“And for you as well, sharing all the riches we make,” he says.
That sparks an idea. A passion, if you will. Something we haven’t indulged in since the last hotel we opened in Bali more than a year ago. “Speaking of sharing,” I begin, stroking my jaw, lifting a brow. “It has been a while since we played our favorite game.”
His eyes gleam. “I was thinking the same thing too. And really, who are we to let Camus down?”
I laugh. Daniel and his erudite quotes. “Camus? Are you really still quoting Camus?”
“It was my degree subject, philosophy.” He lifts his chin and speaks like an orator. “You are forgiven for your happiness and your successes only if you generously consent to share them.”
“I suppose, then, it’s the only way to forgive our great success. But I prefer Twain.” I clear my throat, leaning on the wisdom of the American writer, who sure knew how to tell it like it is. “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.”
Daniel sets his hand on his heart. “Aww. So sweet that you want to share it with me. As they say here on your side of the pond, sharing is caring. But you know what I say?”
“Oh, are you going to quote yourself now?” I toss back, adjusting my cuff links as the car swings onto the main drag.
“Indeed I am. And I say the best way to share is to make a wager of it,” he says, reaching for a bottle from the console and pouring a glass of bourbon. “Fancy a wager, mate?”
I pour a glass too, liking the sound of wagers with the guy who’s been my closest friend since we were roommates in college, building our first business together, an underground card game at school, luring the wannabe card sharks. That business paid for most of my tuition, something I desperately needed it to do back then. Now, in some ways, I need these bets desperately too. Need them for other reasons—reasons Daniel understands all too well. “It’s easy to bet with you, since I clean up,” I say.
Daniel scoffs, leaning back against the leather seat, shaking his head. “I think not.”
“I think so. If memory serves, I’m ahead of you.” I lift the glass and take a swallow, savoring the burn, as I taunt him.
“You say that, Cole. But you seem to forget I have the advantage here.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, curious, but not letting on how curious.
His eyes glint, and he adopts the cockiest expression. “My accent makes me quite irresistible.”
“Ah, there you go again. Always leaning on the accent. Too bad it’s the only tool you have to use.”
“I don’t have to lean on it. It’s part and parcel of who I am. And I know how to use all my tools.”
“But you love to point out your accent. Maybe we need to handicap you. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to use it. See how well you fare without it.”
“Yes, just like the Little Mermaid,” he says deadpan, as he knocks back some liquor.
I deal him a skeptical look. “From Camus to The Little Mermaid? That’s how this evening is going to go?”
“I choose the most apropos examples for each situation. In this case, she wasn’t allowed to use her voice to seduce Prince Eric.”
I shoot him a hard stare. “We don’t want to seduce Prince Eric.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But nor do I want to seduce Ariel. I like women who can speak. Who have agency.”
“Who make their own choices. Who are independent and strong,” I say, and I mean it. Our company has always provided equal pay for men and women, and many of our European properties are run by our newest business partner, Scarlett. We brought her on board a year ago, and she’s whip-smart, relentless, and brilliant.
But bets like this aren’t between business partners, per se. The wagers between Daniel and me are only between us, and they’re born from years of friendship. And also, more recently for me, from pain. From the need to move past it. And what better way to move beyond pain than through games?
I raise my glass. “And so, once again we drink to lady’s choice?”
“We bet on lady’s choice,” he adds, raising his glass, stretching his arm across the space between us and clinking it to mine.
I take a drink, then reach into the inside pocket of my coat, running a thumb over a chip. I take it out, showing it to him. “Five thousand.”
“Make it ten.”
We shake on it as we reach Aria, then head inside to the masquerade.
Eyes open.
Ready to find just the right woman.
3
Sage
The ballroom glitters.
A kaleidoscope of lights swirls from the ceiling, with rays of sapphire, fuchsia, and ruby skating across the dance floor, illuminating it, then darkening it.
It’s a mix of nightclub and ball, a cocktail of the two.
Sometimes the music is a waltz, other times it’s R & B or hip-hop. Couples twirl and glide, sway, and press.
From my post at the corner of the dance floor, my eyes eat up the feast of sights. The beautiful people, spinning in tandem. The music reverberating throughout the sumptuous room, accented in gold and marble. And the clothes. Dear God, the clothes. I want to memorize the outfits, to snap photos of the costumes, and gaze at them when I need a hit of beauty. All the gorgeous satins, rustling taffetas, silk tuxes and tails.
But there are no photos allowed here.
Phones were checked at the door so we can be present in the moment, rather than on our devices.
And the moments unfurling in front of me are intoxicating.
All the dancing, all the touching, all the laughing.
Men and women.
Women and women.
Men and men.
Such lushness.
Eliza and I have already indulged in several dances with unknown men in Venetian masks. We’ve made small talk, chatting about the music, the party, the vibe, the decadence of it all. I’m practically floating from the high of the party, vibrating at a higher frequency of pleasure, my skin tingling from this shimmering spectacle in front of me, all my senses alive.
As a new wave of couples moves on the floor, I imagine the words falling from their lips. Whispered promises of pleasure fluttering across bare skin. Dirty words teased from lush mouths.
Someone out there on the dance floor, maybe several someones, will slip away soon, find a dark corner for dark deeds.
The prospect sparks a wave of longing in me. It’s been a while since I felt that kind of sizzle from another person. My skin is craving it, hungry for connection, for touch.
Maybe tonight?
Is that so much to want?
But I haven’t danced with anyone yet who’s lit me up, who’s set my skin to flames.
And the night is turning old, the clock ticking closer to midnight.
Prince Wicked is nowhere in sight.
Shame, that.
But so it goes. Life doesn’t always give you what you want. Mostly, you have to fight for what you need.
For now, I’ll take one last glass of the delicious champagne before I make my way out of here. Now seems like a good time as Eliza glides off the dance floor, having just finished a tango-esque dance with a burly man with a beard.
Not the quarterback.
“One last drink?” I ask my friend.
“I’m always up for a final nightcap.”
I nod toward the man she left behind. “Anyone you like?”
“He’s not too shabby. I don’t mind a little fur on the face.”
“How good of you.”
“I thought so too,” she says playfully, and I know she’s trying to keep her mind open to new men, since risking a play with the athlete on her team roster would be too risky. “I have an early meeting at the stadium, chatting with Nadia and the other team stakeholders about the salary cap, so I might let myself enjoy one or two more dances, then I need my beauty sleep.”
We head to the bar and ask for champagne.
“Coming right up,” the bartender in the
bow tie says, pouring a flute for me then one for her and handing them to us. I leave him a hundred-dollar tip. “Thank you so much,” he says, startled, but clearly delighted too.
“You are most welcome.” We step away from the bar, standing against a marble column, regarding the sumptuous tableau in front of us, hundreds of the glitterati here in Vegas.
“Have I told you how fabulous this ball is?” I say to Eliza, bumping my shoulder to hers.
She pretends to consider this, then nods thoughtfully. “I believe you have. About a half dozen times, was it?” A sly smirk curves her lips.
I swat her arm. “Hush. You love it when I tell you you’re brilliant. So I’ll tell you again. Because I’m glad you insisted that I come.”
“Insisted? You make it seem like it was akin to twisting your arm. You were pretty game, if memory serves.”
“Of course I was. There was no arm twisting involved. I’m just grateful. Sheesh. Could you be more difficult?” I tease her.
“I could be, but I’ll relent.” She takes a drink, then scans the room. “Because I think you’ve discovered your new passion.”
I tilt my head to the side, curious. “And what’s that? Beyond the ones you know I have—fashion, dogs, and spicy food.”
“Masquerades. Make-believe. Costume parties, and all the surprises and secrets they offer you.”
She says it like she’s offering me a silver platter of candy confections that will melt on my tongue. “Yes, I do seem to like these parties.” I run a hand down my black satin skirt. “And dressing up.”
“At the last few, you’ve kind of come alive. It makes me happy to see,” she says, her tone genuine, her gaze earnest. All the teasing has been stripped away.
“And I feel happier. So, thank you, and I vote for a party a month,” I tell her. I lift my glass, clinking the edge to hers.
“Please. I say once a week.”
“Count me in.” And even though my Prince Wicked is nowhere to be found, I am so glad I came here tonight. “This party is everything I need. It makes me feel good again. Even if I haven’t met someone to take my mind off . . . well, all the things we like our minds taken off of.”
Eliza shakes her head, tsking. “You spent far too long feeling bad after Derek, Sage. You shouldn’t feel bad. Your ex was a cad.”
“Derek was the living, breathing manifestation of one.”
She sets a soft hand on mine. “But I know you’re not just talking about your ex when you mention things you want to take your mind off of. You still miss your parents.”
A sad smile tugs at my lips as I think of them and their passing a few years ago. That pain pulls on my heart, while the missing surrounds me. You can never truly escape that type of loss. You just learn to live with it. “I do miss them. I miss them a lot. I sometimes still wish I could turn to them for advice.”
Eliza squares her shoulders, looking like a loving queen. “Your mother would tell you that you’ve done a damn fine job moving on from that cad of an ex, and to keep moving on.”
I grin, hearing my mother say those words too. She was always so strong, so certain. She believed wholeheartedly in the conquering power of love, and the precious necessity of self-worth too. “You know what? She would. She never wanted me to be with someone who didn’t deserve me.”
Eliza scoffs. “Life is far too short for men who don’t deserve us.”
“Truer words.”
The music shifts to a low, pulsing beat.
“And you know what I say?” she continues. “I say you only live once. Embrace it. Life is a cherry. Bite into it.”
I laugh, tossing my head back, the mask moving with me. It’s a little heavy against my face, but I’ve become used to the weight of it. “And is that your rule to live by? Eat cherries?”
Eliza nods vigorously. “It is. Because cherries are delish.”
She turns in the direction of a handsome man who’s tapping her shoulder. The bearded guy. “May I have another dance?”
“Yes, you may, but I have to leave in a little while. I turn into a pumpkin soon,” she says coyly.
“Then let’s make the dance worth it before the clock strikes midnight,” he says, and she waves goodbye to me with her fingers and heads to the edge of the dance floor. I take a sip of my bubbly, glancing around. On the other side of the room, a black-masked, dark-haired man in tails lifts a glass of champagne, takes a drink, and sets it down on the table. The man next to him—his hair is a lighter brown, but it’s hard to see behind the Phantom mask he’s wearing—gestures to the dance floor, then leans against a marble column.
They’re a handsome pair, perhaps wingmanning each other?
My eyes roam around the party. If the evening ends right now at eleven thirty, I’m content.
But, truth be told, I do wish for a little more. A little something extra. Something exciting for the next half hour.
I sigh, wishing.
“This makes me wish I knew how to fox-trot.”
I blink as the voice rumbles, sending a shiver across my bare shoulders. Can a voice do that? Well, the voice just did, and I turn in the direction of it.
Oh.
Oh, yes.
No wonder my body reacted that way. I drink in the view of a tall, well-built creature who fills out his tux and tails deliciously. The material hugs his frame in all the right places, and the shirt lies enticingly flat against his stomach. My eyes roam shamelessly. What can I say? I’m an abs woman, and he looks like he’s rocking a washboard.
The dark-haired man with the glass of champagne. The man who set it down so he could make a beeline for me perhaps.
“Fox-trot. Tango. Rumba, maybe. Are you wishing you took cotillion?” I ask playfully, as I check out his lips. Full lips. A five-o’clock shadow. Yum.
“I am. Maybe I would’ve learned the polka too.”
“Polka is vital for Vegas nightlife. But is cotillion still a thing?”
He gives a simple shrug of what looks like a very strong shoulder. “I don’t know. All I know is I can’t waltz for shit.”
The corners of my lips curve up. “I know how to waltz.”
He gives me a flirty smile. “Show-off,” he whispers, that growly tone sending a fresh flurry of tingles down my chest.
“Don’t you want to know my waltzing secret?”
He inches closer, his tone dark and decadent as he says, “I do want to know. Tell me. What is your secret?”
My breasts tingle, my nipples hardening just from the way he looks at me from behind his mask. From his voice too.
I lick my lips, answering him, “If you want to waltz, you just improvise.”
He scrubs a hand across his stubbled jaw, dark like his midnight hair. “Ah, the old make-it-up-as-you-go-along routine.”
I give a playful lift of my shoulder. “Sometimes you have to let go and take a chance.”
“Give up control?” he asks, and I can see an eyebrow rise above his mask. Or maybe I can feel it. The arch of it. The question in it. The way he’s asking something else entirely.
“Yes, sometimes I do that,” I say, my voice feathery as I imagine him having his way with me. As I imagine he’d want to. I bet he likes taking just enough control. The same amount I want to relinquish.
He hums approvingly. “Good to know.”
That heady feeling winds through my body, that sense that we’re on all the same wavelengths. Still, I toss out a question. “And why’s that? Do you like having control, then?”
The man takes his time before he answers, almost as if the reply is taking shape seductively on his tongue. “Sometimes I do.”
A shiver dances down my spine, the sparks of pleasure zipping through me. I study his gaze, trying to read his eyes behind that mask. They’re dark brown. Chocolate. Rich. Gorgeous. “Sometimes? I doubt that. You seem like an all-the-time control guy.”
He gives a light laugh. “Do I?”
“Yes. You do.”
He steps closer again, raising a hand
, running it down my arm. Oh, holy hell. His touch is electric, and my breath catches as he says, “By day, I like having control. Often by night too. But it’s not a requirement.”
His voice is seductive, dreamy, and a little gruff too. It’s sandpaper and stubble. It’s whiskey and cigars. His confidence is like an enticing cologne—one I want to inhale.
He brushes a strand of hair off my shoulder, reminding me why I left it down. For this—for touch. He takes a beat, then asks, “And by night, what do you like?”
My pulse spikes, shooting all the way through the roof. “By night, I like what we all like,” I say, wildly turned on from the conversation. From his . . . obvious seduction. One I don’t want to end.
He runs a finger along the feathers in my mask. “And what’s that, lovely bird?”
I look at his full lips, wondering how they taste, how they’d feel on my skin. “At night, I like to be surprised.”
Those lips spread into a mischievous smile as he holds out a hand. “Dance with me.”
“That’s not a surprise,” I toss back saucily.
“But maybe it’ll become one,” he says, his voice gliding over my skin as his seduction clearly continues.
Maybe it will.
Maybe I want it to.
I take his hand, and he leads me to the dance floor.
He sets one palm on my waist, and we waltz to the music, joining the other couples moving elegantly around us under the lights, sophistication, and smoke. Eliza is nowhere to be seen. She’s gone, and so is the man with the beard.
But I’ve no time to think of Eliza when my dance partner spins me, then dips me, letting my back curve into an arch. “You fibbed,” I say, pouting.
“Did I?” he asks, a naughty tone of mischief in his voice. He keeps me in this position, bent back, under his control, waiting.
I don’t hate it.
In fact, I rather like it.
My skin turns hotter. My heart rate races.
“Yes. You lied. Because you waltz perfectly,” I say as he tugs me up and draws me close, flush against his hard frame. My God, he is hard everywhere, and I mean everywhere.
He strokes his fingers along my bare shoulders. “Perhaps I’m improvising. Or maybe I sensed that you wanted to be surprised.”
One Exquisite Touch: Book One in The Extravagant Series Page 3
