“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 open 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.
11
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 a
lways 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.
Not being a girlfriend. At least, not to Ian.
I was becoming less sure of how I felt about everything else.
* * *
“Who’s hungry?” Lance kicked open the door to the control room, then maneuvered in, his hands full of bags from…. I leaned sideways on the couch in an attempt to read the ticket. Thai Garden.
I raised a hand. “Me. Feed me now, oh great leader.”
“About time. I’m starving.” Rick grabbed a bag from Lance and started pulling out mini boxes of takeout. I heaved myself off the couch and grabbed a handful of paper plates. My phone buzzed from the coffee table, and Lance snagged it, glancing at the display before he handed it over. His brows raised.
“What?” I snatched it from him.
“Nothing.”
I glanced down, saw Dario’s name on the text message notification, then swiped open the message.
—the Irish boy isn’t good enough for you
I locked the phone and tossed it onto the couch. Sitting down, I used chopsticks to pull out a chunk of noodles.
“Dario Capece?” Lance asked.
So much for him not commenting on it. I ignored him, scooping up a mouthful of Pad Thai.
“What about Dario Capece?” Rick chomped on the bait like a rabid raccoon.
“He’s texting B.”
“What about?”
Rick’s question hung in the air and, with only three of us in the room, was impossible to ignore.
“Stupid stuff.” I shrugged. “You know guys like him. They think they can take what they want. It’s not anything serious.”
“It’s not anything serious?” Lance repeated. “B, I’m pretty sure that every fucking thing Dario Capece does is serious.”
Rick followed suit. “If Capece is interested in you, you’ve got to keep a lid on this. You know who his father-in-law is, right?”
I finished chewing and took a sip of my soda before answering him. “Super-rich guy. And … let me guess—some mobster?”
Lance and Rick exchanged a look that had me setting down my paper plate. “What? Spit it out.”
Lance leaned forward, pressing his palms together before speaking. “He’s not connected, it’s more that he’s a fuckin’ psychopath. He cut the fingers off his last GM when he suspected him of embezzling. Had the guy so scared, he didn’t even press charges.”
Rick nodded. “A decade ago, before Dario came around—The Majestic was losing cocktail waitresses. Not because they were quitting, but because they were disappearing. Rumor on the Strip was that he liked to keep them as pets.”
“Pets?”
Lance jumped in. “Chained up in his basement. A few parents called the cops, reported their daughters missing, and LVPD sniffed around Hawk, but they could never find anything. Plus, you know those guys. They got half the department in their pockets.”
“And you guys don’t?” I smiled, but they didn’t take the bait, the somber expressions on their faces causing me to change tactics. “Fine. You’ve scared me, okay? I’ll stay away.”
Rick wasn’t done. “And don’t talk to anyone about this. Not your roommates, or Britni, or anyone. You need to gush over Capece’s gigantic cock? Tell us about it.”
“A modified version, please.” Lance grinned at me. “I can’t have my ego damaged by some Italian asshole.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to need to share any sordid details. Like I just said, I’ll stay away.”
“Sordid?” Lance laughed before popping a crunchy noodle into his mouth. “You can’t use big words like that in here, B. Rick gets confused.”
Rick flicked a soy sauce package toward Lance in response, and I stood up, reaching for it and dropping it into the takeout bag.
“You. Guys. Are. Pigs. Are those small enough words for you?” I dropped the bag on the table before him and smacked Lance on the back of the head.
He laughed in response. “But seriously, B. Watch your back.”
“Forget watching your back. Just don’t let Capece put you on your back,” Rick added.
I thought of the fantasies that had plagued me ever since that kiss in the club. His eyes, burning across my skin, my legs open, his fingers and mouth strumming over me in sweet concert. Don’t let Capece put you on your back. I winced and tried to redirect my thoughts, turning to their stories of Robert Hawk, chopped-off fingers, and missing cocktail waitresses. Waitresses like me, serving drinks, counting tips, and trying to get from one week to the next. Girls kept and probably killed by a psychotic billionaire whose daughter was married to Dario Capece.
Girls like me didn’t have a great track record with luck, and a dinner on Sunday night would be hell on my odds.
“I don’t lik
e to waste my time, Bell. If you don’t want me to chase you, I won’t.”
He had said the words with such solemnness. Maybe he would leave me alone. Maybe all I had to do was tell him to go away, and he would disappear. Problem over. Fates averted.
I sat down on the couch and reopened his text.
—the Irish boy isn’t good enough for you
I ignored the barb and settled back against the cushion, thinking of my promise to the boys, to stay away from Dario. I typed out a response.
please don’t contact me again
I reread the text before sending it. Moved my thumb over the Send button and paused. It was short and sweet, with no room for confusion or misinterpretation. Polite yet firm. I sent the text before I had a chance to change my mind.
12
For the entire shift, the text followed me, taunting me, and I was almost sick with nerves by the time I watched the last customer stumble out. I should have felt resolution. Peace. Instead, it felt like a mistake. A mistake I couldn’t talk to anyone about. A mistake that had Dario’s voice whispering in my ear, the phantom brush of his fingertips on my shoulder, his kiss on my neck. A kiss I’d never feel again.
I had lost control with him, my stability seeming to dissolve the longer I’d stayed in his presence. It was all just as confusing as the conflict I’d seen in his eyes.
I carried empty glasses and wiped down the bar, thinking of his hand closing around my waist, drawing me against his body, the soft give and dominance of his mouth against mine. The look of torture in his eyes when he’d stepped away from me.
“The women don’t mean anything to me. Maybe I’m ready for someone who does.”
Had it all been bullshit, lines of seduction that a dozen Vegas brunettes had heard? I stacked my tips, then handed them through the cage. Maurice spread the chips, then counted out my bills, passing them over with a smile.
ALL IN: A Romantic Suspense Page 7
