I grab the last piece of the costume, but the most important one.
The one that completes my transformation.
I slide on a violet mask, the edges lined with feathers and gems, like a trussed up purple peacock.
Sounds about right. I’ve got a peacock in me, that’s for sure.
One last glance in the mirror. The mask does its job admirably, covering more than half my face, only exposing my lips, my chin, and my silver hair clip. The eyeholes are lined with the thinnest mesh, making my blue eyes even harder to recognize. They look simply dark, simply naughty.
They’re eyes shrouded in mystery, painted with intrigue.
But my belly flips with nerves.
Unexpectedly.
I set a hand on my stomach, trying to settle them, trying to talk back to the tension. But I don’t have to do that alone. I have a friend, and I turn to her, setting a hand on Eliza’s arm. “Do I look like Sage Carmichael? The woman whose heart was unceremoniously broken in front of the entire city?”
My voice wobbles as I think of that night several months ago. The night I very publicly learned what my ex had been up to. Or rather, who.
I don’t want to look like that woman tonight.
She shakes her head. “You never look like that to me. You always look like my friend, a person I respect, a woman who kept it all together after loss, and after cruel heartbreak. The woman with thousands of employees whose livelihoods she’s responsible for. The benefactor for charity after charity in this city.” She taps my sternum, nothing but strength in her voice, in her gaze. “That’s who you are.”
A lump forms in my throat. “Shut up. I love you.”
Tossing her head back, Eliza cracks up. “Aww, you’re sweet and mean at the same time.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Just call me a conundrum.” I draw a deep breath. “Also, thank you. I needed that.”
“I could tell, and it’s easy to say because it’s true.”
I smooth a hand over my dress, loving the way it makes me feel. And I want to feel like a different woman, the one who can come out to play at night. Tonight is a new beginning for me. An end to the heartache that’s haunted me for the last several months.
A heartache I’m shedding completely.
That’s who the woman in the black corset and violet mask is—the woman who’s moving on.
As we make our way through my suite, I pick up the thread of conversation again. “And for the record, you look like a woman who has all sorts of fabulous secrets.”
“Oh, so you mean I look like exactly who I am? One of the execs of the football team who’s secretly in love with the backup quarterback?”
I grab her hand, smiling softly. “Someday you’ll let me devise a plan for you and Xavier.”
“Until then, let us imagine,” she says with a smile and a laugh.
I share both with her too.
We leave my suite, whisking our way down the plush carpeted hallway, then into the elevator. I press the button for the basement. No need to sweep through the casino dressed like this.
I’m not worried about being seen, per se. Nor am I sneaking off. I’d just rather enter the party already feeling like someone else. And so that’s how I want to begin the night too.
Also, another rule to live by is this: one should always err on the side of caution when one likes playing dress-up.
And this girl has always loved to play pretend.
The elevator lets us off at the lower level, and we wind through hallways till we near the exit. Reaching into my clutch, I grab my phone, dial my driver, and ask him to come around. Seconds later, we head outside to the portico at the back entrance of the hotel.
The valets glance my way, but none of them say, Good evening, Ms. Carmichael.
Neither do the doormen.
We are simply two women in costume. We blend in, because Vegas is a land for slipping into other personas.
The ruse works. No one expects to see buttoned-up Sage like this.
A frisson of excitement winds through me, the buzzy promise of getting away with something. It rushes through my body, the zip of anticipation, the hum of possibilities.
The gleaming black limo arrives within a minute, the driver pulling to the curb and stepping out.
Carlos’s eyes scan quickly, finding us. He opens the door for the back seat while a valet tips his cap. “Have a lovely evening in Las Vegas,” the valet says, as if we’re anyone.
I grin privately, delighted to pull this off.
When we’re in the car, the valet shuts the door behind us as Carlos returns to the wheel.
“Where am I taking you tonight, Ms. Carmichael?” he asks in the mirror.
He’s the only one who’ll know, and a good driver doesn’t let on about his boss’s nighttime escapades.
“Take us to Aria.”
He nods crisply. “As you wish.”
As the car swings away from my home, whooshing past The Invitation, a brand-new gleaming hotel across the street from mine, I shift my gaze to Eliza. Her eyes sparkle with mischief. She’s thinking what I’m thinking. We are Cinderellas off to the ball.
Only, I don’t want to meet a Prince Charming.
I’ve no interest in that.
I’ve been there, ridden off into the sunset with the man I thought was the one.
The man who turned out to be the furthest thing from it, his charm nothing but a lie.
I won’t go there again, won’t risk that type of man.
But I wouldn’t mind meeting a Prince Wicked.
I wouldn’t mind that at all.
2
Cole
Opening a new hotel isn’t for the faint of heart.
Or the weak of stomach.
It takes an iron gut and balls of steel to go all-in on a new casino in Sin City.
As well as billions of dollars.
Fortunately, I possess all of those, as well as a lion’s determination to get what I want. And I want The Exquisite Show, a Cirque du Soleil–style production but even sexier, even racier.
Nearly every hotel on the Strip has been vying for this theatrical production.
I study the photos on my laptop, images of acrobats twisted into impossible shapes, sliding up and down metal scaffolds in an urban dreamscape of sorts. The pictures are from a show in Paris, where I saw it last, when I knew I wanted this kind of show for myself.
If all goes well, I’ll have it here soon at The Invitation.
The deal should be inked tonight, and I intend to make the winning offer, the one that beats every other hotel in this town.
I check my watch. I have one hour before I’m due at Aria for a party, the first one I’ll be attending since I relocated to Vegas last month for the opening of this hotel. I fire off a couple of emails, replying first to Scarlett in Paris, our newest business partner who invested in our European properties, then to the city of Las Vegas’s marketing manager about an ad campaign he wants The Invitation to participate in.
We’re the new kids on the block with one week open under our belt, so naturally, my response can only be an enthusiastic We’d be delighted to join your meeting to discuss these plans. I hit send as my VP of business affairs raps on the ajar door to my office.
One look and my instincts tell me what’s coming.
A motherfucking problem.
It’s in his shoulders, the way he carries himself, the set of his jaw.
Everything in his disposition says I didn’t deliver.
Mostly, his news is telegraphed in the way he swallows before he speaks. “Mr. Donovan,” he begins, pushing his glasses up higher on his nose.
“Yes, Braxton,” I say as I shut my laptop, rise from my chair, and walk around my desk. “What’s the news with The Exquisite Show?”
Another swallow, a breath, then he lifts his chin. “I ran into a bit of a snag with the deal.”
Grabbing my phone from my desk, I arch a brow and toss back dryly, “You don’t say?”
/> “I’m sorry, sir. But it seems they didn’t like the terms I offered for a six-month residency.” He’s normally steady. That’s why I hired him. I wouldn’t let someone work for my company who couldn’t get shit done. But today, he’s uncharacteristically wobbly. And I suspect it’s because he knows how badly I want The Exquisite Show’s new production. Because I want this hotel to be the best on the Strip. It’s a simple goal, and it’s mine.
“And why didn’t they like the terms? The terms were fantastic,” I say, striding across the carpet, then motioning for Braxton to follow me.
There is no need to simply talk when you can walk and talk.
We head down the hallway lined with corporate offices, making our way to the elevator.
“They only want to agree to four months,” Braxton says. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says again, and I can hear the worry in his voice.
He knows he’s disappointed me.
I expected him to handle this.
I can’t do every-fucking-thing.
But Braxton mostly delivers. He mostly nails deals. This is rare for him, and that means I can either rip him to shreds for failing, or I can teach him how to do better.
Doesn’t do me any good to demean an employee. It only benefits me to build him up. So that’s what I do.
Starting with this rule of business. “Braxton, let me teach you something.”
The sandy-haired man nods crisply, a good soldier. “Yes, sir?”
I lift a finger, speaking softly. “Save your sorrys for your wife, or your girlfriend. Don’t say you’re sorry in business. Instead, say what you need. What you’re going to do. Or what you need me to do. That’s how you get ahead. Sorry doesn’t matter in business. Actions and plans do.” I pause, run a hand down my tie, and wait. “What do you need, Braxton?”
He squares his shoulders, taking a breath. “I need to get them to agree to six months. Can you help me with that?”
“I can.” I look at my watch again. “Meet me here in thirty minutes, and I’ll take care of this. You can listen to how it’s done.”
He nods dutifully, and I go upstairs to my penthouse suite, pour a finger of scotch, knock it back, and head to the shower.
Five minutes later, I’m dried off and in a fresh pair of black boxer-briefs. I walk past the balcony, stopping briefly to peer outside. Cars, cabs, limos, and buses trundle by on the Strip below, and the lights from the hotel across the way flicker on.
The Extravagant. A gorgeous property with a nighttime display of lights that make it look like its lush lawn is dripping with jewels.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
But this place? I survey the scene below me. Fountains better than the Bellagio’s, a classy, elegant entrance that feels exactly as the name implies—inviting—is better.
This is the crown jewel in my portfolio of hotels, and being second best simply isn’t an option.
I turn away from the view, making my way to the closet.
The dress code for tonight is black-and-white and masquerade.
Easy enough.
Tuxedos are not in short supply in my life. I choose one with tails, because that’s what the occasion calls for. I dress quickly, knot the bow tie, and slide a book inside my inner jacket pocket before grabbing my necessary ticket for admission.
A black Venetian mask.
Hardly anyone knows me yet in this city, which makes the dress code all the better. I like it that way. Keeps everyone on their toes.
Where nearly everyone should be.
With the mask in my hand, I head back down the elevator to the fifth floor. Braxton waits for me, pacing.
I bet he never left.
I hand him my phone. “Call yourself, then you can conference in the producers, and I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“Thank you,” he says, doing as I say, then handing me back my phone and listening on his as we make our way down the grand staircase that leads into the casino.
As we go, I chat with Kelly, one of the producers, bending on a revenue term that was always flexible but standing firm on the length of the residency. With a sigh, but the kind that tells me I’m getting my yes, she says, “That will work.”
“Excellent. We couldn’t be more thrilled to have The Exquisite Show here. I’ll hand you off to Braxton, who’ll wrap up everything. By the way, how’s your father? Is he doing better after that horseback riding fall?”
“So much better. He should be back on Cinnamon in no time. Thanks for asking.”
“Glad to hear,” I say.
“And, Cole?”
“Yes, Kelly?”
“Your offer was very competitive. You were up against a number of other properties, but we’re confident The Invitation is the right hotel for this show.”
I smile. “I’m glad you feel that way, and you’re correct—it’s the best venue, and we can’t wait for you to see what we do with it.” I hand her off to Braxton, telling him quietly to “Finish it off.”
“Yes, sir,” he says, then spins on his heel, and I head past the high-roller tables, taking in the smell of money, the clink of glasses, the slide of chips—chips that’ll land in the house’s favor.
Well, most of them.
I sigh contentedly, like I’m sniffing a good cognac. Better yet, a delicious perfume on a gorgeous woman. This hotel reeks of opportunity, of possibilities that can’t be denied, of corners you want to peek behind, places you want to enter.
When I reach the revolving door, my longtime business partner, Daniel, is waiting for me, leaning against the marble column, a curious look in his light eyes. Like me, he’s also dressed in black tie.
“Did you get The Exquisite Show after I buttered them up?”
“You?” I snort. “I’m sorry, did you offer high then flex on a term, or present them a fantastic offer that benefits all involved?”
“No, but I took the producers out to a delectable dinner on the Rue de Rivoli last month. Or had you forgotten?” he asks as we head to the waiting limo. He is the charming one. No doubt the English accent helps. But I have my own store of charm too. Of the gruffer, more direct variety. We started this company more than fifteen years ago, and have grown it to worldwide acclaim and success. We complement each other—not quite good cop, bad cop, but more like opener and closer. It works, the way we hand off deals, and the way I run the American properties and he handles the European ones, after launching the Asian hotels.
I scoff. “Do I look like a fucking amateur?”
Daniel laughs. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
“Of course I made it happen. That’s what we do.”
“That’s absolutely what we do,” he echoes as we slide into the back seat of our sleek, air-conditioned stretch limo. “And tonight, we should celebrate our wildly successful first week here in Sin City. Especially since I’ll be returning soon to London.”
“Such a rough life.”
“And for you as well, sharing all the riches we make,” he says.
That sparks an idea. A passion, if you will. Something we haven’t indulged in since the last hotel we opened in Bali more than a year ago. “Speaking of sharing,” I begin, stroking my jaw, lifting a brow. “It has been a while since we played our favorite game.”
His eyes gleam. “I was thinking the same thing too. And really, who are we to let Camus down?”
I laugh. Daniel and his erudite quotes. “Camus? Are you really still quoting Camus?”
“It was my degree subject, philosophy.” He lifts his chin and speaks like an orator. “You are forgiven for your happiness and your successes only if you generously consent to share them.”
“I suppose, then, it’s the only way to forgive our great success. But I prefer Twain.” I clear my throat, leaning on the wisdom of the American writer, who sure knew how to tell it like it is. “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.”
Daniel sets his hand on his heart. “Aww. So sweet that you want to share it with m
e. As they say here on your side of the pond, sharing is caring. But you know what I say?”
“Oh, are you going to quote yourself now?” I toss back, adjusting my cuff links as the car swings onto the main drag.
“Indeed I am. And I say the best way to share is to make a wager of it,” he says, reaching for a bottle from the console and pouring a glass of bourbon. “Fancy a wager, mate?”
I pour a glass too, liking the sound of wagers with the guy who’s been my closest friend since we were roommates in college, building our first business together, an underground card game at school, luring the wannabe card sharks. That business paid for most of my tuition, something I desperately needed it to do back then. Now, in some ways, I need these bets desperately too. Need them for other reasons—reasons Daniel understands all too well. “It’s easy to bet with you, since I clean up,” I say.
Daniel scoffs, leaning back against the leather seat, shaking his head. “I think not.”
“I think so. If memory serves, I’m ahead of you.” I lift the glass and take a swallow, savoring the burn, as I taunt him.
“You say that, Cole. But you seem to forget I have the advantage here.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, curious, but not letting on how curious.
His eyes glint, and he adopts the cockiest expression. “My accent makes me quite irresistible.”
“Ah, there you go again. Always leaning on the accent. Too bad it’s the only tool you have to use.”
“I don’t have to lean on it. It’s part and parcel of who I am. And I know how to use all my tools.”
“But you love to point out your accent. Maybe we need to handicap you. Maybe you shouldn’t be allowed to use it. See how well you fare without it.”
“Yes, just like the Little Mermaid,” he says deadpan, as he knocks back some liquor.
I deal him a skeptical look. “From Camus to The Little Mermaid? That’s how this evening is going to go?”
“I choose the most apropos examples for each situation. In this case, she wasn’t allowed to use her voice to seduce Prince Eric.”
I shoot him a hard stare. “We don’t want to seduce Prince Eric.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that. But nor do I want to seduce Ariel. I like women who can speak. Who have agency.”
An Extravagant Tryst: A Prologue to One Exquisite Touch Page 2