her eyes and the dull fluorescent lighting deceived her—were the very real thing, with a capital G, capital D.

  The gold of the bands was traditional yellow, polished to a high gleam, while the diamond of the surprise engagement ring was not only gigantic—three carats was her best, on-the-spot guesstimate—but clear as a summer’s day and sparkling in every one of its four million princess-cut facets.

  Chloe swallowed hard. If the vows hadn’t scared her enough and made reality sink in with a bone-deep chill, this certainly did the trick. This was not some cheap wedding set picked up on the fly at some—ha!—all-night chapel on The Strip. Money had gone into these. Big money, along with time and thought and emotional consideration.

  Oh, God.

  Once the rings were fit snugly on her hand, Aidan smiled and gave her fingers an encouraging squeeze. She hoped he didn’t notice how cold they were, or realize that the iciness was not due entirely to typical bridal jitters.

  Then he held out a matching band, the masculine version of her own. Her free hand shook as she took it from him and placed it on his left ring finger.

  The reverend pronounced them husband and wife, invited the groom to kiss his bride, and the deal was done. Solidly, legally, irrevocably done.

  As Aidan leaned in to brush his mouth against hers, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was over. Everything had gone exactly as planned. No bumps, no kinks, no one running in at the last minute to scream their objections.

  And now she was officially the wife of one of the richest men in Nevada. She was Mrs. Aidan Raines.

  Two

  He was married. Aidan couldn’t believe it.

  Everything had gone off without a hitch, too, which surprised him no little bit. He’d held his breath the whole time, waiting for Sebastian to burst through the curtained doorway and call a halt to the entire ceremony.

  His brother’s stance was that he was being foolish, rushing into something with a woman he’d known for only a month. But if anyone should understand that time was relative, it was Sebastian. They had been around for hundreds of years, been through things together that most mortal siblings couldn’t even fathom.

  But Aidan knew his own heart, and his heart was telling him that Chloe was the woman for him. She was beautiful, and smart, and funny . . . and the fact that she looked freaking amazing both in her Lust costumes and out didn’t hurt, either.

  Sebastian was too stern, too wrapped up in making money and keeping their identities as vampires a secret. He needed to loosen up a bit. Maybe find a woman of his own that he could ope
n up to, snuggle down with, and not zap with his vampire mojo as soon as they were finished doing the nasty.

  But who was he kidding? Sebastian was too set in his ways to lighten up enough to really get to know a woman. To fall in love.

  Aidan, he was happy to say, was not. He loved love. Chloe was the first woman he’d really fallen for in the last couple decades, but before meeting her, he’d still sowed his fair share of wild oats and been open to getting to know as many lovelies as possible. And in a town like Las Vegas, there were almost too many to count.

  Blondes, brunettes, redheads. Leggy, busty, bootylicious. He’d always been a very open-minded guy, and didn’t have a preference. He liked them all.

  But Chloe . . . ah, his beautiful Chloe put them all to shame. It hadn’t been her tits, her ass, or her high kicks that had caught his attention that first night he’d watched her perform at Lust. It had been her smile and the youthful exuberance glittering in her violet eyes.

  People—especially performers—aged fast in Sin City. Hard living just didn’t sit well with human beings. But from the moment he’d met her, it had been obvious to Aidan that Chloe loved her job and loved life.

  For someone like him, who had been there, done that in just about every way possible for centuries, she was a breath of fresh air, and it hadn’t taken him long to realize he wanted to spend the rest of his life (such as it was) with her.

  No, he hadn’t yet confessed to her that he was a vampire. He should have, he knew, but he was a little unsure of the dating protocol where something that monumental was concerned.

  First date—kiss on the cheek. Second date, kiss on the lips. Third date, full French and a little over-the-shirt action. Fifth date, hot, sweaty monkey sex, if both parties were willing. Was it the eighth date when he was safe to say, “Hey, hon, I forgot to mention that I’m a vampire. I drink blood, can’t go out in the sun, and when we sixty-nine, it’s all I can do not to bite you in the femoral artery.”