It took Santino a split second to make his decision. “Give me the file.”
*
On nights like tonight, when he couldn’t shake off the shadows, Santino stayed awake straight through, idly praying for the kind of exhaustion that’d force him to surrender to sleep.
With a file dedicated to Bindi Paxton along with a contact number for Zaf in his possession, and a mood blacker than the paint on his truck, he got behind the wheel and figured if he couldn’t escape the shadows, he’d confront them.
Not yet through with the city, Santino rejected the impulse to storm his father’s Lake Las Vegas estate. Eventually he might. For a while the place had been home, even if crowded with household staff and Alessandro’s trophy fiancée. But with most of the staff, the trophy, Santino and Alessandro himself gone, no one occupied the multimillion-dollar mansion besides the head housekeeper, whose unbending loyalty to a betrayer of a man wouldn’t set her free.
Night traffic slowed his speed, kept him on the road longer than he liked. More tourists, he figured, and it for damn certain had to do with Las Vegas being high on back-to-back sports victories. The city’s homegrown pro boxer had recently beaten a Czech Republic challenger to retire undefeated, and the scandal-drenched Slayers were now Super Bowl champs.
Stress coated his nerves so thickly and tautened his muscles so violently that he was glad to hand off the truck to a DiGorgio Royal Casino valet and start walking again before the pain could start.
The cash in his gold clip he wouldn’t miss, and he had access to more. His mind needed peace; his body needed satisfaction. But he hadn’t come to his godfather’s top-tier casino, with its Art Deco influence and no-sex escorts who were expertly skilled in tempting the clientele past their inhibitions and gambling limits, to play.
No high-stakes games. No high-class hookups. No to the woman who’d appointed herself his private concierge, who had suggestions on how to make tonight an unforgettable experience. Unfortunately, he didn’t think he’d ever experience pleasure the way he had with Tabitha. His injury had taken care of that.
With Tabitha, he’d been whole. He might get back into his jersey and celebrate a miraculous comeback, but he’d never be whole again.
Besides, there was someone he was here to see. Both stoic and slick, Gian DiGorgio was a man you needed to look in the eye when you talked to him.
Reserved for celebrities seeking discretion and for the riskiest of high rollers, the casino’s Titanium Club was a top-floor sinners’ playground. Rarely was the owner accessible outside the club. Guests weren’t allowed beyond the gold-plated doors without invitation.
Anger was Santino’s invitation to invade the club. Godfather to both Santino and his younger brother, Nate, Gian owed them answers. He called himself old-fashioned, a man of simple expectations. He defined family as a bond borne of loyalty, protection, respect—meaning if you didn’t give him all three, you weren’t his family.
In the wake of his father’s disappearance, Santino had come to him numerous times for answers. But Gian offered silence. It was a betrayal Santino couldn’t allow and hypocrisy from a man he no longer trusted.
Because Al wasn’t operating on all cylinders. To fade into nothingness while under media and federal scrutiny, he’d required the services of a trusted expert. Gian DiGorgio—Italian billionaire, certified genius, celebrated hedonist, worldwide playboy—possessed the cunning mind, international connections and dark influence to make it happen.
Bribery and a few cold threats didn’t get Santino into the club, but the hassle brought his godfather to the corridor.
Dark-suited, silver-haired and grim-faced, Gian contrasted against the brilliant luxury around him. A devil at home in his bright, glittering and expensive hell.
“Farsi da parte. Il ragazzo è la famiglia.”
Gian’s command parted the barricade of security guarding the entrance. The personable “relax—I’m on your side” smile Gian offered him now was one Santino had never trusted. Gian smiled that smile before he knifed associates, friends, lovers and even blood family in their backs. It was the smile he wore for cameras and investigators in his portrayal of a cooperative suspect.
“You want in? Dai,” Gian said, regarding his godson with suspicion before escorting him into the Titanium Club. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Always expect family.” A-list guests no longer crowded the gemstone-pebbled carpet. Eager gamblers no longer competed for space at the polished table games. The bar had too many vacant seats. The air was too fragrant—no, too clean—for the peak of night.
Where were the smokers, the drinkers, the hard-partying risk takers?
Avoiding connection to a place that any day might see its doors closed if Gian was more than suspected of facilitating illegal sports wagering—that was where.
“A slow night,” Gian said, unconcerned. “Luck’s on your side. You can have your pick of tables.” He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, removed a slim titanium case. “A cigar for your trouble at the door.”
“No.”
“They’re King of Denmarks.”
“I don’t want to smoke. Or take over a table.”
“Well.” Gian put the case away. “This ain’t the destination for you.”
“Where’d you send my father?”
At the blunt question, Gian flicked an irritated glance at the smattering of guests in their vicinity then clasped Santino’s shoulder. His next words were low, tense. “It was a bright day when Al and Gloria—bless her soul—asked me to be your godfather. I was honored to accept and I take my duty seriously. So I’ll guide you and look out for you, mi figlio, but I won’t tolerate disrespect.”
Santino shrugged off Gian’s hand. “Neither will I. How deep underground is he?”
“I’m not Al’s keeper.”
“I don’t believe that.” Gian hadn’t been formally convicted, but Santino believed he was guilty. “What do you know about Bindi Paxton?”
“She’s a risk,” Gian said automatically, as though he’d considered this before, “and Al’s better off to be done with her.”
“Dad’s weak. He’s close to breaking. If he breaks, he talks. Without his confession on the table, you have a stronger defense.”
“Enough—”
“But sending him away doesn’t guarantee a free pass for you, Gian.”
“Che cazzo?” Gian poked his index finger square in the center of Santino’s forehead. “A man doesn’t believe rumors over his family’s word. He doesn’t accuse, convict and sentence his godfather—and his father, for that matter—without asking for the truth.”
Santino knocked Gian’s hand away and was tempted to let his aggression fly unrestrained. He was that weary and reckless. “A man doesn’t pay someone to make sure his son rides out of a game on a cart.”
“Don’t infect my casino with some vendetta. Go home. Rest. Come back when you’re ready to gamble and we can forget this happened.” Gian studied him for a quiet moment. “Al doesn’t share his plans. If he’d told me about the bounty, I would’ve canceled it. You’d still be on Arizona’s roster and you’d still have what’s-her-name in your bed.”
“Tabitha.”
But Gian already knew that.
“Sì. Tabitha. Funny. Magnificent body. You miss that, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Except it was more complicated than wanting Tabitha back. He didn’t. Sex and good times aside, it was hard to miss a football bunny.
He missed the person he’d been when he’d loved her—because feeling invincible had felt so friggin’ incredible. Santino had made rehabilitation an obsession. He had to conquer the effects of his damaged spinal cord. A thirty-eight-year-old plagued with insomnia, weak erections and random muscle spasms? He would’ve written himself off as a lost cause, except for the fact that somehow in the wake of hell he’d reset his body’s limits to achieve strength and muscle tone that were far superior to what they’d been during his fourteen years as a ti
ght end.
A few more active seasons should’ve been guaranteed. A first-round draft pick, he’d from the start considered victories as vital as oxygen. He’d deserved a chance to experience the twilight of his NFL career. Instead it’d been severed with an illegal hit that had crushed a spinal disc and could’ve paralyzed or killed him.
“At least ten Tabithas are in the Mahogany Lounge right now, waiting to be picked like ripe fruit off a tree,” Gian offered. “There’s a rough aura about you, but you’ve got your reasons. Let your money and good sense do the grunt work. Go downstairs. Take your pick. Let her keep you occupied.”
“Occupied? So I don’t show up here asking questions?”
“Next time I won’t be such a pleasant guy about it, mi figlio.”
The parting words—and the line of Titanium Club security guards advancing on him—signaled it was his cue to walk.
A rage-fueled confrontation was a dumb-ass mistake Santino couldn’t make again. Because Bindi Paxton’s cooperation wouldn’t be won through anger. She wasn’t responsible for his pain, and he didn’t want to add to hers. He’d confront her with composure, would influence her coolly, would coax her softly, if he was capable of it.
And he’d get her back to Las Vegas fast, because if he got stranded on some island where the only familiar face was one he hadn’t been able to bar from his dirtiest, most honest dreams, there’d be no one to save him from himself.
Chapter 2
No one knew her here.
Anonymity and every indulgence she could request on a pristine speck of Seychelles paradise might not be enough to make Bindi Paxton completely forget the crapstorm she’d made of her life in the States, but she couldn’t deny it came close.
A Mahé island hideaway? Sparkling white-sand beaches that unrolled into radiant crystal waters? Hot, vibrant days and warm, teasing evening breezes? A secluded ten-thousand-euro-a-night coastline estate?
Cora Island might be considered a Silhouette wannabe—geographically smaller with appealing attractions mimicking that of the larger island—and its nightlife left something to be desired, but it was four square kilometers of preserved beauty and creole architecture.
And strangers who didn’t know who she was and what she’d done.
Recent reality found her subletting a showgirl’s apartment and living off the sale of her Lamborghini and what she earned hawking gossip to tabloids in Las Vegas. Packing her bags and jetting off for a prepaid vacation was one last glorious throwback to the lifestyle she’d probably never have again.
She’d come here to find what she needed: a sense of direction. She didn’t mind that people wondered why her coveted rental estate was adorned in romantic Valentine’s Day glamour yet she was traveling solo.
Aside from souvenirs, selfies and a sense of peace she hadn’t been able to find in Las Vegas, she intended to take no part of her island experience home to the US with her.
If not for an email reminder from the Mahé to Cora helicopter service, she might’ve forgotten about the vacation and Valentine’s Day altogether.
Plan the trip, Bindi. It’s yours. My gift to you. By Valentine’s Day, you’re going to be my wife.
Her ex-fiancé and his dead promises. Those promises plus a handcrafted engagement ring had reeled her into Alessandro Franco’s world, and she’d let herself drown in illusions of marriage and the kind of stability only money and status could secure.
Then he’d lied, cheated and dropped her ass. At least she hadn’t slept with him.
“To holding out,” Bindi muttered into her champagne flute. Withholding sex ended a war in Lysistrata but hadn’t earned her a prenup-free marriage. The Krug Clos d’Ambonnay sparkled silently as she drank.
Delegating her hostess duties to a perky server, she deserted her front-door post. Greeting “Bienvenue! Viens dans!” and passing out lock necklaces to women and key necklaces to men weren’t rocket science, but got old fast.
Bindi hadn’t wanted to waste Valentine’s harping on how she’d let yet another man con and abuse her. Determined to spend every euro in the discretionary allowance account Alessandro had arranged for her, she’d told people at the hotel and the island’s bar to save the date for a lock-and-key party at her estate, Villa Soleil.
Guests drank liquor, sampled offerings from an aphrodisiac-themed buffet, indulged in the creamy white and rich dark streams of chocolate pouring from the golden fountain, flirted as keys twisted into locks.
Carefully snaking through the crush, Bindi felt the delicate lock pendant bounce against her in a quiet rhythm. No key had breached her lock, but perhaps the moment had come to change that.
Was she ready for this?
She had to be. Why else had she hotfooted it to Victoria for a mani-pedi and new clothes?
The mani-pedi had relaxed her. As for the clothes…
The short black lace cocktail dress, with its long sleeves, deep V in the back and clever nude silk underlayer, was the sexiest she’d wiggled into since her ex had ended their engagement. He’d had his demands—her dressing provocatively being one of them. After he’d broken up with her, she’d worn jeans, sweats and flats, anything that made her feel okay with herself.
With her fair skin strategically exposed, freshly dark-dyed hair gathered high and her burgundy fingernails gleaming under the estate’s shimmering splendor, she silently repeated, “Go for it,” as she zeroed in on him.
The small pep talk had always given her guts. Bravery. Bravado.
As Senator Roscoe Rayburn Paxton’s daughter, she’d needed that.
Unlock me, stranger. Men in leather, Afros and piercings weren’t her usual fare. Maybe it was exactly that, the differentness of him, which drew her in. Maybe she’d like him. Maybe this would be the start of something pure, and he’d introduce her to a relationship that was based on romance or heat, not business negotiations.
Wouldn’t that be the ultimate way to kiss goodbye all the lies and power plays that had conceived her hoax of an engagement?
Wouldn’t that help her believe that she was changing her ways and ending the self-destructive patterns that had only hurt her in the past?
Oh, he had his eye on her. Even as he tried to turn his key in another woman’s lock and doused her with the seduction of his rich creole voice, he kept Bindi in his sights.
Name? She didn’t know. Net worth? She didn’t care. Married? Oh, God, she hoped not. She would never be that woman again.
A bit of internet snooping could answer her questions. In her days of drifting from one society king to the next, she’d made sure to do her homework first—comparing risks to benefits. Emotions hadn’t factored, until she’d lent her sympathy and trust to a Las Vegas widower in spite of the reasons she shouldn’t.
Now that she’d taken herself out of the gold-digging game, she wanted a man to share something more with.
She had another week on the Seychelles, an island full of people she wouldn’t mind getting to know, and a new life waiting for her back in Las Vegas that she was desperate to change for the better as soon as possible.
What happened on the island would stay on the island. On Cora she pretended to be the old her—carefree, disgustingly wealthy, confident beyond measure. Pretended she wasn’t anxious, struggling and ashamed that she’d let herself hit the bottom again.
But, somehow, her spirit remained intact.
So. At least she hadn’t slept with Alessandro Franco or let him crush her spirit.
“Cheers to that.” Finishing the champagne and resolving to drink a whiskey sour next, she strode through her dreamworld party to the man who watched her.
*
Santino was watching her.
When he’d arrived at Villa Soleil, Cora Island’s prized private coastline estate, he had been waylaid on the tea-light candlelit veranda and blasted with the noise of voices competing against crunk music. A woman in a red-smocked costume had handed him a silver necklace with a key pendant, divulged that tonight’s game was al
l about connections and urged him to try as many locks as possible.
Screw connections. He hadn’t taken off for the middle of the Indian Ocean for that. What he wanted was Bindi Paxton, alone and in the mood to help him out. If she’d had a part in his father’s disappearance and decided to give Santino her loyalty, together they could draw the man out.
As for keys and locks and whatever other plans she had to squander a desperate aging man’s money? Screw that, too.
But then she had cut into his line of vision, breasts jiggling delicately as she wound temptingly through the crowds, and he’d forgotten his motives and everything else but the demanding sensation jolting through him. A dark-haired stranger in a lace dress that barely concealed her…
Holy…
Curves like that didn’t need lace. If she were his, if she said yes, he’d undress her. Squeeze her. Stroke her. Open her so his mouth could taste, bite and tease.
Legs like hers didn’t need the accentuation of dagger heels—not when he’d rather have those taut, slender limbs propped on his shoulders or folded around his hips.
A redhead in a strapless dress appeared in front of him, grinning in a way that made her eyes all but crinkle shut behind her black-rimmed glasses. “Swear, this feels like spring break in Cabo all over again. Um…here goes. If Sadie Hawkins can choose her guy, then I can choose the guy who puts his key in my lock.” She gasped, her fingers frozen on her necklace. “That sounded obscene.”
Santino might’ve laughed as he brought his key toward her lock, but his awareness had swung directly back to the mystery brunette as she and a few other women were drawn into a huddle of men.
What the hell was he doing? He’d come to the Seychelles to have a face-to-face with Bindi, not to stick his key into one woman’s lock while tracking another who was hotter than Hades.
A click penetrated his thoughts, and he glanced down to see the lock now open. “We’re a fit.”
“We’re not,” the redhead retorted above the music, glancing over her shoulder, then at him again. She snapped the lock shut, retreating. “Obviously your attention’s on a short dress.”
Mine Tonight Page 2
