“I wasn’t talking about the dress.”
He took my arm like a true gentleman, even if the look he gave me was anything but gentlemanly. Being this close to him made my heart race, and it wasn’t only with fear. He was far too good-looking, and the power and danger he radiated both intrigued me and made me want to run away all at once.
We entered the hotel and I tried not to have wide tourist eyes as we walked down the gorgeous entryway. Everyone scrambled to make sure our path was clear, parting like waves in front of us, and more than one person gave Lucas a deferential nod. He strolled by as if he owned the place, even though this wasn’t his hotel. That swagger was something billionaires always had, I guessed. People whispered as we walked by, my ears picking up the hiss of the sound but none of the words. Their eyes followed us, and more than one woman lost interest in her date as Lucas passed in front of her. Others shot me curious or even dirty looks. I was on the arm of Vegas’s most handsome, richest bachelor, and people definitely noticed.
At Lucas’s side, I felt like the queen to his dark king. Most surprising of all—I found myself secretly enjoying the thrill of it.
We stopped in front of a restaurant called Picasso. I knew nothing about the place, except that it was one of those restaurants that listed the chef’s name under the sign, so you knew it was going to be expensive and have dishes you couldn’t pronounce. Lucas led me across the shiny floors to the hostess, who waited at the entrance like she was expecting us.
"Mr. Ifer?" She was polite, but her deferential body language said she knew exactly who he was. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to Picasso. We have the terrace all ready for you. Right this way.”
We followed her inside the restaurant, which was completely empty other than the three of us. A bit creepy, but it allowed me to marvel at how beautiful everything was. We walked along colorful carpet under mosaic ceilings and between tables covered in white cloths, past walls decorated with unusual geometric art.
As the name of the restaurant clicked in my head, my jaw dropped open. “These paintings. Are they real Picassos?”
“They are,” Lucas said casually, as though we weren’t basically walking through an art museum.
I didn’t think anything could top seeing real Picasso paintings up close, but then we walked outside and I gasped at the view. We were directly behind the gorgeous fountains, which towered over us against the backdrop of the Vegas lights, and close enough that I could feel the spray of water in the air.
He tightened his arm around me as I watched the fountains, mesmerized by how they danced and twined to the music with the kind of grace I’d never master. The droplets were like sprites or fairies and a lump formed in my throat as I imagined what Brandy’s reaction would have been to this magical sight.
“Your box for the fountains is on your table.” The hostess indicated the white-covered table with two red chairs on either side of it. The rest of the large terrace, which likely seated many guests on a normal night, had been completely cleared out, giving us a lot of space and privacy—plus this amazing view.
Lucas held out my chair for me, and I sat as gracefully as I could, praying I could keep it together in such an exquisite place. It would be just my luck to drop my dinner or spill my drink all over this dress. The whole thing was completely overwhelming, and it was hard not to gawk as the server came over and launched into a spiel about how the restaurant featured both authentic Picasso masterpieces along with decadent food inspired by the regional cuisine of Spain and France. Oh and over 1,500 selections from the finest European vineyards—not that I drank wine, but it still sounded impressive.
The server then handed me a tiny menu, just one sheet of embossed paper with six different things on it. I scanned it and picked the item that looked the least strange, because most of it was gibberish to me. “I’ll have the lobster salad please.”
The server gave me a pitying smile and spoke with a French accent. “Oh no, you don’t need to choose anything. These are the six courses you’ll be receiving throughout the evening, personally selected by our master chef. I guarantee it’s the finest food you’ll eat in Las Vegas.”
My eyes dropped to the menu again. Six courses? Yes, I was hungry, but could anyone eat that much? And what were half of the things on this menu anyway? Suddenly I just wanted a hamburger and fries. And to be back in Brandy’s house sitting on the couch in my yoga pants, with her by my side while we watched Netflix.
The server handed Lucas the wine list, and he perused it while I stared at the table, feeling completely out of place and over my head. When I told the server I would only be drinking water, he gave me a look that made me shrink down into my chair. Luckily Lucas ordered a bottle of wine for himself, and the server seemed pleased with his selection and disappeared.
A second later, another man in a uniform brought out some toasted bread with fancy little tomatoes drizzled in sauce—our first course. I grabbed a piece of bread and nibbled it, ultra-aware of where to put my hands. Anywhere but on the dress. Don’t want to ruin this thing before giving it back to Lucas.
I glanced up and noticed him watching me again with those inscrutable eyes, looking impossibly handsome in his tuxedo against the backdrop of the fountains. Like something from a dream or a fairy tale.
“You seem nervous,” he said, in his sexy,
