by Skye Jordan
“Not a problem.” Zahara gave Giselle's arm a squeeze. “I'll be here awhile.”
She smiled. “It was great to meet you.” Giselle turned to Gloria. “I know you're frustrated with Chad-”
“I'm not going to waste my time talking about him, other than to ask if he told you about the offer from L'Oréal.”
Giselle frowned, her mouth hanging open. “L- No. I haven't heard anything about L'Oréal.”
Gloria exhaled and looked at the floor.
“Gloria?”
She lifted her gaze, her wide, dark brown eyes flashing with anger. “I'm digging deep for some professionalism here, Giselle, but, honestly, I'm coming up short. What direction you and Chad decide to take with your career is up to you. But you can't make the best decision unless you're getting all the information.
“L'Oréal would like your gorgeous face to represent their brand next year. They believe, based on how your career is growing, it will also be the year you break out big. I happen to agree with them and have been able to negotiate a substantial contract. And having your face all over their product line will certainly help your name-face-brand recognition.
“Since the copy of the contract I gave Chad seems to have evaporated, I'll send over another one directly to you by courier in the morning.”
“Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.” She reached for Gloria's arm. “I'm so sorry. I'll talk to Chad. And for the foreseeable future, let's agree that you'll let me know personally about any offer you extend to Chad. That way I'll know what's getting through and what's not.”
“Agreed.” She gave Giselle a quick hug. “Now get some rest, sweetheart. That man has you working your tail off. When you get tired of that, you let me know. There are all sorts of other ways to leverage the success you've already made. A hundred different directions to go with your career. Touring is lucrative, don't get me wrong, but it's not the only way.”
Giselle nodded and forced a smile. But as Gloria breezed her way from the banquet room, Giselle's heart felt as heavy as a stone.
She glanced toward the bar and found Brook laughing with the stunt crew. The sight made longing stir.
She was about to turn that direction and join them, when someone touched her arm and a familiar voice said, “You finally have a free minute.”
Chad.
With a ready smile, she faced him. But he wasn't alone. He stood beside Patrick Scott, one of the top acquisitions managers for Goldstone Productions. Which meant that instead of laughing with Brook and finding some lighthearted conversation, she was going to talk business yet again with a man who was eying her like she was on the dessert menu.
Troy paused outside the concierge room and pulled his phone from his blazer jacket. At the balcony railing, he hit the speed dial for Ryker, gripped the metal with his free hand and closed his eyes. “Come on, come on, come on, Ry,” he muttered. “Pick up.”
The last thing he wanted to do tonight was walk in that room and shock the hell out of Giselle when she was surrounded by people. He wasn't particularly interested in getting his heart yanked out of his throat again either. But there was no good time to do this unless he could get her number and set up a private meeting.
“You've reached Ryker-” The voice mail spoke in Troy's ear.
“Fuck.” He disconnected, then took a moment to settle into his conviction. He just couldn't hold on to this guilt anymore.
Face her. Be honest. Take the hit. Walk away.
Maybe then he could let go.
Really let go. And get on with his life.
Opening his eyes, resolved to the fate he'd created for himself, he squared his shoulders and stepped into the room. He'd been in a lot of rooms at a lot of the Vegas hotels, but never here. The space was elegant and intimate. It was also filled with guests in fancy dresses and smart suits.
“Your name, sir?” the man at the door asked.
“Troy Jacobs. I'm part of the crew.”
He slid his finger down the list and nodded. “Enjoy your night.”
Before stepping into the mix, he moved into a shadowed corner and observed. Easing around the periphery, he found the room bigger than it looked. The lighting and the various levels-three steps up here, three steps down there-made the setting intimate despite the dark décor, lightened with touches of gold.
Four big screens scattered through the room played clips of Giselle-from her concerts, her music videos, backstage, rehearsing. A mix of her five current albums played over the speakers, really just background music to the lively conversation. Everyone looked happy and vibrant, drinks and hors d'oeuvres in their hands. A small dance floor off in the corner attracted a dozen or so guests.
He recognized many of the crew floating through the room, the producer, the director, the assistant director, the cast.
When he finally found Giselle, his heart stumbled. She was wearing light cream and the way that dress sculpted to her body made Troy groan out loud. When she shifted, he could see there was almost no back to the dress, leaving her beautiful body bare except for a strip of rhinestones down the center of her spine.
The sight felt like a lightning strike to his groin. Pain and yearning blended into the kind of feeling that made Troy want to drink.
A lot.
She was so fucking sophisticated now. So damn elegant. So…everything he wasn't.
Leaving him was the best thing she'd ever done. She'd had the ability to see the future, while Troy had been blinded by fear.
He shouldn't be here.
His body heat ramped up. His palms sweated. He couldn't do this. He should let her go on believing he was a stranger. He'd just have to find a way to deal with the guilt.
He turned for the doors.
And bumped directly into Zahara.
“Whoa.” He grabbed her arms to keep himself from plowing her down. “Sorry, Z.” She wore a simply elegant sleeveless black dress that showed off her great shape and olive skin. Her hair was up in a fancy, sparkly clip. “Wow, you look great.”
“So do you. I didn't think you'd come.”
“I didn't. Not really. Bad idea. I'm leaving.”
“Really?” she said, challenging. “You went to all the trouble to get dressed up, do that…thing…with your hair to make you look rugged and sexy, and got all the way down here only to leave without even talking to her?” She crossed her arms. “Don't you think you deserve more than that?”
He huffed a laugh. “No. I absolutely don't.”
“Huh. Even I talked to her.”
His stomach turned icy. “What?”
“She's very sweet. Very down-to-earth. Not at all the prima donna-”
“Z, what did you say?”
“I told her we had a mutual friend-Ryker,” she added just before Troy imploded. “We talked about how traveling sucks, hooked her assistant up with Keaton.”
“What? Why would you do that?” The panic started to bubble low in his gut and rise.
“Because she's adorable, she thinks Keaton's hot, which he is, and wanted to know if he was taken, which he isn't.”
Troy closed his eyes and searched for patience. “Please, Z, don't get in the middle. This isn't as simple as you might think.”
“Obviously.” She sighed and slipped a possessive arm through his, turning him toward the bar. “While you're here, you may as well get some free booze. Because if you're not going to talk to her, you'll need to be pretty smashed so you can pass out when you get back to the room, because, boy, she is smokin' hot.”
“Thanks for pointing that out,” he said with all the sarcasm of a pissed ten-year-old. “I hadn't noticed.”
She just grinned as he took a seat at the opposite end of the bar as Keaton and a cute dark-haired woman who looked close to Giselle's age was completely absorbed in whatever Keaton was saying.
“I hope she took a few shots of caffeine,” Troy muttered. “Did you tell her he can talk a freakin' blue streak?”
“She was warned.”
Troy grun
ted and said hello to a few members of the crew nearby, but kept himself mostly hidden behind the cash register, watching Giselle when his line of sight wasn't obstructed by loiterers.
She had her elbow propped on one of the few tall tables, and the man mirrored her, his back toward Troy. He stood too close and touched her entirely too much-his hand covered hers, his fingers drifted up her arm, he'd reach out and wrap one of her curls around his finger.
Giselle didn't respond, but she didn't exactly discourage him either.
Which didn't matter, he reminded himself. What she did or didn't do with other men was none of his damned business.
Z elbowed him and Troy’s gaze went to the bartender he hadn't noticed.
“Shots,” he said. “Jamison. Half a dozen. Line 'em up.”
The bartender’s brows shot up, his eyes darted to Zahara, as if expecting her to veto that order, but she just smiled and said, “Thanks.”
Casey strolled into a conversation nearby.
“I heard you bailed on Casey and Becca at the club for a blonde,” Z said. When he didn't look at her, she added, “I thought you hated blondes.”
“I do.”
“Because of her?”
“Yep.”
“How long are you going to let this eat at you?”
“Until I stop making stupid fucking mistakes, I guess.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
He shook his head as the bartender lined up six shot glasses and filled them with whiskey.
Troy tipped back two in a row.
“I wish you'd talk to me,” Z said, taking a sip of the cosmo the bartender left for her.
“Wouldn't do any good.” He tossed back a third.
Keaton slipped onto the stool next to Troy, and he froze, aware Giselle's assistant was probably somewhere nearby. “Dude, you made it. Looks like you're making up for lost time.” He reached over, picked up one of the shots, and drained it. “Thanks.”
When Keaton didn't say his name, Troy relaxed again.
Duke came up beside Zahara. “Come dance with us, Z.”
She slipped off the stool and tugged on Troy's arm. “Come with us, have some fun.”
He nodded. “Let me finish these. Be right there.”
Keaton tried to steal another one, but Troy smacked his chest hard.
“Dude,” he said, laughing as he rubbed at the pain with one hand and grabbed the girl's hand with the other, turning toward the dance floor.
Troy sighed. “Finally alone with my booze.”
Well, not exactly. Giselle was still smiling and laughing while she dodged the handsy guy. She was also on the screen above the bar, mostly in silhouette, wearing next to nothing, writhing on a wooden floor to the movie's title song, “Around the World.”
Troy tipped back another shot and watched the screen where she arched her back and slid her fingers over her skin in a way that was clearly sexual, a way that matched the lyrics and style of the music. The sight pushed blood into his cock, and the ache that had lived in the pit of his stomach since the day Giselle walked out burned like a hot coal.
He pulled his attention off the video-the video that might very well have been what had driven her to the club-and tried to collect his thoughts as the alcohol seeped into his bloodstream. Across the room, Giselle had broken free of handsy man and now flitted from one group to the next, all smiles and glamour.
This was her life, one filled with the rich and elite, cocktail parties and special events, champagne and hors d'oeuvres, and men fawning over her.
That was fine. Good. Great. After her childhood, Giselle deserved to be showered with as much attention as she could stand.
“Don't you think you deserve more?”
But, yeah, maybe Z was right. Maybe he did deserve more too. Like closure. Maybet he deserved the right to move on too.
Giselle broke out of her conversation with an older couple Troy didn't recognize and strolled through the crowd, turning a balustrade and disappearing down a short flight of stairs.
Purpose burned a hole straight through Troy's chest.
This.
This moment was the moment he'd been waiting for.
Giselle dried her hands, checked her makeup in the bathroom mirror, and added a little more concealer to her hickey, then feathered the edges. Going back to the club to see if she could catch him again was a really, really bad idea, wasn't it? Like the worst idea ever, she knew.
It was over. She wouldn't be going back. She wouldn't be seeing him again. She had to start looking forward, not backward.
With that new goal fixed in her mind, she straightened and turned for the door with her thoughts on the room upstairs. To the people who held her future in their hands. To the bathtub in her suite on the ninth floor-the lowest floor they’d had available-and the fragrant bubbles she'd fill it with when she returned.
She started up the short flight of stairs in front of her now with a grip on the iron handrail. The sight of men's black dress shoes and black slacks made her shift to the right.
She lifted her gaze and smiled politely at the man coming the opposite direction. “Excuse-”
The last word evaporated as she set eyes on Troy's face.
Denial blossomed even as her heart opened and swelled. Her feet stopped.
Not Troy. Can't be Troy.
Her eyes narrowed as the man stared back, still descending the staircase. Giselle had the strangest sensation of time slowing and warping and playing with her mind. She tried to see someone else in his face, someone she'd met upstairs, but all she saw was Troy-an older, wiser, sexier version of Troy with stubble heavy enough to be considered a beard.
Which only meant her mind was meshing memories of Troy with thoughts of the guy from…oh shit. The guy from the club.
“I'm in movies.”
His words echoed in her head as her brain made split-second connections. Dread and panic swam in the pit of her stomach.
He lowered to the same stair and paused, his gaze still holding hers. Giselle's mind flooded with panic. She fought to focus, to collect her scattered thoughts, but a small smile hinted on his lush lips.
Lips that moved with “Hi, Ellie.”
And her brain backpedaled, then stalled dead.
Ellie?
A spear of heat pierced the middle of her body. Her gaze jumped from his mouth to his eyes. And his identity hit her with absolute clarity: Troy.
Her heart did a funny twirl, jump, and flip, then took a high dive into the pit of her stomach. “What…? How did you…?” A flicker of doubt passed through her mind. She fell back a step, her hand grasping the railing. “Troy?”
She was so damn confused. Maybe she was going a little crazy. Because in that moment, every existing wrong collided and spit out an idea that absolutely did not register: The man at the club had been Troy.
“Oh my God.” Panic tinged the words, and the stairs spun in her vision. She pressed a hand to her forehead, and her back hit the wall of the staircase. “Oh shit. No. No, no, no.”
Her vision grayed around the edges. The strength in her legs gave out.
“Whoa, El…” He wrapped his arms around her, catching her before she hit the floor. “Holy shit.”
His voice confirmed her dreaded realization.
Frustration, hurt, anger bubbled up inside her in something that felt a lot like hysteria. But everything was spinning and fading. Her limbs weren't working. And the fear kept rising like a tide, rolling in on wave after wave until it overwhelmed her.
Her chest squeezed so tight, she couldn't draw enough air. Her throat thickened until she thought it would close. She clutched at his jacket sleeves, as if having that fabric fisted in her hands would help her breathe.
From there, everything took on a dark haze. She had a vague notion of being moved, of being lowered to the floor, of someone speaking to her, but a buzz filled her ears, along with her every breath, her every heartbeat. Her brain remained soaked in panic and darkness. She didn't
know how long. Didn't remember the what, where, why, or who of it all.
When the buzz finally quieted, a voice reached her. “You're okay. You're safe. Use your breathing, El. One, two, three…”
Her lungs responded as if they'd been trained to voice commands, and in the amount of time it took to snap fingers, air filled her lungs to his count of eight. Her head cleared. Her nerves smoothed.
“There you go,” he said, his voice calm, warm, soothing. “Open those pretty eyes for me, Ellie.”
Ellie. The name brought so much pleasure, her ribs ached.
She forced her lids up and blinked to focus into beautiful chocolaty brown eyes.
Troy's eyes.
Her heart flooded with emotion-love, longing, loss.
He smiled, showing a perfect row of bright white teeth and small lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. Neither of which he'd had last time she'd seen him.
Seven years ago.
She sat up too fast, and her brain spiraled. She slammed her eyes shut and covered them with her hand, groaning a curse.
“You scared the shit out of me, El,” he said before pulling her into the circle of his arms.
She wanted nothing more than to stay there, safe and warm and close to him. Oh, how long she'd craved the feeling of his arms around her again. Her mind seemed to stretch and expand, reaching for something. For time and place. For some sort of explanation.
And it all came back in a rush. The club. The devil. Troy.
“Oh shit,” she rasped, scrambling away. The cold tile beneath her made her glance around, and a whole different reality hit her-she was in the bathroom of the banquet room, with a hundred people upstairs.
Her past, her present, and her future slammed together in the worst possible way.
“Good God.” She rolled to her knees, and her head swayed. Squeezing her eyes closed against the spin, she steadied herself with a hand against the wall.
“Ellie, don't try to stand yet.”
A sound bubbled from her throat, half attempt to speak, half denial. “Troy, what…? Why…? How…?”
