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tan face hours out of a five o’clock shadow and clothes just rumpled enough to look like they might have been worn days before being washed. He struck me as a man who might clean up well if he ever cared to try. The waitress brought him a drink in a highball glass. He took a sip and withstood my appraisal without comment.
    “Hold ’Em?” I answered finally. It sounded familiar but I was so unsure of anything in this new world, I didn’t want to go out on a limb and respond in the affirmative. It might have been Beat ’Em or Deal ’Em for all I remembered.
    “Poker,” he reiterated patiently. “Texas Hold ’Em is a kind of poker. Sounds from your accent like you might know a little about Texas, if not poker.”
    I narrowed my eyes at him. He looked sort of normal, but then the couple from Omaha had too. “Tell me you aren’t a ‘talent agent.’ You don’t have a card, do you?”
    “No. This isn’t a convention, you know.”
    “Sure it is. Vegas is a convention of freaks, as far as I can tell,” I blurted.
    His crow’s feet crinkled, warming his dark eyes. He had a rich, ironic laugh that made me shift on my stool a bit. “You’re very articulate. Well put.”
    “Where are you from?”
    “I grew up in Vegas,” he answered.
    My blush crept back with a vengeance. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
    “Don’t be. Frank Gilbert.” He offered his hand over the seat between us. With only a slight pause, I shook it. He had big hands that had known outdoor work and a firm, strong shake. Very nice.
    I remembered my last introduction and couldn’t help smiling. He tilted his head quizzically.
    “I introduced myself earlier as Paris Carlo,” I chuckled and shook my head, disbelieving the whole crazy episode all over again.
    He hitched his right eyebrow. “Aha, with an Italian/ French accent, no doubt. I guess I should be asking you if you don’t have a card?”
    I knew I should have been affronted, but the way he said it, just struck me as funny. I laughed, and he did too. Finally, I shook my head. “I don’t have a card, although maybe now I wish I did.”
    I clapped my hand over my mouth. “I can’t believe I said that.”
    Crow’s feet crinkled. He reminded me of Brad Pitt in Mr. and Mrs. Smith , a little dangerous, a little sexy, a little funny. A man with some secrets. “I’m glad you did. So, who are you now? With your twang, maybe Christie Houston, or perhaps Debbie Dallas?”
    Shaking my head, I was surprised that his nomenclature didn’t make me blush. I might have never seen an adult video but I had heard of the most infamous one. “Is everything about sex here in Vegas?”
    “Not everything.” Frank took another sip of his drink and looked off into the crowd around one of the green felt covered tables on the floor. “Some things are about money. Some things are about both.”
    Some of those secrets were simmering under the surface. For some irresistible reason, I wanted to pry, but I had to remind myself that Frank was a stranger in a strange place and prying could only lead to trouble. Plus, his secrets were none of my business. In five minutes, he’d be a memory like good ole Cyrano.
    Frank drew out of his reverie and motioned at me with his glass. “What are you drinking? Your husband told you to have the house.”
    “Oh, no,” I corrected quickly, “Ben isn’t my husband.” I wiggled my left hand fingers at him to show the absence of a ring.
    Frank chuckled. “Don’t rely on rings in Vegas to tell you who’s attached. Half the rings in town disappear into pockets once the cabs turn onto The Strip.”
    “I noticed,” I said dryly.
    “There’s a story there.” Frank observed.
    “One that wouldn’t shock you, I’m sure.”
    “I’d advise you to order a drink so your boyfriend won’t feel so bad when he’s three hours at the table.”
    “He’s not my boyfriend, he’s my brother. And I’m sure he won’t be three hours—we still have to check into our hotel.”
    With a