Gail Barrett - His 7-Day Fiancée

Her heart still racing, she inhaled to calm her nerves. Then she walked deliberately toward the back of the casino, refusing to let herself rush. There was nothing to be afraid of. Nothing.

She paused at the end of the aisle, unsure which way to go. Taking a guess, she turned right.

The scent of aftershave hit her again.

Her stomach balled tight. Her heart sped into her throat. She picked up the pace, walking faster now, even though she knew there was nothing wrong. She was safe, safe.

She hurried past a group of noisy gamblers. A bell dinged, and someone cheered. Knowing she was acting foolish but unable to stifle the fear, she walked as fast as she could on the spindly heels. Run, run, run bludgeoned her nerves.

She reached the end of the aisle, turned again, then reached some swinging doors. Oh, no. She’d gone the wrong way. The blackjack tables had to be across the pit.

She stopped, started to turn, but Wayne’s scent swarmed her again. A hard, narrow object bit into her back, and she froze.

“That’s right,” the man said. “Stay quiet, and you won’t get hurt.”

Her knees buckled. A dull roar invaded her skull. The obscene smell of aftershave permeated the air.

“Walk over to the doors. Slow now.” He rammed the gun deeper into her back, and she stepped forward, trying to battle through the hysteria and think. It wasn’t Wayne. He had the wrong voice. But then what on earth did he want?

“Stop,” he demanded when she reached the double doors. “Now give me the ring. And no fast moves.”

“R…ring?” He wanted her jewelry? But she didn’t wear any. She wheezed in the too-thick air. “But—”

“Now.” His voice turned harsher. He prodded her again with the gun.

“But I don’t…”

The double doors swung open. A waitress stepped out, balancing a tray.

Now or never.

She lunged, slammed into the waitress. The woman shrieked, staggered back and dropped the tray.

Amanda didn’t hesitate. She ran.

The soft buzz of his private telephone line cut through the silence—muted, deceptively quiet, like the rattle of a Mojave Desert Sidewinder preparing to strike. Luke Montgomery stared out his penthouse window at the Las Vegas skyline shimmering against the dark velvet sky. He’d left instructions not to be disturbed. A call now could only mean one thing.

Trouble. Just what he didn’t need.

He exhaled, knowing he couldn’t postpone the inevitable, and padded across the carpet to his desk. He punched the button to answer the phone. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Montgomery. Frank Ruiz in security. I’m sorry to bother you, but there was an armed robbery attempt in the gaming pit. I thought you’d want to know.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Luke disconnected the phone and frowned. An armed robbery attempt. Interesting timing with the investment consortium scheduled to vote in just two weeks. A coincidence or something more?

Thoughtful, he pulled his suit jacket from the chair where he’d tossed it, slipped it on as he strode to the door. Coincidence or not, he couldn’t afford the bad publicity. Candace Rothchild’s murder had caused enough problems.

Not that being suspected of murder had hurt his business. He exited his penthouse, the edge of his mouth ticked up in a cynical smile. Crowds flocked to his casino, whipped up by lurid rumors in the tabloids, hoping to glimpse the man who’d supposedly clubbed the heiress to death.

But his consortium investors weren’t nearly as intrigued. The murder—combined with the downturn in the economy—had made them nervous. Too nervous. More problems now would cause them to bolt.

And no way could he let that happen.

His gaze hardening, he crossed to his private elevator, then leaned back against the mahogany panels as it started down. He had everything riding on this project. He’d spent twenty years meticulously constructing his empire, amassing money, power.

Twenty years plotting revenge.

The elevator doors slid open, and he headed toward the security office, ignoring the employees scurrying out of his way. Nothing could jeopardize this project. Nothing. If this robbery attempt was legit, he’d hush it up, keep it out of the papers until the deal went through. And if it wasn’t…

He mentally shrugged. Whoever had planned this escapade had made a mistake, a big one. No one played Luke Montgomery for a fool.

A lesson the Rothchilds should have learned long ago.

He entered the office, met the eyes of the guard on duty behind the desk. The balding man leaped to his feet. “Mr. Montgomery.” He tugged at the tie dangling from his beefy neck.

Luke nodded, got straight to the point. “What’s going on?”

“A woman said she was held up at gunpoint near the slot machines. I’ve pulled up the surveillance tapes. She’s in the next room.”

“Let’s see the tapes.” He rounded the desk as Ruiz lowered himself into his chair and keyed the bank of monitors to the proper time.

The screens flickered, and suddenly a woman strolled into view from a dozen angles. Her full hips swiveled with a seductive swing. Her high breasts shifted and swayed.

Luke’s gaze cut to her face, and his heart made a sudden swerve. Well, hell. It was the blonde he’d admired earlier in the lobby.

He studied her now with frank appreciation. She was on the tall side, slender, but the tight dress revealed her ample curves. She had long, shiny hair, sweetly rounded hips, the kind of killer legs that could fuel his fantasies for years.

He slanted his head. She wasn’t the usual overblown Vegas type, despite the skimpy dress. She seemed more natural, unstudied—a rarity in Sin City, a place where illusions ruled.

She stumbled on the milehigh heels, regained her balance and glanced around. The cameras caught her darting gaze, and his gut went still.

She looked furtive. Guilty.

Bad move, babe. Better to look nervous after the guy with the gun shows up.

As if on cue, a man appeared on scene. The newcomer kept his head bent low, his face carefully hidden from the camera’s view. His long, stringy hair swung past his jaw, hiding his features even more.

Luke’s gaze narrowed on the man’s pleated blue shirt and black bow tie—the uniform his dealers wore. “Is he one of ours?”

“We don’t know yet. We’re checking the records now.”

He rubbed his stubble-roughened jaw, watched the episode play out. The galley doors swung open. Awaitress steppedout, carrying a tray. The blonde crashed into her, then bolted off, while the man ran the other way.