The room was plush, not to mention enormous, quickly making her decide maybe she was going to like this being an A&R rep thing—even without the airplane perks just yet.

She was busy gaping at the huge, tiled bathroom when she noticed—from the corner of her eye—a blinking light on the room’s phone, informing her she already had a message. Perching on the edge of the bed and pressing the message retrieval button, she found herself blown away by the mere sound of Damon’s deep voice. “Brenna. You’ve had a long drive, so take the afternoon to relax. Then meet me tonight at Mon Ami Gabi in front of the Paris at seven. I look forward to working with you.”

He never identified himself. Because he didn’t have to.

Arrogant, she thought, rolling her eyes.

But also sexy. And sexy could make up for arrogant in a lot of ways. She supposed she’d never actually heard him string together so many words before, and his voice alone, even without his looks to accompany it, had just made her nether regions go warm.

Not that she could afford to think about him being sexy. Or about him making her warm in the panties. Nope, to Brenna, Damon Andros was now simply a means to an end, a stepping stone to an exciting new career. And Kelly had made it clear: he’d brought this on himself. Soon this week of subterfuge would be history, and she’d have a shiny new job to show for it.

Of course, by the time she was getting ready for dinner a few hours later, she’d grown nervous. Like her old self, her real self—nervous little Brenna who answered phones and processed contracts and generally stayed in the background, nervous little Brenna who was afraid to be around an ultra-hip guy like Damon for more than a minute or two.

But a look in the mirror reminded her that she’d decided not to be nervous little Brenna anymore. Hair that had been mousy brown a few days ago was now a warm, sexy shade of auburn, done in a stylish cut that fell straight but angled around her face and shoulders. And the body she generally kept covered in fairly conservative clothes now appeared much curvier than usual in well-fitted jeans, pointy-toed ankle boots, and a fitted white blouse that revealed the beaded cami underneath, along with a shadow of cleavage. Kelly had officially declared this Brenna’s confident-cosmopolitan-chick-on-the-move look, and she couldn’t deny that it actually made her feel that way. A pair of new sunglasses completed the image.

She knew the Paris Hotel was far enough away to warrant driving or taking a cab, but she decided to walk. As fabulously luxurious as the Venetian was, she felt hungry to see more of Vegas and figured doing it by foot was the best way to take in the details.

What she discovered as she set out was a strange city of walkways and escalators and bridges that seemed to lead in every direction without necessarily making it clear where they would take you. So she followed her instincts, and the crowds, and felt miniscule in comparison to it all. She’d never been to the Grand Canyon, but she’d heard people talk about feeling small there, like an incidental speck. She thought she’d just discovered the urban Grand Canyon, a place at once grand and opulent yet also gaudy, emitting an underlying sense of seediness that somehow wafted around her in the air.

Pausing on the sidewalk, she found herself staring across wide, bustling Las Vegas Boulevard at the grandeur of Caesars Palace with its manicured lawns and pristine white Roman-style structures—when the view was suddenly obscured by a moving billboard being pulled up the Strip by a truck, displaying a busty woman in barely-there lingerie and the words WANNA PARTY WITH ME? along with a phone number. Something in Brenna’s chest tightened, and indeed, already she understood that she’d landed in a place of true contradiction—more specifically, a place where manicured lawns and hookers coexisted peacefully.

Continuing on, she passed families complete with baby strollers followed by groups of young women in slinky dresses clearly headed out clubbing. Limousines sleekly traveled the same streets as crowded city buses. Mexican men stood on corners foisting cards bearing pictures of nude call girls and their phone numbers at every person who passed by, regardless of age or gender. When Brenna unknowingly accepted one and on it found Bambi, age 21, she flinched and let it drop, only then realizing the walkway was littered with them. Sin literally covered the ground here.

Approaching the Paris Hotel, Brenna spotted the café that fronted the building, looking much like she imagined the cafés that lined the Champs-Elysées in the real Paris, where she hoped to go someday. The Vegas version of the Eiffel Tower shadowed the streetside eatery, and she couldn’t help being delighted by Damon’s choice of restaurant. She knew it wasn’t really Paris, but she was willing to enjoy the imitation and happy to be reimmersed in the more opulent aspects of Sin City.

That’s when she spotted him, already seated and perusing the menu. He wore two small hoops in both earlobes, and even sitting down, his muscular frame made his simple vintage Ramones T-shirt and ripped, faded jeans look like the height of fashion. The mere sight of him caused her breasts to swell within the confines of her bra, her jeans feeling snugger at the crux of her thighs and making her tingle.

He didn’t see her, of course—because she looked so different from the last time he’d encountered her—but that gave her a chance to pause and study him privately, from a distance, for longer than she ever had before.

When he raised his eyes to a waitress, pointing to a selection from the wine list, his brown gaze sparkled so vibrantly that Brenna’s heartbeat kicked up. The way the young waitress smiled down at him, Brenna knew she’d caught that heart-stopping twinkle, as well. He smiled back at the girl, another thing Brenna had never witnessed, at least not at length, and—oh my—it was so stunning she nearly melted into the sidewalk.

And she had to spend a week with him? Concentrating on work? Trying to hide her lust? Trying to fight it?

She let out a sigh—just as Damon’s gaze fell on her.

He must have felt me looking at him.

Except he clearly didn’t recognize her, still. Which was at once embarrassing…and thrilling.

Because his expression was blatantly sensual, sexual, the look of a man silently making a move on a woman using only his eyes. And very effectively, too.

Oh God, Kelly was right—Damon Andros actually thought she was hot!

Trying her damnedest to be “new Brenna,” she took her best shot at offering him an easy smile, then made her way inside the hotel to reach the gated patio enclosing the café. On her way, she lectured herself—but not with her usual I don’t need a man mantras. Now she had switched over to: You can do this. You can be cool and confident and sexy. You can be new Brenna.

Not that it would lead anywhere, of course. Once he realized who she was, it would be strictly business between them.

And that was okay. Because she might not be doing her affirmations right now, but despite everything, she remained resolute about not needing a man, least of all one she couldn’t realistically have. She simply wanted Damon to respect her, see her as an equal, as someone who could do this job. And if he suddenly thought she was attractive, too…well, that was just a perk that would add to her confidence.

She exited back out into the warmth of the night in the café area, making her way past couples at small round tables until she reached Damon and sat down across from him, smoothly lifting her sunglasses to the top of her head.

Then she watched him blink.

“Brenna?” His dark brows drew slightly together. God, he was beautiful.

“Surprise,” she said, pleasing herself with how confident and comfortable she sounded. “I’m a redhead now. I figured—new job, new look. What do you think?”

“You look fabulous,” he told her, and their eyes met again, and this time it was almost fatal.

Because she was so close to him now. And that look—that intense, oh-so-sexy look—was pinning her in place, almost holding her down, taking control of her. If she’d suffered the first twinges of arousal a moment ago upon spotting him…well, that had been nothing compared to this. The juncture of her thighs spasmed as she—almost involuntarily—thrust her breasts forward and ran her tongue along her upper lip. Casting her most provocative smile, she said a low, cool, “Thanks.”

Despite all the times she’d seen him in the office, this was the first time they’d really been face-to-face, the sole focus of each other’s attention—and it was also the first time in her life she’d ever had such a visceral, physical reaction to a man. One of Kelly’s many raw, out-there comments suddenly came back to her: Doesn’t the man just make your pussy quiver? Brenna seldom thought of her body in such terms, but…maybe new Brenna did. Because her pussy was definitely quivering now, no doubt about it.

Damon’s small smile looked slightly predatory, but she didn’t mind at all. “I was surprised when Jenkins informed me you were coming on board in A&R,” he told her. He was talking business, yet his eyes still said sex, sex, sex.

Something in it inspired her to be saucy—apparently another part of the new her. She raised her eyebrows, flashed a playful grin. “Afraid of a little competition?”

He laughed—a deep, throaty sound that kept the spot between her legs humming. “Not at all, babe. Just didn’t know you had those aspirations.”

Normally, she hated it when a guy called her babe or honey without really knowing her. But like everything else about him, when Damon did it, it was sexy as hell. Even the remaining last hints of a New York accent sounded seductive coming from that mouth.

“I didn’t,” she answered, “and frankly, I was just as surprised as you when Jenkins offered me the position. But I love Blue Night, and I have a passion for music, so it seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Damon nodded slowly, his warm chocolate eyes narrowing. “It is. And though I had doubts about how you’d fit in the role, I’m not worried anymore.”

She tilted her head, getting almost comfortable with the new her. “A new hair color and a few new clothes make that much of a difference?”

“It’s not the clothes,” he said with a soft head shake. “It’s the attitude. You’ve got it. I can tell. You’ve embraced this.”

“Completely,” she told him. I’ve embraced wanting this job. And lying to get it.

And there was something else Brenna was on the verge of embracing, too. Her lust for him. Her plan had not been to spend time ogling him, wanting to get in his pants. But she clearly did, with a force unrivaled.

Yet that still didn’t mean she planned to do anything about it. It was one thing to be “new Brenna” in looks, in her job—but it was another altogether when it came to men, and sex. So she would just have to lust quietly, her nipples jutting through her bra, her cunt veritably vibrating against her jeans. And, wow—it looked like new Brenna used even more blunt, naughty words. Too much time spent with Kelly this past weekend, clearly.

Just then, the wine arrived—a nice Pinot Grigio—and they ordered dinner, both starting with onion soup. Conversation turned in the direction she’d expected—to the music biz, and Damon explained how indie labels differed from the majors, what kinds of talent he sought for Blue Night, and the tasks a typical week might include.

“Scouting trips are fun, but once an act is signed, your job will include a lot of hand-holding. You’ll answer questions, pump them up when they’re worried, do your damnedest to make sure the work stays true to their vision and ours, accompany them to media gigs, celebrate with them when their CD hits the shelves, and be available to take phone calls at two a.m. when they’re just not feelin’ the love. You’re basically the performer’s connection to Blue Night. Professionally. Artistically. Emotionally. And while you’re holding all these hands, you’re still out there listening for the next new sound that might be a little too left of center for BMG or Sony. Think you can handle all that?”

The truth was, Brenna hadn’t realized the far-reaching aspects of the job. But she could handle it. In fact, old Brenna had always been a pretty good hand-holder by nature. So she said, “Absolutely,” and he flashed a sexy grin in reply, making her pussy surge anew.

“Good answer,” he said. “Because all that was designed to make you balk, even though it’s true—and you passed the test.”

She raised her eyebrows, still confident, almost even flirtatious. “Will there be lots of these? Tests?”

He leaned back slightly, brown eyes seeming to size her up. But this look was about more than sex appeal—it was about whether she could do the job. He finally gave a succinct head shake. “I can already tell you’re a pro. From here on out, it’s all about teaching you the business.”

Brenna’s chest tightened with the pleasure of having earned his respect. Not to mention the pleasure of just being able to look at him and soak up all that male beauty.

After their entrees arrived, Damon regaled her with stories behind some of their biggest successes—where he’d found them and what had made him want to sign them. “I can’t teach that kind of instinct,” he said, cutting into his filet mignon, “but I can tell you what I was thinking, feeling—and hope you’ll glean something from it.”

Darkness was falling, the bright lights of the Vegas Strip starting to make the night glow, and traffic on the boulevard grew heavier as people set out for the evening. When another of those moving billboards came to a stop just beyond the sidewalk next to them, Brenna couldn’t help glancing up to see a doe-eyed brunette, topless, her hands barely covering her voluminous breasts. LONELY? CALL ME, the sign said.

Like before, it jarred her. It wasn’t surprising that Las Vegas was crawling with “escorts,” but it was somehow surprising to see the evidence so very out there, a blatant reminder that people came here to sin among the neon.

“Something wrong?” Damon asked, drawing her gaze back to his.

Swell—she’d been caught gaping at an ad for prostitution. “Just a little taken aback,” she admitted. “I’ve never been to a place like this before.”

“You’ve never been to Vegas?” He sounded surprised.

“No, I’m a Sin City virgin. Or I was until today.”

“So what do you think of it?” He tilted his head, appearing truly curious.

Glancing up the Strip, where she could see New York, New York and the Excalibur, spires and towers gleaming in the night, all that light somehow beckoning, she said, “It’s glossy on the top, but dirty underneath. It’s…seamy, yet somehow alluring.”

He pressed his lips together, nodding, clearly absorbing her response.

“It’s got a bit of a wreck-on-the-highway quality to it,” she went on. “With a wreck, you know you won’t like what you see, but you still have to look. Here, you know what you find may not be pretty, but you’re going to immerse yourself in it anyway.”

Draining his second glass of wine, he asked, “And how is it that an L.A. girl has never been to Las Vegas?”

Indeed, Vegas was a quick weekend getaway from the coast for lots of people, and sort of a home-away-from-home for the entertainment industry. “I’m not really an L.A. girl,” she explained. “I just moved west from Ohio three years ago for my husband’s job.”

“I didn’t know you were married.” Had she imaged that hint of disappointment in his voice? His gaze dropped to her left hand, curled casually around the stem of her wineglass.

Despite relishing his interest, her hand felt naked, and she still hated having to tell him, “I’m recently divorced.”

Keep being new Brenna, she told herself. But the dissolution of her marriage had been the greatest devastation of her life. If it hadn’t gotten dark out, she’d have slid her sunglasses back on to hide her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Damon said.

“Don’t be.” She swilled a drink of wine for courage. “He was a jerk. The cheating kind, to be exact.”

“Hell,” he said. “That sucks.”

She raised her eyebrows, tried for a smile, and wondered if he’d ever cheated on anyone. “Yeah, it does—did. But it’s very over now, and I’m very ready to move on.”

Yikes, what had she just said? Had it sounded like a come-on? Please, God, don’t let him think it sounded like a come-on. And what had happened to I don’t need a man? She took another sip of wine, her whole body still whirring with the potent arousal he inspired.

“Well, Vegas is a great place for moving on,” he told her.

Oh geez—he thought she wanted to party. Maybe not necessarily with him, but just in general—and that was bad enough. Even though he definitely liked to party, she wanted him to see her as cool, confident, professional Brenna—not as a party girl on the rebound.

Regroup. Put your cosmopolitan face back on. Pretend you’re not getting drunk.

To her surprise, it actually succeeded. She sounded utterly at ease when she said, “I’m here to work. Play will have to wait for another time.”

“Another good answer,” he told her. “But I wouldn’t complain if you wanted to play just a little.” His eyes sparkled again, and she feared she would come in her panties.

Staying cool was becoming more of a challenge every minute, and it was all she could do not to choke on her answer, but she managed to get one out. “To be honest, I’m…not sure Vegas holds the kind of play I’m interested in.”

He cast a skeptical look. “You can get just about anything your heart desires here.”

Not true, she wanted to say. You couldn’t get love. You couldn’t get a husband who didn’t cheat.

Oh boy, she was drunk. This was bad.

Whatever you do, don’t go all maudlin on him. Carefully, she concocted an answer. “Let’s just say…sex seems a little too…out in the open here. For my taste anyway.”

“Ah. And you like it in private.”

Okay, she should have been more careful. Why on earth had she mentioned sex, of all things? But she had to go with it now, so she answered honestly. “Afraid so.”

And then it happened—a vision flashed through her head.

Her, having sex, with him.

His naked body atop hers, moving, pounding into her, his hard cock filling her with each deep stroke.

Jesus, when on earth had she started using words like “cock”? She wasn’t even sure she could blame Kelly for this one. It was the wine, she decided, even as Damon reached to refill her glass.

“Just half,” she told him quickly, and he stopped pouring but emptied the rest of the bottle into his own.

“This is a very man-centric place, isn’t it?” she heard herself asking without even weighing it. Damn wine.

He tilted his head, his expression indulgent. She hoped it meant he liked her openness, as opposed to thinking she was some kind of kook. “I guess that’s a fair assessment.”

“I mean, I just don’t think that kind of thing appeals to women—selling sex on a billboard.”

His eyes glimmered with quiet amusement. “Hey, if you’re gonna sell sex, isn’t that as good a place as any?”

“Point taken, but maybe it’s the whole idea of selling sex that turns me off. I suppose men just aren’t as offended by that.”

He shrugged, grinned. “I’ll admit it takes a lot to offend me. But you know, there are billboards with guys on them, too. Male strippers, that kinda thing. Maybe you’d like that.”

She shook her head instantly, the honesty spilling from her now, like it or not. “I just think it’s weird when sex is so…on display, like any other ad.” She let her tone shift into that of a TV commercial: “Try our new wireless plan. See Celine Dion in concert at the Mirage. Buy an hour of sex with a stranger.”

He offered a knowing smile. “Look at it this way. Las Vegas is…Disney World for adults.”

“But instead of Mickey and Minnie, here they have…strippers and whores?”

He laughed lightly. “Something like that. Anything goes here.” He lowered his voice, looked her in the eye. “Anything.”

And something in the way he said that last word made her wet all over again. Wet and hungry.

She suffered the insane urge to reach across the table, grab him, and tell him she wanted him, in private or even in public—that despite all her claims, that part didn’t even matter right now.

Yikes, talk about your visceral physical reaction to a man!

New rule: Don’t drink in his presence—it brings out the bad girl in you.

Interesting, because she’d never known there was a bad girl in her.

“More wine?” he asked. “I can order another bottle.”

She held up her hand. “Thanks, but no.”

“You sure?”

“Very sure.” Sure I’m going to self-combust before the evening is through.

Because that bad girl she’d just found was barely holding herself in check. Her whole body pulsed with wanting—and an uncharacteristic sense of wild abandon. And maybe it was the wine. And maybe it was Damon. And maybe it was this place, this lusty, lavish, sinful place.

But worse, maybe it was all of it—mixing and gelling together to bring out an untamed sexual response she’d never before experienced.

And if that was the case, it was going to be a very long week.