I gawk out the window as we drive, feeling a bit like an eager puppy taking in the sights. I don’t even gamble much, and I still love Vegas. I think I feel a camaraderie with it. We’re both a little bit tacky sometimes.

We pass the iconic Caesar’s Palace, and moments later, pull up in front of the magnificent Starfire Resort. The drive circles a fountain, and I watch, mesmerized as colorful columns of water rise and fall.

A bellman hurries to open my door while a valet takes the car from Ryan.

“Shall we?” Ryan asks, taking my arm.

“I’ve never stayed here before,” I say. “I’m pretty much a low-rent end of the Strip kind of girl.”

“You’ll love it. And I’m not surprised the producers are putting the actors up here. Starfire is one of the most luxurious hotels on the Strip.”

I’d received the follow-up e-mail from Georgia while we were on the road. The station has booked me a room at the Starfire, and I have an interview scheduled the next morning with Ellison Ward, a British actor who is all the rage now that he’s won an Oscar. They’ve even flown in a cameraman to do the filming. All I need to do is review the file, tweak the suggested questions, and not screw up.

When I first read the e-mail, I was surprised that a Dallas station could arrange a one-on-one with somebody of Ward’s stature. But after I read the research material, I understood. Apparently Ward’s mother lived in Texas for a few years and had a fondness for The Metroplex that she’d passed on to her son.

Honestly, it was quite a coup for the station and for me. Undoubtedly, the piece would go national, and I’d get some serious exposure, all of which would help in my quest to get back to LA someday.

That, of course, only made the “don’t screw up” part of the equation all the more important.

An efficient young woman in a pencil-style skirt and tailored blouse meets us as we step into the stunning lobby decorated in what I think is an Art Deco style. “Mr. Hunter, Ms. Archer. We have you all set. Would you like to follow me?”

“That’s okay,” Ryan says. “We need to go to the casino first. The room is ready?”

The girl nods. “Absolutely. Enjoy your stay, and don’t hesitate to ring if you need anything.”

I glance at Ryan, slightly confused. “Efficient staff.”

“Very,” he says as she moves across the tiled floor to the registration desk.

“Time for roulette?” I ask, the word alone sending a few tingles running through me.

He trails his fingers down my arm. “Roulette,” he confirms.

The casino opens off the lobby, and we can hear the noise and bluster as we head down the set of staircases to the wide, slot-machine lined entrance. It’s like entering a different world. Noise and lights. The chatter of patrons, the calls of the staff. And beneath it all, the clink and clank of coins.

“This way,” he says, leading me down a tiled path that is cut through the carpeted areas that hold the banks of slot machines, tables for blackjack and other card games, craps, and the like. We find the roulette tables on the far side, and by the time we arrive, I feel as though I have walked a thousand miles.

“Pick your table,” he says, and since they all seem the same to me, I choose the closest one. He pulls a fifty dollar casino chip out of his jacket pocket, which strikes me as a bit odd since I never saw him exchange any money for chips. I don’t have time to think about it, though, because he places the chip in my hand and tells me to bet.

Immediately, I put the chip on red.

Ryan laughs, then lifts my hand and kisses my fingertips, the touch as gentle as a butterfly’s wing and at least as sensual.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You’re giving away your secrets, kitten,” he says, nodding to the table where I’d placed my bet. “You know what red means.”

“I do,” I say, and then, because I’m feeling bold and I really do want it, I move to his side and lift myself up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. “It means that I’m at your mercy,” I say, and then slowly—very slowly—I run my tongue over the curve of his ear.

I’m holding on to him as I do it, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his back. I feel the way his body tightens beneath my touch. I hear the low groan that he tries to stifle, and, yes, I smile.

“Naughty,” he whispers as I lower myself. But I just gaze innocently at the table and the wheel that has started to spin.

I hold my breath as the ball bounces, around and around, and then—yes—it lands on red. I glance sideways and see that Ryan is watching me. I smile triumphantly. “I had to want red,” I tease. “There was no way I could come up with enough cash to pay you.”

He laughs. “Fair enough, kitten. I promise, though, that I’ll make sure that landing on red was very much worth it. For both of us.” He nods at the table as the croupier pays out our winnings. “Care to stay in the casino and gamble a bit longer? I’m feeling lucky.”

“I’m feeling lucky, too,” I say. “And I absolutely do not want to stay.”

He makes a noise I interpret as satisfaction, then pockets our winnings. He takes my arm and leads me out of the casino. I’m completely turned around, but I’m pretty sure we’ve been moving away from the lobby. My instinct is confirmed when I realize that we are in a wide-open, bright shopping area. The ceiling is a mural of the sky, arching across the space above our heads from sunrise on one side to sunset on the other, with day and night between.

In the area in which we are standing, the night sky is spread above us, and thousands of small electric lights wink down at us. It’s cheesy, but it’s also romantic, and when Ryan takes my hand to lead me through the mall, I cannot stifle my little sigh of contentment.

For right now, anyway, all is well in my world.

Like most of the shops on the pricier section of the Strip, the ones that fill this mall are high-end, full of designer goods and hefty price tags. Those extravagant items are balanced with markdowns so that the overall result is a store full of products for both the lucky and not-so-lucky gambler.

We pass by a window display overflowing with diamonds and emeralds, along with price tags that make clear that this is not the store for part-time gamblers and two-bit winners. This is where the high rollers come to shop.

Ryan takes my hand and leads me inside.

“That would look lovely on your wrist,” he says, pointing to a diamond and platinum bracelet that costs more than my condo.

“You’re insane,” I say.

He grins at me. “Not your style?”

“No,” I admit because my taste tends toward funkier.

He eyes me critically, his gaze skimming up and down. “No,” he murmurs, “you’re right. You need something more...” His voice drifts off as he walks the length of the glass counter. A clerk comes by, apparently sniffing a sale, but Ryan waves him away with a flick of his hand. “Like this,” he says, pointing to a circle of lovely pounded silver. It is a choker-style necklace made so that it catches the light at a variety of angles. There is a hinge on the back with a pin that fits through a corresponding cylinder to keep the thing in place. At the center there is a single loop upon which one could hang a charm.

“It’s lovely,” I say.

“It’s practical,” he says.

I raise a brow in question.

“The loop,” he says. “So simple to attach a leash.”

Oh. I swallow. “It’s like a slave collar,” I say, then lick my lips. “Is that why you think it suits me?” I say in a voice full of challenge. “Because right now, I belong to you?”

He looks straight at me. “Yes.” The word is simple and direct and so full of meaning it makes me tremble. I think of the way he bound me back in Malibu. The pleasure of surrendering to his mercy.

I remember, and it makes me wet.

I turn, then leave the store, going back out into the mall, my breath now shallow.

He follows me, and when I look up to meet his eyes, I find I cannot read his expression.

“Did you leave because the idea makes you uncomfortable?”

I consider lying. It would be so easy to just say the words and walk away.

But I don’t want to. I want the truth between us. I want to see where we go. “No,” I say. “I left because I like it.”

His expression doesn’t change. Only the slight increase in the tension of his jaw lets me know that my answer has gotten to him. “All right,” he says, and then continues to walk down the wide, store-lined corridor.

I follow, a little on edge. I’m not sure he understands my confession. Or, if he does, what that means for me.

As far as I can tell, though, the subject is dropped.

“So what are we shopping for?” I ask after five minutes have passed in silence.

“You, of course.” He gestures to the jeans and T-shirt I’ve been wearing for two days now. “You can’t live in those clothes.”

The man has a point.

“At the very least, you’ll need something for dinner tonight,” he says. “And something for tomorrow’s interview. Here,” he says, pausing in front of a store wherein every item probably costs more than my entire credit card limit.

“I can’t afford this,” I whisper as we step through the door.

He shoots me an amused expression. “I can.”

The store is apparently arranged by layer, and the first thing I see when we enter is a bin with lingerie. He reaches in and pulls out a pair of thong-style panties. He looks at them, then looks at me. I try to keep a straight face, but the whole idea of him picking out my panties is amusing me. “Why bother?” I finally say. “I’m just going to take them off.”

“I certainly hope so,” he replies with at least as much humor. “But that’s part of the fun.”

I swallow because he’s definitely called that right.

He lifts a finger to signal a salesgirl, and she comes running. He hands her the panties, along with a few other pairs in assorted colors, then tells her we need a business outfit and an evening gown. She practically genuflects toward the both of us as she leads us further back to the uncluttered displays of designer clothing.

We handle the interview suit first, and as Ryan waits on a low, black leather couch, I go into the dressing room to change. I try on three options and end up going with a classic black suit and a white silk shell. It’s more conservative than my usual style, but when we match it with three-inch black pumps, I can’t deny that I look sexy as hell.

“You’re going to knock ‘em dead.”

“Hopefully not Ellison Ward,” I say. “It would be one hell of a story, but I’d rather have the interview in my portfolio.”

He laughs and kisses me, then signals again for the salesgirl and tells her we’re ready to see evening wear.

Though all the dresses she suggests are stunning, there is only one that I truly fall in love with. It is modeled after Marilyn Monroe’s dress from The Seven Year Itch, the one with the full skirt that blows up when she stands over the subway grate. I love the way it drapes and the way the halter is both revealing and subtle. Most of all, I love the flirty, flippy skirt.

I hope it looks as good on me as it does on the hanger.

“Try it on,” Ryan says, but this time he follows me to the dressing room. I see the clerk’s eyes widen, but Ryan simply smiles. “I’ll be joining the lady.”

“Oh. Of course.”

She backs away but not before giving Ryan a quick once-over. Then she glances at me. I have the distinct impression that right then, she would very much like to trade places with me.

I resist the urge to gloat and move into the dressing room, my skin tingly and my pulse pounding.

“What exactly are you doing?” I ask when he latches the door behind him.

“Watching you.” He takes a seat on the upholstered ottoman that takes up one corner of the dressing room.

Since this is a high-end store, the dressing room is reasonably sized and the doors go all the way to the floor, providing genuine privacy. I face the three-way mirror and peel off my T-shirt and jeans, all the while watching Ryan’s face in the reflection. He is making no effort to hide the heat, the desire, and I run my teeth over my lower lip, wishing that he would touch me.

He doesn’t, though, and so I continue gamely on. Since the dress is backless, I unfasten my bra, then let it fall to the floor. I meet Ryan’s eyes in the mirror, then draw my hands down over my breasts, my nipples as hard as beads, and then down to my tiny panties. I leave those on—though I’m tempted to strip fully.