Page 10 of Theirs to Treasure

Since the Bella Rosa opened, we haven’t patronized anywhere else. He spent years building the Strip’s newest property, and he paid ruthless attention to detail.

We chat for a few minutes before his bodyguard leans forward and speaks in his ear. “You’ll excuse me? I’m needed elsewhere.”

After we take our seats again, our server walks over. “Another drink, gentleman?” she asks.

“Keep them coming,” Zev answers for both of us.

“Would you like the bottle?”

I shake my head.

“The night is still young,” my brother insists.

“And we will be going elsewhere,” I counter.

Zev grins. “That’s more like it.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re no closer to a decision.

The game on the television doesn’t interest me, but then my attention is captured by the reflection in the oversize mirror of a young woman striding determinedly toward the bar.

Interested, I turn my head.

The blonde is tall, with curves in all the right places.

Her hair is piled on top of her head, and big, fat curls frame her exquisite face.

Most intriguingly, she’s holding the hem of her dress in one hand, and she’s clutching a small purse in the other.

“What are you looking at?”

When I don’t respond, Zev glances in the mirror and lets out a long, appreciative whistle.

Without taking a seat, she slams her clutch on top of the bar and signals that she’d like to be served.

“Is she wearing a wedding dress?”

I shrug. “Could be.” Since it’s Vegas, it’s hard to know. Over the years, I’ve seen everything from cartoon characters to bigfoot walking down the Strip.

She could be taking part in a cosplay event. Or she could be needing fortification on the way to her wedding.

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asks.

Zev and I are both studying the beauty’s reflection.

Her gorgeous, full lips are red and pouty, begging for a kiss. If she really is a bride, her groom is one lucky sonofabitch.

But if she were mine, she wouldn’t be hitting a bar before taking her vows.

“What do you recommend?” she asks.

Her cheeks appear to be flushed, and she scans the mind-numbing array of bottles on display.

“What are you looking for? Something light? A champagne spritzer, perhaps?”

“God, no,” she scoffs. “I’m not celebrating.”

“How about a martini?”