Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72091 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
He chuckled. “I think about five years ago.”
“Maybe we should just give up on everything.” She stole a piece of his lobster and dipped it into the drawn butter. “Sell it all and move to Tahiti.”
“Tahiti?” He smiled. “You’d be bored stiff.”
“Well then, maybe we just need a week there. Long enough to appreciate our busy lives a little more.”
He raised the wine bottle, refilling her glass, and she smiled in appreciation, bringing it to her lips once he’d finished.
“Give me your foot.”
She obliged, lifting one of her heels into his lap and he undid the strap, dropping the thousand-dollar stiletto onto the floor and running his hands over her sole, working the tired muscles, the arch of her foot flexing under his fingers.
“God…” She closed her eyes, settling back in the chair. “That’s entirely inappropriate, but it feels glorious.”
“We own the place. I don’t think management will say anything.”
She laughed, a quick and delicate trill of pleasure, and pulled her foot free, replacing it with the other. “In that case, do this one too.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He looked down at her foot, exquisitely wrapped in delicate ropes of leather and gold. “You should get into the spa tomorrow. I can handle your meetings. Take a day and let Vincent pamper you.”
“Now see, I knew there was a reason I married you.” She smiled at him over her wine glass. “Sexy and brilliant.”
He nodded at the waiter as he returned with a new steak. She pulled back her foot and there were a few minutes of companionable silence as they finished eating.
As their plates were cleared, his phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text notification.
—Bell Hartley is in the Gold Room. Upper level, with three other girls.
He closed the text.
“Everything okay?” She bent forward, fastening her heels.
“Yeah. I’ve got to go up to the Gold Room.”
She stood, reaching for her purse and putting the thin strap over one shoulder. “I think I’ll stay at the ranch this weekend. I haven’t worked the horses in weeks.”
“You should.” He leaned forward, giving her a kiss. “And go to the spa tomorrow. I’m forcing you to.”
“Yes, sir.” She mocked his serious tone and squeezed his arm. “Don’t work too hard. I’m going to head up. I’m about fifteen minutes from falling asleep.”
“Sleep well.” He kissed the top of her head. “See you in the morning. I’ll get the tip.”
He watched her weave through the tables, waving to a few of their regulars. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash, he peeled off a few bills and set them on the table. Before leaving, he picked up his cell and texted his head of security back.
headed there now
He avoided the front entrance and went through the kitchen, taking the service elevator and pressing the button for the seventh floor.
This morning, he had hesitated before texting Bell, unsure if an apology was appropriate via text. There was the chance it would only freak her out more, the knowledge that he had hunted down her number. His need to reach out had won out over his hesitation, and she hadn’t responded to his final text—an unfinished conversation that had left him unsettled, a feeling he didn’t like. A feeling he wasn’t used to.
The elevator doors opened, and he stepped into the Gold Room’s kitchen, nodding to familiar faces as he moved through the space. Everyone thought his domination of Vegas had been luck, fueled with Gwen’s bankroll and his security team, one that bent rules and broke unfriendly arms. But his employees knew the truth—it was hard work behind his success. Nineteen-hour-days. Knowing employees and systems in every restaurant, every division. Remembering names, favors, clients, and whales. Continually being present, staying on top of things. Working his ass off.
He stepped into the club and looked up to the second level, glad he’d had the foresight to have Vince send her image to all of his doormen. It had been a longshot, but out of a hundred nightclubs in the city, she was here.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
Nine
BELL
Take away the fact that my new stress point owned the Gold Room, you had one badass club. A hot band was playing, the drinks were fantastic, and it was full but not stifling, the doorman carefully cherry-picking the line and controlling the crowd. We were lucky to be in, our odds artificially inflated by the fact that Lydia had recognized a bouncer and flirted our way to the front of the line.
A group of guys approached our table, the typical tourist sort. Black pants. Stiff shirts. Freshly shaved, with gelled hair and probably wives and kids back in Florida. They reeked of bachelor-party recklessness and—after introductions and handshakes—invited us to dance. Meredith bowed out, saying she’d watch our purses and drinks, and Jackie grabbed my hand, pulling me onto the floor. A fast beat thumped, and the crowd roared to life, the energy contagious. I laughed, my nerves relaxing, and let the tallest guy in the bunch pull me against him. His shirt smelled faintly of aftershave, and I felt his hand wander, settling on the curve of my ass, and I avoided his kiss when he tried to get one, spinning out of his arms and laughing.