Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
No one had described it accurately, Sophia Melano thought.
The freedom. The excitement. The nervous anticipation. The unconquerable hope.
In all the entrepreneurial magazines she’d subscribed to over the past five years, no sentence or phrase adequately captured finally arriving at the peak of the once-distant summit of business ownership.
A smile spread across her lips.
She’d done it.
Written the final check for the deposit on her storefront. Printed fresh business cards with her title as President and CEO. And most exhilarating of all, put in her two weeks’ notice.
Unable to focus on the last few invoices of the day, she wheeled back from her desk. Filled with satisfaction, she crossed her ankles, folded her hands behind her head, and stared up at the garish florescent lights.
In her new office, she’d rely more on lamps than glaring overhead lighting. She’d paint the walls with soothing, cozy colors. Sit behind a real, solid wood desk. Hang beautiful artwork. Who said an accounting office couldn’t be comfortable or inviting? Especially considering all the long hours she planned to spend there, building her clientele, solidifying her sterling reputation.
Not that she didn’t appreciate all the experience and knowledge she’d gained working her way up to Chief Accounting Officer at the Golden Palms Casino. As far as Las Vegas casinos went, owner Alex Atlas ran one of the best. He’d offered her as much authority and seniority as she’d desired—well-earned, of course. Mr. Atlas was tough but fair. She respected that, admired him for the empire he’d built from the ground up.
However, the time had come to take the leap, strike out and become her own boss. The sound of those glorious words would never get old.
She thought of her mom.
Wistfulness touched the corners of her eyes with a wet sheen. She could almost feel Mom’s hand on her shoulder. At last, the dream her mother had fostered in her for nearly three decades was coming true. Be your own woman, Phi. Own your own business, make your own money. That’s your ticket to freedom. Become the girl I’ve always been so proud of.
Though she knew Mom was in a better place, without a permanently attached IV or countless tubes entering her body or unfathomable pain, Sophia missed the woman’s strength and indomitable spirit. She never could’ve done this without Mom’s belief in her—or the life insurance left to her. When she’d seen the nest-egg-worthy sum, she’d known exactly what to save it toward.
She had arrived.
“You look way too happy for a Thursday. Like the cat that ate ten canaries.” The woman’s wry, smoke-roughened voice pierced her reverie.
Sophia popped open her eyes to see the accounting department’s secretary, Maribeth, leaning a hip against her desk, arms crossed under her ample upper half.
Playfully, Sophia dusted the corners of her mouth. “Are the feathers showing?”
Humor danced in Maribeth’s eyes, reflected in her rosy cheeks. “Let me guess.” She tossed her curly black hair and tilted her head. “You made it official.”
“I did.” Sophia beamed. “A hour ago I left my notice of resignation for Mr. Atlas. The next place I work will have my name on the letterhead—and the door.”
Maribeth sighed. “I’m so jealous. Sure you can’t take me with you?”
“Oh, please. You love it here. You’re a lifer.”
The woman shrugged beneath her flowing blue cardigan that matched her eyes. “After nineteen years, I guess I am.”
“Besides, I couldn’t afford you. And the department would be in shambles without you here, reining in these wild beasts.”
“Accountants?” Maribeth cast her a droll look. “More like herding domesticated cats. Never thought I’d go from the Improv stage to being stuck with the stuffiest, lamest, most uninventive people on the planet. Except you,” she added.
Drawing her eyebrows together, Sophia reflected, “I don’t know, I’m pretty boring.”
Maribeth huffed. “Not remotely, compared to the rest of these antisocial introverts. God help me. I pray daily not to die from boredom. With you gone, I’ll be on speed dial with the Holy Blessed Virgin.” She crossed herself. “Mary Mother of God, they’re worse than talking to statues.”
“They’re not that bad,” Sophia said, but personally agreed with the assessment.
Maribeth’s face suddenly lit up. “You know what? Your last two weeks here, we should start naming them after statues. No, after gargoyles.”
Sophia suppressed a curiously amused grin. “What are gargoyles named? Do they even have names?”
Maribeth smirked. “They do now.”
“What, like Sound of Silence? Or Hunchback of Notre Cubicle?”
Mischief twinkled in the woman’s eyes. “Luke-warm the Tepid. Ben the Bagel Snatcher. Sanchez the Sinister. Damen the Dirty.”
Oh, God, the monikers all fit. Too well.
Sophia clapped a hand over her mouth to keep her laughter from erupting. She calmed herself enough to add, “Gary the Grumpy. Jude the Prude.”
Maribeth cheerfully chimed in, “Catherine the Not So Great—really, not even mediocre.”
Eyes watering, Sophia fought to suppress her giggles.
“Sarah the Suck Up. Mary Waaaay Beyond Contrary, the argumentative ho.”
That drew a sort from Sophia. She clutched her stomach, gasping for breath. She envisioned them all alongside each other, each frozen in stone, matching their dour personalities. Forever grouped together on some gothic cathedral. It might not have been hilarious to anyone else, but since they’d worked together with these people, day in and day out for the past nine or so years, it was beyond entertaining.
Sophia collected herself. “Why did you ever leave Stand-Up?”
Maribeth shrugged, though it was clear she’d reveled in Sophia’s amusement. “Same reason every starving artist goes into Corporate America. The gift doesn’t pay the bills.”
“I don’t believe that,” Sophia insisted. “But I’m so thankful having worked with you here. You bring a smile to my face daily, for…has it really been nine years?”
Maribeth nodded. “You were a fresh-faced intern, about to graduate college, girl. You’ve come a long way. I’m gonna miss the hell out of you.”
They exchanged a look of mutual appreciation.
The woman flicked the paltry leaves of the office plant on Sophia’s desk. “Who else in this department is going to laugh at my idiotic jokes?” She added, “Definitely not Stan the Staid.”
“I heard that,” Stan said from the closest cubicle, likely the only one who’d overheard their conversation, the rest self-involved in their headphones and computer screens.
Maribeth quipped, “At least I didn’t say Stan the Stupid.”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep amusing yourself over there,” Stan droned, with a rare glimpse of irony in his tone.
“Oh, I will,” Maribeth assured.
Stan poked his head up from his cubicle, alert like an African Prairie Dog, with slicked back hair and big ears to match. “Don’t forget Maribeth the Bonny Witch.”
“Stan, that’s not a thing,” she responded with a scoff.
“It is a thing,” Stan stated.
“If it’s not funny, who cares?”
“It’s a real statue,” he declared, as if his inner nerd was just getting warmed up. “With much history behind it. It’s rather mysterious,” he added shyly. “It has a B in it to go with your name, Maribeth. That counts.”
“No, Stan. No it doesn’t.”
“Gi
ve him a little leeway,” Sophia suggested gently. “He’s worked here for three years, and it’s obvious he adores you. He brings you bagels every morning, and he laughs at all your jokes, too.”
The woman leaned in close and spoke low. “If I gave in to him, do you think he’d still bring me bagels?”
That notion dimmed Sophia’s spirit a notch. Was that why Todd hadn’t called or texted this entire week he’d gone to California to see family? Had she given too much of herself to him, too soon?
To counteract her whisper, Maribeth sighed exaggeratedly. “See what I’m left with?” She shook her palms skyward. “No one gets me, but you, Sophia.”
Oh, she would sooo miss Maribeth. “Take care of Degas for me, will you? I won it at the company party’s silent auction, so I feel it should stay here.”
Maribeth made an agonized face, and retreated from the plant on her desk.
Really? Sophia thought. Stan is acceptable, but my plant doesn’t rate?
“It’s Medusa incarnate.”
“Stop. It’s just Dud.”
“Not well named! That thing is an overgrown monstrosity. A freak plant that somehow survives without sunlight in our windowless cave.”
“I’ve had him for two years.”
Maribeth’s lip curled. “What is it, even?”
Sophia patted the bizarre dreadlock-tentacles sprouting listless leaves, spilling out of its mason jar container. “I don’t know, but don’t hurt its feelings.”
“Blech. Fine, welcome to our own Corporate America Little Shop of Horrors—” The smirk died on Maribeth’s face. “Uh oh.”
At the woman’s stark, colorless expression, Sophia sat upright. Her chair smacked her in the back of the head like a rude slap. “What?”
“The Gestapo is headed this way.” Maribeth rushed back to her own desk, not far from Sophia’s. She announced in her smoky foghorn voice, “Everyone look busy. Get off PinUp, SnapFuck, FaceChat, whatever. Pretend you work for a living.”
Immediately, Sophia jiggled her mouse and clicked on the spreadsheet she’d minimized twenty minutes earlier. Several invoices, rounding out at $3,000,000 apiece, popped up on her screen.
The Gestapo—Maribeth’s synonym for The Muscle at the casino—included a band of shark-eyed, gym-rat guys who looked like they’d failed out of MMA championships, and now served as Mr. Atlas’s in-house police.
Every time The Muscle came around, people cowered behind their desks. Their intimidation techniques could make a priest question God. That piss-your-pants reaction was a natural response to the possibility of getting hauled off into the Panic Room. A lovely term for where Alex Atlas stowed thieves and card counters, assholes and fighters, addicts and idiots.
Basically, all those who didn’t act appropriately in his casino were ushered to the Panic Room. Where, rumor had it, they were supposedly put in their place, without reliance on outside authorities. Mr. Atlas avoided the cops whenever possible, and apparently whatever tactics took place in the detested room were effective. That was the one place you never wanted to go, because you wouldn’t come back out the same.
Forcing herself to relax, assuring herself the brute force would pass right by the insignificant accounting department, she faked tapping on her keyboard while covertly peering through the windows facing the interior walkway. Mr. Atlas had formed the behind-the-scenes offices like a galleria, all major departments centered on a main oval corridor, with glass balconies visible to the floors above and below.
All watched with palpable apprehension as the men approached, then passed by one corporate office after another.
Even from a distance, she could see the hard determination in their faces. Their looks were accusatory and damning. Someone had wronged the Big Guy. The Master. And they were out for blood.
They stalked the halls, intent on locating their prey. They were the hunters. Everyone else, the hunted.
If Alex Atlas did nothing else, he created an impression.
In all ways.
The “impression” part distractedly reminded her of Todd. Her boyfriend lived life no holds barred, like there was no past. Only tomorrow. They’d stayed up until all hours of the night when he came to stay with her, discussing their big dreams and plans, respectively. He wanted so much from the future…as much as she wanted from hers. He’d made everything colorful, hopeful again. Because he’d said he was staying, to create a tech start-up with family money.
Staying meant a lot to her.
In downtown Las Vegas, few people stayed. Most with decent, semi-permanent jobs created families out in the suburbs, like most of her friends—until her last, dearest friend moved with her husband to Portland, Oregon, to be near his relatives.
The exceptions included the con artists, prostitutes and gigolos, and a haphazard collection of magicians and musicians. Maybe a handful of billionaire casino owners, like Mr. Atlas. The stage-struck crowd of stunning dancers spent two to five years perfecting their craft, I their prime, only to take their skills elsewhere. There were also the Joan Rivers-type drag queen comedy acts, but even they went on tour.
No real, datable young professionals stayed. Except maybe Maribeth. Or Stan. And they weren’t within her criteria of datable or young professionals.
Todd was the first man who’d shown true promise. In a long time.
Despite The Muscle bearing down, she glanced at a framed poem on her desk, one Todd had written himself—her perfect Renaissance man—and her heart softened. He’d promised her everything she’d almost given up hoping for. He came from a prestigious family, and as soon as he took care of his dying mother’s last wishes, he’d come back to Vegas to be with her, like he’d promised. Then, they’d live out all the exciting visions they’d shared while lying in bed after making love, wrapped in the comforting embrace of pure acceptance.
Compassion cinched her chest. She knew better than anyone, about being there for a dying mother.
Staring dreamily at the poem, she admitted the thought too good to be true had crossed her mind, when it came to Todd. But she wasn’t stupid, or desperate, or easily charmed, or swept up in fantasies. She liked her life neat and orderly, and Todd had taken his place as one of the rare men who met all her criteria.
Uninvited, a niggling concern pricked the back of her mind. Why wouldn’t he acknowledge her calls? Send just one text message?
A disturbing, gurgling noise yanked her attention in Maribeth’s direction.
The woman had gone stock still. Her mouth hung open.
Sophia froze, too, as The Muscle flung open the doors of the accounting department.
Six sets of cold, hard eyes scanned the open area, honeycombed by cubicle groups, from left to right. That simultaneous sweep unnerved her, like they functioned as separate robots controlled by one mind. Each driven by the same singular cause.
All at once, those eyes settled on her.
The department let out a collective gasp.
Sophia sat motionless, too stunned to react.
No. they couldn’t possibly be there for her. All she’d done was put in her resignation. Hardly a crime warranting this response from her boss.
She shook her head like any moment her brain would self-correct this bizarre hallucination.
Except, it didn’t.
The six men came at her like a siege of bulls aiming for a red flag in an open arena.
She swallowed against the sandpaper at the back of her throat. Her saliva became superglue, sticking her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
Mute, she scrambled up from her desk. She backed away from the small yet ferocious mob.
Out of desperation, she found her voice. “What do you want from me?”
“You’re coming with us,” the presumed leader of the pack stated.
As if that was an answer?
Her logical mind snapped into place like a missing piece needed to complete an incomprehensible jigsaw puzzle. “There’s been a mistake. I’m not the person you’re looking for.”
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br /> The leader eyed her coolly. “Sophia Melano?”
She gulped.
If she didn’t respond, would they go away?
Instead, they took her lack of words as guilt by silent omission. Two of the men stepped forward, wrapping their hands around her upper arms.
“Come with us.”
Wincing at the harsh dual-grip on her arms, she knew she couldn’t fight their unyielding grasps. Jeez, were their fingers reinforced with titanium? Maybe they were part robot. Unthinking. Unfeeling. Unable to independently assess that she was clearly an innocent woman who hadn’t committed whatever heinous act she’d been accused of performing.
As they half-guided, half-dragged her from the accounting department, she passed Maribeth’s desk and begged the woman, “Please, call Todd. He’s on my emergency contact list. Tell him I need him. Now.”
Maribeth nodded grimly. “I will, honey. I’ll let him know—”
The woman’s voice was cut off by the department’s glass doors of rattling shut. The force alone should’ve shattered them.
Spikes of terror impaled her, as they ushered her down the hall, past all the other departments. People, her colleagues, plastered themselves against the glass partitions, gaping at her.
Cheeks hot with humiliation, she could already hear the whispers of rumors and accusations. The Muscle ended her professional walk of shame at the elevator. The leader pushed the button with his thumb, which boasted a huge, gross wart on the knuckle that looked like a cesspool about to pop with puss. She restrained a gag.
Beyond mortified, she’d never experienced any type of workplace disciplinary action. And such a public one seemed meant to exact some kind of cruel revenge for wrongs committed.
But I haven’t done anything wrong!
She recognized these men were not interested in hearing her pleas. They had one job to do—deliver the accused.
But…to where?
The two men holding her like human handcuffs shuffled her and themselves through the parting steel doors. Then the rest crowded into the elevator after them. All faced front.
That wart-infested thumb punched a button she’d never noticed before. Probably because she almost always took the stairs, in an effort to achieve her ten-thousand steps a day. She was fit, if not exactly athletic, but all the steps and crunches in the world couldn’t put her at a level to contend with the muscular bulk, times six, surrounding her.
The Billionaire's Seduction (Billionaire Bodyguards Book 5) Page 1
