by J. Kenner
"I bumped into Marcy in the jewelry store," I say. "She's my gremlin."
Marcy's brow furrows. "What?"
"I've seen you twice," I say. "Out of the corner of my eye. Yesterday in the lobby. This morning at the pool. It's been driving me crazy because I couldn't place you."
"Oh. And here I thought I was doing a good job just blending into the background."
I study her. Hunched over, hands clasped. Cuticles picked to ruins. Yeah, she looks like she wants to fade away.
I glance at Jamie, and I see the concern blooming on her face, too. I don't know if she's seen the poorly hidden bruises, but I imagine she has. Jamie's a makeup guru; that's the kind of thing she'd notice right away.
"So why are you in Vegas?" Jamie asks.
"Oh, I came with my boyfriend. Um, Jay. Jay Monroe. He's working one of the trade show booths."
"Is he a game designer?" I ask, and Marcy shakes her head.
"No. Just, you know, clerical, sales, that kind of thing. His boss brought him down, and I came along." She licks her lips. "He doesn't like when I stay at home. He gets jealous. That's another thing we're here for," she says brightly, though the sunshine in her tone isn't reflected in her eyes. "He wants us to get married. You know, a Vegas wedding. Maybe even one of those drive-through chapels."
Her smile, I think, is about the saddest thing I've ever seen.
"Where's home, Marcy?"
"Oh, Riverside, California, you know? But I miss Texas." Tears glint in her eyes. "I miss my mom a lot."
"Listen, we were going to grab some lunch. Want to come?"
"I'd love it," she says, and I can tell that the enthusiasm is genuine. "But I'm supposed to meet Jay for lunch. He only gets the one break today."
Jamie catches my eye, and I know she's thinking the same thing that I am--this girl would be way better off having lunch with us and blowing Jay off.
But right now, that's not something we can say to Marcy.
"What about dinner?" I suggest, though the thought of canceling on Damien makes me sad. Still, the thought of not helping Marcy makes me even sadder. And I would hate myself if I sent her back to her boyfriend without knowing exactly how she got those bruises--and how I can help this girl who was so nice to me in school.
"Oh," she says. "Um, that would be nice. But we're supposed to have dinner tonight after he finishes at seven."
"Maybe he could join us," I say. "It would be fun to meet your fiance."
"Um. Sure. I guess."
I'm about to lock her into that plan, when I hear a man's voice bellowing, "Marcy!" down the promenade. The sound arrives first, but the man storms up immediately after. He's a big guy, solid muscle. The kind of man who looks good in his youth, then starts to fall apart. I predict jowls in just a few years.
"Jesus H. Christ, Marcy, what the fuck are you doing? I've only got forty-five minutes for lunch. What the hell part of 'at the beginning of the shopping area' didn't you understand?"
I glance down the promenade. We're only four storefronts from the beginning.
"I'm sorry, Jay. I'm really sorry."
I'm not sure how it's possible, but she seems even smaller.
"It's just that I bumped into friends from Texas."
"Hey," he says, barely looking at Jamie and me. He grabs her arm. "Let's go."
"We were hoping you could join us for dinner," I blurt. "You and Marcy with my husband and me."
He blinks at me. "We got plans."
"That's a shame. I just figured with you in tech sales we could maybe mix business with pleasure."
His eyes narrow. "You here for the trade show?"
"No, but my husband owns the hotel. He has a lot of business interests. And I do a lot of app work myself." I extend my hand, though I'm loath to touch him. "Nikki Stark," I say. "My husband is Damien Stark."
As I had hoped, the name works on Jay like a magic potion. He practically has dollar signs in his eyes.
"Oh, yeah. We'd love it, wouldn't we, Marce?"
"Sure," she says dutifully.
"That's great," I say. "Marcy's coming with me and Jamie to the spa at three, so we'll work out the time and place then."
Marcy's eyes go wide, and Jay doesn't look too happy. "Spa?"
"She mentioned you're working the trade show today," Jamie says. "We don't want her to be stuck all alone. It'll be fun. A girls' pampering session before y'all do the wedding thing. Congratulations, by the way."
"Thanks." He glances at Marcy. She smiles at him. Fortunately, she looks neither confused nor freaked out. "We should go to lunch," he says.
"Three o'clock," I say again. "At the reception counter for the spa. It's on the second floor, the other side of the atrium from the restaurant."
"Okay," Marcy says softly. She shifts her purse so that she is holding it against her chest. "I'll be there," she adds, and I understand what she hasn't said out loud--that she's coming because she feels like she owes me.
Which means that if I want to keep her listening to me after she arrives, I need to figure out pretty quickly what I want to say.
As soon as they've disappeared down the walkway, Jamie turns to me. "What the fuck?"
"She stole a vase," I say, then I tell her the whole sordid story. "You saw the bruises?"
Jamie frowns, her expression turning dark. "I saw. Guy's a prick." She drags her fingers through her hair. "I always really liked Marcy. What should we do?"
"Talk to her," I say. I draw a deep breath. "Talk, and hope she tells us the truth. Then maybe we can help her."
"You think she's actually going to show up at three?"
"I hope so," I say. "Because if not, we'll have to cancel our appointment to track her down. And I really want a massage and a manicure."
--
Despite the fact that I totally do want a manicure, I decide to ditch the mani-pedi experience in favor of Mission Marcy.
Jamie and I both want to get Marcy talking, and I just don't expect that to happen if we're in front of three strangers working on our hands and feet.
Instead, we opt for massages to loosen us up, and then plan to spend the next two hours in the relaxation room before moving on to the salon for pre-dinner blowouts and makeup.
"I've never had a massage before," Marcy admits after stage one of our spa adventure is complete. "That was really awesome. The thing with the rocks was kind of weird, though."
"I thought so the first time I had one, too," I admit.
Since Marcy was resorting to stealing vases, I figured spas weren't a common feature in her daily life and decided to splurge and get all of us ninety-minute Starfire signature massages, which incorporate hot stones. I think they're awesome--the stones heat up your back and make you that much looser--but being layered in rocks can be a rather odd experience.
Now we are all three wonderfully relaxed and kicked back in the steam room in the spa's women's changing room.
My plan is to steam for a while, then go relax with a glass of wine and some gossip. And more wine, if necessary.
"So how did you and Jay meet?" I ask.
"It was very sweet," she says, and for the first time she actually sounds as if she liked the guy once. "We met in a coffee bar and I'd lost my wallet. He bought me a latte, then helped me get home. Turned out my wallet was in my purse the whole time."
She lifts a shoulder. "That's why he thinks I'm so scattered all the time. First impressions." She rubs her hands over her face and then up, pushing her steam-slicked hair back. "Anyway, he did the full-court seduction press. Flowers. Sweet texts. Little presents. It was so nice. I felt really special. Like I was in a fairy tale."
"What changed?" I ask the question softly, and Marcy just keeps on talking. She doesn't even blink.
"I don't know. It was subtle. Slow. First he just wanted to stay in and not go out with friends. And I thought that was because we were all cozy and new. And then he didn't want me to go out even if he was busy. He said my friends were catty and gossiped too much. Bu
t they don't, really. We just talk, you know, the way you do. And then he got mad when I burned a roast. And after that--"
She cuts herself off as if suddenly realizing what she is saying. What she is admitting to me.
"After that he started to hit you?" I ask. My voice is as gentle as if I were dealing with a scared puppy.
Marcy nods. "I--I'm getting really hot in here."
I hate losing the momentum of the conversation, but I also figure that's code for I'm overwhelmed.
So we step out of the steam into the cool area of the changing room, then wrap ourselves in the big fluffy spa robes and head into the relaxation area.
I get us each a glass of wine, both because I want one and because I know that after a massage and a steam, it will go straight to Marcy's head, thus inducing more talking.
We find a corner with three lounge chairs set up in a triangle with a table in the middle, and since the table is topped with a big bowl of fruit, it seems like the perfect place to relax. We lay back, sip our wine, and after a few moments I try coming at it from a different direction. "You wanted the vase so you could pawn it?"
"Yes." Marcy's voice is a squeak.
"So you could run?"
This time she only nods.
"Because he hits you."
And this time, she just looks at her hands.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Jamie says. "He's the asshole."
"I think he knows I want to leave. I think that's why he wants to get married."
"You should go to the police," Jamie says. "He can't hurt you like this and get away with it."
Marcy tenses up so immediately it looks painful. "No. He just gets mad. And I get better. And I'm not making excuses, really. But it's not like there's any proof. No doctors. I didn't tell anyone. Nothing."
"What about a counselor? You should talk to someone."
She shakes her head. "I should, I know. But I'm not ready."
I glance at Jamie, who nods almost imperceptibly.
"Do you still want to run?"
Marcy nods her head. "Yes. So much. I want to go home."
"Then run now. I'll give you some cash--no, don't argue. I want to," I say when she starts to protest. "And I can arrange a car to take you wherever you want to go. So tell me, Marcy, where do you want to go? Where would you be safe?"
"I want to go home," she says. "I want to go to Texas."
"Done." I smile at her.
"Just like that?"
"Just like that." I stand up. "But we shouldn't wait around. Let's get you out of here before he gets out of the trade show. Is there anything in your room you have to have?"
She shakes her head. "No. I've got my purse."
"Good. He'll see the stuff and figure you're in the hotel somewhere."
She blinks at me, her eyes wide and trusting. "This is really happening?"
"If you want it to."
"Yes." The relief in her voice cuts through me like a thousand sharp knives. "God, yes."
"Then let's go."
We dress quickly, and as we're walking out of the spa, I call down to the desk, then explain who I am and what I want. And, with typical Stark efficiency, everything is ready when we arrive at the main entrance--an SUV to take Marcy home with two drivers so that they can drive straight through to Dallas, and an envelope with two thousand dollars in cash.
Marcy stares at the SUV like it's Moses's burning bush. And as I look at her, I can't help but think of Damien. Our romance had been whirlwind, too. He had seduced me so thoroughly, sweeping me off my feet, showing me a whole new world. Just like Marcy's romance, it had been hypnotic and wonderful and like something out of a fairy tale.
But dear god, what different endings. Because now Marcy cowers when Jay is near, whereas I open like a flower for Damien.
He scares her, hurts her.
And as for me, there is nothing that I would not trust with Damien. My property, my soul, my heart. My life.
They are his, and I know that he will treat them well.
I reach over and give her a hug. "You're making the right decision. You deserve to be happy, not hurt."
Marcy's lips are pressed together tight, but she nods, and I'm certain she's fighting back tears.
"They'll really take me all the way home?"
"They really will," I say. "Here," I add, handing her my card. "Call me if you need anything. That's my cell on the back. And let us know when you're home."
"I will." She hugs me hard, then throws her arms around Jamie. "Thank you both," she says, her voice raw and breathless. "I'll text you when I get to Dallas."
"Do," I say. Then I give her one last hug and watch as she gets in the back of the SUV. I tip both the drivers ahead of time and tell them to drive straight through. They nod, then get in the car.
And as Jamie and I stand watching, Marcy disappears around the bend in the drive, past the fountain, and out into the Nevada afternoon.
Safe, finally. And that is a very good thing.
Chapter 8
I'm in an exceptional mood when Jamie and I return to the suite after seeing Marcy off in the SUV. Not that having a torrid weekend affair with my husband-lover isn't deliciously satisfying, but there's something about knowing that I really made a difference in Marcy's life that has me flying high.
I part ways with Jamie in the living room of our suite, and she goes off to her bedroom to take a nap. Frankly, I think she's sexting with Ryan, who took advantage of the fact that he was on site to schedule a meeting with the hotel's head of security.
I head into my room, and when I see the box on my bed, my mood goes from spectacular to fantabulous, especially when I open it and see the slinky, sexy dress and matching shoes that Damien has bought for me.
There's a note, too: Looking forward to seeing you in (and out) of this dress - D
I grin. I'm looking forward to that myself.
I spend the next hour getting ready. Since Mission Marcy took up my spa time, I have to do my own hair and makeup, but that's okay, and I finish with a good fifteen minutes to spare before I'm supposed to meet Damien in front of the restaurant.
I do a last-minute turn in front of the mirror, and have to admit that he picked out an excellent dress. It's sophisticated, yet comfortable. Sexy, but not slutty. And it's a wrap style, so there is a high slit over my right thigh, which adds an extra level of sultriness.
Then I'm out the door and hurrying to Periscope, a new seafood restaurant that has opened inside the hotel. It's located on the second floor of the hotel just over the reception area and across from the spa. What's intriguing, though, is that the ceiling in the reception area is three stories high. So Periscope is located along two sides of the perimeter, and has viewing screens that allow guests to see what is going on down below. Thus the name.
Damien and I are in a secluded booth right over the main entrance, so our view encompasses the entire lobby and even a bit of the casino. It's an interesting perspective, and makes you feel a little bit godlike, or at least like royalty. As if you are floating on a throne above the little people.
The booth is shaped like a C, and I am seated right next to Damien, my thigh brushing against his.
"I've been looking forward to this for a very long time, Ms. Fairchild," he says.
"Dinner?" I ask innocently.
"You, next to me. Me, touching you."
I lick my lips. "It seems to me that you've touched me plenty over the last few days."
"I've been looking forward to experiencing the reality, not the fantasy. Because as spectacular as the fantasy of you is, the reality is so much better."
I start to shift so that I can face him better, but he closes his hand over my thigh, holding me very firmly in place. "No," he says. "I like you right where you are."
"Do you? Why's that?"
He starts to answer, then stops when the waiter comes with our wine and appetizers. And all the while that Damien is using his right hand to lift the wine and taste it, his left is
sliding very cleverly through the slit in my dress--and I am trying very hard to breathe normally. To not tremble in anticipation or longing. To not cry out with need.
But I want to do all those things. I have had the feel of his hands upon my skin so firmly burned in my imagination for the last two days that this new reality is shocking, and all I want to do is close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of his fingertips stroking my bare thigh.
"I think I like reality," I admit as soon as the waiter has gone away.
"Good," he says. "So do I."
As I watch, he dips his finger into the wine, then brushes his fingertip along my lower lip. I taste it, light and fruity, and though I haven't yet had even one sip, I already feel light-headed.
"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?"
"Of course."
I raise a brow. "So you can have your way with me?"
"Do you need to be drunk for that?"
"No," I whisper. "Anytime. Anywhere."
"I'm very glad you feel that way, Ms. Fairchild. Because I'm thinking here, and I'm thinking now."
"I--" I'm about to ask just what exactly he has in mind when his hand stroking lightly up my thigh makes his intent sweetly, perfectly clear.
"Damien."
"Hush. No one will know. No one can see."
He's right, of course. Our booth is secluded. But it's still decadent. Naughty.
And such a delicious turn-on.
"Close your eyes," he says.
I hesitate, but comply. I expect him to continue his fingers' inexorable trek up my thigh, but his hand has stopped just inches from the juncture of my thigh and pelvis. I swallow, hyperaware of the pressure of his fingertips against my skin. I'm wet, and I want to squirm. I want to silently urge him to move higher. To stop this tease.
But, of course, that is the whole point.
Damien will make me suffer--and that will make my ultimate satisfaction that much sweeter.
In the meantime, of course, I am silently cursing him.
"Open," he says, brushing something oily over my mouth. I part my lips, and he feeds me a piece of bread dipped in oil. Then a bit of shrimp cocktail. And then an olive from the antipasto plate. All delicious. All fire to my senses.
None are the touch I truly want.
"Damien."
That's all I say, but I sense the shift in him immediately. I have broken. I have begged.
And now I will get my reward.
That hand that has been so patiently waiting on my thigh, burning a hole in my skin, now slides up, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.