There’s an edge to him that hasn’t been there since we got on the plane, tension that can only come from whatever happened on that phone call. Before I can stop myself, I reach up and catch one of the long, loose strands of light brown hair that’s escaped the tie at his nape. “You okay?”
He looks at me with surprise in his eyes, seconds ticking by while he seems to be considering something. Me? Himself? Stephanie? “Skye—”
“Jason.”
At the sound of a man’s voice near the front of the plane, Jason’s lips tighten. “Later,” he says softly, telling me whatever he was going to say, I want to hear. Now. Not later, but still I nod, and Jason steps into the aisle, allowing me to see a fiftyish man in a blue uniform and crisp white shirt standing near the exit. Our visitor gives me a quick nod and then eyes Jason. “I have another flight out on a separate jet,” he states, confirming my suspicion he’s our pilot. “Break a leg tonight—or at least someone’s wallet.”
Jason gives him a salute and our pilot disappears out of the door. “I take it you fly with him often?”
“I request him when I can.”
“Because he’s a good pilot?”
“Because he’s a 49ers fan.”
I give him an incredulous look. “That’s how you choose your pilot? How about their experience? Their track record?”
“Every pilot this organization employs is damn good, but they don’t all know their football.”
“I guess you left your loyalty to New York in New York.”
“Home is where the heart is, and San Fran is my home now.”
“Football’s your heart?” I ask, stalling in the hope that he’ll restart whatever conversation we were about to have when the pilot interrupted.
“Anything San Francisco is my heart.” My hope of getting back to our prior conversation ends when he glances at his watch and doesn’t look pleased. “We need to get moving,” he urges. “We’re running behind. There’s a car for us outside.” He motions me forward and I walk down the short path to the exit, while a man I guess to be in his twenties, wearing a suit, grabs our bags and greets me. “Afternoon, ma’am. Your car is waiting.” He backs up and allows me to pass, and he and Jason exchange a familiar greeting. The laughter that follows tells me Jason not only has his poker face back on, but that he’s liked by everyone. Even I, who was afraid of him last night, like him. Probably too much.
I exit the plane onto a set of steps, the heat engulfing me, darn near choking the air out of me. “My God,” I murmur, as Jason steps beside me. “You can cut the heat with your hands.”
“A good hundred and ten degrees—a far cry from the seventies we left behind.” His hands settles at my back and we start walking down the surprisingly wide stairs. “Just one of the reasons I don’t live here.”
The man in the suit goes ahead of us and opens the trunk of a black sedan parked a few feet from the plane, then opens a rear door for us.
I’m quickly introduced to “Trevor” and I slide into the car, which is blissfully cool.
Jason talks to Trevor outside for a few moments before he joins me, the space between us feeling like miles as we each claim a window. I feel the absence of his touch, but then, when was the last time I was even with a man? One year ago? No. More like two. I’m just … better on my own. Which makes Jason’s womanizing acceptable, while his hands-off idea is not. I can’t be here, and dare this, and go home aching.
Trevor climbs into the driver’s seat, then puts us in motion. “How long is the drive?” I ask him.
“Ten minutes at this time of day,” he informs me.
“I can’t wait to see the Strip,” I say. “Seeing it on TV and in movies just isn’t the same as finally seeing it in person.”
“Wait,” Jason says. “Is this your first time in Vegas?”
“Yes, and now that we’re here I’m kind of excited to see it.”
“Then we have to stay,” Jason insists. “I’ll be at the table all night and I have a charity press op tomorrow. So you’ll have to let me show you around the rest of this weekend.”
“I can’t stay. I have to work Sunday afternoon and Monday morning.”
“Call in sick.”
Oh, how I wish. “I can’t do that.”
Jason’s jaw and tone sets hard. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“And I’ll still say no later,” I assure him, as talk doesn’t pay my bills. I turn away from him to eye the highway, in an effort to close the topic.
A moment later, the distance I’d disliked between us is gone, his hand on my knee, our hips brushing each other. “That’s the Rio,” he says, indicating the tall blue and red building set apart from much of anything else. “It’s off the Strip by a few miles, but still a popular location. So is the downtown area, but the Strip is the main hot spot.”
“Is the MGM hotel we’re staying at on the Strip?” I ask.
“Yes,” he confirms.
“Is that where all the tournaments are held?”
“It’s a popular host location, but it varies by event.”
“Are all the tournaments in Vegas?”
“There are many locations. Los Angeles. Jersey. Florida. I’ve also done a European tour each of the past three years.”
“Europe? That’s amazing. I had no idea poker had that reach.”
“The World Championship had nearly ninety thousand players enter this year.”
“And you made the top nine three years in a row?”
His lips quirk. “Yes. Some say Lady Luck was on my side.”
“But you don’t believe in luck.”
“I believe in actions creating reactions.” Trevor exits the highway and Jason lifts his chin at the window.
Rows of amazing hotels surround us. “Wow,” I murmur, taking in a pyramid-shaped hotel and another resembling a medieval castle, both of which I’ve seen on TV and in pictures. “Movies don’t do it justice.”
“Vegas is an orgasm of the senses. The food. The gambling. The attractions.”
“The food is really good,” Trevor says.
“Which is why I’m taking you out to dinner tonight,” Jason says.
“That’s not necessary. You have your midnight pizza ritual—”
“It’s necessary: you’ve never been to Vegas,” he says. “The question is, do we fine dine or gorge ourselves at a buffet? You almost have to do a buffet to truly experience Vegas. What do you think, Trevor?”
“First-timers have to hit the buffets,” Trevor agrees.
“We can do pizza,” I argue, the word we so unfamiliar to me in my life, it catches in my throat. I bite my lip and quickly turn back to the window, feigning interest in the sidewalks that are so deep in bodies they remind me of Manhattan.
“No,” Jason says, leaning in close, his breath warm on my ear. “We can’t.” And the way he says we tells me he noticed the way that word affected me, but thankfully we pull into the hotel drive and my awe over the giant lion in front of the building defeats my embarrassment.
Trevor parks near the entrance and one of the hotel employees opens my door. “Welcome to the MGM,” he says.
I step outside, and Jason follows. “Red Bull!” a man in a suit calls out, coming toward us. “Welcome.” He shakes Jason’s hand and I have a fleeting memory of the tattoo on his palm, and I think of how certain Jason is of who he is and where he fits into this world. I admire that in him. I want to admire that in me. “Your registration packet is waiting at the bell desk,” the man continues, and I realize he hasn’t even looked at me.
“Thanks,” Jason says. “If anyone is looking for me, I’ll be down to registration in half an hour.”
“I’ll pass it along.” The man still ignores me, giving me the uncomfortable feeling I’m one of many women who’ve been on Jason’s arm.
Then Jason surprises me by saying, “This is Skye. She’s my guest, so please ensure she has anything she needs if I’m not available.”
“Of course.” Now the m
an offers me his hand. “I’m Landon Mitchell. Please find me if you need anything. They can page me at any of the service desks.”
“Thank you,” I say, shaking his hand quickly, but not happily. He’s snobby, and I only matter to him because Jason just told him I do.
Jason turns to Trevor, who’s loading our bags on a cart, a bellman by his side. “I’ll touch base with you when I get up tomorrow to confirm travel times,” Jason tells him.
“Sounds like a plan.” Trevor gives me a nod. “Nice to meet you, Skye.”
“Nice to meet you, Trevor.”
Landon quickly holds the door for us. Jason motions for me to go first and I enter the circular lobby, shiny tiles beneath my feet, the chilled air a shocking contrast to the heat outside, the sound of machines clanging nearby. I stand there in awe at the size of just the lobby. There are checkin counters to the left, with huge lines of people waiting to be attended to, and a store to the right, the giant gaming area easy to see beyond the entryway.
“This way,” Jason says, guiding me to the reception desk. “Thank goodness we get to skip the lines. Friday nights are hell in Vegas.” We stop at the counter and Jason has an exchange with a man who hurries to a back room to get something for him.
Jason rests his arm on the counter and turns to me. “Sorry about Landon. He’s an arrogant prick to anyone he doesn’t consider royalty. And since I’ve never brought a woman with me to Vegas who wasn’t my mother, he didn’t know how to react.”
He’s never brought a woman with him? “You brought your mother?”
“Of course. And my father.”
God, I’m liking him way too much. “Royalty,” I repeat. “That would be you?”
“Anyone who takes their money and might be convinced to give it back is treated like royalty.”
“That sounds so cold.”
“Money matters are rarely warm and fuzzy, baby.”
The man behind the counter returns. “Everything for your stay, including your room keys, is inside. I assume we’re using your house account for the charges?”
“As always,” Jason confirms, accepting the package. Then he tells me, “Let’s head to our rooms. Once we’re settled in, I need to register for the event.”
We cross the shiny walkway and exit onto a carpeted area framed by slot machines, and Jason links my arm with his. “What do you think so far?” he asks as I scan what seems like miles of gaming machines.
“It’s pretty darn cool,” I say.
“It is,” he agrees. “I’ve been coming here for nearly a decade and still feel that way.”
We chat about the different gambling areas we pass and are about to jump onto an elevator when a middle-aged couple go batty over Jason. He graciously takes pictures with them and then excuses himself because of time. “We’re on a private floor,” he tells me as we enter the elevator, and he slides a room key through a slot before punching in a number. “You’ll have to use the key to get to our level.”
“Okay.” The car starts to move, and so does my stomach.
“Count or sing,” he surprises me by saying, lacing his fingers with mine at our sides.
“What?” I ask, surprised at how comfortable I am with this man.
“Don’t think about the elevator.” He squeezes my hand. “Count.” He smiles. “Just not cards.”
“That would be bad, right?”
“Right,” he says, smiling. “And speaking of cards, the fans will be everywhere tonight. I know it’s overwhelming, but I try to be gracious about the attention.”
“I like that,” I say, and I start to believe he’s more confident than arrogant.
“You say that now, but if I get swarmed, please don’t feel like I’m ignoring you.”
“Of course not. You’re a star here. It will be fun to watch you play and be who you are.”
“I’m just a guy who knows how to play poker. Remember that.” He hesitates and adds, “Some of the fans are women who are—”
“Groupies,” I supply, feeling a little nauseous.
“I wouldn’t call them groupies, but they’re friendly, some skimpily dressed, and I’ll know a few personally. I need you to remember this is part of my job.”
My hand flattens on his chest. “I don’t need an explanation.”
His hand covers mine, holding it over his thundering heart. “But I’m giving you one. Vegas is called Sin City for a reason. But I’m here to do a job, and I’m here with you.”
It matters that he’s telling me this. Maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I’m being naive, but the word blackmail plays in my head, reminding me of the hell he’s living and hoping to escape. “I understand,” I say, wondering how he can even play with such a hatchet over his head.
“I’m counting on that.”
“I know. And I know why. I promise. I do.”
He studies me several long moments, his gaze probing, searching for the truth in my words, while we both hope I will find it in his. The elevator dings and he reaches down, lacing my fingers with his again and leading me into a long hallway, where he is quick to drape his arm around me and nestle me into the cocoon of his body.
We cut left and enter a short alcove with double doors, but Jason doesn’t release me. “Welcome to Vegas luxury, baby,” he says, sliding his card through the security slot and opening the door, before inching me in front of him.
I walk through the entryway, and I’m in shock at what greets me. Shiny wood floors are parted by a long table that splits the room into not one but two different living areas, and beyond that are massive floor-to-ceiling windows leading to some sort of huge patio area.
I face Jason, his hands settling on my shoulders. “Wrong direction,” he says. “I want to show you the entire apartment.”
“Apartment?”
“Yes. I have a yearlong rental here. I’m giving it to you for the night.”
“No way. I just need a basic room.”
“I’m not putting you in a basic room while I stay in a place like this. And due to the tournament, all the luxury suites were taken.”
“Meaning you’re taking the basic room?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll stay here with you.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Are there two bedrooms here?”
“Yes,” he says again.
“Then we’ll both stay here.”
“I promised you—”
I step to him, my hands flattening on his chest. “I want to stay with you.”
Seconds tick by, and much like in his office in San Francisco, he doesn’t move. Self-doubt finds a place inside me—okay, it kind of lives there, but I hide it—and I worry that maybe this separate rooms thing is his way of backing away. Maybe something turned him off and he doesn’t want me anymore. I pull my hands back.
A moment later, my back is against the wall, his legs in a V around mine, his hands cupping my face. “The thing about anyone who plays high-stakes poker is that they don’t like limits,” he warns. “If you stay here, it won’t be in the spare bedroom. It will be in mine, with me.”
“Good. My life is all about limits, and they’ll still be waiting for me when I get home.”
He inches back, his gaze searching my face, weighing my words—I think, I’m not sure—but finally he says. “All right, then. No limits.” He seals the words with a toe-curling kiss that leaves me panting. When a knock sounds on the door, he tears his mouth from mine to promise, “After the poker game comes our games.”
CHAPTER TEN
“I DON’T LIKE GAMES,” I whisper, my hand on the hard wall of Jason’s really amazing chest. His heart is racing like mine is, as if I affect him—even though there are scantily clad, big-breasted, gorgeous women waiting for him downstairs. As if he feels what I do. As if something I don’t intend to happen between us, which I know he doesn’t either, is happening anyway.
“Our private games are not just
games,” he promises, and that mouth of his, that sexy, delicious mouth I now know is damn good at kissing me, is close again, lingering, teasing us with the touch he doesn’t yet give us. “I’ll make you like them.”
“You can’t.”
“I’m a poker player, baby. I’ll take that bet and double down.”
“There is no bet.”
“I just made one.”
“It takes two to bet—at least in this case.”
“You placed yours when you got on that plane with me.” He leans in, his cheek pressed to mine, lips brushing my ear, sending a chill down my spine. “Did I mention how damn glad I am that you did?”
I shiver with those words, but more so with the sense that something is happening between us that I’ve never experienced. My mind fights that fantastical idea. He’s a Vegas weekend kind of guy, and that’s exactly what I want him to be. Aside from the storage unit debacle, we’re attracted to each other and we both want sex. That’s it. There—logic firmly back in place.
And yet, logic doesn’t change the fact that I’m so affected by him that I’m still using the wall for support when he opens the apartment door. And I’m still breathing a little heavier than normal when a tall, distinguished-looking black man with graying hair, in a doorman’s uniform, enters the apartment, holding my bag and Jason’s in his hands. “Where would you like these, sir?” he asks Jason.
“Call me Red Bull or Jason, man,” Jason orders firmly. “You know I hate ‘sir.’ ”
“And you know that I am all about being appropriate,” the man replies, but there’s a smile in his voice, as if this is a game they play.
“Because appropriate is what we do in Vegas?” Jason challenges.
“This is my job,” the man assures him.
“I get you to slip on occasion,” Jason reminds him.
“And isn’t that challenge why you like me?”
Jason laughs. “Indeed, Ben,” he agrees, giving me a pointed look that clearly references our conversation about games, as he adds, “I do like a challenge,” no longer talking to our visitor but to me.
Inside Out: Behind Closed Doors Page 11
