by Caro LaFever
His nails cut into his palms. “Sí.”
She paused. “You are upset if you’re lapsing into Spanish.”
Another silence fell.
“Tell me what he did.” Her words were blunt and hard, as if she would gladly fly to the ends of the earth to whack the man who had dared to upset Nick Townsend.
A clutch of emotions tightened in his throat. He and Maggie were always professional. Almost always. She had her duties and kept out of his private life. He had his wheeling and dealing and knew she held the fort for him. But once in a great while, he caught a glimpse of the fierce love she had for him. A motherly love his own mamá had never felt for him.
To Magdalena Contreras Townsend, her son had been a possession. A prized possession, yet a possession, nevertheless.
To Maggie Crawley, he was the son she’d never had. A son who deserved to be loved no matter what he did or said.
“He laid out a deal.” His voice was gruff, because it still upset him to know he’d been caught by surprise.
“What was the deal?”
“I marry his daughter and he gives me the McDowell hotels.”
“All of them?” A low whistle came from her mouth. “That’s quite a prize.”
“I guess that makes me a prize stallion for his daughter, then.”
“You turned him down, of course.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Another M silence descended.
“I signed on the dotted line.”
“What?” Her gasp echoed in the kitchen and before he could turn around, she was at his side, a bristling presence ready to defend her cub. “What did he threaten to do to you?”
Nick flashed her a reluctant grin. “Draw back those claws. I’m a man and I know what I signed.”
Maggie glared at him, her sharp blue eyes shooting daggers. “Nicholas Townsend. I know you. You have no interest in getting married.”
“That’s true—”
“Yet.”
Her one clipped word reminded him that not only did his pa talk about children every chance he got, Nick’s assistant had started making the same sorts of noises during the last couple of years. His pa might realize his son wasn’t cut out to be a father, although he still yearned for a grandchild, but Maggie had no such understanding.
“You’d be a very good father if you put your mind to it,” she’d claimed more than once. “It just has to be the right woman and the right time.”
She crossed her arms in front of her, a militant look crossing her face. “We’ll have to call the lawyers first thing in the morning.”
“Will we?” Angling his body in a put-on casual pose, he leaned on the sun-warmed window. “Why is that?”
“They’ll figure some way to get you released from the contract.” Her fingers tapped an impatient refrain on her arm. “They have to.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get out of the contract.”
Her attention zeroed in on his face and her mouth slowly opened into an astonished O. “That wasn’t a question.”
“No, it wasn’t.” He pretended to idly survey the city skyline. “I met her.”
“The daughter.”
“Correct.”
The older woman hummed. “You’re interested.”
“I’m interested in all women. You know that.” Shrugging out of his lazy stance, he ambled toward the kitchen. “I’m hungry. Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“Don’t change the subject.”
He opened the fridge and peered in. “I’ve got some steaks.”
“As you very well know, I don’t eat meat.” The slap of two impatient hands on his granite counter echoed in the room. “Tell me about the daughter.”
“We can order something from the casino’s kitchen if you’d like.” Smacking the fridge closed, he strolled to the phone. “Chinese?”
“Nicholas.” Her tone turned to pure English ice. “Tell. Me. About. Her.”
He fiddled with the receiver. “Her name’s Jessica.”
“Yes?”
“She’s tall.”
A grumble of annoyance was his response.
“She’s got red hair.”
“That’s not a shock, as her father has a fine head of auburn hair, himself.”
The memory of Clyde McDowell flew at him. Sunk into his big-backed, leather chair, wispy gray strands of hair barely covering his balding head. His skin as gray as the hair. His sunken eyes, his tight grimaces of pain. “McDowell is dying.”
A sigh came across the counter. “I’d heard the rumors. I don’t like the man, but I’m sorry to hear the news is true.”
Nick glanced at her. “You heard rumors and you didn’t pass them on?”
His assistant had the amazing ability to have her fingers on the pulse of the hospitality industry, and her ears tuned into an enormous amount of gossip, tips, and tales. The value she brought to him continually amazed him.
She gave him a pert look. “I would have told you if I’d known you were in negotiations with him.”
Tit for tat. He had kept this a secret from her. Which was unusual, she was right. “I wasn’t sure if it would go through.”
“No, Nicky.” A sad smile flitted across her face. “You didn’t tell me because those instincts of yours were on high alert and you didn’t want me confirming your worries.”
He straightened, placing the phone receiver back in its cradle. Had that been the reason? He hadn’t thought it at the time. What he’d felt was this enormous rush of adrenaline, as if he were finally going to meet his destiny.
“I wasn’t worried,” he protested.
“You should have been.” She peered at him. “Or maybe not.”
Looking down, he stuck his hands in his pockets once more.
“Tell me more about tall, red-haired Jessica.”
Tenacious Maggie. “I’m going to marry her.”
A slow hum. “Are you.”
“Sí.” His hands fisted. “And I’m going to get her hotels and turn them into something amazing.”
“The McDowell hotels are already amazing.”
He glanced up. “They’re run-down.”
“Some of them. Not all.” She kept her alert gaze on him. “But what an opportunity. You’re going to combine them with your casinos, aren’t you?”
“That’s the plan.” He flashed her a grin even though his hands stayed fisted. “We’re going to have a lot to do, Maggie mía.”
“There’s the Spanish again.” Her focus didn’t waver from his face. “Perhaps we will have a lot to do, but there’s one thing you need to think about.”
“What’s that?” He kept his pose relaxed, although his body vibrated with uneasy excitement, and his mind was flooded with ideas, worries, and lust for those long, long legs of Jessica McDowell.
“You already said it.”
“Huh?”
“Her hotels, you said.” Maggie stared at him. “The daughter’s.”
His palms turned sweaty.
“She’s part of this now, Nicky. You can’t deny it or her.”
Chapter 5
Her father was not a big fan of Las Vegas.
Which made it all the stranger that they had landed at McCarran International Airport less than an hour ago, and Clyde McDowell was intent on getting into the city as soon as possible.
“Dad.” Jessica smoothed her hair back into its customary knot and frowned at him from across the limo seat.
“What?” He ignored her frown by rummaging in the leather satchel he invariably carried with him. He’d stuff contracts, newspapers, notes to himself, anything and everything into it. The practice disturbed her orderly mind. Especially the contracts and business correspondence. Those should be filed carefully away, or even better, saved in a cloud somewhere so the details would be protected.
Her father didn’t like computers very much, either.
“Why are we here in Las Vegas?” she asked with exasperation. “We’d planned on going to Spain next.”
“Change of plans.” Pulling out a sheaf of papers, his voice turned cool. “It happens.”
“It doesn’t happen with you.” She glanced away from him to stare at the spangly lights blaring from every street corner and building. “We don’t even have a hotel here.”
“Maybe that will change.”
Eyebrows rising, she turned back to examine him. “You’re kidding. You hate this place.”
“I can change, too,” he huffed, as he paged through some contract or report. Something he wouldn’t share with her.
Another thing he wouldn’t share.
The realization shot through her, a tense ball of anxiety.
Trying to push it away, she focused on the blaze of life outside the window. Las Vegas repeatedly drew her for no apparent reason. She couldn’t understand it. The McDowells and their hotels were all about fancy and upscale. Elegant and rich with history. Nothing like this blast of modernity mixed with crass commercialism and naked ambition. Yet, she’d always wanted to come here and stay for awhile, instead of only coming for a couple of two-day hospitality conventions.
“We’re staying at Devil Skye,” her father announced.
“What?” She gaped at him. “We book at Caesar’s.”
“Time for that to change, too.”
She kept staring at him, as she ran through what she knew about the Devil Skye casino. It wasn’t one of the grand monstrosities dotting this city—more of an intimate clubhouse than an opulent hotel that provided shows, shopping, and salons. The one specific thing she did remember about the place was it catered to hard-core poker players, offering high stakes and a yearly championship.
“Next you’ll be telling me you’ve taken up poker,” she said with a wry tone.
“Don’t sass, Jessica.” Her father lifted his gaze from his perusal of the papers to give her a hard look.
Waving her hand in a pretended airy dismissal, she went back to gazing through the window. “Fine. Whatever. It will be only a couple of days, right?”
“Wrong.”
“You’re kidding.” She was going to get whiplash for all the times she’d jerked her head to stare at her father in the last few minutes.
“We’re staying here for the foreseeable future.” He stuck the papers back into his satchel, and leaned forward in the seat. “Drive to the back of the casino,” he instructed the driver. “There’s an underground parking lot.”
“But…but…” Jessica’s mind whirled. Stay here, or anywhere, for the foreseeable future? Clyde McDowell was too restless to land anywhere for longer than a month. Two at the most. What was going on? “We have meetings scheduled with the Spanish authorities about the food and liquor licenses.”
“I canceled them.”
Her father’s blunt statement smacked her as hard as if he’d slapped her across the cheek. She’d spent months arranging those meetings. Hurt pulsed through her, causing her to suck in a deep breath.
She could yell.
She should yell.
Except she wasn’t the yelling type. Her red hair was the antithesis of her true personality. She didn’t have a fiery temper or a flashy nature. Passionate emotions didn’t run through her, pushing her to fly off the handle or start a fight.
Sinking into the soft, supple leather, she let the breath seep from her mouth in a slow hiss.
“Don’t argue with me,” her dad muttered.
Like a simple hiss was an actual argument.
The limo glided past the entryway. Like much of Las Vegas, Devil Skye casino seemed to be made of a thousand panes of glass and reams of glistening silver steel. The building might not be as big as some, still, it held to the typical style of this desert city. Unlike each McDowell masterpiece that was designed to reflect the country and culture it was placed in, this casino seemed to stride onto the landscape, intent on making its statement of bold aggression.
Jessica said nothing.
Her father harrumphed.
That was displeasure at all the blank glass and sterile steel, the impossible arrogance of the casino standing before them. She was sure of it. Yet, Clyde McDowell didn’t tell the driver to turn around. He didn’t call his pilot and order him to fuel up and get ready to take off.
He just harrumphed.
What was going on? The idea popped into her head—perhaps her father was exploring a new medical treatment. Or could he possibly be looking into something dangerous? She’d read an article about shamanic practices going on in this vicinity a couple of months ago. Could that be the reason they were here?
Had her father lost his mind? Jess glanced across the seat at him.
No, he hadn’t. He looked absolutely normal. Just as though arriving and staying in Las Vegas wasn’t anything unusual in the McDowell world.
They zoomed past the two-story-high lobby doors and around the edge of the glass building. Steel doors opened in front of them, and the car delved into a deep, dark cavern. A flash of parked cars zipped by. Mercedes. BMWs. Jaguars and Maseratis. Clearly, the clientele of the Devil Skye was high-end. Far more than the average Las Vegas traveler or gambler.
Her dad didn’t gamble. He didn’t enjoy slots or poker or one-armed bandits.
What was going on?
She kept her mouth shut. She’d learned it never did any good to question when he was in no mood to answer.
The limo slid to a stop by a bank of elevators. Jumping from the vehicle, the driver opened her door first. Not budging her body from the seat, her brain whirled with the unasked questions she barely squelched at this point.
“Come on, Jessica,” her father grouched beside her. “Let’s get going.”
Feeling like she was controlled by an unknown player making her dance to his tune, she let the driver pull her into the cool, silent garage. She supposed she could say it was her dad yanking her this way and that, but she sensed there was more going on here. More she needed to understand.
Her dad slid across the seat and stepped out beside her.
“Do we need to check in?” she ventured.
“No. It’s been taken care of.” Her father’s voice was gruff. And also satisfied.
Satisfied? To be taken care of?
This was not the Clyde McDowell she knew. The man who poked his finger in every inch of his business. The man who was never satisfied with anything he hadn’t done himself. Again, her head jerked around to stare at him.
He smiled.
She’d labeled that smile a long time ago. Sometime when she’d been seven and had been intensely studying nature. It was his crocodile smile.
“What is going on?” She kept her voice low, but she could tell by the flare in his eyes, her dad had got her warning.
She didn’t have a temper. However, she did have an end to her patience.
“Ah, here we are.” He squinted at the bank of elevators, drawing her attention that way.
There were ten doors altogether, five on each side of a concrete-and-steel hallway. Her dad wasn’t staring at any of them. He was staring at the largest elevator door. The one placed solidly at the end of the hall on its own.
The lights above twinkled downward and then stopped. The platinum doors slid open.
A man strode out and toward them. A familiar man. A man with a blinding smile and dazzling blue eyes.
“Nick,” she whispered.
Nick Whoever was actually Nicholas James Townsend.
The owner of the Devil Skye and a man who clearly didn’t need her father’s money.
I’m here to win you.
“Dad.” Jessica stood in the center of the plush and luxurious suite they’d been ushered into by their smiling host. Who’d then smiled his brilliant grin one more time before leaving. “How do you know Nick Townsend?”
“I met him a year ago or so. At a function.” Her father eased himself onto one of a half dozen leather sofas and sighed with relief. “This is quite nice, isn’t it?”
It was more than quite nice.
She’d grown
up in opulence and splendor. Many people she met assumed she was a spoiled heiress used to only the best. But Jess had always possessed a sharp sense of appreciation. Appreciation for her dad, who, for all his bluster and bluntness, loved her. Appreciation for the McDowell hotels with their innate elegance and flair. And she also appreciated beauty when she saw it.
She never took it for granted.
The two-bedroom suite they’d been led into boasted floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on the sparkle of Fremont Street. Above them swirled a cloud of rococo angels in a soft, blue heaven. Pillars of marble lifted the ceiling and made a girl think she’d wandered into an ancient pavilion. In juxtaposition, the furniture was ultra-modern and yet, somehow, it fit, making the rooms feel like they floated in a sky of airy past and perfect present.
She’d been so shocked at seeing Nick Whoever, who she’d thought she’d left behind in Denver, she hadn’t said a word when he appeared to guide them to their suite.
Her dad hadn’t been as tongue-tied.
“How are you, Nick?” He’d shaken the smiling man’s hand. “Good to see you again.”
“Welcome to Devil Skye.” The man who’d thrown temptation her way, a man who clearly wasn’t taking her rejection seriously, glanced at her for a second before focusing again on her father. “I’m glad you’re here.”
His last words had resonated inside her, making her shiver. Because, she knew, somehow, he meant them for her.
“Fancy place to own, eh?” Clyde McDowell surveyed the plethora of expensive cars. “Excellent clientele, I’d say.”
“Yes,” Nick Whoever had said with a simple, clipped tone. “Come. I’ll show you to your suite.”
When she’d been young, even into her college years, going quiet had been a defense. The technique consistently worked when her father blustered. Her continued silence made him eventually go quiet, too. Then she could think and respond. With the staff who raised her, her reserved presence meant they felt comfortable sharing their frustrations and troubles. Those nuggets of information had been passed on to her father, who’d used the knowledge to better their hotels’ operations. Although she knew she’d grown away from the practice, occasionally, when she was stressed, she reverted.
This moment was one of those times.
