Betting Her Curves (Vegas After Dark #5)

Chapter 1

1

Patrick

“ P atrick, pleeeease ,” my little sister whines. “I really need your opinion!”

I barely look up from my phone.

“Ainsley, that shit doesn’t interest me, and you know it. I’ve never been interested in fashion, and especially not purses. That kind of fuckery is for society ladies. I’m not even sure why I’m at this boutique.”

My little sister rolls her eyes at my foul language, even if it doesn’t bother her. She’s exasperated at my behavior, and I can feel it rolling off her in waves.

“It’s because the salesladies are so much nicer when you’re in the store. When I’m here alone, they practically treat me like Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman . And that’s before Richard Gere shows up. They look at me like I’m a whore who should be run out of town as quick as possible, and who’s leaving germs on their wares.”

That makes my head snap up.

“Are you serious? Is that actually happening?”

Ainsley rolls her eyes.

“Okay, so no. It’s not that bad. They don’t treat me like garbage because salespeople are well-trained these days, especially if they work for high-end designers. But I do get better service if you’re here, Paddy, and it’s because you’re so handsome and charming with the salesladies,” she wheedles. “They practically faint when you’re in the vicinity, and I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them asks you out on a date by the time we’re done shopping.”

I shoot my younger sister an unamused look, but Ainsley grins right back, totally unashamed. This time, it’s me who rolls my eyes because why do siblings have to be so fucking annoying? Then again, maybe we’re not related because Ains looks nothing like me. Whereas I have dark hair, a bronzed complexion, and flashing black eyes, my younger sister has red hair, pale skin, and green irises. I suppose I could be classified as “Black Irish,” whereas Ainsley has the fair complexion and ruddy tresses common to the Emerald Isle.

Still, we are related (as far as I know) and it’s my job to take care of Ains. After our parents died, I became my sister’s guardian and it wasn’t too bad at first. She was a child and trusted me one hundred percent. But then, Ainsley hit her teenage years, and can I just say I deserve an award for the shit I’ve put up with? Don’t get me wrong because I love my sister. But the combination of hormonal, boy-crazy behavior and an uncanny ability to push my buttons would make any man lose his shit. Again, I can hardly believe I’m in a women’s boutique at this moment, waiting on my ass while she shops.

I take a deep breath before staring at my sister, eyes like daggers.

“You tell me if the salesladies are rude,” I say in a terse tone. “I’ll have a word with management about it.”

Ainsley laughs merrily, her chubby cheeks still child-like.

“You’re not going to have a word with management, Patrick. You’re going to tear this place apart! Figuratively, of course. You’re going to buy every outpost in this chain, and then bankrupt them. Everyone here is going to lose their jobs, and all because they got on the wrong side of an angry Irishman.”

I nod sardonically because it’s true. I’ve been CEO of our family business, O’Lachlan Distillery, since I was twenty and I run the joint with an iron fist. My hard work put our lagers onto the map, and we’ve branched into a chain of microbreweries that have seen international success. People don’t just drink Guinness anymore. They reach for O’Lachs, and we’re currently in the process of getting our bottled beers into U.S. stores. Once we corner the American market, who knows what comes next? I have an itch for total world domination, and more than likely than not, I’ll succeed.

But getting here wasn’t easy. I was an untested boy when I took the reins at O’Lachs, and it was hell on Earth for the first couple years. Don’t get me wrong because my parents, Marty and Luanne, left us with a thriving family business, and I had trusted advisors counseling me from the start. But I had to learn the ropes overnight, and the transformation from college boy into cunning businessman was rough.

But ultimately, the hard work paid off, and the company’s experienced astonishing growth and unparalleled success in the last twenty years. People in the Emerald Isle have always been familiar with our shamrock logo, but now, all of Europe knows us. My first million was made at twenty-five, and I’ve never let up. In fact, I’m not even sure why I’m still grinding so fucking hard because I have good people working for me, and they’re more than capable of handling our U.S. expansion. There’s no need to bust my ass like a rookie who needs to prove his worth.

But I enjoy wheeling and dealing, and a solid work ethic is something that was passed down to me. My ancestors used to till the fields from dawn to dusk, trying to coax crops from the loamy Irish soil, and I’ve applied that same assiduousness to my work. Except now, my attention is directed towards closing deals and making money hand over fist. Hell, my bank account is bursting, and it’s hard to know how to spend my cash sometimes. Yet the siren song of deal-making still calls, and as a result, we’re here in Vegas to further my business interests. I’ll meet with distributors to discuss creative ways to get our product into consumers’ hands, and there are a couple marketing activations scheduled too. Meanwhile, my sister’s in town because she wants to explore the world of plus-size modeling. Evidently the industry is located here, in the City of Sin.

“Really?” I asked when my sister first broached the topic. “Vegas is where models hang out? I thought it was Paris, Milan, or New York. Or even Tokyo. Definitely not Las Vegas.”

Ainsley frowned, her mouth turning down at the corners.

“Those cities are great for straight-size models, but I’m not straight-size, Pat. I’m not even mid-size. I would be in the curve division, which means that I need to be in Vegas.”

I stared at my younger sister.

“Okay, so I have no idea what you just said. You look normal to me.”

Ainsley sighed and tossed her red hair over one shoulder.

“All it means is that bigger girls don’t necessarily end up in Paris, Milan, or the usual European capitals because we’re not the “usual” product. We’re extraordinary, not ordinary, and Vegas is the place where it happens. It is what it is,” she shrugged. “So do you think you can swing it, big bro? Can you fit a trip to Vegas in your schedule?”

I nodded.

“Yeah, it dovetails with some of my business interests, so let’s do it. I’ll make it happen. Does next month work?”

The trip was booked shortly, and now I find myself in a luxe designer boutique on the Strip. I’m not even sure what store we’re in because I hate this shit. These retailers mark-up their wares for a ridiculous profit margin, and then sell them to materialistic ladies who crave bling like a real housewife on TV. My dear sister is included in that bunch, of course.

But I shrug because I can afford it. It’s not a big deal and if my presence helps grease the wheels, then so be it. Meanwhile, Ainsley’s predictions seem to be coming true because our saleslady returns with what looks to be a gleaming red animal-skin handbag clutched between her lacquered nails.

“Mrs. O’Lachlan, you’re in luck! We do have one of these beauties left, and the crimson color is a perfect complement to your auburn locks. I hope you like it,” she gushes while thrusting the bag into my sister’s arms.

Ainsley corrects her immediately.

“Oh, I’m not Mrs. O’Lachlan, I’m Miss O’Lachlan. Patrick here is my older brother. He’s just chaperoning me because he wants to make sure I don’t get into trouble in the City of Sin. We’re visiting, did I mention? We’ll be here for a few weeks.”

The woman’s eyes brighten as she shoots me an appreciative smile, her red lips curving in a monstrous arc. I know what she sees because I’m a good-looking motherfucker, and women have been throwing themselves at me since I was fifteen and hit my growth spurt. My suit drapes over broad shoulders, emphasizing a wide chest, and my black hair is brushed back in a smooth wave. Her eyes drop from my square jaw, to my blindingly-white shirt, to the suede Italian loafers on my feet. Yep, I hit the gym six times a week without fail, and the expensive clothes only emphasize the raw masculinity beneath. Corinne, as her name tag proclaims, practically licks her lips with anticipation.

“Welcome to Vegas!” she purrs. “You’ll have a fabulous trip because this is an amazing town, and of course, I’d be happy to show you around, Mr. O’Lachlan. You and your sister,” she adds hastily. “You’ll find that Vegas has so much to offer, and of course, it’s best seen with an experienced guide. I moved here five years ago, so I know this place inside out,” she adds with a coy smile.

Unfortunately, the woman’s not my type. Her hair is styled into long, loose Rapunzel curls, but there’s something fake about the look, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Not only that, but she hardly fills out her clothing. A gauzy blouse hangs from her thin shoulders, the material fluttering in the air conditioning, and her wrists are so narrow that they appear frail and bird-like.

“Thank you, but I’m here to work,” I say in a polite tone. “I won’t have much free time.”

But the saleslady won’t be dissuaded.

“Oh, that’s okay!” Corinne exclaims, her face lighting up with a too-white smile. “I can make time for you, Mr. O’Lachlan. I can be available as early as 4 a.m. or as late as 3 a.m. for tours, talks, galleries, nightclubs, breakfast, lunch or dinner! I’m at your convenience.”

I shoot her a level look.

“So you’re available around the clock for practically any activity.”

“Yes, basically!” the saleslady chirps happily. “We pride ourselves on our unparalleled customer service in Vegas, and I’m happy to say that I’m an all access kind of gal. Would you like to dine at a Michelin-starred restaurant, perhaps, or attend a celebrity-studded boxing match? Or perhaps you’d like to see one of our famed shows? Adele is out, but I hear Britney will be coming back any day now. She needs the money you know,” the saleslady adds in a hushed tone, as if letting us in on a secret. “All those TikTok dance videos where Britney prances around in a bikini at age forty? I’m sorry, but no one pays to see that. What a chunky monkey!”

“Hey, what are you saying?” my sister protests, her cheeks going pink. “I love those dance videos! Britney may be forty, but she looks good. She’s healthy, beautiful, and out from under her controlling family now. Free Britney!”

Corinne retreats immediately, sensing her misstep.

“Of course, I absolutely support Britney Spears’ liberation,” she says hastily. “Go female empowerment! Go suffragists! Together we’ll break the chains of love!”

My sister and I shoot each other a look because this is getting fucking weird. Isn’t Chains of Love a song by Erasure? I suppose Britney’s conservatorship could be loosely described as “the chains of familial love,” but it’s still fucking weird. I smile tightly and turn to my sister.

“Ains, did you want to get that bag? Let’s make a decision.”

My sister purses her lips while stroking one hand up and down the red animal skin.

“How much did you say it is again?”

The saleslady smiles, her white teeth ghastly against her red lips.

“One hundred thousand even,” she simpers. “And we have it in blue too.”

To my horror, my sister perks up.

“Oooh, I love blue! Can I see that one too?”

“Certainly, Miss O’Lachlan,” Corinne simpers while shooting me a look. “The deep azure color will match Mr. O’Lachlan’s eyes so well. It’s in the back. I’ll just go get it. Give me a sec!”

That’s all I need to hear because I’m not sticking around this joint any longer. The overt flirting and desperate behavior gets under my skin, and I feel like I’m breaking out in hives.

“So yeah, get whatever you want,” I growl while standing. “Here’s my credit card. Treat yourself, Ains.”

My little sister smiles sweetly while palming the black Amex.

“Thanks Patrick,” she sings. “I’ll be sure not to give your number to Corinne when she comes back.”

I shoot her a look before stalking to the door.

“You better not,” I growl. “Otherwise, you’re on a plane home, Ains. I mean it.”

To the sound of her pealing laughter, I let myself out, blinking in the bright Vegas sun. The Strip is packed with tourists this afternoon, and someone bumps me on the right as I begin walking down the street.

“Oooh sorry, didn’t mean to hit you,” a young girl giggles, her arm linked through a friend’s. Both girls are dressed in tight cocktail dresses and sparkly high heels despite the fact that it’s 2 p.m.

“Can we buy you a drink?” her brunette friend asks, batting her lashes at me. “Usually, we expect men to pay for us but we can make an exception for you, Mister.”

“The Diamond Lounge is right over there,” the first teenager hums merrily, flipping her blonde tresses over one shoulder. “I know the bartender, so we’ll get our drinks at a discount. Or maybe even free,” she adds with a coy smile.

I pause to contemplate their offer, but then shake my head because these girls are obviously jail bait. Beneath the spackled-on make-up, there’s acne on their foreheads and chins. In fact, when I look closely, the brunette has clear braces on her teeth. Fuck, they’re too young and I have too much at stake to go down this path.

“Thanks ladies, but I’m going to have to pass,” I growl before reaching into my billfold and handing them a hundred dollar bill. “Enjoy yourself though. Say hi to the bartender and make sure to order mocktails.”

“Oh we will!” the blonde chips with a delighted smile before plucking the bill from my hand and pulling her friend away. “Thanks, Mister! You made our day. Come find us at the bar later if you change your mind!”

Then, the two girls scamper off to the Diamond Lounge, giggling and tossing their hair. I let out a disbelieving snort. Fuck, what has the world come to? Don’t get me wrong because I like my ladies young, but there’s a limit to how far I’ll go. Too young is a no-go, and I wonder if I’ve underestimated Vegas already. I’ve heard anything can happen in this town, but I wasn’t expecting to have my limits tested so early.

Goddamn. I stare down the Strip before me. The sidewalks glint in the afternoon light, palm trees waving their fronds. A classic car putters down the road, followed by a gleaming Ferrari; a Rolls driven by a chauffeur; and a lumbering RV. I let out a snort. Everyone and their mother is here to gamble, party, or do whatever floats their boat, and who am I to stop them? Hell, I might as well play some cards and join in the fun.

As I stroll down the sidewalk, a group of choreographed dancers catches my eye and I stop for a moment to watch. It’s enchanting, actually. There are a number of ballerinas dressed in flowy white costumes waving their arms and going onto tiptoe as they sway to classical music.

“Come on in,” an announcer blares into a microphone. “The Degas is the hotel of the moment, and you’ll find the best cards here. Blackjack, roulette, poker? We have it all! Enjoy live shows and strong drinks while relaxing in the utmost luxury!”

As if in reply, the dancers sway to the left in unison, and then to the right, resembling a rippling field of wheat. Suddenly, I get it. The hotel is the Degas, like the artist Edgar Degas, who’s famed for his paintings of ballerinas. It’s said the artist was captivated by the grace and fluidity of dancers’ movements. He sought to capture the dynamism of the human body in motion, and ballet provided a perfect subject for exploring these themes.

I shrug and begin moving towards the circular entrance. It’s clever, so why the hell not? The hotel is a pink and white monstrosity, glittering in the harsh afternoon sun, but this is Vegas ... and I might as well make some money while I’m at it.