A kiss. Two lips touching. Colliding. Deepening. It happened a thousand times a day, yet I didn’t seem to be able to handle this one.
“Don’t worry.” His words stopped my retreat and I looked at him, finding a moment of grounding in the solidness of his eye contact. “I won’t kiss you again unless you ask me for it.”
The sentence had enough mocking ego in it for my backbone to peek her head out of hiding. I straightened a little, forced my vocal cords to work, and attempted a dismissive sniff.
It didn’t do much, but I still saw the softening of his eyes, the hint of a smile on those deliciously addictive lips. God, I wanted to kiss him again. I wanted to shove him down in one of those club chairs, hike my dress around my waist, and grind my panties across the seam of his zipper. I wanted his hands in my hair, my skin against his skin, and to see in his eyes some of the discomposure I felt rippling through me.
For me, sex had always been about control. Now, just from a kiss, I felt powerless and afraid. Needy for more.
It made no sense.
“How many women do you sleep with?” My palm was sweaty, and I clutched the railing tighter, my need for information winning the battle against flight.
He tilted his head at me. “I have a mistress of sorts. And a waitress I occasionally fuck.”
“It seems like you’ve got enough women already. Why go after more?”
“They don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”
It was a reference to more than just passion and pleasure, and the sort of statement that normally had me breaking out in hives. I didn’t flinch, and it was official. I’d gone completely mad.
“Tell me about this boy toy of yours from the university.”
His tone was so innocent, the comment so loaded. It caused my attention to flee relationship talks, ricochet off the man who had followed me, and plunge into a pool of fear. He knew about Ian. I had forgotten, for a moment, who he was.
“Stay away from Ian.” Fear crystallized deep in my ribcage. I’d heard the stories. There were some casinos you could fuck with. Count cards. Get sloppy. There were others you avoided. Dario Capece’s, you avoided. Did he rule his relationship prospects with the same iron fist?
He chuckled. “I’m not going to touch the man, Bell. I just want to know the extent of your relationship.”
I shook my head, his easy tone only half-extinguishing the alarm bells ringing through my head. “We’re not in a relationship. It’s just…” I didn’t know how to describe my sexual fling with Ian, not in words that didn’t make me sound like a carefree slut. I raised my chin and forced my voice to remain strong. “It’s just a physical thing.”
“I can’t imagine any man being happy with a strictly physical relationship with you.”
“Yet, that’s what you’re proposing. Right?” I released my hold on the railing, the kiss’ effect fading, our focus on Ian giving me the distraction my sanity needed.
He didn’t answer the question. Instead, he pulled at the end of a bright blue shirt sleeve, adjusting it under his suit jacket. “I have to be careful who I allow close to me. It doesn’t make sense for me to get involved with a woman in a relationship. It’s too risky for me.”
He was giving me an out. If I wanted Dario Capece to walk away from me, all I had to do was say the words and tell him that Ian and I were dating. It wasn’t that far from the truth. I could take Ian up on his dinner invite. But it wasn’t what I wanted. Not with Ian…
“We’re not dating.” I don’t know why I said it, but I did. I don’t know why I stepped closer, but I did. Maybe it was because my lips were still tingling from his kiss and the chemistry between us was crackling like a live wire.
I wondered how much he knew about me. He’d had me followed. Knew about Ian. Found my phone number. Probably done a complete background check and history. Did he know about my poor upbringing? Dad’s drinking? The night I was raped? Had the last forty-eight hours been a dissection of my life?
The last forty-eight hours… I stopped as something mentally clicked into place. “That guy at work … the one who offered me money to sleep with him. Did he work for you?”
To his credit, he didn’t deny it. “He did. In this town, with your looks...” He lifted one shoulder. “A lot of the girls earn a secondary income. I needed to know if you were one of them.”
“I didn’t apply to be your girlfriend.” I spit out the words, my irritation turning to anger. “How fucking egotistic are you? You think that once you check off all of my boxes, that I’ll just jump into your arms, grateful to be a side piece of ass?” I closed the distance and shoved him as hard as I could with the palm of my hand, his chest like a stone column. “Next time, just ask a girl and find out for yourself.”
He caught my hand. “I’m not proud of the methods I’ve used, but I’m not some bartender on the Strip. I can’t afford strangers in my life, and I expected...” He swallowed and held the thought for a beat. “I expected to be disappointed, to find an excuse to leave you alone.” He released my hand. “I didn’t.”
I dropped my hand from his chest and watched as he stepped away, his gaze holding mine.
“I know it’s a lot to think about.” He slid his hands into his pockets.
I swallowed. “I don’t even know what it is.”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “I’m trying to figure that out myself. With other women, it’s been simple. With you…” He broke eye contact, turning slightly toward the exit, then glanced back. “I have a feeling it won’t be. Let’s start with something simple. I’d like to see you again. Dinner, the next night you have off.”
The closest thing I’ve ever had to a date was with Elliot, a dinner at TGI Fridays on prom night. We split a cheese fries appetizer and I spilled a drop of honey mustard on the skirt of my dress. It had been the most basic of events, one I’d never had the urge to repeat.
He took another step toward the door and nodded at me. “Goodnight, Bell.”
I turned back to the club floor, unable to watch him leave and unsure of what to say. I waited for half of a hip-hop song, then glanced back.
He was gone, and somehow, void of any sense, I wanted him back.
* * *
I felt the poke of a long fingernail in my side and turned my head, meeting Meredith’s quizzical look.
“What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.” I rested my head against the glass, comforted by the cool surface of Lydia’s window.
I’d bet the title of this club that you want me to fuck you. Yeah. He’d been right about that.
I don’t fuck strange women that I know nothing about. I’m not proud of the methods I’ve used, but I’m not some bartender on the Strip. I can’t afford strangers in my life. I understood that he lived a different life than the rest of Vegas. I understood that he had to be careful who he went to bed with. But did that excuse his invasion into my life? It didn’t, and it did. I could become offended and riled up about it, or I could accept the situation and look the other way.
If you’re struggling with a moral line caused by my wedding ring, I can assure you that my wife doesn’t care who I fuck, only that any indiscretions are kept secret. What woman could marry a man like Dario and not keep him to herself? I felt an unfamiliar flare of anger and wondered if it was what jealousy felt like. I have a mistress of sorts. And a waitress I occasionally fuck.
That’s what he wanted. Another mistress. Or another “occasional” waitress. That was really the bulk of it. Sure, he was attracted to me. Sure, we had chemistry. Sure, he made me feel things that no other man had. But was that worth it? Or was that even more reason to run the other way?
I’d like to see you again. Dinner, the next night you have off.
I closed my eyes and tried to forget everything but couldn’t block out the hurricane force of that kiss.
* * *
I shook, poured, and slid the martini to the side. Using the bottle opener, I popped op
en two Bud Lights and set them on my tray. Balancing it on my shoulder, I caught Britni’s eye. “The skinny guy at four wants an ashtray.”
“Got it.”
She took my place behind the bar, and I moved through the floor, heading to the top table, and thinking about the remaining to-do items on my list. Don Julio to the bald guy at three. Hot tea to the woman at two. Cigars to the tuxedo at craps. I walked, smiled, delivered, and failed miserably at the biggest item on the list: Don’t Think About Dario Capece.
It was an especially difficult task in a room full of men like this. All were power-hungry. Sharks. Egos bigger than their dicks. Dicks more active than their luck. All of them striving to be Dario and none of them succeeding. It was a powerful thing to think, in a room like this. But it was true. I didn’t know why he was different, but he was. And all I could think about was his dinner invite. What would a dinner alone with him be like? Had I agreed to it with my silence?
I delivered the cigars, the tea, the tequila. I high-fived the CEO of the MGM when he won a hand. I downed shots with a group of Chinese investors and ate breadsticks and Alfredo sauce with the boys back in the control room. I watched the hours tick by and didn’t check my texts or look for his call. I laughed, pocketed tips, and bet Lance and Rick a hundred bucks that someone would vomit before the end of the night.
I lost the bet, went double or nothing on a quick game of War, and talked celebrity gossip with Britni on the way to our cars.
At the red light three blocks over, away from the eyes of anyone, I checked my phone. I skimmed through a coupon from Best Buy, a voicemail from Meredith, and an obnoxious group thread from my roommates that stretched 41 texts long. Then, at the bottom, sent five hours ago, there was a text from Dario.
—When is your next night off?
A simple question, but one that assumed an outcome.
I typed out a response slowly, questioning the action even as I hit send.
Sunday
Sunday. As good a day as any to meet with my devil.
I closed the text, took a deep breath, and locked the phone.
Eleven
DARIO
Gwen moved like a cat. A Siamese, one born into a life of luxury, one that turned with fluid grace and could waltz up beside you without making a sound. Dario watched her pick through the Vuitton duffel, her brow creasing as she lifted a shirt out of the depths and held it up.
“There’s a stain on this.” She turned, tossing it to the side. “Tell Max tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The assistant scurried to the blouse, tucking it under her arm, and returned to her spot by the window, hands clasped before her, face pinched. It was funny, in a sad sort of way, how afraid everyone was of Gwen. Dario often accused her of liking it, a claim she would laugh off, her eyes squinting, and he could see, even as she scoffed, that it secretly pleased her.
In some ways, the fear of her was ridiculous. She was kind, the sort of woman who remembered everyone’s name, birthday, and problems. She was generous with her money, time, and favors. And she was calm and rational, a good yin to his yang, a voice of reason in an industry that often needed one.
In other ways, the fear of her was entirely accurate. Not because of the woman that she was, but because of the man she came from. Robert Hawk. A billionaire with as many demons as dollars and the recklessness to turn those demons loose without provocation. Dario hadn’t so much married Gwen as rescued her.
And she hadn’t so much married him as promoted him. One night, one ceremony, and he had moved from Biloxi mid-level scum to Vegas elite.
“That’s it.” Gwen zipped the bag shut and patted it. “Take it to the car, I’ll be there shortly.”
“Certainly.” The woman’s shoes squeaked across the floor. “I’ll see you there.”
She stretched, rolling her neck and glancing at him. “You’ve got everything this weekend?”
“Of course.” He smiled at her. “Just be safe. Tell Nick I’ll break his arm if you have so much as a mosquito bite.”
She poked him as she walked by. “Not fair. I’m going to have a mosquito bite.”
“Maybe I just want to break his arm.” He followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. “When are you coming back?”
“Tuesday night, I think.” She opened the fridge. “Any more information on that small casino you looked at?”
He settled in at the island and watched as she brought out a bottled water. “Nothing yet. They aren’t interested in selling, so financials are an unknown. I’m keeping my eye on it but may have to move on to something else.”
She stuck the water bottle into her purse and headed for the elevator. “Well, don’t work too hard. And tell Meghan I said hi.” He scowled, and her eyes widened in faux innocence. “What?”
“You aren’t supposed to know about Meghan.”
“Oh please.” She waved a hand dismissively at the mention of the mistress. “My spies hear things. Just like yours do.”
“You can tell your spies that Meghan isn’t worth watching. That’s old news.” Old news as of yesterday, the blonde taking the news with a curse-filled rant that had stopped abruptly with her parting gift—diamond earrings that had made her shriek with pleasure and scamper off to pack.
“That’s a shame.” She scrunched up her nose in the way that always broke his composure, and he smiled despite himself. “Just don’t have too much fun while I’m gone. I’m still the queen of this castle, you know.”
“You’ll always be queen.” He stopped her in the elevator’s entranceway and turned her to him. “Now be safe.”
“You’ll always be my queen.” She amended his words quietly, and he watched her eyes, saw the way they flicked down to the floor before coming back to his. “That’s what you usually say.”
Fuck. He smiled, a gesture of reassurance and apology. “Of course. You know you’re my queen.”
She lifted a brow, and he could hear the words she didn’t speak, words that hung in the air between them, suspended in time, even as they said their goodbyes, kissed, and she stepped into the elevator. Am I?
She was. They were bound by more than just ten years together, by more than friendship and love. They were bound by a thousand layers of contracts and holdings, of investments, debts, partnerships, and legalities. They were bound by the wrath of Robert Hawk and Dario’s addiction to a heartbeat and power.
She was—had to be, his queen. Thinking about anything else, about the possibility of anything else, was insane.
* * *
BELL
“Talk to me about null and alternative hypotheses.”
I rolled over, resting my head on Ian’s stomach and groaned. “Oh my god. I’m sleeping with a nerd.”
He laughed, and the abs against my cheek bounced a little. Okay, so he was a hot nerd.
“I hypothesize that further talk of hypotheses will nullify your chance of a second round,” I mumbled.
“I hypothesize that you are going to flunk the final if you don’t actually study with me.”
I groaned louder and rolled over, scooting up his body until I was face to face with him. “I thought that’s why I was sleeping with the instructor. So I didn’t have to study.”
“Oh no,” he said gravely, his adorable forehead pinching. “Fuck buddies have to study. Girlfriends are the ones that get a free pass.”
“What?!” I pouted. “That doesn’t seem fair.” I ran my finger along a ridge of his abs.
He choked out a laugh. “Is it that painful of an idea?”
“Being a girlfriend?” I grimaced. “It’s not you,” I hurried to say. “Any girl would love to date a...” I held up a finger and concentrated. “Let me remember how my roommate put this. A… ‘hot, smart guy with a job and a delicious Irish accent’.”
“You forgot to mention my incredible bedroom skills,” he pointed out.
“Yeah. Thankfully she isn’t aware of those.” I rolled off of him and stood, stretching. “I’ve got to run.”
“Wait.” He sat up and caught hold of my hand, pulling me back onto the bed. “I’ll drop the dating talk.”
I smiled. “Thank you. Being a girlfriend…”
“I know. It’s not what you want.”
He kissed me and then changed the subject, dragging down my shorts, pulling up my shirt, and unhooking my bra. He slid his fingers into my panties, and I closed my eyes, a moan falling from my lips. I arched into his touch and tried, to the best of my ability, to push Dario Capece from my mind. This was what I wanted in my life. No complications. Fantastic sex. Work. School. My friends.
EVEN MONEY Page 7
