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money from her father too, as a consultant on a short leash. She reminded herself of that more than once as the plane landed and taxied to the gate.
    ****
    “You been to Vegas before?” Joe asked, looking surprisingly at home sprawled out in the back of the limo. So much for his “man of the people” status, Ivy thought with a bitter twist of satisfaction.
    “Once before. For a bachelorette party.”
    “Really?” The confession made Joe’s head swivel away from the sights of the Strip to stare at Ivy. “Sorry, but I hadn’t pegged you as the ‘wild weekend in Vegas’ type.”
    “You had me pegged right,” she said. “The bride’s father was one of my father’s most important business associates. I don’t think she particularly wanted to invite me, and I know I didn’t want to go. My father and her father insisted. They thought it would help cement a deal they were working on.”
    “Still, you could have made the best of it,” he offered. “A weekend in Vegas is still a weekend in Vegas.”
    “I did make the best of it,” she lied. His quickness to judge annoyed her. He didn’t understand what it was like to be wanted only for your money and connections.
    The weekend had been miserable. Treated with cool politeness by the otherwise bubbly bachelorettes, she’d been an overdressed wallflower at the chic nightclubs they’d gone to. The other girls partied in skimpy sundresses and revealing halter tops, making her look ridiculous in her blouse and sedate slacks.
    The casinos were even worse. Gambling bored her after half an hour. Getting hit on by drunken tourists lost its luster far sooner. The sight of the Strip rolling by through the limo’s tinted windows, with its brilliant lights, stately palms, and huge casinos, brought back all the awkward memories.
    After a quick check-in at the Bellisimo, Ivy and Joe went to the concierge’s office to find out more about the MMA fight. Sure enough, they found a martial arts event on the schedule for eight that night.
    “Beat-down at the Bellisimo,” the friendly concierge explained, with a flirty smile in Joe’s direction. Nothing about the girl looked real—not her beaming white smile or her crimson fingernails or her gravity-defying breasts—but Ivy doubted Joe Dunham cared very much about authenticity in a woman.
    Instantly she felt annoyed with herself for the waspish thought. What did she care what kind of woman Joe wanted to go to bed with?
    “The fight is in the Grand Ballroom. It’s very elegant,” the girl cooed, her artificial lashes batting rapidly in Joe’s direction. Ivy suppressed a snort, glancing around her at the gilt-and-glass-festooned lobby. She realized she hadn’t been entirely successful at keeping a tactful silence when Joe shot her a sidelong glance.
    “I can arrange for tickets for you, if you like. For the two of you, that is,” she said belatedly with a doubtful look in Ivy’s direction.
    “Thanks so much,” he said to the girl, handing over his credit card.
    Ivy refrained from rolling her eyes with great difficulty. He gave the girl one last intimate grin of shared understanding and signed for the tickets. The concierge rewarded him with a high-wattage smile. Ivy would have bet anything the girl’s eyes lingered on him long after they walked away. Why it riled her so, she couldn’t say. He certainly wasn’t her type, although she could admit to herself his rear view was worth looking at. She never chose partners on such superficial grounds, so she could concede his appeal without being in any danger of succumbing to it, of course.
    Joe pocketed the tickets and skewered Ivy with a look. “You might have tried being a little nicer to her.”
    “You were being nice enough for the both of us.”
    The words came out catty, and she wished she hadn’t spoken. She could normally keep her cool in any situation. Joe Dunham had a way of riling her without seeming to try. She couldn’t quite explain even to herself why