by Zara Cox
He’d succeeded, or he thought he had, until Cara received a call from Fiona’s parents with the news that Lexi had moved to LA and was asking permission to visit their daughter in the hospital.
It’d taken three days to calm Cara down. Her hysterical questioning of Lexi’s motives resounded in his own head with an urgent need for an answer.
What the hell was she playing at, forcing them all to relive the horrific time?
With revived anger, he’d vowed to make her pay for what she’d done to Cara by whatever means necessary.
Only he hadn’t needed to. He’d taken one look at her the first time he’d seen her at the hospital, seen the private hell of survivor’s guilt she inhabited, and decided to leave her to it. Except along with the pain, he’d seen something else… A dark longing that lurked in the back of her eyes and thought, hell, maybe he could have a little revenge after all.
Obviously, Pulbrook hadn’t done it for her, not the way he could.
He’d smiled around the fire that burned in his groin and seen the answering heat in her eyes. She’d sent him a text message the very next day and asked him if he wanted to meet for a drink.
He’d replied, no, he didn’t want to meet for a drink. He’d sent a crude, succinct reply – throw in a fuck and I’ll think about it.
Her reply – where and when? - had been immediate and surprised the hell out of him.
They’d met here ever since, in the penthouse he’d bought for them to live in after they were married but had never had the heart to sell, emotionlessly fucking their brains out every Friday night. The hell remained visible in her eyes; the only time it disappeared was when she was caught in the throes of ecstasy.
He looked down, surprised his fingers had wound themselves into her hair.
Shit! He was getting his revenge--every time he made her scream out her orgasm, she paid him back a little for her betrayal. He should be happy.
He was happy. And when the time came to call a halt to this thing, he’d cut her off without a single thought. Original tit-for-fucking-tat.
She stirred beneath his hand as it roved over her silky-smooth rump, and he wondered whether to fuck her one last time before she left. His eager cock agreed with an impatient nudge. Hell, yeah.
Reaching for a condom in the almost-diminished pack, he slipped it on and slid on top of her. Enzo was between her thighs and inside her warm cunt before she came fully awake.
With a heartfelt sigh, she spread her legs wider for him. Another sigh, a soft dreamy cry of, “Oh, Enzo,” and she was there with him, eager for another mind-blowing ride.
He must have fallen asleep afterward. Movement around the room pricked his consciousness, and he woke up to find her stepping into her clothes.
He jerked upright. Had she intended to leave without waking him? The residual anger he’d carried around since he found out about her Vegas trip surged again.
“What the hell are you doing?”
She looked up in surprise, then shrugged. “I think it’s obvious, Enzo. I’m getting dressed.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s 3:30 a.m., and I have a flight to catch in a few hours.”
He bit back the harsh words which rose to his lips and swung out of bed. If she wanted to leave, fine. He’d had more than his fill of her for the next seven days.
“What time do you leave for Vegas?” he asked, pulling on his boxers.
She shrugged on her jacket. “My flight’s at eleven. I have to be at the airport at ten.” She looked around for her hair clip, gave up, and ran her fingers through her hair.
The look of exhaustion on her face tugged at something inside that he didn’t want to identify.
From nowhere, take care of yourself, sprang to his lips, but he forced them down. Why should he care what happened to her in Vegas? What he should be saying was, Make sure you don’t fuck anyone else while you’re in Vegas or this thing between us is over.
He didn’t say that either. Exclusivity wasn’t part of their deal. Changing the terms of the arrangement now would be unthinkable and smack of weakness on his part.
But would she? He eyed her, his gaze drawn to the delicate perfection of her face. Would she check into one of those hotels with the sleekly oiled cabana boys and indulge in a quick fuck behind the potted palms? Or would she pick up a guest for a night of mindless screwing?
Jesus, what the hell was he doing? Jealousy wasn't part of their deal either.
He pulled on his jeans and yanked up the zipper with more force than necessary. The images his mind threw up caused his jaw to clench in anger.
So, he didn’t trust her. Damned straight. Look where trust had gotten him last time.
But it pissed him off at how deeply she’d embedded herself under his skin, so rampantly in his blood that he would count the minutes, hell, the seconds until Friday night rolled around again.
“You ready?” he snapped, although he saw for himself she was. Her head jerked in his direction and wariness crept into her eyes.
“Yes. I am.”
He pulled her to him, rammed a savage kiss on her lips and stepped away. “Let’s go.” Grasping her elbow, he steered her out the door and smashed down the part of him that screamed to hold on and never let her go.
He knew better.
Once bitten, hell, never again.
CHAPTER FIVE
The plane landed at McCarran International just after midday on Friday morning. Lexi bit her lip at her body’s tenderness as she reached up for her carry-on. Thankfully, there weren’t many people in business class to witness her gingerly stride out of the plane.
She still couldn’t believe how animalistic, almost primitive, Enzo had been in bed last night.
He’d always been a powerful, earthy lover, but sex with him had never been the ruthless, feral coupling of last night. She’d barely had a moment to breathe before he’d been ready again, demanding, and receiving, a consuming performance from her. She hadn’t asked what had bugged him last night--talk simply wasn’t on their agenda when they met up.
No, their time together was all about sex, where the only words spoken were meant to enhance the sex; make it hotter, steamier. Enzo loved it when she vocalized her demands in bed, and he in turn vocalized his. Apart from maybe a hello and goodbye as a nod to civility, they barely spoke outside of the bedroom.
Except last night, when Enzo had introduced another dimension to their sexcapade - sex with more than a hint of dominance and a whole lot of anger.
In the clear light of day, Lexi berated herself for not standing up to him.
Whatever had gotten him into that state had nothing to do with her. She shouldn’t have tolerated it. But God, the experience had been phenomenal!
She inhaled sharply. Nevertheless, she concluded as she wheeled her carry-on toward the exit, it had been wrong to give in to him. Wrong to let him march her down the hall into the elevator afterward, his fury palpable, tingeing the air around them. Wrong for him to kiss her again, hard and deep against her car, before shoving her inside and striding away with taut instruction to drive safely thrown over his shoulder.
First thing next Friday, when they met up again, she’d set him straight. Never again would she allow control to be wrested from her, the way it had a year ago. She’d agreed to their tryst because she knew what it entailed - punishment on his part for what she’d done to his sister and an inexplicable need to stay connected with the man she still craved on hers. She wasn’t sure what name to hang on it, but she didn’t think it was love. Hell, why would she love a man who would dump her without so much as a word?
He’d paid her a visit the day after the accident; he’d kept his anger at bay as he demanded to know why she’d drank that night. Sure, at first she’d tried to bullshit her way out of it, but in the end she’d come clean. The disappointment in his eyes had scared her a little, but never in her wildest dreams had she thought it would spell the end of their relationship.
She’d taken his
request to push back their wedding simply as a chance to give Cara time to recover from the accident. And why would he tell her he’d see her the next day, even kiss her, when he knew he was leaving London?
Her own desperate heartache still had the power to deliver gut-wrenching pain when she recalled just how she’d found out her engagement had ended.
After days locked in a fog of pain, the realization that Enzo hadn’t come back to see her had finally penetrated her stunned senses. Endless calls with no reply had driven her to seek him out at his house.
The realtor’s pitying look and insouciant tones as she informed her that Enzo’s rented house was back on the market because he’d returned to the States still made her skin tighten with humiliation. She’d crawled back into bed and stayed there for a solid week, until her grandmother’s anxious entreaties had forced her to pull herself together.
But that was then. She was much stronger now.
Any more caveman tactics from Enzo and she walked. Plain and simple.
Fendi sunglasses firmly in place, she walked into the bright Vegas sunlight, ignoring the avid gazes that her voluptuous figure gloved in a mint green skirt suit attracted. She tried to shift her mind into work mode as the car service town car drew up beside her.
Nine viewings in the next two days was definitely pushing it. After which, she’d need to make a shortlist of four or five properties and present the portfolio to her clients. Then on Monday, she’d take them around, arrange second viewings where necessary on Tuesday, and then leave them to decide which property they wanted.
As an international relocation consultant, Lexi had found homes for hundreds of clients all over the world. She’d started as a small-time relocator with a firm in South London, and then moved to Kingfisher Realtors, after being recognized for her innate ability to fit the right people to the right homes.
She knew she had a natural talent, but it wasn’t until her short stint on a TV property show that she’d gained international acclaim. Overnight, she’d become the go-to person, topping the list as the property hunter for celebrities and Fortune 500 clients.
Initially, the success had gone to her head, until she realized she’d be dealing with monumental egos and self-important minions who thought she should be paying them for the privilege of her services.
More and more, she missed the fulfillment of finding the right house for young couples and first-time buyers, seeing the sheer joy on their faces as they secured the humble homes they’d most likely live in, bring up their children in, and grow old in.
Instead, she had to contend with locating and negotiating the best price for the next “in” place for egotistical CEOs, aging rockers and their starlet wives, or even worse, their drug-stoked offspring who wanted to live in the same neighborhood as Kim K or Britney. Of course, the minute Kim moved, Lexi had to be on the next flight, hunting down a penthouse, chalet, or villa.
Before the accident last year, when she’d looked forward to living her own happily-ever-after as Mrs. Enzo Saldana, Lexi had toyed with the idea of going back to her roots, starting her own company in LA, and catering to couples and families looking for their first homes. Then all her dreams had crashed and burned. At first, she’d thought she could remain in London after Enzo left, but even that option had been cruelly torn from her.
Ian Pulbrook had seen to that.
Kingfisher’s offer of a position in LA had been a godsend and she’d taken it, allowing her gratefully numbed senses to retreat further from the horror that had become her life.
She wrenched her thoughts from the dark vacuum of remembrance and pushed her shades up her nose when the Strip came into view. The spectacular sights and themed hotels flashed past and, even in daylight, the world-famous Las Vegas strip was a sight to behold. She’d only visited twice before, the first time when Ocean’s Eleven had propelled every A- and B-listed star to acquire a suite at the Bellagio.
The second had been when the Wynn Hotel had opened; its sheer opulence and decadence had prompted another frenzied bid for space within its hallowed walls.
This time, she was in search of a condo for a non-celebrity couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, the brief said. Although she had her suspicions that there might be another, more legitimate Mrs. Johnson tucked away in the background. For one thing, Mr. Johnson, a filthy rich wine merchant originally from Napa, was old enough to be the grandfather of the Mrs. Johnson she’d met, and everything about her screamed high-class hooker. Lexi had a feeling she was hunting for a dirty weekend get-away pad, not the alleged retirement home for the couple.
But hers wasn’t to reason why, she mused cynically, as the car pulled up in front of her hotel.
First a light lunch, followed by a read through of her papers and phone calls to the local realtors confirming her appointments. Then a massage and a relaxed evening to ready herself for the hectic pace of the next few days.
Saturdays were busy days for realtors, especially in a fast-moving market like Vegas. In a city where fortunes were made and lost in the blink of an eye, one always had to be ready to move quickly. The condo or suite, which you’d been warned would never be sold, could suddenly come on the market and be gone within a matter of hours.
She thanked her driver and followed the bellhop to the front desk.
“Hello, Ms. Mayfield. Good to have you with us again. We gave you your usual suite, here’s your keycard, and your massage has been booked for four as requested.”
Lexi smiled inwardly at the very American efficiency. If there was one thing she loved about Americans, it was their skills in the hospitality business.
“Thank you. Would it be possible to move the massage to three, instead?” she asked, thinking of the aches she had in unmentionable places.
“Of course.” The attractive blonde behind the desk replied smoothly. “We’ve also arranged for the same masseuse for you. I believe you used Hans the last time?”
“I don’t remember his name.” Oh, but she did. She recalled Hans and his amazing assets as clear as day. “I’m sure whoever you send will be fine.”
Perfect teeth gleamed in her perfect face. “Thank you, Ms. Mayfield. Here’s your wi-fi card. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you.” She took the card and followed the bellhop to the elevator.
Riding up to her floor, Lexi hid her smile as the spectacular image of Hans rose in her mind. She hadn’t experienced his personal brand of massage in well over six months. If he’d lasted this long on the job, then he must be very discreet indeed.
Handing over a twenty-dollar tip to the bellhop, she shut the door behind him and surveyed her room. A junior suite with clear views of the Strip, it was decorated in honeyed tones of cream and gold, with a whirlpool bath and separate shower adjoining the bedroom on one side. On the other, a small sitting room held the music and drinks console and a desk where she could plug in her laptop. This she did, removing her clothes as it booted up.
Crossing the room to the phone, she ordered a club sandwich and fries, forgoing the salad she’d originally contemplated. She was starving, especially after that sexathon last night and only a coffee and half a bagel for breakfast this morning.
Her gaze moved to her bag. Should she call and tell Enzo she’d arrived safely?
Hell, no. He’d think she was keeping tabs on him or something. The last thing she wanted was to appear needy.
It was about the sex for them. Nothing else.
Remember that, Lexi.
After a quick shower, she slipped on the hotel robe. Aside from her bra and panties there was no need to dress; she’d only have to undress again for her massage. Her breasts tingled against the soft cotton and she experienced a sense of disquiet at her body’s behavior. When had she become so sex mad? For fuck’s sake, her body still throbbed from last night’s exploits, yet here she was, barely able to breathe as she recalled Enzo’s hands on her body.
Already she could feel the slick moisture between her swelling labia, and even the brush of l
oosened hair across her nape caused desire to shoot to her groin.
Focus Lexi, she berated herself. Grabbing her case, she spread the papers on the bed, sorting them by address and grouping them by area. Halfway through assessing each viewing, her lunch arrived. By the time she’d placed the calls to the respective realtors and inputted the details into her smart phone, she’d polished off her meal. She’d have to work that off later in the hotel gym, but for now she padded to her small balcony, coffee in hand, and looked out over the Strip.
The knock on the door came a few minutes later.
Turning, she took a deep breath and went to open it.
“Miss Mayfield, it’s good to see you again.”
“Hello, Hans. Come on in,” she invited, striving to sound cool and collected, even though her senses tweaked at the sight of the man in front of her. Although dressed in the loose short white tunic and matching trousers used by the staff at the health spa, the uniform didn’t detract from the amazing physique beneath. His packed muscles moved fluidly as he wheeled his folded massage table inside the room. As he went back to the door to fetch his bag, Lexi’s eyes dropped to his tight ass. She swallowed at the bunching muscles. God, he was hot! Almost as hot as—
“Would you like to take the robe off?”
He’d returned and proceeded to set up the massage bed. When he finished, he stood back with a towel over his arm, gazing at her. “Lie face down for me, please.” His Scandinavian accent was still pronounced, and the way he spoke carefully somehow made her want to smile. She gave in and smiled; God knows, she had nothing to smile about these days.
But the recollection of Hans’s not so precise pronunciation the last time she’d been with him resurrected the imp inside her.
Keeping her eyes on his, she dropped the robe and walked in her bra and panties toward the massage bed. With slow movements, she climbed up and did as he instructed, her gaze on his face as he took in her body. Beneath his trousers, she saw his cock thicken and her smile widened.
