Kingston leaned against the short end of the conference table and, aware of concerned faces peering in the windows on both sides of the door, assumed a casual expression. “Yes? Did you forget something?”
“No, you did,” Nicole said.
Where she was standing with her back flush against the door, the people outside couldn’t see what she was doing.
She reached under her suit skirt and wiggled her hips like a pouncing kitten, and her white lace panties dropped to her ankles around her stiletto heels.
Kingston held on to the table edge with both hands as all the blood left his brain.
She held them out to him. “You forgot your pocket square.”
He held out his hand for the crumpled ball of white froth and tucked it into his suit’s breast pocket, fluffing the lace without displaying what they were to the crowd outside. “Why, thank you. Very much.”
“My office, three o’clock,” she said, a naughty smile on her lips.
Kingston was not going to survive until then.
51
The PGA Show in Vegas
NICOLE LAMB
The Sidewinder Golf booth at the early December PGA Golf Show in Vegas was a mini-castle cut from dark blue canvas.
One giant simulator in the middle, the size of a two-car garage, displayed the fifth hole at Pebble Beach, and smaller simulators on the sides held windows to other parts of that golf course.
Meghan and Morgan stood at the entrance, blonder and bubblier than all the showgirls in Vegas, instantly analyzing and sorting golfers as to whether they should be shown the more economical Rattler line of clubs, available for order at a slight discount compared to Golf Universe or Cox Sports, or whether they were high rollers who should be given access to prototypes from the exclusive Legendary line and then evaluated as to whether or not they deserved a space on the pre-order list.
Although “pre-order” was only a marketing term, now. Excalibur drivers and Vorpal iron sets had started delivering a week before Thanksgiving, on budget and ahead of schedule.
Rattler sales in retail stores were exceeding expectations.
Sidewinder was profitable.
Nicole walked among the golfers in the Sidewinder booth, as anonymous as a country club waiter, watching how people responded to the Excalibur and Vorpal irons.
Their shocked exclamations were gratifying. She’d made the right choice.
The one gross slob of a billionaire tried to neg her clubs to Kingston, saying that he had played with better clubs and his new brand of golf clubs was going to be the best in the world, and thus he was refused a spot on the coveted waiting list and shown the door, sputtering the whole time.
His swing was awful, anyway. He probably cheated his friends at golf.
Kingston was still playing sales guy, which became funnier every time Nicole saw him do it.
How had she ever thought that this man who was obviously wearing a custom-tailored ten-thousand-dollar suit and, when he wasn’t playing a role, had the reserved manners of royalty was a newbie hawker of sporting equipment?
Last Chance’s jet had picked Nicole up that morning for the half-hour hop to Las Vegas, so in the afternoon, Kingston took her to a suite at the Four Seasons, a serene oasis away from the jangling slot machines and thick cigarette smoke of the Strip.
When they walked in, Nicole had noticed the distinct lack of a casino and smoke. “I can’t believe they don’t just have a few slot machines around here.”
He’d raised an eyebrow at her as he opened their door via an app. “Would you rather stay somewhere with slot machines?”
“Oh heckers, no. This is lovely.”
Kingston had booked them into the Stadium View Panoramic Suite, a descriptive name rather than an obscure one named after authoritarian figures, which also overlooked the red rocks desert, afire with the last of the winter’s scarlet sunset.
Nicole turned to Kingston. “This is great.”
