Page 6 of Lucky Puck

I hang back far enough away, pretending to be part of a clutch of people I don’t know, chatting about something hockey related, so that I can’t hear what Brody and his showgirl are talking about. It’s the only reason my conscience will allow me to follow him at all. I tell myself it’s not really eavesdropping if I can’t hear them, and it’s not really snooping if I’m not eavesdropping.

When they move again, I move, and when I realize they’re heading for the exit from this Vegas circus-sized party, I pick up my pace until I catch up with them at the bank of elevators that go to our hotel rooms. Shit. She knows her way around this casino.

Stopping short with my heart beating too fast—either because it’s a strain for me to dash around in heels and a cocktail dress, or because I’m worried about what to do about the showgirl—I gather myself and try to act like I’m here coincidentally as I reach them. Up close, I can see that she’s clearly too old for him, but that’s true for almost everyone at this party since he’s barely twenty years old. But this woman has to be a dozen years older, even older than I am. Either that, or maybe showgirls age three years for every one year of a woman in other lines of work—any other line of work.

As they stand at the elevator, she leans into him, putting her hands all over that superbly toned body, a goal-scoring machine. Watching her paw him gives me a jolt of possessiveness, as if I’m personally responsible for his well-being.

But then again, according to my boss, Hamish Jett, I am exactly that. His immortal words to me before I left for Vegas were, “If anything happens to Brody Holden, even a scratch, or one bad word of press or negative incident, it’s on you, Brooks.” He calls me by my last name like I’m a player. I’m used to it. I took that to mean my bonus and promotion are on the line.

Squaring my shoulders, I saunter, nonchalantly, closer to where they stand around with a few others waiting for the elevator, and I put on my party smile. Or what I think would qualify as a party smile since I’ve never been much of a partier—to be exact, I haven’t been invited to many parties.

He speaks first, “Hi there, Brooks. You calling it a night too? What a party, eh?”

I eye the showgirl as I come to stand at his side, opposite her. “Typical Vegas,” I say as if I would know. It’s my job to appear worldly and all-knowing to my clients. At least according to all the sages in the business. They said I would grow into the job with a little experience. I’m hoping to heck they’re right.

Jett has faith in me, sending me on my first overnight assignment for the All-Star weekend. And I don’t intend to let him down.

Brody nods. The showgirl titters and moves in closer to him, angling me out.

“You going to your room?” I ask and don’t wait for an answer. “So am I. I’ll ride the elevator with you.”

He raises his brows. Maybe my words didn’t come out quite right. “I meant I’m going to my room.”

The lady looks me over and laughs. “It’s okay if you’re looking for a threesome. Are you?”

If her laugh wasn’t so derisive, I’m sure my cheeks wouldn’t suddenly feel like I’ve been branded by my panini maker.

Brody suppresses a smile and tells his showgirl, “Come on now, baby. Leave Bianca alone. She’s my agent, and she’s a damn good one.” His smile softens the censure, but when he turns to me, his look is all serious intensity.

He nods. “Sorry about that. No disrespect meant.”

Now heat of another kind surges through me in a way I have no business allowing.

Because my relationship with the hockey boy phenom of New England is strictly business. Big business. The kind of business that a lot of competing agents would love to have and might go to great lengths to get.

Jett gave me this assignment to accompany our prized client to Vegas because he couldn’t do it himself. He’s about to become the proud father of twins any minute now.

I can’t let him down—aka mess up so badly that I get myself fired.

If I mess up enough to give another agency an opening to steal away his business, I wouldn’t just get fired—my reputation would be destroyed, and I wouldn’t get another job in this business for decades.

I’d end up back in Littleton, New Hampshire, with nothing but broken dreams and a Pepperdine Law School diploma in talent management that would be about as useful as the placemat at my family’s local diner where I’d end up working.

I take possession of Brody as if I’m in charge of him because I am, and I’m going up to his room with him and his date no matter how awkward it may be.

A small crowd spills into the elevator bank area, and I turn, clinging onto Brody and trying to block him from view as someone flashes a camera.

Then all hell breaks loose with dozens of phones raised for photos and videos, and as soon as the elevator doors open, we jump on, and I block the door to prevent anyone else.

Using my room key to unlock the elevator, I press our floor number and breathe a sigh of relief as we escape the mob. It’s just me and Brody in the elevator. No showgirl.

“I apologize for breaking up your fling with…” I wave a hand, having no idea how to refer to the nameless woman. Brody never introduced us. It’s entirely possible he doesn’t know her name.

“No worries.” He wears a devilish smirk. It’s the kind of look that alarms a girl's deeply embedded survival instincts, makes her fear for her personal safety—and simultaneously excites the crap out of her to the point of making her tingle all over. Not me, though. I’m too professional for that. Those aren’t tingles I feel. That’s just my brain buzzing.

I’m a serious professional, not the kind of girl drawn to the kind of raw animal charm guys like Brody Holden possess in barrel loads.

We ride the elevator in silence, and when we get off at our floor, I stop short, and he nearly runs into me from behind. I’m glancing down the hall toward his room, and I huff out a breath.