The neon lights of the Strip bleed through the floor-to-ceiling windows like liquid fire. Maya steps into the suite at the top of the Bellagio tower, her black dress clinging to every curve from the humid desert air outside. She came to Vegas alone—work conference, boring speeches, free drinks—but the city has other plans tonight. Her heels click across the marble floor as she drops her purse on the glass table. The room smells like expensive leather and faint cigar smoke from the casino below.
She pours a glass of champagne from the welcome bottle, takes one sip, and feels eyes on her. Turning, she sees him leaning against the doorway to the bedroom. Tall, dark hair messy like he just ran his hands through it, sleeves rolled up on a white shirt that hugs his chest. His name is Luca. They
