Gluttony

them short, pale, and skinny. Definitely not his type, though he was certain-despite her blustering and her refusal to stage a sequel to their last hookup-she wished she were. But she was a much better kisser than he’d expected, and there were times during these conversational jousts, when her face got flushed, her voice high, and her eyes bright, when he wished he could just drop the game and grab her and-

Whoa. He stopped himself abruptly. That was not a place his mind was supposed to go with Miranda Stevens. Good kisser or not. This was Vegas, land of gold fringe and stiletto heels; he refused to allow Miranda, with her ill-fitting jeans, faded T-shirts, and assorted neuroses, into his fantasies, much less his schedule.

“Door-to-door service, and here’s the door,” he said, losing the flirtatious tone. “Have fun.”

Miranda raised her eyebrows. “Sure you don’t want to see for yourself what-”

“Another time,” he cut in, before he could get sucked into another round of volleying. He waved and backed away before she could say anything more, and didn’t turn around to check that she’d stepped inside the spa, Harper’s instructions be damned.

It didn’t stop him from being sorry to see her go.

Shake it off, he warned himself. You’ve got business.

It was a five-minute drive to the Fantasia-or would have been, had traffic on the Strip not been at a standstill. Kane had never considered himself a small-town guy, even though he’d spent his life in a place where the prairie dog population outnumbered the human one. But he couldn’t help gaping at the flashing lights, packed sidewalks, and feverish motion of everyone and everything in sight.

Someday, he vowed, he would live in a place like this; someday, he would run it.

He dropped off the car with the valet and made his way to the back lobby, trying to ignore the many temptations along the way. (Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a redhead with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a deck of cards in the other: one-stop shopping for all his vices.) His contact was already waiting.

“[email protected], I presume?” A tall, wispy guy in his early twenties stepped out from behind a column, extending a hand.

Kane noted the guy’s woven hemp necklace and scraggly blond goatee-he was a dead ringer for the dealer who’d hooked them up. Not a huge surprise; these Berkeley guys liked to play at being nonconformists, but with the tie-dye and the Birkenstocks, they might as well be wearing a uniform. “Kane,” he said, giving the guy a firm handshake. He couldn’t afford his customary caustic snark; another temptation to avoid for the sake of business.

“Jackson,” the guy replied, flashing a peace sign.

Kane suppressed a snort. If this loser was as happy-go-lucky as he looked, things would go very smoothly indeed.

“So are you the small-talk type, or are you ready to see the merchandise?” Jackson dropped his faded gray backpack to the ground and began to unzip it without waiting for an answer.

“Here?” Kane hissed. His contact had assured him this Jackson guy was 100 percent professional, a safe way to kick his own business up to the next level. But was he too dim to realize that Las Vegas was closed-circuit-TV central? That was the problem with Nor Cal dealers, Kane had found-too much sampling of their own merchandise had fried their brains. Kane, on the other hand, prided himself on restraint. He was only too happy to supply others with whatever they needed, as a gesture of goodwill-and good profit-but he wasn’t about to follow them down the rabbit hole.

“Here, there, anywhere,” Jackson babbled. “That’s the beauty of it.” And before Kane could stop him, he pulled something out of his bag. It was about four inches long and wrapped in orange and brown foil.

It was perfect.

“‘Munchy Way,’” Kane read off the wrapper, admiring the logo’s similarity to the familiar Milky Way swirl. This was even better than he’d hoped.

“And here’s a couple Pot-Tarts,” Jackson said, pressing a small stack of foil squares into his hand. “For later.” He grinned proudly. “Cool yeah?”

They looked almost real. It was the perfect product for Kane, who was tired of serving as a go-between for his brother’s skeevy dealer buddies and their junior high customers. With a gimmick like this, he could attract a bigger crowd, a better crowd-and the operation would be all his. He’d pocket all the money, carry all the risk; and, with no one else involved, he could be sure that the risks were kept to an absolute minimum.

Kane didn’t trust anyone but himself-but he trusted himself absolutely.

He ripped open the foil and took a bite. It was the familiar gooey chocolate goodness-with an equally familiar, almost bitter undertaste.

“I’ve got Rasta Reese’s, Buddafingers, Puff-a-Mint Patties, whatever you need,” Jackson told him, zipping the bag shut.

“This could work,” Kane mused, hoping to disguise his enthusiasm. Jackson might have been a dippy hippie, but he was also a pro; this was, on the other hand, Kane’s first big buy, and he wanted to do it right. “What’s your price?”

“Not so fast,” Jackson said, and the foggy expression vanished, replaced by a look that was sharp, canny, and hungry. “I don’t know you, I don’t know if I can trust you. I definitely don’t need you. So why don’t you start by telling me what you can do for me.”

The rapid shift caught Kane off guard, but not for long. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, if you want in, I’m going to need some insurance-and I’m going to need some incentive.”

It turned out that the Oasis Volcano was really a giant fountain with reddish water cascading down its sides and spurts of fire shooting out of the top. Like everything else in Vegas, Harper was discovering, the plastic mountain was impressive until you got up close-then it was just tacky and sad.

“One thing I forgot to tell you,” Harper said as they approached the operator’s booth in search of Kane’s “guy.” She hadn’t forgotten-she’d just been trying to keep conversation to a minimum until absolutely necessary. “You’re Kane.”

Adam wrinkled his forehead. “Try again. I’m Adam.”

She used to think it was so cute when he tried to be funny-even when he failed. Especially when he failed.

“This guy will only talk to Kane, but they’ve never met face-to-face,” she explained impatiently. “Kane called and told him we were coming-I mean, that he was coming. You know what I mean. So you’re just going to have to play the part.”

“I’m going to have to play the part…” he prompted, his eyes twinkling.

She sighed. Magic word time. “Please.”

The operator’s booth was stationed in the back of the volcano, behind a low fence that Adam vaulted easily. He reached out his arms for Harper. “Want help?”

“I got it, thanks,” she said brusquely, and scrabbled over, catching the edge of her shirt in one of the barbs. She didn’t notice until she slid down to the other side and her shirt, still caught at the top of the fence, flew up over her head. Harper slammed her arms over her chest, trying to tug the shirt down with one hand and extricate herself with the other, a move that would have been possible only if she’d picked up some triple-jointed tricks from the local Cirque du Soleil troupe.

“Still got it?” Adam asked, standing a couple feet away with his arms folded.

“I’m just-almost-” After nearly stretching her arm out of its socket, Harper gave in to the inevitable. “Get me off this thing, will you?” And a frustrated moment later, “Please?”

Adam stood in front of her and, reaching an arm around either side, fumbled with