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  * * *

  He held it out. "Come on. Just a few hours."

  * * *

  Just a few hours. It had taken less than one for Johnny and his father to ruin my innocence. This boy with the handsome smile wouldn't—couldn't—do anything worse. He'd probably want anal. A blowjob. Me to call him Daddy and let him fuck me against a Vegas window. It didn't matter.

  * * *

  I took another step away. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't do that. The terms don't matter." I moved further and wondered if he'd follow. Wondered if those eyes would turn hard, his grin morphing into a sneer.

  * * *

  "Good luck," I called the words over my shoulder and pushed open the ladies room door. I stepped into the empty space and reached into my pocket as soon as the door shut behind me, looking to see what he’d slipped me.

  * * *

  It wasn't cash, and I pouted a bit at that. It was just a piece of paper, his first name and phone number scrawled across its front as if we were fifteen years old. I tore the paper into pieces and dropped them into the toilet, unzipping quickly and handling my own business. A purple chip. Fifty grand. My first week at this job, I would have been tempted, even knowing the risks. Back then, I was still living at home, watching illegal cable, and living off fast food and diner leftovers. Now, I had no excuse. I made good money, and becoming a prostitute was absolutely not part of my future plans. I flushed his number, washed my hands, and reentered the floor, my mind going over the interaction, my early suspicions about him growing.

  * * *

  He hadn’t just been a john looking for love. Who had he been with? Las Vegas PD? A competitor or a human trafficker? Had he come specifically for me, or had I just been an attractive opportunity?

  * * *

  I stepped back on the main floor and glanced over the open tables, but whoever Chris was, he was gone.

  DARIO

  * * *

  The door to the limo opened, and the Chippendale dancer folded himself into the backseat.

  * * *

  Dario looked up from his phone. "Well?"

  * * *

  “I don’t know.” The man stretched out his legs and reached into his pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and handing it over. “Here’s your change.”

  * * *

  “I don’t know isn’t an answer.”

  * * *

  “She’s not a prostitute.” Chris watched as Dario took the cash.

  * * *

  “Are you certain?”

  * * *

  “Short of her punching me in the face? Yeah. She mentioned a boyfriend, but that seemed bogus. Either way, I gave her the number you gave me. So maybe she’ll change her mind and call.”

  * * *

  Dario finished counting the cash and looked up. “Are you sure you had the right girl?”

  * * *

  “The brunette with the great ass?” The kid grinned, and Dario wanted to punch the expression off his face. “Yeah. Her name is Bree or Bee, or something like that?”

  * * *

  “Bell.”

  * * *

  "Right. Anyway, it was her." Chris leaned forward, rubbing his hands and eyeing the roll of money. "So, we done here?"

  * * *

  Dario nodded, his eyes lingering on the casino’s dark entrance, the dim lighting that gave little hint as to what was inside. He’d heard rumors of the place for years, and had felt a pull of nostalgia at the idea of a small house casino, something built by kids, a business model that reminded him of late night games on back porches in Louisiana. The rumors had persisted, and he had grown to want it: the building, the business, the clients. Bell Hartley had been a surprise, one that had stuck. But he needed to refocus on the task at hand—acquiring The House. A cocktail waitress shouldn’t matter in this equation. She couldn't.

  * * *

  Which was all easy to say, but he was still sitting in a limo, looking at a stripper in a rented suit. All for what? To find out if this potential acquisition also dabbled in illegal prostitution? Or to see if a prospective cocktail waitress would moonlight as an escort?

  * * *

  It was all a complete waste of time. It didn't matter if The House had hookers; that was an issue that could always be fixed. And it didn't matter if Bell Hartley fucked strangers for money. She wasn't looking for a job, and hiring waitresses was about a dozen levels beneath him. Not to mention, if escorting was an eliminator for employment, half of his floor staff should probably turn in their resignations.

  * * *

  There was no plausible scenario to explain why he was here, yet he was. Dario pulled five bills off the stack and passed them to the model.

  * * *

  "Thanks." The man pocketed the cash and cracked open the door. “Appreciate it.”

  * * *

  Dario nodded and waited until the door was shut, the locks engaged, before he unbuttoned his jacket and reached for the bottle of ice water. Unscrewing the lid, he poured it over ice.

  * * *

  “What’s going on?” The question came from the man next to him, the bodyguard who had been at his side for the last decade. Dario ignored the question.

  * * *

  “You fuck this chick somewhere? Is that why you’re interested in this place?”

  * * *

  "No.” Dario tilted back the water glass, taking a long sip. “I met her here the other night."

  * * *

  His man stayed silent, letting him collect his thought. It was a courtesy Dario appreciated, and he leaned back in the seat, thinking about the girl, the way her eyes had held his without fear. The way the corner of her mouth had twitched with the hint of a smile. The way she had flowed when she'd walked. He lived in a world of beautiful women, a constant buffet of sex and temptation, yet … ever since he’d met this woman … he couldn't get her out of his head. When he had first looked up, mid-frisk from a security guard, and saw her—he’d had to force himself to look away, force his breath to even, his heart to calm.

  * * *

  One look and she’d had some sort of a hold on him.

  One conversation, a few lines about drinks and business, and he was obsessed.

  * * *

  Obsessed was probably the wrong word, but intrigued was far too pale. And everything he’d done since—running background checks, going through this dog and pony show with the Chippendale model … it fit into the obsessive mold as cleanly as a dollar bill was eaten by an Amatic slot machine.

  * * *

  He didn’t have time for this. He had casinos to run and millions to make. He sighed. “Screw this. Let’s end this hell of a day.”

  In the condo, he undid his watch and slid it off his wrist, setting it in the black velvet drawer, next to the others. Working on the sleeves of his shirt, he glanced up, into the mirror. His father's face stared back at him, lined with stress, his eyes tired, the silver in his hair more prominent at times like this, when it needed a cut.

  * * *

  "Let me get that." Gwen approached, her slender fingers tugging his sleeve, deftly undoing the cufflinks and dropping them into their place. She reached for the other one, and he watched her work, glancing at her face. Her hair fell down, a dark curtain of sheen hiding the delicate features. She was a beautiful woman, and he lifted his hand, pushing the hair gently out of the way, the action causing her to look up, her mouth curving into a smile.

  * * *

  "Thank you." She raised on her toes and pressed her lips against his cheek. "I'm heading to bed."

  * * *

  “Goodnight,” Dario said, emptying his pockets. He set the thick wad of cash on the counter, followed by his keycard and phone.

  * * *

  “Everything okay?” She paused at the entrance to his closet, leaning her cheek against the doorframe, her eyes on his. That was the problem with being married to your best friend. They knew everything without asking. Still, her face held the question.

  * * *

&
nbsp; “It’s nothing.” He shook his head, sitting on the bench and working the knot of his laces. “A non-issue.”

  * * *

  She studied him for a long moment, one he avoided by removing his left shoe, then his right. He inserted the shoe tongues in each, then looked up at her. "Just one of those long days.”

  * * *

  She smiled and raised her hands in surrender. “Okay. Mope on your own. I’ll be in bed if you need anything.”

  * * *

  He watched her leave, the satin slip clinging to her curves as she walked to her bedroom. She was one of the most powerful women in Vegas. In her day, she'd also been one of the most beautiful, a beauty that had refined and matured as she'd aged. For one brief and early moment in their marriage, they’d tried a physical relationship. It hadn’t done anything for either of them and now, ten years later, they had settled in the comfortable roles that worked for them. She handled the hotels, the food and beverage, the events. He handled the casinos, the finances, their umbrella corporations, and any dirty work that crossed their golden plates.

  * * *

  Dario changed into workout shorts, then took the staircase down to their private gym. Hitting the treadmill first, he put on music and ramped up the incline and speed until he was jogging.

  * * *

  Their marriage was anything but normal—a business relationship solidified by friendship and respect. He fucked a dancer named Meghan on a regular basis, along with Laney, a waitress from the Marlin Club. Gwen had her own lover—Nick, their foreman at the ranch. Out of mutual respect, they kept their affairs hidden from each other, the public, and from Gwen’s father. But things were observed between them and mistakes were sometimes made. They were both intelligent adults with a clear understanding of their marriage and the unbreakable friendship at its core.

  * * *

  But this waitress from The House … out of every woman he’d met in Vegas, she had the potential to be trouble. He should walk away. Never enter that place again and drop any continued efforts to buy it. Stay in his life of power and away from the exotic brunette with the legs he wanted to bury his mouth between. He needed to forget everything about her and continue forward on his golden path with Gwen.

  * * *

  He increased the speed until he was sprinting, his heart hammering in his chest, his Nikes pounding the treadmill, his breath coming hard, sweat dripping down his chest.

  * * *

  It had been sixty seconds of interaction. Less than a commercial break. As short as a hand of blackjack. Forgetting her should be easy.

  * * *

  But in sixty seconds, a gun could be fired. A knife thrust. A bomb ignited. Sixty seconds could be nothing, or it could destroy a man.

  * * *

  He stumbled on the treadmill, against the furious pace, and felt his life veer off track.

  Six

  BELL

  * * *

  Naked, I walked down the hall and into the kitchen, leaning on the island with a lazy groan. “I can’t find my dress.”

  * * *

  Ian turned away from the stove, a piece of toast in hand. “Look on the balcony.”

  * * *

  Ah. I had a vague recollection of straddling him on the chaise lounge, and it coming off. I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. "Good thinking."

  * * *

  He smirked, ripping off a bite of toast. “I never forget my best work.”

  * * *

  “And that was your best work?” I raised my eyebrows. “Maybe you need some tutoring.”

  * * *

  He laughed, not at all concerned with my critique. “Your orgasms didn’t seem to mind it.”

  * * *

  "Yeah, they aren't very picky. But, I’ll probably keep you around a little longer. As a charity project, of course." I grinned at him and walked around the counter, stealing a crumb of his toast and popping it into my mouth. "Please say that you have more than burnt bread to woo me with."

  * * *

  “There’s yogurt in the fridge.”

  * * *

  “Oooh. Sexy. You’re like a hot Emeril Lagasse.”

  * * *

  He spun slightly on the stool. “At the risk of getting you all hot and bothered, I’ve also got cereal in the cabinet.”

  * * *

  I made a face. “I think I’ll just grab something on the way to work.”

  * * *

  “Your loss. I’ve got to get back to the university anyway.”

  * * *

  He grabbed a shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head. Pushing open the balcony slider, I saw my sundress puddled on the deck.

  * * *

  “Need help?” He stuck his head out the door, a baseball cap now pulled on, and damn, he was pretty. Five o’clock shadow, T-shirt snug over his lean muscular build, and enough height to make me look up into his eyes.

  * * *

  Tugging it up my body, I started on the side zipper. “Nah, I’m good.”

  * * *

  He hesitated in the doorway as if he had something to say.

  * * *

  I finished getting the dress into place. "What?"

  * * *

  “Speaking of keeping me around a little longer, I was wondering if you might want to go out to dinner tomorrow night.”

  * * *

  “Dinner?” I hesitated. “You mean, like a date?”

  * * *

  He chuckled. “Yeah, Bell. Like a date.”

  * * *

  Alarm bells sounded at full strength. Dating wasn’t what I was looking for. While sizzling hot sex with a consistent guy was right up my alley, thoughts of emotional attachment gave me hives. Not that he was proposing emotional attachment. But that’s what dates led to, right? Relationships. Real relationships, not the fuck-buddy stints of my past.

  * * *

  I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  * * *

  “Because you’re working, or because you don’t want to?”

  * * *

  “Both.” I met his eyes. “I thought we were on the same page with what this was.”

  * * *

  This wasn’t his fault. My steadfast commitment to emotion-free sex wasn’t normal. Losing my virginity to two assholes who left me bleeding on a barn floor had certainly affected my viewpoint and left me with deep emotional scars. For the first two years after that night, I had nightmares. I’d been terrified of men and avoided any interaction with them. Long talks with my mother had helped. She taught me that I couldn’t be a victim. She’s the one who took me to the gun range on weekends and gave me the confidence to believe I was no longer vulnerable. Counseling, a year later, had cleared several more hurdles. But Elliot Wilton was the one who did the heavy lifting in my emotional healing. Sweet, terrified of me, Elliot Wilton had done the impossible and calmed my fear of men. We’d had a semester-long history project together, a project that led to a dozen late nights alone together in the dark recesses of the library. He’d all but quaked when my hand had brushed against his leg. Three weeks later, I’d kissed him with the hesitancy of an alley cat and he’d blushed bright red. I’d felt power in that kiss, had felt the way his skin had heated with the touch, had seen the way his eyes had shone with worship when I’d pulled away and wiped my wet mouth. With Elliot, I wasn’t the victim, I was the aggressor. Slowly, I learned that I could do anything I wanted—or didn’t want—and he’d let me.

  * * *

  Elliot gave me a taste of the power of my own sexuality. And with that taste, I was addicted.

  * * *

  The project ended, Elliot graduated, and I moved on to a foreign exchange student who barely spoke English but introduced me to the beauty of his mouth in between my legs. After my own high school graduation, I grew bolder, testing the waters with an electrician, five years older than me, one who could spit game like a pro but was putty in the bedroom.

  * * *

  With each male, I grew stronger, less affec
ted by the events of my past and more detached from the act of sex. I didn’t want a relationship. I wanted pleasure. I wanted control. I wanted the ability to walk away without a thought, pain or heartache.