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“I completely forgot that you were scheduled to
interview me today.” He made no move to invite her in. Instead, his eyes took a
leisurely trip from her ankle boots to her black leggings and travelled slowly
up the oversized black and red sweater that began mid-thigh, pausing for a
while where it swelled out and finally came to the end of his destination, her
face. She practically squirmed under his assessing gaze. She was well covered,
so why did his bold stare make her feel as if she was undressed?
    “And
that’s what I’m here to do – interview you,” she prompted, deliberately
squelching the feeling.
    He
hesitated long enough for her to begin counting mentally to calm herself. She
was at three when he stepped back to allow her in. Why did she get the feeling
that he was stalling for some reason?
    “Look,
Lily is the one pushing for this, but I really don’t have any time for the
media or for this documentary. My relationships have been messed up more than
once by the lies you print.”
    “I
don’t consider what I do to be in the same category as the gossip magazines.  I’m
a serious journalist and my job is to document your life as accurately as
possible.”
    He
looked her over as if testing her sincerity. She held his gaze with a steady
one of her own.
    “OK,”
he agreed, coming to a decision. “I’ll need a couple of minutes to get decent,”
he said, yawning. More like a couple of decades, she thought.
    Gesturing
for her to come in, he led her past the dining room and the living room to a
circular booth with the curtains drawn back to treat them to a clear view of
the famous Strip.
    “You
can set up here; it’s my favorite spot in the suite.”
    “Nice
view,” she commented.
    “Would
you order some coffee and breakfast from room service for me? I’ll be back soon.”
    “In
case you didn’t realize, it’s past breakfast,” she called to his retreating
back as he headed towards the bedroom area.
    “It’s
breakfast if I say it is,” he threw back arrogantly. “I feel like pancakes with
lots of fruit and some of that strawberry stuff.” 
    Shari’s
eyes narrowed. What was she now, his housekeeper?
    “You
mean strawberry compote?”
    “Whatever.”
    She
growled in irritation, looking around for the nearest phone, which she spotted
on a side table in the living room. In spite of her frustration, she couldn’t
help but admire the rich décor of the suite. Mahogany furniture blended well
with red side chairs and taupe sofas accessorized with red throw cushions. In
addition to the living room, there was a dining room and a wet bar. The suite
was bigger than her town house.
    Fresh
flowers in elegant vases adorned most of the tables. The green of the
accompanying foliage contrasted beautifully with the colors of the room. She
had thought her room was nice, and it was, but, compared to the splendor of
Nick’s suite, it seemed almost basic, if anything in Vegas could be described
as basic.
    Nick
had made himself right at home. His black jacket from last night was draped
over the back of a bar stool, an electric guitar was leaning on the wall next
to a closed bedroom door and a battered-looking acoustic guitar took up most of
the couch in the living room. Sheets of paper with chords and what looked like
lyrics scribbled on them were strewn across the coffee table as if Nick had
been trying to write a song. She was tempted to have a look, but her conscience
wouldn’t allow her to invade his privacy. Turning away, she picked up the phone
and pressed the button for room service.
    “Hi, I’m
calling from Nick Badley’s suite. Mr. Badley would like pancakes with lots of
fruit, strawberry compote and a pot of - ” she broke off abruptly and her mouth
dropped open as a bedroom door opened and the two ladies (and that noun was
used very loosely) from the club strolled out wearing last night’s dresses and
holding their heels in their hands. Their hair was tousled as if they’d just
tumbled out of