Leandros spun around in the small room. Where was he? And how the hell had he ended up here? His last memories were of finishing up a grueling double-set at the Starlight Hotel and Casino, then making his way back to his apartment and falling into bed.

Now, he was...here. He looked around himself again, taking in the perfectly square room with its red shag covered floor and walls. A large heart-shaped bed sat in the center, covered in a thick satiny comforter that matched the carpeting. There was a door off to the left, which he’d already opened only to discover a rather lavish tile and chrome bathroom with a heart shaped tub.

But no exit. In fact, he’d found no exit at all.

“I’m trapped in some sort of 70’s prison,” he murmured to himself, running his fingers over the carpeting, trying to find a door or passageway hidden in the crimson, looped yarn. Maybe this was the ultimate punishment for a lounge singer from Vegas. Of course, he wasn’t quite sure what he’d done to warrant such a sentence.

This had to be the work of his band members. Although this was pretty damned elaborate, and frankly, while Stig, Bert, and Hagassi were talented musicians, they weren’t that creative. Last year, they’d thrown him a surprise birthday party, which had consisted of a tour of bars and strip clubs. Not exactly imaginative in Las Vegas.

He twirled, looking for a hidden camera. “Betty? Are you here?”

This could be something his number one fan would do, though he couldn’t imagine how she would manage such a complicated abduction. Betty was determined to have him—she came to every gig, hung around after every show, trying to get his attention. And Leandros was just as determined to avoid her. Yet, he didn’t feel drugged, which she would have to have done to get him here without him knowing.

He frowned, scanning the room. Was this going to turn into a scene from a Stephen King novel where a fanatical fan kept him prisoner? His heart was pounding under his black satin shirt and white suit coat. Another mystery, as he was certain he hadn’t fallen asleep in his favorite outfit.

“Betty,” he called one more time, then suddenly, the room seemed to fade away, dissolving like red cotton candy in a tub of water. He watched in amazement.

Betty couldn’t do this. Could she?

The walls continued to melt away, and Leandros soon found himself standing in a long white hallway. A figure approached him, blurred and distorted, like a black silhouette against a glaring white light. Not until the form was just a few feet away could he see that it was a woman. She hurried toward him, blinking as though she were experiencing the same blinding light around him. Strange given the hallway appeared normal, with recessed lighting and Muzak filtering though hidden speakers.

“Are you the person who brought me to this place?” she demanded as she came to a halt in front of him.

“No. And I could ask the same thing of you.”

The woman frowned, and he immediately noticed how dark her eyes were, dark and deep and muddled. Another wave of apprehension curled down his spine. She was as confused as he was. Not a good sign.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, glancing down the hall, again seeing no exits, just bright, white walls.
She didn’t answer for a moment, as if she didn’t quite know if she should tell him. “I was in a bedroom that looked straight out of the 70’s. But then it just,” she shivered, “disappeared.”

“Well, even if Betty could do this, she wouldn’t abduct you too.” Or would she?

No, Betty wasn’t about to share. She wanted him all to herself. So who had set up this elaborate scheme?

“Who’s Betty?”

Leandros snapped out of his thoughts. “She’s someone who I thought might have set up this whole situation.”

The woman raised a finely arched brow. “She’s able to create vanishing rooms?”

No. Betty was some sort of a waitress. Not a person who--made disappearing rooms.

The woman spun, glaring at the white walls, her shoulder-length hair swirling around her face and her dress swirling around her legs.
“Where the hell are we?” she shouted, her voice laced with both frustration and panic.

Leandros understood both of those emotions, but he didn’t reveal his own concern. After all, there had to be a reasonable answer. He stepped forward and caught the woman’s hand.

The woman’s gaze immediately dropped to where they touched. Leandros noticed how small her hand looked in his. How tall he felt next to her.

She finally glanced up from their hands, and her eyes locked with his. Brown eyes like strong coffee. As dark as his own.

“Do think we’re in danger?” she asked.

He stared at her for a moment, distracted by the pinkness of her lips. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Nah. This is a practical joke. When you work with the entertainers on the Vegas strip, this sort of thing just happens.”
Of course, nothing like this had ever happened to him. Or anyone else he knew.

But he continued on with more determination, “This is probably the doing of Athan the Incredible. He’s quite the magician.” Although Leandros had only seen him make a few doves and a woman from Jersey disappear. He hadn’t made whole rooms vanish. He may have emptied a few, though.

“But I’m not even from Vegas.” Her voice shook, and both fear and protectiveness tightened his chest. He couldn’t say why, but something in her eyes pulled at him.

He managed to keep his voice, calm, conversational, the same tone he used on stage. “Oh yeah? Where are you from?”

“Boston. I’m not an entertainer either. I’m an interior decorator.”

Leandros glanced down at her clothing. She wore an expensive-looking black cocktail dress. Narrow straps revealed the smooth, golden skin of her shoulders and the full, flirty hemline showed off her shapely legs. Hardly the clothes he imagined a decorator wearing. He pictured paint-spattered coveralls. She looked more like a glamorous 50’s starlet than a woman who hung wallpaper.

Her feet were bare, her toenails painted cherry red. His gaze wandered to her free hand expecting to see a pair of high heels dangled from her fingers. No. But yet again he was struck by the image of a 50’s actress, strolling down the beach, shoes swinging from her fingertips, water lapping over her cherry-polished toes, a wide smile warming her dark eyes.
But she wasn’t smiling. She staring at him as if she needed to believe he had an answer for this weird situation.

“I’m Leandros,” he said instead.

Her gaze dropped back to their hands still intertwined. He noted how her slender fingers felt perfect, natural against his palm.
“Eve Green.”

Instead of releasing her hand after she introduced herself, he tugged her gently down the corridor. “Let’s figure out what’s going on here.”

As they walked, again their surroundings started to blur. He blinked, wondering if he had been drugged after all. Then Eve squeezed his fingers, and he realized she must be seeing the same thing.

“It’s like when the Six Million Dollar Man ran through the avalanche,” Eve murmured. She gripped his arm to keep her sense of equilibrium.

“Totally,” he agreed, not sure if he could keep steady himself.

Suddenly the rolling, disintegrating illusion stopped, and they were surrounded by darkness and a faint blue light.

“Oop,” Eve breathed, coming to an abrupt halt. Slowly, she reached toward the blue light. Her fingers met a clear wall.

“It’s some sort of glass room,” he said, reaching out to touch the cool glass.

“It’s not a room. It’s a tube.” She trailed her hand around the circumference until she was back facing him. He could feel the heat of her body in the narrow space. “A tube with no door.”

They both looked upward at the ceiling, which seemed to disappear into blackness.

“Don’t worry. There has to be some sort of explanation,” he assured her.

“You really think so, huh?” Obviously she wasn’t any more convinced than he was.

“Yes. I know this is weird, but…”

A loud hiss from overhead stopped his words. A rush of air hit his still upturned face. The blast was scented with something vague and elusively familiar. But even before his mind could try to name the scent, his body reacted. Perspiration broke out on his skin. Need ripped through him in snapping electric waves. His cock engorged, painful and throbbing against the material of his pants.

“What the—”

“Fuck,” Eve finished for him, and his gaze dropped to meet hers. She peered up at him, desire clear on her features, in the heaviness of her lids, in the small ‘o’ of her mouth.

Her hands found the front of his shirt, sliding up over the satiny material, leaving a burning path in their wake.

“That’s what I want. I want you to fuck me,” she told him.