“Thanks.”
He nodded, then locked the drawers. On any given night, there was a few million in the cage. I’ve watched them count out the stacks, had seen the nights when the armored truck had to deliver extra, and nights when they carted away the profits. It was a good business to be in. I tucked my cash into my pocket and moved to the control room. Grabbing my phone, I held my breath as I unlocked it and opened my texts.
Nothing. No text and no missed call. I’d sent out a grenade, and he hadn’t responded at all. I should be thankful.
I moved past everyone and out to the parking lot. I unlocked my car, got inside, and swore, hitting the steering wheel with enough force to hurt my palm.
I told him I didn’t want him to contact me again. He hadn’t, and the result was one that made me want to tear out my hair and scream.
I knew what I liked. What I wanted. Emotion-free, orgasm-filled sex.
While Dario Capece might be looking for the same thing in a side piece, I could already tell that—with him—my emotions wouldn’t behave. A physical relationship between us might take my cold and lifeless heart and actually cause it to beat. To hum. To swell with blood and emotion. To hurt.
* * *
It was Sunday afternoon and I was in full pity-party mood. In bed at three o’clock. Class assignments finished, I was bingeing on reality TV with impressive dedication.
If I hadn’t sent the Worst Text Ever, I’d be prepping for tonight’s date with Dario. Instead, I was elbow-deep in some housewives show where everyone seemed to be broke and bitchy.
It was ridiculous. Ian asked me on a date, and I blew him off without a second thought. I did the same thing to Dario Capece, and I was chewing through my fingernails like a meth addict in rehab.
My phone buzzed and I catapulted over the covers, frantically tossing aside pillows until I pulled it out. Ugh. A text from Ian. I closed it without reading it and settled back against the headboard and pulled my bag of Doritos closer. I was being pathetic. I hardly knew the man. I shouldn’t think twice about turning down his dinner invitation or never speaking to him again.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t.
My mom hadn’t raised a starry-eyed weakling. I reached for the remote and clicked on the next episode.
* * *
A few minutes before eleven, there was a soft knock, and I turned my head as the bedroom door creaked open. Meredith stuck her head in.
“Oh good, you’re awake.”
I paused the show and lifted my soda to my mouth, waiting to see what she wanted.
“There’s some old guy here to see you.”
She couldn’t mean Dario. While he was in his mid-to-late thirties… “old guy” wouldn’t be the terminology she’d use. Not for him, and not by her—a girl who’d recently dated a forty-two-year-old surgeon and didn’t take any of our shit about it. I pulled back the covers and stood, her eyebrows raising at my messy hair, hot pink leggings, and Save the MF Whales shirt.
“Sexy.”
“You know it.” I stretched, mentally flipping through my visitor possibilities.
“Guy looks like a cop.”
I passed Lydia in the kitchen, the smell of microwave popcorn thick in the air, and swung open the front door to—bonus points to Meredith—an old guy. Six feet tall, in a suit, with thinning hair and a military-precise stance. For a senior citizen, he was in shape, thick and muscular, with a glare that would get me to confess almost anything. “Can I help you?”
The man’s eyes moved to Meredith, who peered over my right shoulder, then back to me. “Miss Hartley, if I could have a word in private.”
I looked past him and saw what Meredith missed, the Rolls Royce idling behind her car, its headlights dimmed. I elbowed my roommate back, lowering my voice. “I got this.”
I stepped out on the porch and pulled the door behind me, ignoring the man and heading toward the car, my socks moving silently down the concrete drive until I was beside the Rolls and knocking on the window, the glass moving beneath my knuckles. Dario Capece was unveiled, and my heart both cracked and soared at the sight of him.
I crossed my arms over my chest and attempted to appear aloof. “Too fancy to ring your own doorbells?”
The window stopped, and the glint of his watch caught the streetlight. I couldn’t see him well, his features dim, but his voice was clear and firm, and tugged at every string of arousal I had. “I was trying to be discreet.”
Behind me, there was the snap of a lighter, and I turned to watch the older man lean against our front porch column, his cigarette glowing to life. I looked over the glossy curves of the Rolls. “This car isn’t exactly discreet.”
It was small talk, useless words that danced around what I should be saying. I told you not to contact me.
He nodded to the passenger side. “Get in. I want to show you something.”
I tucked a chunk of dirty hair behind my ear and cursed myself for being so slack. I should have showered. Brushed my hair. Should have been at least slightly optimistic that Dario Capece would put up a bit of a fight.
His eyes caught the movement, and I watched as his gaze moved down my body, taking in the outfit. “Nice socks.”
My socks didn’t match—one gray, one white, and I huffed in irritation. I’d bet someone laid out his socks each morning. I’d bet they were in perfect neat rolls in their own special drawer in his closet.
“Come on. You don’t need shoes. Get in.”
I frowned. “Your mom ever teach you how to say please?”
His mouth twitched, and the playful glint in his eyes almost melted my panties right off. “Please get in the car.”
I opened the door to a car worth more than my life and entered an interior that reeked of wealth. I shut the door and locked myself in with the one man I should avoid, the one I had promised Lance and Rick to stay away from.
I should be afraid of him, of everything in his world and the risks that he carried. Instead, I got into his car, without my phone or purse or shoes, and trusted him to keep me safe. He waved at his driver, then rolled up the window and turned to me.
“I’m sorry for coming by so late.”
I said nothing, tucking my palms underneath my thighs and watching as the driver got in. A divider rose with a quiet hum, blocking him from our view. I nodded in the general direction of the front seat. “Who’s the guy?”
Dario stretched out his legs, crossing them at the ankle, and I peeked at his socks. Yep. Matchy-matchy. Dark with a pattern.
“That’s Vince, my head of security. He’s worked with me for a long time.”
I thought back, to the first night I met him, and tried to remember if he’d been in the front room. Maybe he had. I’d been distracted by the two big guys, linemen who had practically snarled when Tim and Jim had approached them. I felt the car shift into gear and looked out the window, the night too dark to see anything. “Where are we going?”
“Not too far. Don’t worry.”
“Somewhere that doesn’t need shoes?”
I ran my hands along a group of controls on the door, finding and activating the seat heater and a massage function. Underneath me, the leather minutely shifted, a soothing roll of action that felt heavenly. I sank into the seat and Dario chuckled.
“Having fun?”
“This massager is much nicer than the one at the pedicure place.”
“I’d hope so.”
He reached forward and pressed a button, a footrest appearing, my chair reclining slightly.
“Wow.” I closed my eyes and let my arms hang limp. “I don’t know why you scowl so much. This is all I’d need in life to be happy.”
I heard the shift of him, felt the brush of his arm, but didn’t open my eyes.
“Do I scowl?”
There was humor in his tone, and I risked a peek, turning my head to see a hint of a smile on his lips. “Oh yeah. Big time.”
“I only scowl when I�
��m being tormented by a beautiful woman.”
“Oh please.” I reached forward and found the seat control, returning it to the upright position. The car rolled over a speed bump and barely rocked. I wanted to ask him why he showed up at my house in the middle of the night. I wanted to ask him where we were going. I wanted to ask him what he meant by “tormented.”
I swallowed my questions, and looked out the window, watching neon signs pass, their colors muted by the tint. I suddenly felt like a kid. Next to Dario’s powerful presence, I felt so young so…inexperienced.
It was unnerving, but in an entirely different way than I’d felt that night at the barn. While I felt powerless in his presence, I also felt protected, his strength giving me comfort instead of fear. As the Rolls hummed down the Strip, I felt another foreign emotion. Excitement.
This was his turf. His domain. The car slowed, and I straightened as it turned into the entrance of the last place I wanted to be.
13
“The Majestic?” I turned and looked at him, panic starting to thump through my chest. We shouldn’t be here. I thought of Thursday, just three days ago, and how brazenly I’d followed him into that private alcove in the club. Then, I’d only been thinking of his wife. I hadn’t thought about her father, and all of the danger that being Dario Capece’s fling might put me in. “Why are we here?”
Dario cocked his head at me, a question in his eyes. “You’re worried. Why?”
My hand tightened on the door handle, as much to hold the door closed as it was to shove it open and escape.
“I can’t walk in there. People will see us together. They’ll—”
The Rolls Royce continued through the valet area and down a hill, slowing before a gate, which slowly opened.
“We aren’t going anywhere that anyone will be able to see us. Trust me.”
I leaned against the door and watched as we drove down a parking garage tunnel, weaving around until we pulled into a small spot, one caged in by concrete walls. “This is a bad idea.”
Dario reached forward, opening a compartment and pulling out a bottle from the ice. “If you don’t want to go in, then we don’t have to. But I want to show you something. Something I think you’ll like.”
He held out the bottle of water. I took it, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip. The car shuddered, and the walls beside us started to move. I froze.
“It’s an elevator. It’s taking us to the premier level. It’s perfectly safe, I promise.”
An elevator. For a car. I’ve lived in this town for two years and thought I’d seen everything. Still, tonight was the first night I’d ever been in a Rolls. And now, the first time I’d ever taken a car into an elevator. The movement stopped and the doors opened. The sedan rolled forward, down a row of garages, one opening halfway down. We pulled in, and I turned to see the garage door closing. I thought of his promise that no one would see me. I thought of Lance’s story of cocktail waitresses disappearing and understood how—with a setup like this—it could occur. “Is this where you live?”
“No. We live a few levels up.”
We. A subtle reminder that this man was not up for grabs. Where was Gwen now? Was she above us, wondering where her husband was? And why, of all places, had he brought me here?
His door opened, and I watched as he stepped out, his hands moving to the front of his suit and fastening the button there. It was the middle of the night, and he was in a suit, getting out of his Rolls Royce. I looked down at my baggy T-shirt, at the chocolate stain from a Crunch ice cream bar, and my mismatched socks.
He closed the car door, and it softly clicked into place. My stress level spiked.
* * *
His security left through a side door, and I took the hand that Dario offered, letting him lead me to the double doors at the end of the garage. There was a keypad and he released my hand, gesturing to it.
“The code is 04182996#.”
He waited, and I realized he wanted me to enter it. I hesitated, my fingers on the white keypad, and he repeated the code. 0-4-1-8-2-9-9-6. I typed in the code, the digits familiar.
“My birthday…” I mused. “And the last four of my phone number. Creepy.” I hit the pound key and the lock quietly buzzed, a green light illuminating.
“I wanted something you’d remember.” Dario reached for the handle and swung open the door. “Go ahead.”
I walked through and stopped, the short hall opening to a two-story living room, one with a million-dollar-view of the Strip. The room had low-slung white leather couches, a giant flat-screen on the wall, and deep blue walls dotted with colorful paintings. To the left was an all-white kitchen, with a six-top table and fireplace. I walked to the windows, which stretched from the floor all the way to the second-story ceiling. Moving closer, I watched the Bellagio fountains dance.
“Is this where you bring all your girls?” I turned away from the view, watching as he moved into the kitchen.
“I ended my relationships. With the waitress, as flimsy as that was and…” He tilted his head as if reluctant to say her name. “Meghan.”
Meghan. She could be the nicest girl in the world, but I already hated her. I leaned against the window, curling my toes inside my socks, against the slick wood floors. “You broke up with them?” I lifted one shoulder. “Why?”
From this spot, I could see the ring on his finger. From this spot, everything I saw belonged to The Majestic and his wife.
“I’m making room for you in my life.”
It’d been seven days since we met. Seven days, and he’d ended two relationships, had me followed, tried to trick me into being a prostitute, and brought me here. I crossed my arms over my chest and looked away. “You shouldn’t have. And I’m not entirely sure you actually have.” I huffed out a laugh and tightened my arms.
He pulled open a few drawers before finding a wine opener. “I have. You drink wine?”
I wandered away from the view and leaned on the counter, my gaze taking in the spacious and modern kitchen. It was all white granite and stainless steel and I watched Dario crouch before an open wine cooler. “Yeah. Something sweet, if you have it.”
“We have it.” He fished a golden bottle from the cooler and stood. The under-cabinet light was on, and it lit up his delicious features. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, the top button of his dress shirt open, and his forearm muscles flexed as he opened the wine. I watched his face, the strong features relaxed, half doused in shadow.
He was painfully attractive, in his movements as much as his genetic makeup. He was the manliest individual I’d ever met, from his dominant presence to the sheer strength of his build. He popped the cork and set the bottle down, tossing the opener aside.
“Trying to get me drunk?” I wandered around to his side of the counter and braced my palms on the granite, hoisting myself up and sitting on the edge. He only had one wine glass out, and I watched him fill it up halfway.
He ignored the question and handed it to me. “Here.”
“You aren’t drinking?”
He headed to the fridge, and as he passed, gently squeezed my knee. The gesture was sweet, an unnecessary touch of affection, and I lifted my glass to my mouth to hide the resulting smile.
“I’m fine with water.” He opened the door, the fridge neatly filled with rows of soda, juices, and water.
I watched him reach in and grab a bottled water. I thought about my dad, the way his eyes lingered on alcohol as if it was liquid gold. I set down the wine glass. “I don’t have to drink.”
He straightened, leaning against the opposite counter and twisted off the water’s cap, raising a brow at me in question.
“I mean, if it tempts you. I can just have water.”
His mouth curved as he brought the bottle to his lips. “I’m not an alcoholic, Bell.”
“Oh.” I wrapped my fingers around the stem of the glass.
“Sometimes I drink. Typically, I don’t.” He finished off twenty ounces in a single swig.
“And I’m definitely not going to drink around you.”
I stopped, the rim of the glass at my lips, and watched him toss the empty plastic into the trash.
He moved forward, his hands pulling my knees apart, and leaned forward, caging me in. “I need all of my wits around you.”
I puffed out a scoff, taking a deep sip of the cool and flavorful wine before placing the glass down. I wanted to kiss him. The urge was so strong that I had to focus on moving the glass away just to keep from grabbing at him. “Why is that, Mr. Capece?”
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I saw our future. The growl of my name as he thrust into me. The grip of my arm when we fought, the hood of his eyes when he was about to come. He liked when I said his name. He’d like it more if I was on my knees before him, my mouth open, eyes begging.
“Every man needs his wits around a tempting woman.”
I rolled my eyes. “And every man needs a line that isn’t generic as hell.”
“Nothing about me is generic.” He stepped back, and my body missed the warmth and presence of him, the lost kiss crying out in the space between us. Snagging my wine glass from the counter, he downed it in one gulp. “Let’s go out on the balcony.”
* * *
Forty-two stories up seemed like a million. I stopped six feet from the railing and felt as if I was teetering on the edge of it.
“Not a fan of heights?” he asked.
“No.” I settled into a padded chaise lounge and kicked my feet up onto it. Reaching down, I pulled off my dirty and mismatched socks before I had to endure another second of them.
He walked over to the railing and put his weight on it, looking down at a gridlock of traffic and movement. “I’m terrified of heights. I fell out of a window when I was fourteen.” He turned to me, holding out his arm and pointing to a scar that ran halfway down his forearm. “Broke my arm and lost enough blood to drown a rat.”
His story didn’t match with the easy way he rested against the railing, his weight heavy, as if daring the iron barrier to give under the pressure.
ALL IN: A Romantic Suspense Page 8