Instead of denying anything, Cherry lifted her glass in salute. “Who is he?” Cherry asked.

“One of the doctors from the other conference,” Mary offered. “The hotel mixed up his room with Dakota’s this morning.”

Mary went on to explain the morning’s mishap. “Oh . . .” she nudged Dakota, nearly spilling her drink. “And get this. He has some in at the hotel. Special guest or some such thing.”

She wasn’t surprised. Doctors had a way of making people bend to their will. Or so she thought anyway. “How so?”

“As he put it . . . he knows somebody who knows somebody.” Mary waved her hand in the air, the drink in her hand already hitting her empty stomach. “Staying in a suite on the top floor. How cool is that?”

Dakota found her eyebrow lifting. The hotel was one of the best in this part of Florida. Top-shelf never sucked in a place like this.

Cherry wandered off with another group of friends, leaving Mary and Dakota.

“Excuse me?”

Dakota felt the hand on her arm the same moment she heard the voice. Behind her, a blonde, somewhat familiar, flashed a huge smile and let her arm drop. “Are you Dakota Laurens?”

She twisted toward the woman. “I am.”

“I knew if I hit the bar early I’d manage to run into someone I’ve read.”

A fan. “Easy to do at a conference. Are you a writer . . . reader?”

The woman shook her head. “No. Well, a reader, but not part of the book convention.”

The blonde wore a black dress, just short of her knees, with small straps and a pleasing dip to her cleavage. She looked the part of someone going out to paint the town instead of hanging in a hotel bar. Dakota glanced at herself, realized her red dress wasn’t exactly hotel-bar ready.

“Trent?” the blonde called over her shoulder and caught her companion’s attention. Together Dakota realized how she recognized them. The night before, from across the bar . . . sitting with Walt. “I want you to meet someone.”

Turning a practiced smile on the couple, Dakota extended a hand to the handsome man. “Dakota Laurens,” she told him.

His face was blank. No shock there. He obviously didn’t read her books. “Trent Fairchild.”

“I’m Monica,” the blonde said. “Sorry.”

“A pleasure,” Dakota said, meaning it. Fans and all their tongue-tiedness never got old.

Monica nudged the man at her side. “You remember, Barefoot. Our last trip to Houston . . . the layover.”

His face remained blank until Monica leaned in and whispered something private in his ear.

The grin on Trent’s face slid into something much more wicked. “That Dakota Laurens?”

Monica lifted her hands, nodded. His cheeks turned pink.

And that reaction never ceased to amaze Dakota either.

“I have a strange need to thank you,” he said. The laughter came easy.

Monica hid her face, but her embarrassment didn’t last long.

“Are you here with the doctor convention?” Dakota asked.

“We are. This is the first time there’s been such a lively crowd in the bar.”

Mary leaned in. “Romance writers love to party.”

Dakota introduced Mary and eased into small talk. “Are you both doctors?” Mary asked.

Trent placed his arm around Monica, pulled her closer.

“Nurse practitioner. Trent’s a pilot.”

“How does a pilot fit into your conference? Isn’t it about medical crisis or something?”

Before Trent could answer, another man, slightly taller, strong jaw with the same unmistakable DNA as Trent’s, moved beside them. “There you are. This place is a madhouse.”

Dakota looked around. It was a complete crush of people. The noise level made talking nearly impossible.

The newcomer was Trent’s brother, Glen. His gaze lingered on Mary a little longer than anyone else in their small party. The feeling was apparently mutual. Mary turned away slightly and fanned herself.

When Glen looked away, Mary caught Dakota’s eye and mouthed the word hot.

Looking out for her friend, Dakota asked a few pointed questions. “Are you a pilot, too, Glen?”

“Yeah.”

“Is your wife here with you?”

Glen lifted an eyebrow. His gaze fell on Mary. “I’m not married.”

Dakota finished her drink, set it on a nearby table, and winked at Mary before turning toward the party.

The hair on the back of Dakota’s neck prickled. Awareness that only a man could deliver from across the room shivered up her spine. Was he watching her? Did his gaze linger on the curve of her butt . . . the very curve of her body where she felt heat swimming along the surface?

Dakota let her eyes drop to the ground and feather over her shoulder.

He stood still in the entrance of the bar, women walking around him, eyeing him. His eyes swept her frame, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth in a way that said a hell of a lot more than any words could.

Walt wore a button-down silk shirt and casual pants. His hair was still wet from a recent shower. Someone attempted to stop him as he moved toward them, but he brushed them off and kept moving forward.

“Hey,” Monica said the moment he made it within earshot. “I was wondering if we were going to see you before your date.”

The word date had Dakota lifting her eyebrows.

“Drinks, Mo. Not a date.”

Beside her, Mary chuckled.