Hell on Heels (Hotel Rodeo #1)(41)

Zac’s gaze narrowed. “You thinking about going back to the ranch?”

“Hell no! That’s the last of my choices.”

“I heard some crazy story about your wife breeding bulls.”

“My ex,” Ty corrected in no uncertain terms. “Beats the hell out of me why she’s doing it, but I don’t care overmuch as long as she makes a profit.”

“So it’s true?”

“Yup. And speaking of the ex-from-hell, she’s coming to Vegas for the bucking-bull futurity.”

“Delaney’s coming here?” Zac looked more than just surprised; he seemed damned near pissed off. Ty knew there was still bad blood between Zac and Delaney, but it still seemed like an overreaction, especially from someone as stony and stolid as Zac.

“She is,” Ty continued, “which creates a real problem for me. She naturally expects me to put her up, and I’m already oversold.”

“Give her my room,” Zac offered before he could even ask. “I can double with Kade.”

“You sure about that?” Ty asked. “This is Vegas, after all.” He nodded toward the redhead.

Zac shrugged. “Maybe it’ll cramp little brother’s style, but he’ll survive. It’s only a coupla nights. As for me, I’m done with all that. I’ve had my fill and then some.”

Now that was another revelation. Zac had never chased women, but he sure as hell had never turned any away before.

“Thanks, Zac.” Ty exhaled in relief. “You’ve saved me a lot of grief. The last thing I wanted was to put Delaney up at my place.”

“Hell, Ty,” Zac laughed, “it’s not like you’re asking much, considering you comp the damn rooms.”



After hitting two of her favorite haunts, Neiman Marcus and Macy’s, Monica picked up Chinese takeout and returned to the hotel with plans of boiling herself alive in a Jacuzzi bath while eating vegetable lo mein.

Exhausted and loaded down with bags and boxes, she’d snagged a luggage trolley and a porter. Digging her key card out of her purse, she slid it in and out of the lock. The light flashed red. She flipped the card over and repeated the motion. The light still flashed red. She growled a curse and flipped it again, this time switching the end she inserted. Still no good.

“Would you give it a try?” she asked the porter.

He went through exactly the same routine. She threw up her hands with an exasperated sound. “You can go, Mitch. I’ll call security to open the damned door.” She pounded the switchboard number into her phone. “This is Monica Brandt. I’m having trouble getting into my room. Could you please send up security to open it for me?”

“Security?”

“Yes. They have a master, don’t they?”

“We don’t have any security.”

“Damn it, I mean Gus!”

“The bouncer?”

“Yes! Gus the bouncer. Please send him up here with a master key.” Monica hung up and then plopped down with a groan onto the luggage cart. Why were the simplest things always so damned complicated around here? Her stomach gave a loud growl of protestation. With a sigh, she opened her brown paper bag and withdrew the takeout container and a set of chopsticks.

She was slurping noodles when the elevator chimed. Her gaze trailed from the floor upward, over the toes of the boots, the long, muscular, denim-clad legs, the broad chest, and finally came to rest on Ty’s face. Wishing she had something to drink, she forced the noodles down with a hard swallow and almost choked.

“Having some trouble there?” He gazed down with a mocking grin. “Need me to do the Heimlich?”

She glared back at him. “That’s not funny.”

His gaze swept over the boxes and bags. “Looks like you did some shopping. Is there anything in those bags that isn’t black?”

“What?”

“I’ve only seen you in black. Black dresses, black skirts with white blouses. You should wear other colors, Ms. Brandt. I think you’d look mighty fine in red, preferably something short and tight.”

“I’m not a hooker, Ty,” she snapped. “And I am wearing color. This skirt is navy.”

She wasn’t about to confess that eighty percent of her wardrobe was comprised of the traditional male hues of black, navy, and charcoal.

“What the hell happened to my key?” she demanded. “It worked just fine this morning.”

“We need the room for a VIP, so I had it rekeyed.”

“Just like that?” She snapped her finger. “You lock me out without even telling me?”

“Didn’t have much choice. We’re booked solid, and I have to have that room.”

“Where the hell am I supposed to go?” she demanded.

“I’m taking you to my place.”

“Your place? And where might that be?”

“I have a house about twenty minutes west of town. It’s plenty big—three bedrooms and as many baths. You’ll be comfortable.”

“That’s rather presumptuous. What if I don’t want to go?”

“It seemed the most sensible option. Since you are a sensible woman, I didn’t see any reason for you to object.”

She could hardly argue when he posed it like that. “Aren’t you breaking your rule about taking women home?”