by Myra Scott
Just as I entered, a tall leather seat turned around, and I was face-to-face with my business rival.
And the sight of him nearly stunned me in my tracks.
He had thick, dark, curly hair tied back, but that couldn’t stop a couple of curls from hanging free. His skin was dark, and his eyes were smoky. He stood out in perfect contrast to the rest of the room, and his presence made everything pop so much better. He stood up immediately, a devilish smile on his face as he moved around the desk to extend his hand to me. He was tall, and that square jaw added to the imposing look he gave off.
“Zane Anderson.” The way he spoke my name was full of vigor and hunger, and I felt myself blushing at the sound of it on his accented tongue. There was almost surprise in those lively dark eyes of his, possibly as much as there was in my piercing blue ones. “I am Diego Castillo. It is a true pleasure to meet you.”
We shook hands, and his warm hand felt soft in my strong, firm one, but he had a strength of his own to match mine.
Everything about this man was both exciting and infuriating. I had marched in here wanting to hate this man’s guts, hoping for some scrawny little nobody I could loom over.
Instead, I was shaking hands with a tall, dark Adonis who was every bit my match. We were like two statues facing off against each other.
This meeting just got a lot more interesting.
“The pleasure’s mine,” I replied with my usual bright smile. “Mr. Castillo, nobody warned me you were Spanish.”
“Really? I’ve had plenty of warnings about you,” he said, giving me a quick once-over that made my knees weak. What exactly did that mean? But his smile grew, and he tilted his head to the side. “I am impressed you can tell I am Spanish, though, most Americans struggle with my accent.”
I felt a little pride as I said in what I was sure was badly accented but practiced Spanish, “I studied abroad for a year in Madrid, plus a little extra time over the summer. I fell in love with the country and the language the moment the plane landed.” Watching his smile grow a little more genuine kept me pushing. “I try to make excuses for business trips there when I can, even if I have so little place to practice the language anymore.”
“You’re terribly modest, Mr. Anderson,” he said, reverting to English. He put his hand on my back and guided me toward the two seats that surrounded a corner table in front of the window and sat me down at one, taking the other for himself. “Your tongue does my mother language too much grace. But my family is from Madrid—tell me, did life there treat you well?”
I could tell Diego had a flair for formality, even through all the charm, so I didn’t gush as much as I wanted to, but I let the sincere warmth show. “There’s nothing like it here. Everyone wants to move out to the suburbs in America, but there’s a real sense of urban harmony in Spain. Everywhere I went, from Valladolid to Cordoba, you get the sense that all those sun-kissed apartments can meld together with the heart of the city, and everything sits together beautifully.”
His eyes shone for a moment, and I could tell he was almost forgetting that we were in a business meeting. Almost.
I couldn’t have asked for a better start.
“You bring me very close to home,” he said after a moment, sitting back and crossing his legs. “So close that I wish I could take you there and let you taste some of the wine my brothers and I grew up on.”
“How often do you go back?” I ventured, keeping things personal yet not too informal.
“I try to visit at least once a year, but it has been five years since I last lived there,” he admitted with a longing look out the window, then back to me.
Goddamnit, the slightest move of those eyes to me made my heart race. I could have stayed pinned under that fiery gaze all day.
“I must say, Mr. Anderson, I am pleasantly surprised by you, after what else I have seen of Sin City. I must wonder what other surprises you have up those Brioni sleeves of yours.”
I uncrossed and crossed my legs, resting my hands on my knee. “It’s not often you meet people like us in our positions.”
A smile played at the corners of his mouth, and I could tell he wanted to go a little further, but he held himself back.
“Indeed. Speaking of our positions…” I felt my heart pick up, but he picked up a pencil and some paper to set between us. “It is good to know I’m dealing with someone like-minded, so let us talk business.”
I smirked without breaking eye contact with him as I took the pencil.
“Mr. Castillo, you and I share one of the most lucrative spots on the Strip,” I started, and I drew up a rough sketch of our two casino towers, one on each side of us. Halfway through the drawing, the imagery dawned on me, but I didn’t hesitate. “I recently went public with my plans for a nightclub in the Sentry to add something of an edge to the place.”
Diego’s eyebrow went up, and he leaned forward. I drew what looked like a bridge between our two towers and set the pencil down.
“But what I would like to suggest is something that would benefit both of us. One nightclub on the fiftieth floors of both of our establishments, with a single bridge uniting the two. The bridge would serve as a luxury lounge for guests of both casinos, while we evenly split profits generated by both nightclubs in our respective towers.”
Diego peered at the blueprint, but his face was hard to read.
“This is not the proposal I was expecting, I must say,” he pointed out, sounding amused. A smile curled on his lips, and he looked up to me with lidded eyes. “Remarkable. The Sentry must be doing very well to propose such a thing—unless you intend to propose we jointly fund this project?”
My wolfish eyes didn’t break from him, but I knew where this was going.
“I would have thought joint ventures would be something a man like you would be interested in, considering the payoff,” I retorted, keeping my voice smooth.
A soft chuckle came from his chest. “Taking back a part of the Sentry’s profits that I have been cutting into must sound rather attractive to you, yes.”
“It would be much cheaper than trying to build a nightclub in La Torre on your own,” I pointed out.
“It sounds like you are rather eager to pour your resources into my tower, Mr. Anderson,” he quipped with a meaningful tone that made me show a shadow of a cool smile. “But I believe my business model is doing a fine job of that on its own.”
We were interrupted by a knock at the door, and a young man stuck his head in.
“Pardon me—Mr. Castillo, your next contact has been waiting downstairs for you.”
“Ah!” said Diego, standing up. “Thank you, Roger.” He turned back to me with an insufferably handsome expression, putting his hand on my back once again after I stood up as well, and he began to guide me out the office into the hall, back to the elevator. “You must excuse me, this is a meeting I have been putting off far too long.”
“I would suggest we get together again and discuss some of the profit margins other casino nightclubs have been raking in at other establishments,” I said swiftly, standing up.
He was trying to shake me, but I always got what I wanted.
“Mr. Anderson, I would like to get you in private again as much as you would,” he nearly purred, “but this deal of yours could certainly be sweeter to my ears. I don’t have to tell you I have certain refined tastes.”
“Why don’t we discuss this over dinner, then?” I offered as the elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside, turning to face Diego. “I think I know your tastes. If this deal needs sweetening, then let’s sweeten it.”
Diego and I stared each other down for a few long moments, and for just an instant, he looked thoughtful until he finally spoke.
“No,” he said with a simple, triumphant smile as the doors slid closed in front of me, and the elevator started to go down.
I clenched m
y jaw.
This was going to be harder than I expected.
But Zane Anderson never gave up.
CHAPTER THREE - DIEGO
“Jennifer, could you bring the paper shredder from the printing room into my office?” I asked, leaning out of my office to call down the hallway.
“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Just a minute,” she answered back.
“Thank you,” I said, and walked back into my office. I looked around, sizing it all up. I was a little bit of a neat freak, admittedly, and it was my preference that I keep my office and workspace clean. I had always been this way, obsessed with order and organization. Even as a kid, I was the only one of my parents’ four children who consistently kept his room clean. In fact, it went a little bit beyond simply “clean” and further into “uptight” territory from time to time. But I just could not see this as a character flaw. In my opinion, my fastidious nature was part of what led to my success. I always thought that a clean space translated directly to a clean mind.
Well, I thought to myself, maybe not clean in every way.
Immediately, the image of the handsome, sly owner of the Sentry Casino floated to the forefront of my mind. I sighed aloud and rolled my eyes. I just could not get that man’s face out of my head. It was like he was taunting me with that wry smile and those crystal-blue eyes. He was the epitome of an American sweetheart, the clean-cut American jock I remembered idolizing as an adolescent growing up in Madrid. I had grown up in a bilingual household, of course, because my mother worked for the European Union and she was dead set on giving all of her children every possible advantage in life. That meant we all had to speak English just as fluently as we spoke Spanish. At first, when I was young, I had balked at her insistence that we speak English to each other. As far as I was concerned, I was proud of my Spanish heritage, and I could not see why we needed anything else.
But when I got older, I suddenly found myself obsessed with the kinds of American television programs that featured high school-age students, the same age as I was at that time. I was drawn in by the drama, so similar to the addictive telenovelas my mother was constantly watching in her down time when I was growing up. I had teased her about it, making fun of the way the actors swooned, swore, and slapped each other in extreme melodrama. But when I discovered my American TV shows, suddenly I was hooked. There was always a handsome football player or bad boy character with flaxen gold hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a roguish smile. He was the quintessential gorgeous, unattainable man of my dreams. If I had ever been the pin-up poster type, I would have put up posters of guys just like that on my bedroom walls. That was the archetype I was most irresistibly drawn to. Back in Spain, it was much less common to come across a guy who looked like that, and I had to admit that I sort of idealized that sexy blue-eyed blond look in my head.
Of course, I eventually grew up and got over it, or so I thought. I abandoned my dream of finding some hot blond American to call my lover. Reality kicked in and dismissed my adolescent fantasies. I fell in love with another dark-haired, dark-eyed man like me, a fellow Spaniard named Alvaro. For quite some time, our relationship was a good one. Alvaro had a traditionally handsome look—distinguished, serious, always in control and always impeccably dressed in expertly-curated and tailored clothing. My father had approved of him instantly, appreciating the almost debonair way that Alvaro carried himself. My mother had taken longer to warm up to him. She had been a little wary of him, even suspicious. I used to say that she was overreacting, just judging him too harshly because she was so protective of me. But nowadays, it was becoming increasingly apparent that she was much smarter and more insightful than the rest of us. Alvaro was still the same imposing, almost intimidating man he had been when we first got together, but that occasional softness he used to reserve for me had seemed to run out. There was no tenderness left these days, it seemed. Not for me. Not for his loyal, devoted boyfriend.
“I’ve got the shredder,” said my personal assistant as she walked into my office. Her appearance jolted me from my deep thoughts, thankfully. I knew that comparing Alvaro and Zane in my mind was a dangerous road to embark upon.
“Thank you,” I replied. “You can just set it down there beside my desk. I have a massive stack of papers to sort through, and I know most of it should probably get shredded. Just for privacy’s sake.”
“Of course,” Jennifer agreed warmly. “Would you like some assistance? I could help you sort through it all.”
I hesitated, not sure if I wanted her to hang around or not. I liked to work on my own whenever possible, as I held myself to such a high standard, it was difficult for other people to meet it. Besides, between rushing from meetings with investors and my marketing team, to hosting events at La Torre, to attending community galas, I had far more than my fill of social interaction. Despite the personality I could put on when I needed to be charming and approachable, I rather prized my alone time. I needed time to myself to recharge, to think. But then I realized that if I kept Jennifer close by, we could chat, and that might just distract me from obsessing over Zane Anderson.
And I absolutely had to stop thinking about Zane Anderson.
“Yes, that would be wonderful,” I told her. Jennifer happily picked up a stack of manila folders filled with old paperwork and got started. I sat down in the leather armchair—imported from a favorite furniture designer of mine in Spain—and jumped into the sorting, too.
“So, how was your meeting the other day with that man from Sentry?” piped up my assistant cheerily. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the mention of him.
Damn it. So much for Jennifer distracting me from Zane, I thought.
“Oh. It went well,” I lied quickly. Jennifer fixed me with a dubious stare. She had known me long enough to be able to detect the little secrets in my tone when I lied to her. I groaned and added gruffly, “He was a lot to deal with.”
“How so? He wasn’t rude, was he?” she inquired, tilting her head to one side and setting down the folders to listen more intently. She was kind of like my mother in that way: protective of me. In the past, I had dealt with a couple run-ins with bigoted investors or contractors, and Jennifer had done everything in her power to set them straight before agreeing to let them meet with me. Sometimes it could be a little annoying having someone look after me like I was some fragile child, but most of the time, it was just nice having her on my side.
“No, no. Not rude,” I assured her before she could get her claws out. I gave her a smile. “He was just… a lot.”
“That’s not very descriptive, Mr. Castillo,” she chuckled.
I ran my fingers back through my long, dark hair, trying to figure out how to describe him to her in a way that would not make it seem like I was attracted to him. Even though I totally was not attracted to him at all. Of course.
“He was very charming,” I admitted slowly. Jennifer bit her lip, clearly fighting a smile.
“Oh? Charming?” she repeated. I could feel my face starting to burn a little bit and I cleared my throat awkwardly. I normally had such a calm demeanor. I was known for keeping my emotions and feelings under control. I was notorious for being unreadable, maybe even enigmatic, unless someone knew me very, very well. But there was something about Zane. Just the mere mention of him was enough to make me blush. And yet I had only met the man once! How absurd was this?
“Yes. And very persistent,” I added.
“What did he want? I heard through the grapevine that the Sentry is losing profits, and I had a feeling La Torre is partly to blame, being rival casinos and all,” she reasoned. God, she was much smarter than anyone gave her credit for. Jennifer did not miss a thing.
“You would be correct in your assumption,” I told her, starting to shuffle through the papers on my lap. I slid some of them into the shredder. “Mr. Anderson has a very lofty idea for a collaboration from which we could both benefit. He was talking about building some ri
diculous sky bridge between his casino and mine. Putting a sky-high nightclub on the bridge.”
“Well, that sounds kind of awesome, doesn’t it?” my assistant noted with a shrug.
I pushed more paperwork into the shredder and chuckled to myself. “Yes, it would be awesome if we lived in the kind of reality Mr. Anderson appears to inhabit.”
“Is it really so crazy?” Jennifer asked. “Did he have a plan for what the collaboration would look like?”
I begrudgingly nodded. “Yes. He did. He gave me a blueprint he was working on, just a rough sketch. It’s around here somewhere.”
Jennifer started looking through the papers on my desk, and I half hoped that she wouldn’t find the blueprint. I didn’t want to look at it right now, not while I was trying my hardest to put Zane Anderson out of my mind. But Jennifer was determined, and she finally uncovered it from the bottom of a stack, where I had stashed it the other day and promptly forgotten about it.
She looked it over, mumbling to herself. Then she looked up at me skeptically. “This actually doesn’t look as ridiculous as you made it sound. No offense, of course,” she quipped.
“Oh, whose side are you on?” I teased gently. “Mr. Anderson is only putting forth this idea because he wants to minimize the threat La Torre poses to his casino. It’s not a genuine request to become business partners. He just wants in on our profits.”
“And that’s a problem?” She pressed on, raising an eyebrow. “You’re the one who taught me that business is cutthroat sometimes and you shouldn’t take these things personally. If this blueprint could hold the key to benefitting both La Torre and Sentry, what’s the issue?”
I looked at Jennifer hard for a few moments, considering her advice. I smiled and shook my head. “I might have taught you too well, I think,” I told her. She shrugged good-naturedly.