Winter Blockbuster 2012

by Trish Morey

  Yet Rakin wasn’t even breathing hard. And, what’s more, not even one dark hair had strayed out of place. A wicked urge to see him look a little rumpled stole through her.

  “Again,” she challenged. “I want to do it again.”

  It was evening, and the observation deck on the fiftieth floor of Paris Las Vegas’s Eiffel Tower was deserted.

  Rakin felt Laurel go still beneath the hand he’d placed across her back to usher her from the glass elevator.

  “How beautiful,” she breathed, and gestured to the warm, dusky light that turned the observation deck to burnished bronze. “It’s like being in a capsule of gold.”

  He watched indulgently as she picked her way along the observation deck, her high heels tapping against the steel, to take in the dramatic view of the city stretching to the purpling mountains in the distance.

  Laurel came to a stop and the fiery glow of the sinking rays lit the hair piled on top of her head, throwing the elegant black strapless dress she wore into sharp relief. Against the backdrop of the sunset she looked like a goddess waiting to be summoned back from earth.

  “It has been the most extraordinary day,” she said breaking the spell that held him entranced. “Recklessness drove me to accept your invitation.”

  His gaze fixed on her, he said, “Recklessness?”

  “I gave in to the temptation to break the Winthrop ban on gambling.” She spread her arms wide to embrace the view. “But I didn’t expect this. I’ve no idea how you’ll intend to keep the action—and the surprises—rolling tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry, there’s plenty more to see,” Rakin told her, and closed the gap between them. “Dolphins. Sharks. Lions. We haven’t even started on the animal encounters.”

  The sideways glance she gave him held a very human glint of mischief. “Or we could try the thrill rides at the Stratosphere Tower.”

  Rakin groaned. “I’ve created a monster. Three rides on New York-New York, not to mention braving the Speed roller coaster at NASCAR Cafe this afternoon—and you still crave more?”

  “I never realized what I was missing out on—I should’ve put Ride a roller coaster on my list.”

  “You made a list of things to do in Vegas?” Had he left anything out?

  But before he could ask, Laurel colored and averted her gaze. A gust of wind blew a tendril of hair that had escaped across her cheek, and she brushed it back. “It’s not exactly about Vegas.”

  “But you have a list?” he pressed.

  Laurel gave a small nod.

  Her reticence intrigued him. “So what’s on it?”

  “I can’t remember,” she mumbled and her flush turned a deep shade of crimson.

  Laurel Kincaid was a terrible liar.

  “Now you’ve woken my curiosity.”

  She muttered something. Then she pointed. “Look, isn’t that pretty?”

  Rakin allowed himself to be distracted. Far below, the Strip was starting to light up as Las Vegas prepared for the coming night like a showgirl dressing for an after-dark performance.

  “Oh, and look there!”

  Rakin’s followed her finger. Three rings of fountains had leapt out from the lake in front of the Bellagio, the high plumes illuminated by bright light.

  A glance at Laurel revealed that she was transfixed.

  “We’ll see the fountains from closer up during dinner.” He’d booked a table at Picasso specifically so Laurel could enjoy the display.

  “From up here it gives another perspective. This tower looks like every picture I’ve seen of the real Eiffel Tower. It’s amazing.”

  Rakin hadn’t moved his attention from her face. Her changing expressions revealed every emotion she experienced. Wonder. Excitement.

  For one wild moment he considered what her features would look like taut with desire, her dark-red hair spread loose across his pillow.?…

  He shut his eyes to block out the tantalizing vision.

  “So have you ever visited Paris or Venice? I’d love to visit both.”

  To his relief her voice interrupted his torrid imaginings. “Not Venice,” he said, his voice hoarser than normal. “But I’ve been to Paris often—my mother loved Paris. She attended the école Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts on the Left Bank across from the Louvre.”

  “She’s an artist?”

  Rakin nodded. “She was—she died.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to reopen—”

  The remorse on Laurel’s face made him say quickly, “Don’t worry. Talking about her doesn’t upset me. She’s been gone a long time. Most people avoid mentioning her—it makes them uncomfortable.” It ran contrary to his own need to talk about his mother, to remember her as she’d been. Talented. Mercurial. Loving. “My father died, too.”

  “You must miss them both.”

  The memories of his father were much more ambivalent. But there was no need for Laurel to discover the undercurrents that lurked beneath the mask he carefully preserved. So he focused on the facts. “My parents met in Paris.”

  “How romantic.”

  It was the conclusion he’d expected—no, led—her to draw. His mother had also thought it romantic. His father had called it fate. Neither romance nor fate had been enough in the end.

  The night they’d met, Laurel had asked him whether he believed in fate.?…

  It was Rakin’s turn to turn away. The sunset blazed along the skyline.

  “It was spring time.” The words forced themselves past the tightness in his throat.

  “Even more romantic.”

  Without looking at Laurel, he continued to weave the tale that had become a legend of tabloid lies. “My parents returned to Diyafa for a lavish wedding, and I was born less than a year later.” That had been the end of the romance and the beginning of his mother’s harsh reality. As his father had the male heir he wanted, the sheik no longer needed to woo his wife. Duty, rather than desire, had kept his parents together until their deaths.

  Rakin found he had a startlingly intense need to see Laurel’s face. Forcing a smile, he swiveled on his heel. Her eyes held a soft, dreamy look. “I’d love to visit Paris in the spring.”

  “And walk along the Seine.” Rakin knew all the clichés.

  “How wonderful to fall in love in a city that celebrates lovers.”

  “That too.” His parents’ story had great spin, Rakin decided savagely. The lie still lived.

  She tipped her head to one side and the last rays of the sun glinted off the diamond earrings that dangled against her neck. “And I’d like to visit Diyafa, too.”

  It was the cue he needed.

  But instead of telling her about his grandfather’s plan to oust him, Rakin glanced at his watch. “Our table booking is not far off. I’ll tell you more about the country of my birth over dinner—and afterwards we’ll do what everyone does in Vegas—gamble.”

  As he’d anticipated, the dreaminess evaporated, then she said, “The higher the stakes, the better. Don’t forget I have every intention of gambling the night away.”

  The stakes were rising for him, too. So why had he not taken the opportunity that she’d offered? Why hadn’t he told her what he needed? A wife to neutralize his grandfather’s threats? A part of him recognized that he was being drawn into the fantasy he’d created for a woman he found himself liking more and more with every hour that passed.

  A whole day had already passed. Too soon they would be leaving Vegas and the opportunity to negotiate her cooperation would be forever lost. He could no longer delay.

  It was time to return to reality.

  And get himself a wife.

  Picasso at the Bellagio was one of Rakin’s favorite restaurants.

  “Bellagio is a village on the shores of Lake Como,” Rakin told Laurel after their plates from the main course had been cleared away, and dessert menus left for them to leisurely peruse. He’d secured a table overlooking a balcony and the lake beyond so that Laurel would have a good view of the fountains
dancing to the music.

  “George Clooney has a villa at Lake Como, doesn’t he?” Laurel’s smile had an impish quality as she turned from the fountains back to him. “I’d better add that to the exotic places I want to visit.”

  “You’re that keen to meet Clooney?” Rakin wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be annoyed by her mischievous interest in the movie star—especially since before his grandfather’s latest threats he’d been as eager as Clooney to avoid marriage and babies. And despite conceding to marriage, babies were forever off the agenda—not that his grandfather needed to know that.

  She gave him an artless glance. “Isn’t every woman?”

  This time he did laugh. “You’re a tease!”

  The artlessness evaporated. Only to be replaced with a sincerity that he found infinitely more disturbing. “Not really,” she confided, leaning forward and lowering her voice. “Only with you. I’ve never flirted in my life—yet with you it’s easy.”

  Her candor was disarming. And the husky note in her voice thrummed through him, playing all his nerve endings to devastating effect. He didn’t dare allow his eyes to stray lower in case her action had caused the provocative neckline to reveal even more tantalizing glimpses of skin. Instead, Rakin unfolded his napkin, placed it on his lap and said lightly, “I thought all Southern women were born flirts.”

  “Not me.” She glanced down at the dessert menu in front of her.

  He could’ve argued that she was learning fast. Yet Rakin suspected that she had little idea of the effect she was having on him. He was more interested in her than he’d been in any woman for a long, long time. At first, his interest had been piqued by Eli’s comment that she’d make the perfect wife for the predicament he found himself in. Then he’d found himself really liking her. And now—

  Well, now, his interest was growing in leaps and bounds.

  Impossibly long lashes fluttered up as she glanced up from the menu. “I’ve been attempting to flirt with you because… I feel safe.”

  The naked honesty of her statement shook him. All attempts at maintaining the lighthearted banter deserted him.

  “Aren’t you going to order dessert?”

  To his surprise, Rakin realized he’d set his menu down on the table. But he couldn’t stop thinking about what Laurel had said.

  “You find it easy to flirt with me?”

  “It must be because you’re Eli’s friend.” This time the smile she gave him was sweet rather than flirtatious. “I know you’re trustworthy.”

  The brief flash of annoyance he felt surprised him. “Because Eli said so?”

  “Well, he never actually said I could trust you. But he wouldn’t be friends with you if he didn’t trust you implicitly—Eli’s not the kind of man to waste time on liars and frauds.”

  “So you accept Eli’s endorsement—rather than your own instincts?”

  Laurel hesitated.

  “No, don’t think too much.” Placing his elbows on the edge of the table, he steepled his hands and gazed at her over the top. “I want an instinctual response—not one vetted for kindness.”

  “I do trust you.”

  The expression in her eyes told him she’d astonished herself. Keeping his attention fixed on her, he demanded, “Why?”

  “I don’t know.” She said it slowly, her gaze flickering away, then back to him as though drawn by some power she could not resist.

  “It surprises you.” He made it a statement.

  “Yes.” Again, she hesitated. Then she said in a rush. “I’ve never made friends easily—my family has always been enough.”

  “And Eli.”

  “And Eli,” she agreed. “But that was different.”

  The sharp blade of envy that pierced Rakin was unexpected, and he thrust it away before the feeling could fester and turn to poisonous jealousy. “In what way?”

  “We were the same age. He lived nearby while we were growing up.”

  “You were being kind.”

  “Maybe. At first. But the friendship was between equals—I got every bit as much out of it as Eli did. Remember, I didn’t have other close friends.”

  He nodded his head. “I can understand that.”

  “I suppose the reason I trust you is because I feel comfortable with you. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so much.”

  Pulling a face, he said, “I must be a clown.”

  “No! You are anything but a clown.”

  He’d been joking, trying to make her smile again. But her rapid rise to his defense made him realize that Laurel was concerned she might have offended him. Too kind for her own good. She could have no idea that his emotions had been forged in a crucible guaranteed to produce solid steel. If she had, no doubt she would not be nearly as comfortable in his company.

  Nor would she be contemplating visiting Diyafa. Her comment about adding Lake Como to the places she wanted to visit probably meant her list included the destinations to which she wanted to travel. Las Vegas might only have been the start of it. He’d work on convincing her that Diyafa should be next on her list.

  “It is true,” she was saying earnestly before he could question her about what other places were on her list. “I can’t remember when last I felt as lighthearted and carefree as I have today.”

  “I will take that as a compliment.”

  Under the weight of his gaze, he watched the faint wash of color warm her cheeks.

  Laurel dropped her gaze to the menu. “You know, I’ve no idea what to choose.”

  Rakin’s mouth curved into a smile. “I’m going to have ice cream.”

  “Ice cream?”

  “Something cool in this weather. But you can’t go wrong with anything on the menu.”

  “My meal was fabulous.”

  “Every dish on the menu is inspired by places where Picasso lived in Spain and the South of France.”

  His comment prompted Laurel to gaze at a Picasso painting on the nearest wall. “What did your mother paint?”

  “She created huge abstract canvases. Mostly inspired by the desert landscape.” His father had hated them. The sheikh had wanted his wife to paint realistic portrayals of the Diyafan Desert. His mother had preferred broad sweeps of color that invited the viewer to put their own interpretation on the landscape.

  “Do you paint, too?”

  Rakin shook his head. “I studied business—although I will confess that I majored in classical studies in my undergraduate degree so I’m not a complete philistine.” A smile tugged at his mouth.

  “Philistine?” She smiled back at him. “I never thought that for a moment. Why classical studies?”

  The curve of her lips promised him untold delights. Rakin forced himself to glance up. “You can’t grow up in a place like Diyafa and not be aware of ancient history—but I also loved the old legends. Greek, Roman, Egyptian—Diyafa has some wonderful legends, too.”

  “Which is your favorite legend?”

  There was only one answer he could give. “In present company, I’d have to say the story of Daphne and Apollo.”

  Laurel wrinkled her nose at him. “Why? Didn’t she get turned into a tree?”

  “A laurel tree.”

  Her eyes brightened with laughter. “You’re making that up.”

  Rakin shook his head. “Apollo used the leaves to weave himself a wreath—and that’s how a laurel wreath became a symbol of victory.”

  “Not much of a victory since the woman he loved had been turned into a tree.”

  “And even hollower, when you consider that she felt nothing for him—she was fleeing his pursuit.”

  “Poor Apollo.” She glanced at him through her lashes.

  Heat blasted through him. And Rakin resisted the impulse to tell him that if she was any more skilled a flirt, every man in the world would be in mortal danger.

  “Have you decided what you want to order?” he asked instead.

  “Chocolate—rich chocolate. I’ll go with the restaurant’s recommendation. An
d then I want to gamble.”

  Rakin couldn’t help grinning at her reckless, single-minded determination.

  “I haven’t forgotten—we’ll gamble all night long.”

  The hush that hung over the casino was broken from time to time by the clatter of chips and the muted exchange of voices as bets were placed. Silent waitresses glided past with trays of complimentary drinks. By invitation only, this was the domain of the rich, the famous… and the dedicated gamblers. And Laurel was growing to dread the sound of the chips being raked across the green baize.

  Around the roulette table where she and Rakin had settled, several stacks of chips were growing to skyscraper heights. But, along with the thin man sitting opposite them and nursing a whisky with increasingly desperate eyes as his pile dwindled, Laurel was losing.

  And her stomach had started to churn with disquiet. She’d lost at least five thousand dollars of Rakin’s money in the first ten minutes, and a fair bit of her own after she’d absolutely refused to accept more chips from him. What damage would a whole night’s gambling do to Rakin’s fortune—and her own? “I’m starting to think Grandfather was right,” she told Rakin in a low aside.

  “Your Winthrop grandfather?”

  Laurel nodded. “He considered gambling a curse.”

  “One you hoped to break tonight?”

  “Hmm.” She considered that. Had she believed that by winning on the tables she’d be proving that she could break the old taboo? Had she wanted to overturn—even by a small win—the curse of impoverishment that gambling, along with bad investments, had caused the Winthrops to suffer in the past? She wasn’t sure. “I don’t think my reasons were quite so inspired. I was probably more determined to try something that my family disapproved of—totally the wrong reason to do anything.”

  Rakin chuckled, attracting a glare from the gambler losing across the table.

  Leaning closer to him, she whispered, “But I’ve already lost far more than I intended of the chips you gave me—and what I added.” Laurel gestured to what remained of the stack beside her. “I’m seeing no evidence of any return.”

  “Spoken like a cool-headed businesswoman.”

  She slid him a searching glance. “I appear to share that trait with you, too—you haven’t even placed one bet yet.”