The sun was just rising outside the window, light bursting in a brilliant panorama over the city. The beauty was wholly lost on him. It was just another filthy Vegas morning in which dozens of people would be going home with regrets and empty wallets. Regrets. He knew quite a bit about that. She’d run away from him. Run away. Maybe she’d strutted out with that elegant ice queen walk of hers, but he knew running when he saw it. He’d almost chased after her but pride and disbelief had rooted him to the spot. He’d been dazed, too. He’d never had sex like that. Sex where he completely forgot himself and lost control—and she’d been right there to meet him, like no woman ever had. And then she’d walked away, like she hadn’t felt it, too. And it was irritating the hell out of him. He picked up one slender shoe and traced a finger along the velvety toe. He vaguely remembered her kicking them off when he’d hoisted her against the wall, the dainty Dior heels flying.
