Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “Even Camille?” he asks. Oliver is my number one. He’s my driver, my assigned Secret Service agent, and the closest thing I have to a best friend. There isn’t anything about me he doesn’t know.

  “Especially Camille.”

  Oliver’s lips twitch. If she were any other woman, I imagine he’d be prodding me for the down and dirty details. But he knows better with this one. He knows how hard I searched for her and how much work it took to free her from Senator Bancroft’s tight grip. He saw my preoccupation with the mysterious beauty grow into an inexplicable fixation, and he stood by like the loyal bastard he is as the obsession consumed me.

  “It’s too bad you couldn’t take her on a real date,” he says. “Show her off. A girl like Camille needs to be paraded around.”

  Why, so someone else can spot her? So the poacher can get poached?

  “She’s not a fucking show pony, Oliver.”

  I glance at the girls to our right. They point and smile, mess with their hair, fidget with their drinks. Their beauty is instantly overshadowed by their insecurities and they fade into the background.

  “I think they’ve figured out who you are,” Oliver says.

  It never fails, and it makes no difference that we’re in one of the darkest, hole-in-the-wall bars in the city.

  The girls whisper in each other’s ears and flash me flirty smiles as if they share a goddamned brain.

  “All right.” I throw a cash tip on the table. “Give the brunette your number and take me home.”

  SEVEN

  Camille

  I’m breathless, sprawled across the bed at the Melrose as my body floats back to earth. Three times in less than a week. I’m not sure what I ever did to get so lucky, but I won’t complain.

  The bed shifts, and John–or Keir Montgomery in my mind–moves to my side. I miss his warmth already, his grounding weight. The way he worships and devours me makes me feel sexy, worthy of receiving the kinds of pleasure I’ve only ever given.

  I reach for his face, tracing the outline with my fingertips. I take a detour to his mouth, grazing his soft lips until I can picture their shape, and then I move on to his cheek.

  “Smile,” I say. “I want to feel your dimples again.”

  He sighs, giving in to my silly demand.

  “Thank you, John.”

  The bed shifts once more. I stay silent, listening as he moves around the room, makes his way to the bathroom, and then returns a minute later.

  “Leaving?” I ask.

  I find my answer in his hesitation. He never stays.

  “I’ve been trying to figure out where we would’ve met before,” I say, sensually drawing my knees into my chest as I sit up. I’m not sure where to look or where he’s standing, so I face forward when I speak.

  “Surely you have better ways to spend your time.”

  “You shouldn’t have challenged me,” I tease. “If you stuck around more, you might know me better, and then you’d know I can’t resist a good mystery. The more complex, the better.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m a card-carrying member of Mensa,” I say. “How else do you think I got a full-ride scholarship to Georgetown? But you probably already knew that since you did your research on me.”

  I hear him snicker, and I mentally pat myself on the back for getting him to laugh.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of things I don’t know about you,” he says.

  “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

  The clink of his belt is followed by the metallic tug of a zipper. Just a few more minutes of sitting here with my blindfold, and as soon as I hear the thud of the hotel door, it’ll be time to put myself back together and head home.

  The scuffing of his shoes against densely piled carpet grows nearer until his scent fills my lungs. His steady hand caresses the side of my face, his thumb under my jaw. In an instant, his mouth is on mine.

  John–or Keir–kisses me goodbye. None of the other men have ever done that. It’s a kind gesture and completely unnecessary. While I have him, I run my fingers through his hair, my nails grazing his scalp. His hair is thick and soft as mink, probably freshly cut. He’s a man who cares about his appearance. I trace his jaw once more and then run my finger along his cheek in search of a dimple.

  “You and those dimples.” I detect a reserved smile in his voice, but he pulls my hand from his face before I get a chance to feel the indentations.

  “I keep wondering...” My voice is a low whisper.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Any time I’ve seen a man with dimples this week,” I say, “I keep wondering if he’s you. And I keep wondering if I’d know you if I saw you.”

  “Probably not,” he says.

  “You’ve got to be in the public eye,” I say.

  “That would be a logical deduction.”

  “You have your own security guard.” I wrap my arms around my knees and trail my palms down my shins.

  “As many do in this city.”

  “You’re a very important person, whoever you are.”

  His lips press into my forehead. “Don’t think about it too much. The less you know about me, the better off you are.”

  One million dollars, one million dollars, one million dollars . . .

  It’s my new mantra, and it drowns out every hint of a gut check that renders me nauseous when I think about the absurdity of this situation. It was exciting at first. Daring. I told myself it’d be a nice break from the norm, and Araminta guaranteed me it’d be easy money.

  I pull in a slow breath and exhale in an attempt to release the worries swirling my head.

  “What is it?” he asks. “You’re frowning.”

  “Nothing.” I force a smile.

  “Camille.”

  “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” I wave him off. “You have a good night, okay, John? I’ll wait to hear from you again.”

  It’s all I’ve done this week–sit around and wait for my phone to ring. He calls from a blocked number. I don’t have his.

  “Goodnight, Camille.”

  When he leaves, I pull my blindfold away and fix my hair, tiptoeing to the curtained window to glance at the hotel guests leaving the front entrance. Men come, men go. Story of my life, really. Rain beads on the outside of the window, and my breath fogs up the glass until the view below distorts.

  I pick up my dress from the floor and stop when I see a little blue Tiffany’s box sitting on the foot of the bed, wrapped with a white bow.

  A gift.

  My heart catches in my throat. The sight of a Tiffany’s box used to send an instant smile to my lips. It’s hardly original, and I’m well aware that plenty of men shop there.

  But so did Trey.

  It was kind of our thing.

  I sold everything he gave me after things got ugly and we went our separate ways.

  My stomach churns, and the room spins. I tell myself it’s just a gift. Pure coincidence.

  Pulling on the white ribbon, I let it fall to the floor before cracking the box.

  Pearl earrings.

  I’m bathed in relief. Trey only ever bought me white diamonds.

  I slip them on and check them in the mirror, making a mental note to wear them next time. I’ll wear them tomorrow, too. Just because they’re pretty.

  After I dress, I take a moment to text Araminta to let her know I’m on my way home.

  EIGHT

  “John”

  “I don’t know why you torture yourself like this.” Oliver slicks a palm across the leather-wrapped steering wheel of my Town Car as I peer out a tinted window. We’re parked in front of the Melrose. Waiting.

  “I want to make sure she makes it out.” And that no one hassles her.

  “Yeah, because she might get lost on her way down in the elevator.”

  I ignore him, remaining still and studying the front doors as rain collects on the window and disturbs my line of sight.

  A man in a charcoal suit
ambles down the sidewalk, stopping next to my car. He glances at the Melrose and tilts his umbrella just enough for me to catch his profile before he heads in.

  “No fucking way.” Oliver says exactly what I was thinking. “Tell me that isn’t Trey Bancroft.”

  My veins heat as I watch him fold his umbrella and nod at the doorman, walking in like he owns the place. The asshole checked his watch a second ago, which tells me he’s likely meeting someone.

  I pull the door handle and step out into the rain.

  “Bad idea,” Oliver says.

  I straighten my tie and head toward the entrance. If Camille is still fucking Trey after everything that happened this year, I’ll lose it. I’ll fucking lose it.

  I bought her exclusivity, and I saved her from that piece of shit narcissist.

  Oliver follows after me, keeping two steps back and scanning our perimeter. I stop before we head inside.

  “You need to stay in the car,” I say.

  His blond brows scrunch, and he reminds me of a dog who doesn’t understand his master’s command.

  “In case Camille comes through the lobby,” I explain. “If she sees you with me, she’ll know I’m . . . John.”

  Oliver retreats to the car, and I head inside where Trey waits in line at the front desk.

  “Trey.” I grip his shoulders. We’ve met a few times before, but only ever casually.

  He startles slightly before turning to face me, and within seconds his face lights as if he’s posing for a picture on his campaign trail. His hand extends to mine.

  “Mr. Montgomery,” he says. “Pleasure running into you here. Didn’t expect to run into you at the Melrose. White House all booked up?”

  Why anyone would think a twenty-nine-year-old man would live with his parents for any reason is beyond me.

  “Something like that,” I say. “What brings you here?”

  I know for a fact the Melrose has no conference center, restaurant, or rental facilities. If you’re not checking in, you’re passing through the cozy bar for a drink.

  “Raining like cats and dogs out there,” he says. “Thought I’d come in to get out of that mess.”

  I don’t believe him. The man’s reputation for lying didn’t evolve by accident.

  “Well, good seeing you, Trey,” I lie. “Just wanted to say hello.”

  Trey nods.

  “Oh, and I think the line for the bar is that way.” I point him away from the front desk, a subtle yet polite way of telling him I don’t buy his bullshit.

  His smile fades. “Thank you.”

  I take a seat in the waiting area, grabbing a newspaper and staying within earshot of the front desk area. Trey is next in line. He hasn’t so much as glanced toward the bar. When it’s his turn, I observe as he tells the clerk he’s meeting a friend but he doesn’t know her room number.

  “The name, sir?” the clerk asks.

  The elevator dings before Trey answers, and our gazes shoot in that direction. Camille steps off, her wool coat buttoned and black leather gloves covering her hands. Her hips swing as she struts past us both, and her tasteful kitten heels click against the marble tile with each stride.

  She doesn’t look at anyone, but everyone within a fifty-foot radius looks at her.

  My heart hammers.

  Never mind that an hour ago I was plunged deep inside her; seeing her here and now, knowing I can’t talk to her or touch her, makes me want her all over again.

  She tucks a sleek, dark lock behind her ear, and I catch a hint of the pearl earrings. I saw them in a window display this morning and thought they were only fitting. Diamonds are cliché, and not nearly as rare as most people think. Pearls, on the other hand, are different. You don’t find a pearl in every oyster you crack, only the special ones.

  “Complimentary umbrella, miss?” The doorman hands her an open umbrella the color of midnight.

  With that, she thanks him and disappears into the night air.

  NINE

  Camille

  “Aw, you didn’t have to wait up.” I drop my keys in the dish by the front door as Araminta stretches on the sofa in front of a glowing TV.

  “It’s okay,” she says with a yawn. “I don’t mind.”

  She reaches for the side lamp and clicks it on.

  “You look very Jackie O tonight,” she says. “Did he like?”

  I shrug and take a seat next to her, kicking off my heels. I want to change and shower, but my body aches. Tonight he fucked me in positions I never knew existed, another sign that he’s very much on the younger side. I never knew flexibility could be such a turn-on for me.

  “Couldn’t tell you,” I say. “How was your night? Did you see what’s his name?”

  I snap my fingers as his name escapes me. Araminta doesn’t do exclusivity unless they’re willing to pay out the ass. Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t. Most of the time, I think the men who fuck her get off on the fact that’s she’s the great-great-great-great granddaughter of Hollis Randall, one of the country’s first millionaires who made a fortune off his railroad monopoly during the Industrial Revolution.

  Minty’s father would have a heart attack if he knew she was selling her body. In a way, I think she does this to retaliate for being financially cut off.

  “Chip Dumont,” she says. “That soft drink chairman who gives millions to the candidate least likely to win every election . . . just because he can.”

  “How was it?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “He was just passing through town. Wanted a quickie before heading home to his wife in Georgia.”

  Araminta’s moral compass points in a different direction than mine. Most men who want to buy my time are shocked when they learn I have morals.

  And it is shocking. An escort with morals. It certainly narrows my pool of client candidates, but I don’t care.

  I will not sleep with a married man.

  “John gave me something tonight.” I pull my hair back and point at my pearl earrings.

  “Nice.” She leans closer to examine them. “Classy. Good call with the Jackie O look tonight. I bet that’s what he’s into.”

  “Minty, can I ask you something?”

  “Um, of course.”

  I slouch against the back of the sofa, tugging on a loose thread with a sigh. We paid way too much for this sofa to have pilling issues this soon.

  “This has been bothering me the last few days, and I wasn’t sure how to bring it up,” I say.

  She shifts away from the TV, her brows furrowing as she gives me her full attention.

  “I know you would never put me in danger,” I say. “Not knowingly, anyway.”

  “Never.”

  This question has lingered on the tip of my tongue for days, only I was never quite sure how to frame it without offending her. I love my best friend more than anyone, but sometimes the littlest things set her off.

  “This guy, this . . . John,” I begin. “He said he’s seen me before. He said he chose me.”

  Her blue eyes roll and she laughs. “Oh, God. You had me so worried for a second. I thought you had, like, a legitimate issue you needed to talk to me about.”

  I don’t laugh. “It is a legitimate issue.”

  “I’m not following,” she says.

  “If he knows who I am and what I do, and he went through your friend to get to you . . . to get to me . . .” I say. “Then who is this guy? I mean, that’s a pretty strategic move, don’t you think?”

  “Are you weirded out by that?” she asks. “Because I think you should be flattered. This is a word of mouth business. We don’t have billboards. We have horny male clients who like to discuss their latest conquests over expensive shots of bourbon after a long day in the senate chamber.”

  “Then why won’t you tell me the name of your friend who set this up?” I ask. “You’ve always told me everything.”

  “I’m following strict orders.” Her palm lifts in protest. “They want the least amount of information exch
anged as possible. It’s a precautionary measure. You’re thinking into it too much, and let me also remind you, um . . . one million dollars.”

  “You don’t think any of this is worrisome?” I nibble my nail.

  “I think this is Washington, and people are crazy and paranoid and rich and powerful. But mostly paranoid.”

  “Right. Which is exactly what I’m afraid of.”

  Araminta reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV before rising. She stretches on her toes and lifts her arms to the ceiling as she yawns. “Dahhhling, don’t you know by now? We’re not allowed to be afraid of anything. We survive on bravery and beauty. The rest is completely beyond our control.”

  TEN

  “John”

  “How well do you know Trey Bancroft?” I ask Camille a question to which I already know the answer. The pale glow of her pearl earrings in the dark draws my gaze.

  Her fingers freeze along the back of her blindfold. “Pardon?”

  “Trey Bancroft,” I say.

  Her full lips button for a second. “I’m not sure what you want me to say. If he is or isn’t a former client of mine, I’m not able to disclose that.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “But I think you should know he was here the other night. At the hotel. I saw him on my way out.”

  Her arms reach for something solid, the wall perhaps, but she grasps at nothing.

  “You need to sit down?” I lead her by the arm to a nearby chair.

  Camille’s chest rises and falls in quick succession. “He . . . he’s not supposed to bother me.”

  Her voice is low, shaky now. She reaches for the blindfold, adjusting it before fanning her face. I’ve never seen a woman as put together as Camille fall apart so easily.

  There’s no way I can fuck her when she’s in a state of distress.

  “I’m sorry,” she breathes. “I just need a moment.”

  I give her space, walking backward to the mini bar. “You want a drink?”

  “Yes, please,” she says, swallowing gulps of air. “Vodka soda.”

  A minute later, she nurses her cocktail with trembling hands, and I’m left more perplexed than ever. Unbeknownst to Camille, I singlehandedly brought down their little affair, but as far as I knew, they’d gone their separate ways months ago.