What happens in Vegas...

She commanded the respect of ancient Amazons, standing bronzed, erect and tall in a relaxed vermilion Business Suit. He flirted mindlessly as the elevator doors closed. "You're having your effect on me," he ventured.

She turned a cool gaze upon him as if this was the first impact he had accomplished on her consciousness. "Are you married?"

His eyes regarded the tell-tale ring on his left hand with unamused chagrin. "Yes," he admitted.

Her eyes glittered piercingly: "I don't mind." Then in answer to his comment, "You should see me in a bikini. I tend to favor pastels, with a preference for two-tones, like the one Bar Rafaeli wore in this year's Swimsuit Issue."

He had seen the Sports Illustrated in question, and her forwardness was rewarded, as his respect became available for visible review. She stooped and unlatched her sling-backs. It was an irresistible move and he felt the mature and motivated cousin to young lust that she had intended. "You have the advantage of me. I'm Orville," he finally rejoined.

She was quick and it paid off. "Just call me Ms. Wright," she volleyed. "Care to join me for Martinis?"

He finally evidenced his right to a Captain Morgan's with a riposte. "Just as soon as we inspect Room 1274 for vermin. It is Ms Wright, now isn't it?" He continued. "Then we test the nickle slots, for hours!"

She caught her breath, and affected to be impressed. "For... hours?" she replied, meeting his gaze coyly.

He rose gamely to the occasion. "Uh-huh, but just so we agree, 'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas?'"

She gave a throaty laugh. "It's going to be a guh-reat weekend," she twinkled.