Buyer Beware (Caldwell Brothers Book 1)

by Colleen Charles

  A flash of sunlight catches my eye, and when I hear the ding of the elevator, I ignore it. The Armónico has a giant atrium with a glass roof, and the guest rooms surround it on all four sides. There's a courtyard below with exotic plants, sculptures, and other works of art. Miles of walking paths and paved nooks abound, and any guest staying in the hotel can get an outdoor experience anytime the heat or cold becomes too much to bear. Nixon Caldwell basically put a mockup of Central Park inside his hotel. The only thing missing is a horse and carriage ride. It even boasts a merry-go-round.

  I stand just shy of the railing, enjoying the warmth of the summer sun on my face. It doesn't take long to get hot in spite of the air conditioning. I look down at the casino guests. From my vantage point, they resemble colorful insects scampering around. One woman, in particular, catches my eye. She's wearing some kind of polyester checked onesie. I think it's from the seventies because I saw something like it one time at Savers. Vintage for sure.

  In a fit of temper, I pick up the contents of the box and dump it over the side of the railing. I delight in the designer clothes catching the draft and floating ever downward like colorful kites, drifting lower and lower. The woman in the onesie looks up, shielding her eyes with her hand. A man who must be her husband, complete with white knee socks, sandals, and a black canvas fanny pack moves to stand beside her.

  "Would you look at that, Ethel? It's raining drawers. With tags."

  Ethel shrieks in delight as one of her chubby hands plucks the La Perla bra straight from the sky. If she thinks she's going to squeeze her size G tits into it, she's sadly mistaken, but that doesn't stop her from screaming like she just hit the Powerball. After that, all hell breaks loose. Every woman within ten yards of the clothes explosion runs to scoop up whatever they can. With a smile of delight, I turn away and catch the elevator. Serves his arrogant ass right.

  * * *

  Lincoln takes a block from Nixon, and they decide where to build their makeshift castle taller. Lincoln told me a story yesterday about how he wants to get big so he can visit Ireland and see the Blarney Castle. I slipped in so quietly that they haven't noticed me yet. I lean against the door, remaining still so I don't attract attention. From my perch against the door, I can stare at him, and look my fill without embarrassment. In spite of his presumptuous job and unwelcome gifts, he still sets my heart to racing like no other man.

  He's taken his suit coat off, and it lays casually on a chair. His crisp white dress shirt stretches across his muscular back as he reaches for the biggest block. Linc giggles and throws his arms around his brother's neck, practically climbing into his lap. Nixon busses a kiss to the little boy's head.

  While I can, I take the rest of him in. His tie is red. The color of power. And anyone with a beating heart could see he reeks of it. He could be standing in the middle of the room naked, and I'd know not to trifle with Nixon Caldwell.

  Those dark eyes haven't pierced me with their hypnotic quality yet. When he finally looks, I expect I'll lose all breath and sense. He's got a thick head of black hair just like Lincoln, but his is impeccably styled and cropped closer to his head. Even though he probably shaved this morning, his face already carries a slightly darker shade from the black of his beard. I wonder what he would look like with a day's worth of sexy scruff. I wonder what it would feel like if he rubbed his face against my inner thigh.

  As if he knows I'm fantasizing about his mouth a hair's breadth away from my wet sex, he looks up, and I'm caught staring at him. He smiles, and it actually reaches his eyes. I was right about the breath and the sense. Add to that list wobbly knees and wet panties.

  Lincoln follows his brother's gaze. "Miss Marcella! You're back!"

  He struggles to his feet, all gangly limbs and braces. The smile on Linc's face lights up the entire room, and my heart skips a beat.

  "Hi, Linc." I walk into the room and hope I don't face plant due to my shaky leg syndrome.

  "Good morning, Marcella." The way he speaks my name makes it sound like he just told me to get naked and lie down in his bed. It's all smooth like butter but rich like chocolate. I hope he doesn't say anything else because no matter how many deep breaths I take, it's not working to calm my racing heart and pounding blood.

  "Morning."

  Nixon rises to his feet, then stretches like a cat, and I can't help but stare at him. He's all planes and sinew, the muscles practically begging to be released from the confines of cotton and merino wool. His shoes look like something out of GQ. Some exotic leather. A poor ostrich probably buried its head in the sand and then got shot in the ass just to make some rich bastard's fancy shoes. I bet he's never even worn a pair of sneakers, even to the gym.

  "I'd like to discuss something with you before I get back to my office," he says and I back up. He's closing the gap between us when all I want is to keep my distance. Having a few yards between us seems so imperative that if he gets any closer, I might toss myself in his direction. I've only worked for him for a couple of days, what could he possibly have to talk to me about? As I watch him, it hits me.

  He found out I threw his clothes over the railing, and he's pissed. Well, I'm pissed, too.

  "What about?"

  He opens the door and ushers me through, leaving Linc alone in the room to play until I can return. I hope he keeps it short. I stand there, not knowing what to do with my hands, so I end up twisting my fingers together. Waiting for the recriminations and preparing my defense, I end up surprised when he says, "I'd like you to have dinner with me. I need to talk about Linc's therapy. Which night this week would be convenient for you?"

  He didn't really ask. He's demanding it and not giving me a choice to say no without sounding like a complete imbecile. The charm's down pat, I'll give him that. But underneath it, there's something else. More like carefully restrained anger, and it gives him a dangerous edge. I know I'll only be able to push this man so far since he's used to getting his every whim catered to by everyone around him.

  "Dinner? Can't we just make an appointment to talk after my shift is over? How about lunch instead?"

  The thought of going to dinner with him excites and terrifies me all at the same time. There's something intimate about dinner. Like a date. He's probably ten years older than I am. I can't date this man. We have nothing in common. Nausea bubbles up the back of my throat, and the ache in the pit of my chest make a liar out of me. I know of at least one thing we have in common.

  The situation feels like some warped attempt to control me. And why? I'm an employee, so he already has some semblance of control over my actions as a para for his brother. Not that I have much experience with manly control. They've always been a mystery to me, and I've never gotten close enough to anyone other than family to even give a shit what they do or don't do. I narrow my eyes and challenge him.

  "I'd prefer dinner since I either have business meetings for lunch or I eat with Linc. It's easier for me to get free in the later evening when the day's winding down."

  He's making perfect sense, but that doesn't make it any easier. My entire body screams yes, but my logical mind pumps the brakes. He looks at me as if it's already a done deal. I don't know how to get out of it gracefully since I really need this job, and I'm already starting to love it. It's so much more fulfilling than cleaning up after drunks and hookers.

  "Okay. Does Friday work for you?" The moment the words escape my mouth I regret them. Christ, Friday is date night.

  He smiles and nods. "That works for me. I'll have Carol text you with the details."

  "I'll be on the lookout for her text," I say, not sure what else is appropriate.

  He starts to leave but then throws a statement back over his shoulder. "And wear one of those nice dresses I had sent up. There will be times that Lincoln has to attend activities outside the casino and you'll need to accompany him. I wanted to make sure you had appropriate attire without you having to buy new things. It's only right that wardrobe for this position be provided by the hotel
."

  Damn and double damn.

  "Yeah, Mr. Caldwell, about that—"

  He cocks a brow. "You didn't like any of them? Taryn Mitchell will be happy to exchange them for something you do like. Why don't you head down to her shop on the promenade after your shift?"

  "Ah…" He narrows his eyes, and the only thing I can do is come clean. "No, it's not that. It's just…I…I…threw everything from inside that box over the balcony."

  "You did what?"

  I rush in to explain my bizarre behavior, pointing to the railing in question. "I thought you were trying to insult my clothes, so I wanted to prove I didn't want or need anything else from you outside of my normal paycheck. I threw the box into the courtyard yesterday."

  He walks over and peers over the side as if he would find the expensive items just laying atop the bushes below and could snap his fingers to have them retrieved.

  "I see." Only a slight twitch of his fingers give away his annoyance. For a moment, I wish he'd yell at me. Anything seems easier than this fake calm he's exuding. "Well, why don't you go down anyway and have Taryn get you some more things. Anything you want. Just make sure she puts it on my tab."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Caldwell. It was rash and so unlike me. I don't want you to think that I'd ever have a fit of temper like that around Linc."

  He turns around, and his eyes fall to my toes before returning back to carefully examine my face. "I'll admit it is rather surprising based on my conversation with Mrs. Olivero. She assured me of your kind and loving nature. My brother's care is important to me. I don't think I told you, but I'm the oldest of five. All boys. Linc's the youngest so we're all a little overprotective of him. That has nothing to do with his disability by the way. We love each other. Fiercely."

  I blush and look down at my torn sneakers. Mrs. Olivero's right, but I've acted like nothing but a rude and spoiled brat since I met Nixon. It's only because he does something to my insides that scares and upsets me. It feels like I'm going all soft in the middle over a man who'd only take my tenderness and burn it at the stake as he watched it spiral across the hazy horizon.

  "It won't happen again. Just please ask me before you buy me anything else, okay?" I lift my eyes to his, and he nods again.

  "I totally agree. It was presumptuous of me to gift first without giving you a proper explanation of my actions. Please accept my apologies."

  With another nod, he walks toward his private elevator, and I use the time to admire his tight ass. God, I have to stop this before it makes me do or say something I'll regret. Nothing's more important than saving enough money to get to college.

  Nothing.

  Chapter Ten – Nixon

  "Has everything been handled to my specifications? I mean everything. Every last detail has to be just right."

  Carol looks at me as if I've lost my fool mind, and I feel like I already have. Every action and word have been out of character since I met Marcella and experienced what it’s like to want one woman with every breath in my body. I guess my assistant's confused because I've never asked her to do anything like this for me before. I don't date. And when I do need the company of a lady, I certainly don't plan anything at my own establishment when Vegas is filled with five-star restaurants and big name entertainment. I don't have to shit where I eat.

  "Everything's exactly as you've asked. I've checked it myself, so I think you'll be pleased. Who—"

  I lift up a hand to cut her off before she asks me a question I refuse to answer. My assistant sure as hell doesn't need to know that I'm wining and dining Linc's para. That would make me look like an asshole, and as discreet as Carol is, I can't expect her not to have an opinion about it. If judgment's going to color her expression, I don't want to see it.

  I glance down at my Rolex and notice that it's only seven. I've still got an hour to check on everything, take a quick shower, and get dressed before Marcella arrives. Troy's sending a car to pick her up. Taryn called about five and assured me she'd come down and picked out some new things. Except this time, she didn't select as many items as Taryn had originally selected for her. When I looked at the e-bill, I was a little annoyed since it didn't even come to two grand. But I brushed it aside without even a hint of surprise. She's got pride and an independent streak a mile wide. I admire it unless it's in direct contradiction to what I want.

  Before taking the elevator to my penthouse, I check the preparations on the rooftop terrace. We only use it for special occasions like meet and greet cocktail parties with some of the bigger bands that play the Armónico. But tonight, it belongs solely to Marcella. If everything goes right, I can soften her toward me and start moving her toward my bed where she belongs. I'll claim her and brand her as mine even if it's wrong. The woman's infiltrated my every cell, and I can no longer deny myself the indulgence of her body.

  The caterer, Jill Winthrop, is the best at the hotel, and she'll have every course timed down to the second. My only concern is the temperature of the food. I'm exacting and a foodie. The menu contains every luxury I thought Marcella might enjoy. I stiffen because, in fact, I didn't do enough intel. She'll probably tell me she's a vegan and all my effort will go straight down the drain.

  "It's business," I say, lying straight to Carol's face. "It's about Linc."

  She shakes her head and doesn't say anything else. The thing I value most about Carol is her ability to keep things between us right along with her usual expediency.

  I push the button of my private elevator and step into the car. As it lifts upward, I tap my foot, an impatient habit. Until I see the décor and the logistics of the rooftop for myself, I'm not going to exhale or go to my penthouse to get ready. I even had the bar stocked with a bottle of a non-alcoholic wine for Marcella in case she doesn't drink. When the doors slide open, my critical eyes sweep the area.

  A portable bar's been set up in the corner. A table for two shines with pristine white linens. If I find even one fleck of lint or dirt on them, I'll be pissed and demand them changed. As I approach, my eyes sweep the vast area, and I notice that the sparkling lights are all in order. I asked to have strands of white twinkle lights strung on every available surface. At eight, between the lights of the strip and the lights we strung, this whole patio will glimmer with the vibrancy of a thousand stars. I'm pleased, really pleased. Flowers grace every flat surface. Irises. They were my mom's favorite.

  Once I'm satisfied that everything is in order, I turn on my heel and return to my suite of rooms. I jump in my oversized shower and let the four showerheads pulse the tension from my body. You're just tight because you're unsure of her reaction. Calm yourself down, Caldwell. Women don't get you wound up.

  In spite of my personal pep talk, I struggle to pick out a suit as I rub the ache in my chest that won't go away. I'm clearly aware of the fact that I'm a fucked up piece of shit who appears to have it all going on. But I don't, not by a longshot.

  I'm going tieless because I don't want her to feel under-dressed or uncomfortable if she didn't pick out a fancy cocktail dress. And I can't even imagine she did that since she didn't have the resources for such luxuries. Other than this offhand occasion, where in the hell would she wear it?

  I finally decide on a blue pin-striped Armani with skinnier legs and a pair of custom Italian loafers. In the moment, I want to slap myself across the face. I totally picked it because it brings out the color of my dark blue eyes. And I want her to notice. I don't even give a shit if she notices the fancy dinner or the thousands of twinkling lights strung for her pleasure. I want her to see me.

  My phone buzzes.

  "Caldwell."

  "Hey, boss," Troy says. "She's here. She's on her way up, so it will probably be only a couple minutes or so."

  I hold my breath. "Troy, what's she wearing?"

  There's a long pause, and even though it's silent, I can imagine the unspoken words. "What the fuck, man? A dress. You know I don't notice that shit. I don't even remember what color it was. But it's not red. That I
know for sure."

  I roll my eyes. Fat lot of good my right-hand man is in this situation. I feel like if I know what she's wearing in advance, I can prepare myself so I don't freak her out with some kind of strange reaction. I try to picture her legs in a dress. I've only seen her a couple of times, and she's been wearing jeans and sneakers for both of them.

  I ride the elevator back up and walk over to the pipe railing so I can look out over the strip. Tourists scramble down below like bright colored ants marching. I'm like a king on his chrome and mortar throne, surveying his domain. Soon, I'll own this entire damn town, and my father will be avenged. I won't stop until that happens, and he can finally rest in peace. Not until Dante Giovanetti is dirt poor and living in a cell.

  When I hear the ding, I don't turn. Instead, I inhale and steel myself. A mask of calm indifference comes over me in spite of my pounding heart. I've been hiding my emotions for so long, it's become second nature. Once I hear the click of heels on the cement, I spin around to face her.

  Fuck.

  It's definitely not a red dress per the highly non-observant Troy Cass. It's silk in a vibrant shade of copper that highlights her hair and eyes. It hugs every curve in all the right places, lifting her full breasts while cradling her hips and ass. I know I should speak, even if I stutter at the sight of her. She's breathtaking. I open my mouth, but when nothing comes out, I clamp it shut.

  She walks closer, closing the gap, and her eyes never leave mine. The bartender walks behind the bar and slams the top down on the ice bucket, breaking my trance.

  "Good evening, Marcella. Would you like a drink?"

  Is that my voice? I don't fucking even know anymore. It sounds like some gritty, raspy porno guy about to pound his ten-inch dick inside a two-bit whore. It's the kind of voice that lays empty promises at a woman's feet. The kind of assurances I could never, ever keep.