Feeling warmer from his smile than the whiskey, I turned to take a lap around the pulsating club. It really was not my scene, either, but my boss had insisted I branch out into a new sport. All I knew about Mixed Martial Arts was what my boss told me in one of his lightning fast meetings.
"It’s a sport full of meteors, not like your satellite golfers," my boss James Cort said.
"Don't we want satellites? They orbit regularly, make us steady money," I had told him.
"No, yes! I'm telling you you've got those. Now what you need is one fresh star about to explode. You sign him cheap and then we make bank all the way to the top of his career. Fast and big returns." My boss jumped up from his desk and spun his computer monitor towards me. "Fenton Morris. About to dominate MMA fighting. Go to Vegas and get him before he gets the title."
I stood up, too, long ago accustomed to the frenetic management style of James Cort. "Mixed Martial Arts? I'm better suited for country club sports – you said it yourself. If you want me to branch into extreme sports, I could maybe tackle downhill skiing or ski-jumping."
"Yeah, I bet all those trust fund boys love you at the chalet," my boss said. "Don't take that the wrong way, that's why I hired you. No, screw that. I hired you because you're a great salesperson, and I'm sick of seeing you take the low-hanging fruit. Give yourself a challenge and get me Fenton Morris."
It was not so much the challenge as the obscenely big bonus James offered me. Peddling vitamin supplements was not the career path I dreamt of. But he was right, I was good at my job. If I landed the MMA fighter, not only did I get a wad of cash that could cover the closing costs on a new house, I got a shot at a brand name account. No more traveling, no more hunting down clients. A brand name account meant an office and a team of my own.
I scanned the undulating dance floor and looked for my new client. How hard could it be to sign a MMA fighter? Fenton Morris got hit in the head for a living, surely I could get him to sign a piece of paper and be on my way back to Chicago. My house closing was days away and I was not a fan of Las Vegas.
Then, I spotted the man I had been sent to sign. He stood at the railing just above the dance floor. His light blue shirt was unbuttoned low, and dark curly chest hair showed through. A matching shadow of stubble darkened his throat and jawline. Compared to the slick and tan crowd of Vegas guys, Fenton Morris was a man. He wore black pants instead of carefully faded jeans, and his crisp blue shirt was unmarked by graffiti labels or prowling tigers.
A wave of heat blasted over me and I felt my cheeks get warm. I blamed my empty whiskey and soda, but decided I better get another one before I talked to the black-haired man at the railing. He surveyed the crowd with a bored scowl that prickled my skin with nerves and excitement. I definitely needed another drink.
I walked around to the side bar behind where Fenton Morris stood. Tearing my eyes from his hard, wide shoulders, I flagged down the female bartender. She scowled at me.
"And whatever she wants, too," the man next to me told the bartender. She smiled at him, but rolled her eyes when I ordered another whiskey and soda.
"Thanks," I said. The man looked as if he just stepped out of a catalog spread. I imagined him with a sweater tied around his shoulders and he how would laugh as a golden retriever brought him a tennis ball. Wait, no, not tennis. He looked familiar, but under the laser lights of the nightclub, it was impossible to place him.
"Put her drink on my tab," a rough voice said.
I turned around and stepped back, my spine hard up against the bar. Fenton Morris' blue eyes blazed down at me and despite the comparative modesty of my black dress, I felt stripped naked. The slow smile on his lips was hypnotizing as I stared.
"You've been looking for me," Fenton said.
My nostrils flared. "Arrogant."
"Is he bothering you?" my all-American neighbor asked.
"I might be arrogant, but I'm not wrong," Fenton said. His eyes stayed on me. "Tell him."
"Mr. Morris, just because my company might be interested in signing you to an endorsement deal does not mean I came to this party looking for you," I said.
"Liar." He stepped closer to me and the other man stood up.
"Look, buddy, we've all seen your posters, your billboards, but that doesn't give you leave to harass the lady," the clean-cut man said.
Fenton's eyes flickered toward the other man and his whole body turned as hard as marble. His eyes went flat, and I knew I had to do something.
"Alright, fine. I want you. Happy?" I asked.
The man who bought me a drink frowned. "I'll be around if you need me." He shoved past Fenton, like pushing a Roman column, and strode off down the bar.
"I want you right here," Fenton said. He pointed to his arm.
I took it, my fingers flexing to test the chiseled rock of his bicep. He grinned and his blue eyes flashed with a devilish light. He whirled me into the crowd, people automatically giving him space. It was impossible not to appreciate his confident gait, and I clung to his arm as tame as a kitten. He made me want to purr, and I was horrified at the undeniable thought.
He stopped here and there to sign autographs, my arm still clamped against his body as he scribbled. More than one flirtatious hopeful frowned at me, and I smiled back serenely. They all wanted to be where I was, and I enjoyed my sudden security. The Vegas nightclub was his to command and he had chosen me.
"I am loving that dress," he said. He pulled me closer and dropped a quick look down my cleavage.
"Yeah, well, my silver sequins are at the dry cleaners," I said.