Twenty minutes later, he turned down a dirt road toward a small brick ranch in the distance. For a moment, he worried he’d arrived at the wrong address, but when he pulled onto the gravel driveway, he noticed a cartoon nutria painted on the side of an aluminum garage resting beside the house.

Must be the right place.

Marc strode to the front stoop, punched the doorbell, and a middle-aged man with a Duck Dynasty beard answered. He wore a Parrot Head T-shirt, cargo shorts, and a grin that said he’d spent some recent time in Margaritaville.

“Are you Vegas?” the man asked, chuckling at Marc’s tuxedo. He extended a palm. “I’m Ricky.”

“Yes, sir.” Marc shook his hand. “Marc Dumont.”

“Dumont?” Rick’s bushy brows drew together over narrowed blue eyes. “You’re not Jack’s boy, are you?”

“One of them,” Marc said. “I’ve got four brothers—five if you count the baby on the way.”

“Mmm.” This revelation didn’t seem to please Rick. Knowing Daddy, he’d probably seduced the man’s sister. “Well, I won’t hold that against you.”

With that roadblock settled, Marc peered at the adjacent field. “I don’t see your plane. Do you keep it parked at the airfield?”

“Nah.” Rick removed his ball cap and pointed it toward the aluminum garage. “The old girl’s in the hangar.”

Marc stopped breathing. That oversized shed was a hangar? He had a bad feeling about this.

“C’mon,” Rick said as he stepped out of the house and led the way. “You can help me pull her out.”

“We’re going to haul it out of the hangar, just the two of us?” Mercy, how small was this plane?

“Don’t worry,” Rick assured him. “You won’t break a sweat and ruin your penguin suit.”

Once the hangar’s aluminum doors parted, Marc nearly swallowed his tongue. When he’d heard the words private charter, his imagination had conjured images of sleek ten-passenger jets—the kind celebrities and professional athletes hired to whisk them away to secluded islands. The aircraft that faced Marc from the shed looked more like a tin coffee can with wings, smaller than Beau’s SUV. Wasn’t this the kind of plane that had killed John Denver? And a couple of the Kennedys?

All the blood must have drained from Marc’s face, because Rick studied him and took a defensive tone. “I know what you’re thinking.”

I’m going to fall to my death, screaming like a schoolgirl at a Bieber concert. That’s what Marc was thinking.

Rick smacked the side of his plane. “That it’s going to take forever to get there, considering how many times we’ll have to stop and refuel.”

“Nope, that’s the last thing on my mind.”

“Good, because my girl’s quicker than she looks. Not as fast as a jetliner, but I can have you in Sin City tonight if you don’t mind the close quarters.”

At that point, Marc had two choices: turn around and go home, or climb inside Rick’s paper airplane and risk death for a chance at knocking on door 123 and seeing Allie’s sweet face.

Marc extended his hand to shake. “You’ve got a deal.”

* * *

Allie was fairly certain she had glitter stuck to her tongue. She picked off a fleck and frowned at the offending sparkle. Unlike Devyn, she hadn’t licked any naked chests tonight, so how had it wound up inside her mouth? And more importantly, from which sweaty body in the club had it originated?

Never mind. She didn’t want to know the answer to either of those questions.

“Gross.” She wiped her finger on her jeans and took another swig of merlot in hopes that the alcohol would act as a sterilizing agent.

The other women experiencing the Bare Booty Beefcake Review whooped and hollered, waving dollar bills in the air in hopes of luring a young muscled dancer in their direction for a few minutes of awkward simulated sex.

But not Allie.

She didn’t appreciate half-naked men thrusting their junk in her face, no matter how toned and gorgeous the owners of that junk happened to be.

Sinking back into her chair, she avoided eye contact as a nearby “soldier” peeled off his shirt and flung it into the crowd. Experience had taught Allie the best way to go unnoticed in here was to stare into her lap. The one time she’d made the mistake of watching the show, a dancer had dropped to his knees in front of her chair and buried his face between her legs.

That just wasn’t right.

She snuck a peek at her watch to check the time, which seemed to be going backward. But as much as she longed to return to the hotel, she’d booked this trip as a reward for Devyn, who was currently onstage with both legs wrapped around a bouncing cowboy’s waist, screaming, “Yee-haw! Giddyup, stallion!” A second wrangler galloped up from behind and put Dev in the middle of a stripper sandwich, not that she seemed to mind. Reaching behind her, she snatched off the second man’s Stetson and placed it atop her head.

If the hickeys on Devyn’s neck were any indication, she was having the time of her life, and Allie wouldn’t be the wet blanket.

“Hey, pretty lady.” The soldier—or “Private Privates” according to the embroidery on his red, white, and blue thong—tugged on Allie’s wrist. He flashed his teeth and nodded toward the stage. “Consider yourself drafted”—his voice dripped with sexual innuendo—“for service.”

Oh, no. Allie wanted no part of this. She reclaimed her hand and massaged both temples. “Sorry. I’ve got a headache. Maybe next time.”

With a shrug, the private extended his hand to a willing volunteer at the next table, and Allie exhaled a sigh of relief. While the music blasted and women cheered, she sipped her wine, trying to make herself invisible. Finally the song ended and a flush-faced Devyn returned to the table.

Dev used an index finger to tip back her pilfered Stetson. “Okay, party pooper. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

“No,” Allie objected. “We can stay as long as you want. The firemen are up next. You haven’t ridden any of them yet.”

Devyn took a sip of her martini and glared at Allie. “I can’t have fun when you’re sitting down here looking like you’d rather get a colonoscopy than dance with a hot guy.”

“There’s dancing,” Allie pointed out, “and then there’s dry humping to loud music. The two are not mutually inclusive.”

“You say dry humping like it’s a bad thing.” Dev lifted her martini toward Private Privates. “He’s been checking you out all night. A rebound fling is just what you need.”

Allie wrinkled her nose. “Even if I were into him—which I’m not—I’ll bet he’s with a different woman every day of the week. Not everything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas . . . like gonorrhea.”

What she didn’t say was that no man could replace Marc, and she wasn’t ready to try.

“You’re hopeless.” Dev grabbed her handbag and threw back the rest of her drink. “Let’s go. Maybe there’s a good chick flick on pay-per-view.”

“Now you’re speaking my language.” Maybe Allie would take a bubble bath, too. “And room service. I’m craving a cheeseburger.”

Dev wrapped an arm around Allie’s shoulders. “Anything for my favorite sister. I’ve even got a surprise for you.”

“What is it?”

“Duh, if I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

After a brief cab ride back to the Grand Palace Royale, Allie slipped her key card into the slot and walked inside their medieval-themed room, scanning it for a basket of chocolate or a tray of cupcakes. But nothing looked different aside from the beds being turned down.

Allie gave her sister a questioning glance.

“Pack your things,” Devyn said with a smile. “Because I called the front desk this morning and got us upgraded to a deluxe suite—two bedrooms, a free minibar, and a hot tub so big we can swim in it. Surprise!”

“No way.”

“Way. There’s even a TV attached to the hot tub, so we can watch chick flicks in our bikinis while we sip champagne and soak away our cares.”

Squealing, Allie threw both arms around her sister. “This is just what I needed. You’re the best!”

“Damn right, I am,” Dev agreed. “If we’re going to act like homebodies, we might as well do it in style. Seventeenth floor, here we come!”

* * *

By the time Marc’s plane landed in Nevada, he didn’t want to simply kiss the ground—he wanted to give it Allie’s ring and make passionate love to it.

He unclenched ten white-knuckled fingers from his knees and drew a deep breath to loosen the vise around his chest, but he couldn’t quite manage to unclench his jaw. Lord, if he never flew in a froghopper again, it would be too damned soon.

Rick slapped him on the back. “Told you I’d have you in Sin City tonight.”

With twelve o’clock rapidly approaching, tonight was a stretch. By the time Marc called a taxi and drove to the hotel, it would be morning, but not morning enough to knock on Allie’s door. He would’ve been better off getting a decent night’s sleep and flying out at dawn.

“Want to share a cab into town?” Rick asked. “I need to rest up before I head back. Maybe I’ll catch a show and hit the craps tables, too.”

Marc agreed, and after helping Rick stow the plane in a rented hangar, the two men rode together to the city. They chatted the whole way, and Marc shared the reason for his visit.

“A Dumont getting hitched?” Rick asked, smoothing his beard. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

“I’ll leave here a married man or die trying,” Marc promised.

“Good luck to you, son.” When they reached the Grand Palace Royale, Rick wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it over. “I imagine you’ll want to fly back with your bride on a commercial jet, but call me if you change your mind.”