by Lisa Plumley
Then she gave herself a very necessary mental shake.
“I have a car waiting.” Airily, she waved her hand. Now that she’d opened this Pandora’s box of imagining Damon nude, sudsy, and ready for commitment—albeit to another woman—it was going to be difficult to slam shut again. “There’s champagne there, already chilling. We can use it to toast your marriage!”
The words were difficult to force out. Especially since Natasha’s overactive mind was suddenly preoccupied with cranking out fresh fantasy scenarios. Oblivious to the fact that circumstances had irrevocably changed, her imagination conjured up several ways she and Damon could have been together if he’d decided to commit to her instead. With Natasha sprawled across the waiting car’s expansive backseat, Damon’s hands holding her steady as he loved her with his lips and tongue. With Natasha on top of him, her skirt hiked up around her thighs as he entered her. With Natasha moaning as she took Damon in her mouth, making him beg her for more, more …
Oh God. What was wrong with her?
“Excellent! I enjoy champagne,” Giada announced, sashaying toward the exit. “This time, we must try not to get arrested.”
Wrenched from her problematic fantasies, Natasha stared. “That’s why you got arrested? Because you were celebrating your wedding?”
Damon looked abashed. “Well, that and the merger. We were celebrating both. Torrance Chocolates and Bandini Espresso are definitely long-term partners now.” While Giada sauntered onward, Damon held Natasha back. He gave her a concerned look. “Hey—are you sure you’re all right? You look … different.”
She probably looked lusty, Natasha knew. “I’m fine.”
“Did something happen while I was gone?”
I got divorced and realized I want you. “Nope.”
Damon didn’t appear convinced. “Come on. I know you better than that.” He frowned. “Is everything all right … at home?”
His tentative tone snapped her out of her reverie the way nothing else could have. Damon was usually so certain about things. But not about her, Natasha reminded herself. Because Damon didn’t really know her—not all of her. Thanks to the wall she’d created between her work life and her home life, as far as Damon was concerned she was just another tool to help him achieve his stated goal of world chocolate domination.
Damon still wasn’t finished trying to make his father proud of him. To Damon, Natasha was just a means to that end.
“‘Is everything all right … at home?’” she repeated. While the airport hubbub swirled around them, she gave him a deliberately cynical look. “Tell you what: I’ll forfeit my entire year’s salary, right now, if you can tell me one single detail of my home life. For instance … what street do I live on?”
For a minute, she thought he might actually do it. He had read her personnel file once, after all. He had a very good memory when he bothered to use it for anything other than identifying his favorite brand of tequila. Then Damon gave her a characteristically teasing grin. “Don’t you know what street you live on? That must make it tough for you to find your way home.”
Natasha’s heart broke a little. Patiently, she waited.
“All right. Uncle.” Damon raised both hands in surrender, not even pretending he might be able to guess about her personal life. “You’re fine. I get it. I’ll quit bugging you.”
“Yes, you will.” No. Please keep trying. “Thanks.”
“But I still think something’s going on with you.” With more perceptiveness than he deserved to possess, Damon peered at her. “Sooner or later, I’ll figure out what it is.”
God, she hoped not. “Maybe. You’ll probably forget to try.”
“Now I’m doubly determined.” His grin dazzled her, just the way it always did. But now his was a married grin. An off-limits grin. A grin she had to resist. Damon jostled her shoulder in a brotherly fashion. “I just want you to be happy, Natasha.”
Hearing the affectionate way he said her name, she held her breath. Briefly, she closed her eyes. Damon didn’t mean that to sound as tender as it did. He couldn’t help it. He was … him.
“I want you to be happy like I’m happy.” In a jolly way, Damon nodded toward Giada. His new wife was waiting outside with a smoldering Italian cigarette in one hand, looking regal and sophisticated. “It turns out, all I ever wanted was true love.”
“You and me both.” Spying Jason and Amy and the rest of Damon’s weary entourage emerging from the crowd at the baggage carousel with their luggage, Natasha straightened. “Sometimes it’s not so easy to find, though.”
Her newly finalized divorce papers proved that much.
“We should have found true love together,” Damon joked. “That would have been the practical thing to do.”
At his blithe tone, Natasha’s heart splintered a little more. She hadn’t realized exactly how deep her feelings for him went. Now that she was beginning to have an inkling of the way she might feel, it was too late to do anything about it.
“Practical? Ha!” With effort, Natasha met Damon’s gaze directly. “I know you way too well to think you could ever be practical. That’s my world, and we both know it. You just visit it from time to time to impress the board of directors.”
Damon laughed. “You’re right. You do know me too well. But hey … it’s nice living here in Sexy Fun Town. Why would I ever want to leave?” He glanced at Giada. “And speaking of sexy fun … I’ve neglected my wife for too long already.” He paused, shook his head, then gave Natasha a look filled with pure incredulity. “My wife. Can you believe I just said that? Isn’t that something?”
Then, without waiting for Natasha to answer, Damon ruffled her hair the way a big brother would do to a pesky tomboy sister. He picked up his carry-on bag, assembled his usual mixture of machismo, magnetism, and carefree swagger, then took himself off to the cloud of smoke that encircled his new wife.
Wistfully, Natasha watched as Damon and Giada reunited. They looked happy enough. A little jet-lagged maybe. But happy.
If she was going to be happy, too, she’d just have to move on. She would have to lock away those irresponsibly spicy feelings for Damon, forget about imagining what it would be like to see him naked, and get back to the business of taking them both to the top—one delicious, chocolate-centric deal at a time.
She could do that. Easy-peasy.
But Natasha sure wished, as she went to greet Amy and the others and shepherd them to the waiting car, that she could have spent a little time with Damon in Sexy Fun Town first.
She’d never heard him describe his life that way before, but it sounded pretty accurate. It sounded like an awfully entertaining place to visit, too… .
Chapter 6
Present day
Las Vegas, Nevada
Sin City had definitely earned its nickname—and Damon treasured that quality about it. In Las Vegas, whatever you wanted, you could have. Whatever you needed could be arranged. Whatever kinky, surreal, or extraordinary activity you felt like experimenting with … you could. Openly and without recrimination.
What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas. The end.
At least that’s the way Damon’s imagined version of Las Vegas operated. In reality, people barged into your hotel suite at ungodly hours—before it was even dark outside!—pestering you to do things you didn’t want to do, like conduct business, stand upright, or get dressed. He really didn’t want to get dressed.
Across his suite, a muted whir sounded. The luxurious, extra-thick draperies that hid his view of The Strip began to part. A sudden and ruthless shaft of sunlight seared its way in.
“Argh! Argh!” Flinging his naked arm over his face, Damon rolled over in bed. A ladies’ high-heeled sandal stabbed him in the back. He pitched it out. He felt for the empty liquor bottle that poked at him next, then threw away that annoyance, too. He burrowed beneath the covers. “For God’s sake, shut the curtains! Are you trying to kill me? I only went to bed an hour ago.”
“That’s why coffe
e was invented,” his tormentor said.
Grouchily, Damon peeked out from under the covers. His pal Jason Huerta stood far across the penthouse suite’s expansive square footage with the room’s remote control in hand, clearly prepared to push more buttons. There were more draperies to be drawn back. State-of-the-art sound systems to be engaged. Enormous 3-D TVs to be turned on. Knowing Jason’s diabolical nature, he’d activate all three at once, just because he could.
“You know I don’t drink coffee anymore,” Damon reminded his so-called friend. “I never touch the stuff. Not since—”
Not since Giada. He should have known that impulsively getting married was the king of bad ideas. So what if she’d been smart, vivacious, and intriguingly open-minded? She hadn’t been right for him. He hadn’t been right for her. They’d ended things amicably—and relatively quickly—but still Damon regretted it.
Marriage, it turned out, had not come easily to him. Everything else had, for as long as he could remember. That’s how Damon had known that marriage wasn’t meant for him.
“Since Giada?” Jason asked, echoing his thoughts. “That ended years ago. Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on her.”
“I’m not still hung up on her.” Damon slapped the nightstand, looking for a bottle that wasn’t empty. He found one. He took a swig. Vodka. Ugh. “I’m just saying I no longer enjoy waking up to a tasty cup of espresso.” Illustratively, he took another, more vigorous drink. “See? I’ve moved on.”
“You might not have noticed, but that’s vodka.”
“Hey, it’s made from potatoes or something, right?” Damon raised the bottle in a wiseass salute. “I’m practically having a plate of hash browns.” He frowned. “Why are you here, anyway?”
“Natasha called me.” Jason stabbed at the remote. The rest of the draperies cruelly parted, allowing more desert sunshine inside the room. “She said you needed a shower, a wake-up call, and maybe a babysitter—and today it wasn’t going to be her.”
Petulantly, Damon scowled. “Why not?”
Silence. That was the thing about expensive penthouse hotel suites, Damon thought as he hugged the vodka to his chest. They could shut out the whole world … whether you wanted them to or not. This morning, that silence made him feel impossibly alone.
“She couldn’t wrestle you into the shower. You were too drunk to cooperate.” Jason came nearer. In his collared shirt and dark denim jeans, he looked every inch the responsible number cruncher and father of two (with one more on the way) that he was. He also looked worried. “Natasha said she had to settle for spritzing you from afar with the shower nozzle.”
“Aha.” Damon patted himself. “That explains the dampness. For a minute, I thought I had something to be worried about.”
“You do.” Soberly, Jason took away the vodka bottle. His gaze met Damon’s, incongruously reminding him of similar but happier circumstances during their bachelor days. “Also,” his friend went on, “I think she can’t stand seeing you this way anymore. You’ve been on a real bender, bro. For a while now—”
“Bender?” Damon scoffed. “What do you know about a bender? To you, staying up past ten o’clock is a wild night. You haven’t been anyplace fun in ages—despite multiple invitations.” From him, in fact, and others. “You wouldn’t know a good time if it danced a tango and then bit you on the ass. So before you start telling me to rein it in, bro, you might want to wait for a topic you actually know something about first.”
“I’m married. I have kids. I have responsibilities,” Jason said. “So, yeah … I don’t stay out late. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see the truth. What you’re doing to yourself isn’t good.”
“Right.” Irately, Damon eyed the vodka bottle. He didn’t really want more of it. Despite Jason’s worrywart routine and Natasha’s supposed frustration with him, he knew his limits. He knew he’d neared them. “Because if someone said you could date supermodels, go skydiving with basketball stars, run your own company, make a bazillion dollars, have superhot sex every day—”
“I do have superhot sex every day,” Jason interrupted smugly—and implausibly. “Marriage is awesome. Amy is awesome.”
“—go where you wanted, do what you wanted, win at every blackjack table in this damn city,” Damon forged on, remembering his unending lucky streak at the casino downstairs, “and have everything you touch turn to freaking gold, you would say no?”
Jason nodded. “I would say no. I’m happy as I am.”
Disbelievingly, Damon stared at him. “The hell you are.”
“It’s true. You don’t get it. Maybe you never will.”
Damon swore. “I can’t believe this. If Natasha really sent you in here—to do this, today—she has a mile-wide mean streak.”
“What Natasha has is a mile-wide streak of softheartedness and compassion for you, dumbass.” Jason gave him an atypically flinty look. “In fact, I’m glad she called me. I say it’s about time she wised up and quit taking your shit.”
Damon went still. It was possible his heart actually stopped. He clutched his covers. “She didn’t leave, did she?”
He’d lived with that doomsday scenario hanging over him for years now. For one impossibly brutal moment, Jason was quiet, allowing Damon to speculate that it had finally come to pass.
Then, “No. She went shopping. She promised to bring home a souvenir for her mother-in-law. And of course she wants to bring home something neat for—” Abruptly, Jason stopped talking. A canny look spread over his face. “Tell you what: I’ll forfeit all the new computers for the accounting department, right now, if you can tell me who else Natasha’s shopping for.”
Damon nearly exploded with exasperation. “Why the hell does everyone keep quizzing me about Natasha’s personal life?”
Jason looked even more self-satisfied. “You give up, then?”
“No. I just feel like taking that shower now, that’s all.”
With dignity, Damon flung back the covers. He couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to be wearing … a fringed suede loincloth?
Damon gawked down at himself. “What the hell?”
“Your partner in crime last night was a member of one of those French acrobatic troupes.” Jason took pains to put on a straight face. “She probably got you to wear it … Tarzan.”
Irritably, Damon flipped him his middle finger.
“Natasha must have gotten an eyeful when she was here,” Jason mused further. “Maybe that’s why she called me. She didn’t want to come eye-to-eye with your loincloth-wearing wild side.”
Could that be? Damon wondered suddenly. Could Natasha really have gotten so fed up with him that she couldn’t stand to see him nearly naked? They’d been through a lot together. They were close. No one in the world understood him like she did.
He didn’t want to lose her. Natasha kept his life running smoothly. She calmed him and nurtured him and organized him.
Without her, he would be … well, Damon couldn’t imagine it.
“Everyone wants to come eye-to-eye with my wild side,” he told Jason confidently, hiding the fact that he’d been spooked by the very idea of going so far that he might alienate Natasha. “Today, I’m going to prove it!”
“No, today you’re conducting a workshop presentation on varietal chocolates from around the world,” Jason disagreed in his usual pragmatic, reality-bound, buzzkill kind of way. They’d come to Las Vegas for the annual chocolate-industry convention. Evidently, there were expectations—at least on Jason’s part—that they’d actually work while they were there, not just gamble and drink and get lucky. “There’s a limited amount of wildness you can display during a workshop, He-Man. Although the lady chef from B-Man Media who’s joining you to do the chocolate fondue demonstration is pretty cute. Maybe she likes loincloths.”
“Har, har.” Damon headed for the shower. It was easy to find his way; the bathroom was nonstop marble and gold fixtures. It was nearly as blinding as the sunshine outside. “And she will like loin
cloths … if I’m wearing one.” Not that he planned to.
“Whatever. Just sober up and get dressed before everyone starts wondering if all the wild stories about you are true.”
“They are true.” Damon stripped. He wrenched on the shower’s hot water. It cascaded down right on cue, exactly the way things tended to happen in his world: perfectly, easily, and without too much effort on his part. “I don’t care who knows it.”
“Your dad cares who knows it.” Jason’s voice pursued him; fortunately, the man himself didn’t. “Your mom does, too. If you don’t watch it, dude, Jimmy and Debbie will decide they need more than a flashy face to head up Torrance Chocolates.”
Damon paused. Then he shrugged. “I bring a lot of publicity and relationship building to the company,” he argued while soaping himself up. “I’m valuable with the online stuff, too.”
Although to be fair, Damon realized belatedly, he’d delegated most of his day-to-day responsibilities to his staff. It had been years since he’d done more than represent Torrance Chocolates on TV, in negotiations, and—once—in a movie cameo.
“I know you’re committed to a life of decadence. But your dad’s looking to retire soon, and he needs someone who can fill his shoes at the company—management-wise and creatively. If I were you, I’d get busy showing the old man you can dish up a new product or an original truffle flavor or something. Stat.”
Stat? That sounded dire … as if time were running out.
But if Damon really was supposed to create something in order to save his job and impress his parents, time might as well be running out. He wasn’t good at creativity. Or at real chocolatiering. He never had been. That’s how he’d known, right from the start, that those parts of the business weren’t for him. It was just like his marriage: despite his best efforts, he’d tried and he’d failed. So he’d (wisely) never tried again.
His natural talents just didn’t lean toward creating things. He’d always figured he was good enough at everything else to make up for that … even if his dad hadn’t always agreed.