Lucky Traveler Read online

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Lucky Traveler

  Copyright 2015 by Lola Karns

  ISBN: 978-1-61333-904-6

  Cover art by Tibbs Designs

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Decadent Publishing Company, LLC

  Look for us online at:

  www.decadentpublishing.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for picking up Lucky Traveler. I wrote Bad Traveler as a stand-alone title, but the characters weren’t done with me. Several readers asked me about Keira Jones and Logan Collins. I tried to wrestle them into a novel, but Keira refused to participate. Logan kept pestering me. I discarded plot after plot until he tapped me on the shoulder and said “You know I’m a recovering alcoholic, right?” I understood that he needed a chance to make amends.

  Only Madame Eve and Decadent’s 1Night Stand series offered a way to bring these two characters together. I hope you will enjoy their journey.

  I love to hear from readers, whether through reviews, twitter (@lolakarns) or by email (lolakarns at gmail dot com). If you would like to receive occasional emails about new releases, giveaways and recipes, please sign up for my newsletter at http://eepurl.com/FbeQL

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  Also by Lola Karns

  Bad Traveler

  Lucky Traveler

  Nearly a year after she found her boyfriend with his hand up someone else’s dress, Midwestern school teacher, Keira Jones, contacts a dating service in a faraway town for a much-needed confidence boost and night of adoration.

  Logan Collins doesn’t remember much about the night he screwed up his cousin’s wedding and his life. But with five months of sobriety under his belt and most of his amends made, he celebrates with a 1Night Stand.

  When Madame Eve sends these ex-lovers to the same Las Vegas hotel room, the two of them must discover whether good luck or bad luck guides their travels.

  Dedication

  Many thanks to the Decadent team for allowing me another opportunity to work with them. I also owe a debt of gratitude to Becky Flade for the encouragement to “go there.”

  Lucky Traveler

  A 1Night Stand Story

  By

  Lola Karns

  Chapter One

  Everything in her suite at the Castillo Resort Las Vegas was perfect for her date, well almost. Keira Jones swirled about the room. Soft candles flickered throughout the sunken seating area and on the table already set for two. A vanilla-musk-scented bubble bath waited in the heated tub. In the bedroom, red rose petals bedecked the fluffy white bed sheets. This room was her fantasy come true, except for three small details. First, she’d expected to have a room like this for her wedding night rather than a date through the appropriately named 1Night Stand. Third, the silver ice bucket contained sparkling apple juice and not the champagne she’d requested. She wouldn’t have discovered the third before her date arrived except for detail number two.

  A digital keypad blocked her access to the minibar and a microscopic bottle of tequila to soothe her nerves. Desperation had led her to the ice bucket.

  Keira sank into a plush chair. Who am I kidding? Desperation led me to a Las Vegas hotel room for a blind date. One that all but guaranteed they’d make good use of the bed.

  The clock on the end table revealed she had no time to slip down to the bar for a quick drink. Nervous energy coursed through her. She prowled the floor. “I can do this.” One night and one man in a faraway town. No pressure, no wedding fantasies, no rejections, and, above all, no thinking of babies. Tomorrow night, her sister, Gwen, would be in town with her husband, her toddler, and her rounded pregnant belly. In a few months, she could hold her nephew and get her fill of newborn baby smells. But it wouldn’t be the same. She wanted her own. Tequila, mojitos, white cosmos, bloody Marys, margaritas all drowned the illogical ticking biological clock, the one that said “marriage and babies before thirty.” With a ten month run up, well, time weighed against her.

  Stop. She paused by the bedroom doorway and studied the flower petals. Would they leave a crushing pink stain on the white sheets when her date ravaged her on the bed? Would they stick to their damp skin? She needed a good lay to push all the negativity and worries from her brain. This service seemed to offer the best odds for mind-clearing sex.

  A groan escaped because her personal anxiety machine refused to turn off. What if he was short or had a hideous wart on his nose? Or reeked? What if he found her repulsive? At least by having the date in the hotel room, he couldn’t run off with someone else, not right in front of her eyes.

  Just one little sip? One drink to quiet the voices in the back of her mind. Not fun enough, not pretty enough, too desperate, too eager, too flat.

  She strolled to the minibar and punched in the room number. Nothing. The gold foil on the bottle of apple juice taunted her. Maybe the concierge could get a new bottle run up before—

  A rap on the door. One-two-pause-three and then a repeat. The email from Madame Eve specified this knock as the signal her date, and not a random staff member, stood behind the door. Time for courage. Her index finger drummed against her lower incisor. Since liquid courage wasn’t available, perhaps a message in Morse code would work, not that she knew any. She wanted this night, no, needed this night, to exorcise the demon of rejection that festered and grew after Logan, the man she’d considered “the one,” insulted her at her sister’s wedding.

  Only her nerves and the door handle stood between her and redemption. I can do this. She tipped her chin and raised her gaze, so when she opened the door, the man’s first image of her would be all fluttery eyelashes and a coy smile. Tonight, I am desirable.

  She pressed the lever and pulled the door open.

  “Oh no!” a familiar voice squeake
d as the door slammed in his face. It couldn’t be Keira. His mind played tricks on him. Why would she be in Las Vegas, using a dating service? Except, hadn’t he traveled all this way for a date? His cock jumped like it was Keira behind the door. That was a good sign. “Easy, fella.”

  Logan Collins pulled his phone from the tuxedo pocket. This 1Night Stand service sure had some crazy rules, but his favorite rich client and sponsor vouched for them. Besides, there was that renovation project contingent on him getting his head back in the game.

  He pulled up the email from Madame Eve. The details were right, the room number, the hotel, the city, and the date. He tried the knock again. The door opened a second time.

  “Logan?”

  It was her, all right. Those bright-blue eyes were unforgettable. Thoughts zinged across the inside of his brain, too fast to be coherent but dizzying nonetheless. He’d almost given up on step eight, making amends. This was his chance. His southern brain wanted a chance, too. He channeled all the charm he could muster and poured it in a lopsided grin, the one that once made her weak in the knees.

  “In the flesh—well. Not yet. You going to let me in, beautiful?”

  “I’m expecting someone.”

  “Someone in a monkey suit?”

  Her eyes narrowed to an almost almond shape. He could still get under her skin. In his pants, Lucky jerked again. Poor guy hadn’t been living up to his name.

  “I suppose you look the part, but…who sent you?”

  “Let me in. It’s cold out here.”

  “It’s a hallway in a high rise.”

  “Even if it’s colder inside, would you still let me in? I paid a lot of money to come out here, dress in a tux, and try to forget you.” Sort of. His sponsor had gifted the dating service after he explained his little problem, but he’d paid for the rest.

  “I’m not falling for your charm, again.”

  “Let’s sort this out. Please.”

  The door widened. He slipped through before she could change her mind. She had on a navy dress that covered one shoulder and left the other wide open and ripe for a nibble. He scanned all the way down her stocking-clad legs to her toes, every inch a sculpted delight right down to her fuck-me heels.

  “Since this is a disaster already, we should just go to the bar. Forget discretion. At least there we can get a drink, some food, and you can find someone else to spend the night with. Somebody made a mistake with the drinks, and all we have up here is sparking apple juice, which is weird because Las Vegas is the place you expect to be swimming in booze, except the one time I need it. I can probably cancel dinner.”

  “Why? We need to eat. And you always look so good sucking sauce off your fingers. You can’t do that in a restaurant. As for the other, well, the apple juice is another sign I’m in the right spot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had this email. It said my date requested I wear a tux and meet her in Vegas. I insisted on one request, too. No alcohol.”

  “You did not quit drinking.” She stomped on those shoes and threatened to topple. She should sit down. On my lap. Or the leather sofa.

  He took her hand in his and guided her down two stairs to the couch. He’d forgotten how good her soft fingers felt nestled between his. She tucked her legs up, careful not to reveal any more of her creamy thighs than necessary. Her calves were out of sight, too. Bummer. At least he’d be able to concentrate, except the slip of fabric covering her shoulder seemed a little loose, like he could slide it off her shoulder with a well-placed puff of air. Remember the steps.

  He couldn’t do this sitting down. Not after all his failed efforts to reach out to her. A sigh escaped. The coin in his pocket was bigger than that old one-dollar coin his grandma gave him and about the size of a poker chip before the machines all switched to swipe cards. He wrapped his fingers around it. Why purple, he didn’t know. The next was worse. Pink, but he wanted it anyway. The coin brought power held in his palm. He squeezed it almost as tight as his eyelids.

  “I’ve been sober one hundred and thirty-one days.”

  “So?” Her nonchalance annoyed him.

  “I don’t drink anymore.”

  She sighed. He paced. This is your chance to move her from the hopeless step nine to eight. A slip of paper in his wallet listed everyone he could think of to whom he needed to make amends. Keira’s name reigned at the top of the list. He looked at her, an angel in blue curled up on the couch. The skirt of her dress slid over her legs. A line of lace midway up her thigh caught Lucky’s attention. For the first time in almost eleven months, the big guy straightened up for a better view. The upper brain clicked in enough to restrain him from doing a fist pump, but his hand twitched anyway.

  “Ahem.” She cleared her throat.

  “Right.” He had a job to do. Business before pleasure as the saying goes. The apology. “Are you wearing a garter belt?”

  After a glance at her legs, she tugged a fold of fabric over the delicious spot. Her squint approximated anger. With those wide, round eyes, she never looked truly pissed off. Except at the wedding and in his recurring nightmare.

  “Is it the one I bought?”

  “No. That one had bad memories. I threw it out.”

  Would she throw him to the trash heap, too?

  “Did you wear it to the wedding?”

  “You asked me to.” Her voice chilled him.

  The warm coin palmed in his fist reminded him of renewed opportunity.

  “We can’t move forward until we move back. I made a fool of you. My weakness in the face of alcohol led me to certain inappropriate behaviors that hurt me—”

  “Cut the shit. You had your hand up the wrong bridesmaid’s dress.”

  A knock on the door stopped her from saying any more. “Room service.”

  “I’ll get it.” He walked to the door, the cut of his jacket covering what she knew to be one fine ass. She stood and moved to the window. The lights of the strip shone crazy, brilliant colors, but couldn’t block the light reflecting from the inside of the room like a mirror.

  Of course Logan wore a tux, this one a better cut than the last one she’d seen him wear. Her sister’s wedding. The man across the room ruined it. Flashes of the night played in her memory.

  The two of them, as maid of honor and best man, walked the aisle, and he whispered in her ear, “I bet we have more stamina than they do,” as he nodded to the bride and groom. In the limo, his breath hitched when she pressed his palm against her thigh and the garter belt she wore at his request. During the wedding party dance, his hard length rubbed against her. “Feel how much I want you, Keira?”

  She whispered against his jawline, “I have plans for you.”

  What a fool she’d been. She turned away from the window as he neared.

  “Madame.” He gestured toward a chair with a flourish that reminded her of how they had once been fun, playful, and easy. Because the waiter stood behind a silver cart, she allowed Logan to help her with the chair at the small table for two.

  The waiter poured the sparkling cider into champagne flutes. As he placed shrimp cocktails in martini glasses in front of them, her mouth watered for something other than the food. The man across the table parched her throat for something else. She collapsed against the back of her chair.

  He raised his glass and tilted it toward her, a toast. The last time he’d offered a toast in her presence, his slurred words had been captured for all time on the video she’d watched once.

  “Congrashulashions to a beaudiful couple. You two will have beaudiful schildren and Grandma will be happy and like you besht because of babies becaushe that’s what marriage is. Babies.”

  It was one of many moments her brother-in-law requested the videographer remove before he shared it with extended family. Some losses saddened her, but this one hadn’t. The videographer had captured everything, including the goofy look on her face when Logan mentioned babies.

  That darned word, babies, infiltrated her 1Night S
tand, when all she wanted was to forget her folly. Maybe one of the bubbles in her glass would capture the word and float away with it. She lifted her glass.

  “Hello? Go anywhere good?”

  He’d noticed her mental absence. His attention to detail was new.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Then, to serendipity, for throwing us together again.”

  “To serendipity, but you know that’s not her name.”

  His low chuckle rumbled through her, shaking loose strings of anger. She raised her glass. The fizzy liquid lacked the sweetness of apple juice but missed the slight bite of champagne. At least the bubbles still exploded in her mouth and tickled the back of her throat in the same way.

  “That’s not half bad. I’ll have to remember that brand; it’s not as sweet as some.” He set his glass down.

  “Better than I expected. Visions of juice boxes danced in my head.”

  He picked up a plump shrimp and dredged it through cocktail sauce before holding it to her.

  “I loved offering you a bite of whatever I was eating—hot wings, fried pickles, whatever. Your eyes rolled back when you enjoyed something tasty, and I never forgot how you sucked sauce off my finger.”

  “Always led to something else didn’t it?” She flushed with the memory. But her brain flashed an image of his face between another woman’s pneumatic breasts. She bit off the tip off the shrimp and glared at him.

  “Ouch, another reminder I still owe you an apology, more than that really.”

  “You get no argument from me.”

  Her appetite waned, but the bitterness of the horseradish perfectly contrasted with the succulent shellfish. She ate one piece so gigantic the word shrimp was an insult. She popped the last third in her mouth and heard a cough. When she opened her eyes, Logan stared at her with undisguised lust. She withdrew her pointer finger from her mouth and turned her gaze toward the city lights beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Logan’s reflection in the glass distracted her. He was too close, and his touch was her downfall. Or was it the wicked gleam in his gaze that led her to trouble? Maybe she wouldn’t eat the last shrimp.