Be Mine: Valentine Novellas to Warm The Heart

by Nicole Flockton

  No golden invite? No entry.

  You did not give second best—or second in command—to the crème de la crème of Sin City. On top of that, Leila was the one insisting that the GM have security, after the threat they’d received via email last night. So he was giving her exactly what she wanted, even though Leila had been certain that no matter how she insisted, Valentine would refuse protection.

  So his insistence that she serve as primary was not unreasonable.

  But then, he wasn’t unreasonable—although, you had to look closely to realize that fact. Yes, his standards were impossibly high, but that was true of all the best hoteliers in the world. Seraglio came before everything, and there were no second chances for anyone who endangered his hotel. By the same token, employee conditions were excellent. Every person who worked there, from the laundresses to the butlers to the executive staff, had a sense of pride. Valentine employed the most skilled staff in the country, and he valued the expertise of the heads of each department. He didn’t always institute their recommendations—for reason that only later became clear—but he treated them the way a commander should treat his generals.

  He treated her that way.

  And for that reason alone, although Leila would never tell him so, Valentine Kincaid had her utter loyalty.

  And generals obeyed their commanders.

  They also protected them.

  “I’ll be back at eight to escort you to the ballroom.” Seeing that as the end of their conversation, Leila began to turn towards the door of his office.

  “Wait.” It was a command.

  She paused.

  He picked up the phone on his desk. “Get me Ascott.”

  ‘Ascott’ was Emerald Ascott. The best concierge in Seraglio—and thus Las Vegas—with a legendary and seemingly magical ability to fulfill even the most extraordinary clientele requests—like the one for a white lion, the Hope Diamond and a thousand pounds of holographic glitter.

  A few seconds later, he continued speaking into the receiver. “Rose will be attending the Aşk.” Those grey eyes ran assessingly over Leila as he spoke. He paused and listened. “Then use the Empress Penthouse.” He hung up without saying another word.

  Leila met his gaze coolly.

  He looked the way he always did. Thick, dark hair, perfectly styled. Tan skin. Classically handsome, with a face all angles and symmetry. Bespoke three-piece suit that fit him it a way that drew the female gaze. Silver collar pin. The Seraglio crest in his lapel.

  A man that put together shouldn’t look like temptation.

  But this was Sin City.

  Leila didn’t ask him what the call was about. She already knew—had been intending to call Emerald herself as soon as she left Valentine’s office.

  But she was unsure… “Why am I meeting her in the penthouse?” The most luxurious, decadent and feminine penthouse in the entire hotel.

  “Your quarters are too small.”

  “Too small? She’s just getting me a dress and accessories.” If Leila was representing Seraglio she should be outfitted appropriately. “Even if we need more space, why the Empress Penthouse?” There were other suites available.

  His unfathomable gaze met hers.

  “Because I said so.”

  And Valentine Kincaid’s word was law.

  2

  Two hours later, Leila discovered why her apartment was too small.

  Like all the senior staff who were constantly on call, she lived at Seraglio. Her apartment wasn’t small. It had a spacious bedroom, an office, a living room and a kitchen (although most of the staff ordered from room service). Even so, her quarters weren’t large enough to accommodate the two racks of designer dresses, the dozens of various shoe, lingerie and accessory options, the hairdresser, the manicurist, the cosmetician, Emerald, Leila herself, and the various housekeeping, laundry, front desk and kitchen staff who all had some compelling reason to speak to either Emerald or Leila without delay.

  Apparently, news that the Chief of Security was being Cinderella-esqued was making the rounds faster than the speed of light.

  Still, despite the crowd, this . . . business—she wasn’t going to use the word makeover—didn’t necessitate the Empress Penthouse.

  The only blessing was that her security team knew well enough to stay away—unless they wanted to work the night shift for a month. Except Hyun-Woo, who was currently arguing with Emerald over dress choices while Leila sat in a chair in front of the cosmetician, blinking on command. Her friend of two decades was the only person who could get away with that kind of insolence.

  “The black backless one,” Leila heard him say to Emerald.

  “No. That’s not enough of a statement.”

  “She is a statement. She doesn’t need to make one.”

  Before Leila could shoot him a smile, she heard Emerald’s frustrated reply. “We’re in the Empress Penthouse for one reason only.” Her English accent was clipped. “You might not have understood the message, but then, you’re clearly incapable of reading between the lines.”

  That caught Leila’s attention. What message?

  “The black dress won’t cut it,” the petite brunette said, snatching it from Hyun-Woo’s hand and throwing it down, hanger and all, on the velvet chaise lounge. She began flicking through the dresses on the rack.

  Leila’s back was to them and the angle of the dresser mirror was all wrong, so she couldn’t see. But she could hear hangers sliding along metal and a litany of, “Not this one. Not this one. No. No. No. Mm. Maybe. No. No. No.”

  Leila thought that Emerald might go through them all without finding one that she deemed suitable and send for more. But then she spoke. “This one.”

  Hyun-Woo’s response came instantly. “Pink? You want to put her in flamingo pink?”

  Leila shuddered at the thought. Now she as the one muttering no, no, no—albeit in her head. She still couldn’t see the dress.

  “She has blonde hair, blue eyes, and golden skin. It’s like dressing Grace Kelly. She can pull off any color.”

  “That doesn’t mean she should.” Hyun-Woo almost drawled the words, like a Southerner. It was a strange, sexy mix coupled with his Korean accent, which hadn’t quite faded, despite living in the States since he was a teenager. “What about that dress is better than this one?” He gestured to the discarded black gown.

  “I told you,” Emerald said, enunciating each word. “That dress won’t cut it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re in the Empress Penthouse.”

  Hyun-Woo ran a frustrated hand through his hair. Leila didn’t see it, but she knew he did it. Emerald—and seemingly only Emerald— elicited that reaction from him. “But what—”

  She cut him off. “The Empress Penthouse is designed to accommodate an empress. That is who should walk out of here tonight. That is the expectation set by this room. That is why the GM put us here.”

  Leila stopped listening to their bickering.

  An empress?

  That’s what Valentine Kincaid wanted?

  The faint stirring of butterflies in her stomach made Leila flinch. She barely heard the scolding she received from the woman doing her make-up. Instead, she stared at the reflection in the dresser—at what she could see of the room in which she sat.

  It was massive, with a ceiling two stories high. Huge picture windows were draped with gossamer white sheers, golden sunlight streaming through, sided by dense, toffee-colored curtains. There were exotic woods, richly patterned floor coverings, lushly upholstered settees, plush armchairs, and lounges with gold accents. Silken fabrics and tapestries covered every surface, from the furniture to the walls. A waterfall chandelier was suspended from the domed ceiling, which featured thousands of blush-colored tiles in a breathtaking mosaic. There was a dipping pool on the balcony, its water a glacial blue.

  The Empress Penthouse deserved its name.

  But could she possibly live up to it?

  At the cosmetician’s urgi
ng, Leila absently raised her face and her lips were painted a dewy pink. The manicurist was done, and the stylist had already pinned Leila’s hair in a mass of soft golden curls that gathered at her crown and fell halfway down her back.

  This was not how she had expected her day to end.

  She belonged in the Ops Room, with its bank of screens showing the feeds from the hotel’s myriad cameras, planning security details for VIP guests and assessing threats, usually from disgruntled casino patrons or hate groups.

  Not . . . this.

  But that video, an indistinguishable man against a dark background, spewing vitriolic against the hotel and against its GM, had changed things.

  Threats weren’t unusual.

  This was Sin City and Seraglio’s casino earned more than its fair share of hatred—all casinos did—but it was unusual for it to be directed so specifically against Valentine. That was why he couldn’t go unaccompanied tonight—or for the foreseeable future. Not until they had time to investigate the threat.

  So she had no choice. Tonight, Leila Rose was . . . an empress.

  Seraglio’s Empress.

  “Enough.” The word silenced the bickering behind her.

  “I’ll choose my own dress,” she continued, voice soft steel. “Emerald, clear the room. No one crosses the threshold without my permission. Lee Hyun-Woo, review the security protocols for tonight.” There was a brief movement behind her, and his reflection came into view in the dressing table mirror. She caught his eye and forestalled his words. “Do it again.” Then her gaze flicked to the woman doing her make-up. “Finish quickly.”

  Valentine Kincaid was waiting.

  Leila stood in front of the silver racks and made her selection. There was no choice, really.

  Only one gown drew her gaze like a beacon.

  In the empty, softly lit room, she slipped it up over her hips, encased herself in the formfitting bodice, careful not to catch the long curls that fell down her back, and slowly closed the invisible zipper at her side. Then she turned to face the ornate floor-to-ceiling mirror on the wall opposite.

  Her eyes widened and lips softly parted.

  She was stunned by what she saw, tracing the reflection of her own body, head tilting in wonder. She ran a tentative hand over the waterfall of silk at her hip, and the raw sensuality of the touch made her belly clench.

  The dress made her feel different. In a way she couldn’t quite quantify.

  Herself . . . but not herself.

  Or maybe a version of herself that she didn’t yet know.

  She couldn’t help wondering what Valentine would think.

  Her job required the capacity for action at any time, so she usually wore chic, tailored pantsuits that provided the maximum amount of mobility and that made her look strong, capable and sophisticated. That’s not to say they took away from her femininity.

  They didn’t.

  In fact, the way they conformed to her figure and the traditionally masculine look that, on her, curved at her hips and hugged her long, lean legs, only underscored her delicate frame, heart-shaped face, and silky blonde hair. Trained as she was to notice the people around her, Leila couldn’t help but be aware of the admiring glances that came her way on a regular basis.

  But she had never looked like this before.

  And for some unaccountable reason, it made her nervous.

  Her pulse was fluttering like a trapped butterfly at the base of her throat.

  She wasn’t intimidated by the idea of working in a male-dominated field or of being the best at what she did, but this dress, in addition to making her feel stunningly sensual, made her feel exposed. As if the world would see a part of herself that she kept hidden.

  She wasn’t sure what to do about that fact. Or, who she was more worried about seeing it.

  The world . . . or Valentine Kincaid.

  3

  Leila looked out the glass of the birdcage elevator as it slowly descended over the gaming floor, marveling, as she always did, at the sight that lay before her.

  Seraglio’s casino was . . . extraordinary.

  So unique that it was one of the première casinos in the world. Its code name was Babylon—all the key places and players at Seraglio had security code names.

  With a soft chime, the elevator reached the ground floor. As the doors whispered open and she stepped over the threshold, Leila felt the familiar atmosphere of hope, anticipation and excitement, tempered with despair, woven into a miasma of intricate emotions that characterized gaming halls the world over.

  Traditionally, casinos used psychological tricks to encourage gambling: no clocks and no natural daylight so that patrons lost track of time, a red palette that was warm and enticing, and carpets with mesmerizing symbols, synonymous with fortune and good luck.

  But Babylon was different.

  Make no mistake—the casino was about making money. But its trademark was opulence. It was so stunningly beautiful and different from the artificial, subterranean nature of other casinos that it drew patrons like moths to flame.

  Seraglio’s casino resembled a lush, golden harem with fluttering silks and intricate mosaics, gilded and mirrored surfaces. The floor was marble, generously scattered with Arabic carpets and Persian rugs. There were stunning wall clocks at each cardinal point, which resembled jeweled mosaics comprised of scarlet and turquoise gemstones.

  The ceiling contained a set of large domed skylights. At night, moonlight would flood the hall in a sea of opalescence. During the day, it became an oasis with cloudless skies overhead that were so pure a blue they seemed otherworldly. But the glass domes also shut out the sunshine when it became overwhelming. Then, in planetarium fashion, they transformed into stunning simulations of desert nights or dream landscapes, while golden light shone from Ottoman lamps and chandeliers.

  Patrons didn’t want to leave Babylon not because they lost track of time or were duped into staying, but because it was a fantasy world, and to leave would be to return to reality. In some ways, it was more dangerous than other casinos because it was so utterly entrancing.

  But there were some things that were the same. The sound of roulette tables clicking, cards sliding across green baize and the muted jingle of slot machines reached Leila’s ears. It was Valentine’s Day, but that didn’t keep patrons away. It just meant the floor was brimming with lovers dressed in black-tie attire.

  Whenever Leila left her apartment, she always took the route to Ops that led her through the casino. It was good practice to walk Seraglio, especially Babylon, as often as she could. Without thinking about it, she had come this way because it was second nature.

  But, as she heard the soft but distinct clip of her golden stilettos on the marble floor of the casino promenade, the wide walkway that ran for hundreds of meters through the middle of the gaming floor like a shaft of sunlight through the dark, framed by exotic palms trees and lush orchids and amaryllis, she realized that it may have been a mistake.

  She should have taken the staff alleyways that cobwebbed through the massive complex, out of sight from the guests.

  Because, except for the sounds of the machines, everything else faded—the dealer’s voices, the pitter-patter, the spinning roulette wheels and the click of chips. As she walked, she cut a swathe of silence, until she could hear the almost indiscernible glide of the silk train that shadowed her.

  Because she was the focus of a thousand eyes.

  Ahead of her, the marble promenade emptied as patrons parted like the Red Sea, until there was no one between her and the magnificent gilded archway that signaled the entrance to Seraglio’s lobby, called Atrium, every bit as grand as the gaming hall through which she passed, another Byzantium fantasy reminiscent of an ancient world or a celestial heaven.

  And Leila Rose outshone it all.

  As Leila reached the door to Valentine’s office, code name Sanctum, she paused. She was ten minutes early. Somehow, the thought of crossing this threshold was a thousand times more intimidati
ng than walking through Babylon.

  She always steeled herself when she entered his domain—not that all of Seraglio wasn’t his domain—but this was the lion’s den.

  She could never quantify why she felt that way, or why, tonight, it was so much worse. Though she suspected the way she looked had something to do with the flutters in her stomach.

  She allowed her lashes to sweep down and settle before she raised her hand and knocked twice, the way she always did; softly, but never tentatively.

  In a privilege reserved for few, Valentine had told her soon after she began working at Seraglio to not wait for him to respond when she knocked. Sometimes he was on a call or engrossed in his work and didn’t always answer, and if the Chief of Security was at his door, he wanted to know why. There was no chance she’d interrupt a meeting—this area was restricted, and, for security reasons, she always knew his schedule and when visitors entered the executive offices. So Leila did what she always did after she knocked.

  After a heartbeat, her lashes fluttered up and she opened the door.

  4

  The room was dim, and Leila’s senses heightened, unused to seeing it in shadows. There was only a single lit lamp, in the far corner. Leila sought Valentine behind his desk, but his leather chair stood empty.

  She took a step forward, into the small pool of light that spilled in from the reception area, haloing her like a goddess in sunshine. Her eyes swept the dark room.

  She felt him before she saw him.

  He stood in the opposite corner, near the dark void that led to the en suite. For the first time ever in front of Valentine Kincaid, Leila faltered. She took one tiny step back as her breath caught in her throat and her heart fluttered like a hummingbird. Her eyes widened, locking with fathomless pools of darkness that halted her retreat.

  After what seemed a thousand heartbeats, Valentine’s eyes left Leila’s and slid downwards. They touched her throat, her décolletage, the curve of her waist, as carefully and as thoroughly as if it were his hands that traversed her body.