a server who’d appeared out of nowhere. Just like magic. He bore a tray with a pink champagne fizz and another glass with whiskey and a single block of ice.
“I’ll regret it,” I said, looking at the champagne fizz.
“Come on, last one,” Martin said. “It’s our last night.”
“Oh, all right.”
The server placed the pink fizz on the table in front of me.
“And you, Mr. Tyler?” the server said to Martin. “A refill?”
“It’s Cresswell-Smith,” Martin said coolly and sat up straight. He reached for his glass, threw back the last of his drink, and plunked the glass down hard on the table, his mood suddenly dark.
The server set the fresh whiskey on the table and silently left with the empties.
“What was that about?” I asked quietly, watching as the server disappeared through a dark door in the black wall.
“He must have assumed we were married when you gave him your name,” Martin said.
“I didn’t give him my name.”
“You must have. When you made the reservation for tonight.”
“You made the reservation.”
“Somewhere else, then—you must have given it to someone somewhere. I don’t see why they’d assume I had the same name as you. Why not assume it was the other way around—that you had my last name?”
I frowned at him. “Martin, I didn’t give my name. I’m certain I didn’t. Besides, what’s the big—”
“You didn’t use a credit card over the past few days? You didn’t call down to the front desk using your name? You didn’t make any reservations at the spa, the pool?”
“I . . . maybe.” My head felt thick, woozy. “I just don’t understand what the fuss is about. The server made a simple mistake.”
“These people keep tabs on everything, Ellie. The more they know about guests, the easier it is for them to sell you something that you didn’t even know you wanted. These small things matter to them.”
I hiccuped, pressed my hand to my mouth. Giggled.
“What in the hell is so amusing?”
“You. Being so annoyed by being called Mr. Tyler.”
He stared at me with an unnerving intensity that reminded me of a cat stalking a bird. And suddenly I knew what was bugging him. Yes, he’d had too much alcohol, but I figured the reason he’d been knocking drinks back so hard and fast had something to do with the way he’d appeared edgy when he’d returned to the hotel after his business meeting this afternoon. Something had upset him. Things hadn’t gone as he’d hoped, but when I’d pressed, he’d said it was nothing. In hindsight his malaise had been hovering just below the surface all night, despite the good time we’d had. And now the alcohol was chipping away his facade.
“Talk to me, Martin,” I said gently. “This mood—it’s because of bad news you got at your meeting, isn’t it? Did something not come together as expected?”
“It’s nothing.” He looked away as he sipped his fresh drink. His neck muscles were corded, his jaw tight.
I took his hand. “Hey, it is something. If we’re going to be a team, you need to know you can off-load on me.”
His eyes locked with mine. “A team?”
I felt a frisson of unease. When Martin let his filter drop and unleashed his full focus on something, it almost felt too intense. Dangerous. Like the sun when you got too close. But it was also this intensity that attracted me, like a honeybee to a bright, burning flower that promised life-sustaining pollen. I held his gaze, trying not to blink.
He broke eye contact and watched the lounge singer for a while, his profile set in tight lines.
“Martin. Please.”
“I don’t want that meeting to affect our last night in Vegas,” he said in a monotone without looking at me. “I’m trying, Ellie, but you keep poking at it like a goddamn boil. It’s not the end of the world, okay? One of my financial backers fell through.”
“Which one? Which project?”
His eyes narrowed and he sipped from his glass.
“Martin?” I poked deeper. “Which one?”
He cursed softly and swigged back the remaining contents of his glass. He faced me. His eyes watered. I racked my brain, trying to recall who he’d said would be at the meeting this afternoon. And it struck me.
“The Marbella guy?” I said quietly. “It was him, wasn’t it? You were meeting with him to talk more about the financing for the marina proposal in Australia?”
He sat in unmoving silence. The song changed. “You pulled the wool over my eyes . . .”