by Lisa Plumley
Remembering that, Damon frowned. Then he made himself rinse off, just as though he didn’t have a care in the world. “If you were me,” he called to Jason cheerfully as he stepped out and grabbed a towel to wrap around himself, “you’d buy yourself a new Porsche, fill every room of your house with gold-plated calculators, then get personal with every pretty girl in sight.”
“Nope.” Jason rounded the corner. Upon seeing that the steam-filled bathroom wasn’t featuring a full-on shower-time peep show, he leaned in the doorway. He crossed his arms. “If I were you,” he argued, “I’d take another look at Natasha. Then I’d beg her to forgive me for being such an ass, and I’d try my damnedest to make things right somehow.” He gave Damon a meaningful grin. “Then I’d buy myself a new Porsche.”
“You know, you probably could afford a Porsche right now. It’s not as though we’re skinflints at Torrance Chocolates.”
“I know. But our portfolio took a hit in the economic downturn, and Amy’s been concerned about retirement. So—”
“Retirement?” Damon wiped condensation off the colossal, gilded-edge mirror. His reflection stared back, bleary-eyed and bleak. Damn. He really needed some sleep. “You’re thirty-six.”
“It’s never too soon to plan. Compound interest being what it is, the bulk of the dividends won’t be fully realized until—”
Damon groaned. “Cut the financial talk, Egghead.” He made a timeout T with his hands. “You’re making me reconsider my stance on coffee.”
“Good. You should reconsider your stance on a lot of things.”
Hell. “Who are you, Jiminy Cricket?” In the mirror, Damon met his friend’s gaze. “Did I drunk-dial you and ask for a lecture? Is annoying, know-it-all ass-hattery on sale today?”
“All I’m saying is, your workshop today is the perfect opportunity for you to show what you can do,” Jason told him, not the least bit daunted by his outburst. “Creatively, I mean. Your dad is here. Your mom is here. Every media outlet in the world is here. They’re all watching you—so don’t blow it.”
Don’t blow it. At that, Damon swallowed hard.
Why had Jason had to tell him that? That was like hearing his dad tell him to behave himself and focus. Damon knew he couldn’t do either of those things—at least not for long.
Being told he had to do something—anything—called up every rebellious instinct he’d ever had … and then some.
All of a sudden, all Damon wanted to do was screw up on a massive scale. At least then the pressure would be off him.
Fighting against that urge, he picked up his razor. “What’s the lady chef’s name? I’ll start with her and work from there.”
Jason gave him a skeptical look. “I’m not sure it’s wise for you to begin with the female component of this mission.”
“It’s a mission now?” Damon swore. “Just tell me her name.”
“Her name is Tamala. She trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris. She has a popular cooking show on B-Man Media. Her specialties include cocoa painting and nougat modeling, as well as sugar cages and other pulled, poured, and blown sugar work.”
Damon stopped in mid razor stroke. “Is it just me, or does all that sound incredibly erotic? I’ve got to meet this girl.”
“Can you focus? Ever? Just for five minutes?”
“I am focusing.” Feeling harassed, Damon finished shaving. “I’m researching. I’m going to knock this workshop out of the park today. In fact, I might ask Wes to send over an exclusive camera crew from B-Man Media, just to document my triumph.”
Jason looked dubious. “That might be overkill.”
Damon only gave him an offhanded grin. “Too much is never enough. That’s my motto. That, and more, more, more!”
“Subtle.” Jason shook his head. “Just remember: I’ll be flying back home before your workshop starts, so if things go belly-up, I won’t be there to hold your hand.”
“Thanks, but you know you’re not my type.”
This time, Jason flipped him his middle finger. Then he laughed. “I mean it, dude. Good luck today. Need anything else?”
Just Natasha. Who was she shopping for, anyway? Damon shook his head. Then, “Hey. Natasha’s out shopping for me, isn’t she?” he guessed. “She wants to surprise me.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “You should be so lucky.”
“You don’t have to be a dick about it.” Damon frowned. “‘You should be so lucky.’ What does that mean, anyway?”
“If you were paying attention, you’d know.” His buddy set down his allocated keycard to the hotel suite. He gave Damon a smart-alecky farewell salute. “Knock ’em dead today.”
“I always do,” Damon said, waving Jason out. But just at that moment, he felt a lot less certain than he sounded.
He’d never had to impress someone on demand. Not officially, anyway. Not onstage in a workshop. How was he supposed to score a big creative win on the spur of the moment?
Natasha had picked a hell of a day to abandon him, Damon brooded as he went to pick out a suit. If there was ever a time he shouldn’t be left on his own to sink or swim, it was right now. When Natasha came back, he fully intended to tell her so.
But first, he had a sexy lady chef to meet. It would probably be a good idea, Damon told himself, to go find Tamala and see if they could strike up a useful rapport before the workshop started. You know, just to kick off things on the right foot. Professionally speaking. And maybe to find out exactly what cocoa painting, nougat modeling, and sugar cages involved.
Yeah. That was exactly what he should do, Damon decided.
When Natasha realized the thrilling educational experience she’d missed out on—because she could, after all, have been included in this potential professional ménage à trois, too—she’d regret leaving him on his own twice as hard.
With that heartening thought in mind, Damon dragged on his clothes, then went on the hunt for Tamala. He felt better already. He felt ready to take on the world. He felt … invincible.
That was always a good sign … wasn’t it?
Chapter 7
Present day
Las Vegas, Nevada
The thing about Sin City, Natasha reflected as she waited in the noisy, crowded, smoky din of the casino down The Strip from the chocolate-convention hotel, was that it removed you from your life. Piece by piece, the things that ordinarily kept you grounded fell away. Before you knew it, you were living in a neon-lit, adults-only, twenty-four-hour wonderland, without so much as a clock on the wall to tell you night from day.
Here in Las Vegas, responsibilities were optional. Conventional morals didn’t apply. Indulgence was not only tolerated, but encouraged. Here in Las Vegas, there was nothing to stop a person from going all-out crazy for a night or a weekend …
Or maybe for longer. Which was the hook, in the end, that made Natasha say yes when a supply rep from a luxury chocolate packager asked her to dinner. She hadn’t been on a date for a while. She knew Scott from other industry events; he was a nice man. He didn’t make the earth move with his presence alone, but short of Damon, who did? So when he’d asked, she’d said yes.
Now, waiting for Scott outside the chic, five-star restaurant they’d agreed upon, Natasha felt glad she’d taken a chance. Sure, this was a business trip—but Damon enjoyed himself all the time while he was away for work. There was no reason she couldn’t do the same. In fact, it had felt pretty good this morning to call Jason for Damon-wrangling duty and slip away to the casino shops for a few hours. Now that she’d tasted a little freedom from her self-imposed obligations to her boss, Natasha wanted a little more. Preferably tonight. Privately. But first …
The cell phone in her hand finally connected. Cradling it to her ear, Natasha found a slightly quieter corner. She smiled as she spoke, growing more engrossed the longer she talked. Her conversation also had the power to make reality shift—but this time, it was the unwanted reality of tipsy, glassy-eyed gamblers and raucous clumps of college-age tourists that s
lipped away.
“Did everything go all right today?” Natasha asked her mother-in-law ten minutes later. “With the birthday party?”
“Everything was fine,” Carol assured her warmly. They’d grown even closer in the years since Paul had moved to Mexico to be with his “muse” full-time—since Carol had practically taken to arm-wrestling Natasha’s parents in the who-can-spoil-Milo-the-most sweepstakes. “Everyone had a very nice time.”
“Good. I’d hoped so. What about the cake?”
“It was practically hypoallergenic. Tasted like it, too.”
“No nuts? No milk? No gluten? Are you sure?” Worriedly, Natasha scanned her memory for specific recollections of other parties given by the same hosts. “You know even the smallest amount can trigger a reaction, so it’s very important to—”
“I’m sure,” Carol said. “Look, you just think about having a nice time in Vegas. Are you doing anything fun tonight?”
Natasha squinted at the casino-goers, deliberating whether to share the news of her impromptu date. “I have a date.”
“Is this a ‘date’ like the ‘date’ you had to work overtime filing overdue tax papers for your boss?” Carol asked with a hefty dose of cynicism in her voice. “At least that time, that nice Jason Huerta helped you. Or is this a ‘date’ to bail out Demon Damon from jail again? Wasn’t he extradited last time?”
Demon Damon. “I asked you not to call him that anymore.”
But her mother-in-law was on a roll. “I’ve got it! This is a ‘date’ to let yourself be worked to the bone by a self-centered, unappreciative jerk who can’t see all you do for him!”
“You don’t know Damon,” Natasha argued for the umpteenth time. “You’ve never even met him. You don’t understand.”
“I understand that you deserve better!” Carol said loyally. Then she sighed. “I’m sorry. Maybe I don’t know Damon, but I do know when you’re being taken advantage of, and it bothers me! I know your job is lucrative, but haven’t you saved up enough money to quit yet? You’ve been piling up savings—again, with Jason Huerta’s help—for years. By now you must be able to—”
“It’s not about the money.” In fact, Natasha had amassed a substantial savings portfolio over the years. At this point, she had a very reliable safety net in place; the resulting security and peace of mind were worth a lot to her. “I like my job! Some parts obviously excluded, of course,” she amended as the memory of spritzing a nearly nude, mostly drunk, fringed-suede-loincloth-wearing Damon with the shower nozzle came rushing back to her. That had almost been the last straw. Seriously. He couldn’t have bothered to put on some pants? It was almost as if he was daring her to get fully fed up with him. “And you know I didn’t set aside all that money just to pay for daily expenses. Some of it is meant to finance my—”
On the verge of explaining herself yet again, Natasha spied a blond, suit-wearing man headed toward her across the casino.
Scott. He smiled and waved when he saw her. He was stuck behind a woman driving a motorized scooter. Patiently and kindly, he allowed her to pass. She nearly mowed him down in her zeal to get to the next bank of gleaming slot machines.
At that only-in-Vegas sight, Natasha couldn’t help smiling. She’d tried her luck with those machines, too. She’d lost, of course. At least she hadn’t gambled much—only a few dollars.
“I’m sorry, Carol. I’ve got to run. My date is here.”
“Your date? Humph. If you want to keep calling it a date, you can. What I call it is wasting your time on a dyed-in-the-wool playboy. Demon Damon is never going to change!”
“My date’s name is Scott,” Natasha specified with a smile, shifting her gaze to the man himself as he came nearer. He really seemed nice. Funny and sweet. “And the one thing we absolutely won’t be talking about tonight is Damon.” She took care of a few details. Then, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!”
Breezily, Natasha hung up the phone. Expectantly, she turned to Scott, enjoying the grown-up, cleaned-up, laid-back surfer boy vibe he gave off. Smiling, she hugged him hello.
Up close, Scott looked even better than she remembered. He was clean shaven, nattily dressed, and intriguingly muscular. His brilliant blue eyes sparkled at her. His smile beamed.
This was going to go well tonight. She just knew it.
As if agreeing with her, Scott took her elbow. They headed inside the restaurant—one Natasha had purposely chosen because of its distance from the hotel that was hosting the chocolate conference—then sat at a cozy table in the bar. Scott ordered a drink; Natasha did, too. She’d only begun sipping it, enjoying the convivial atmosphere between her and Scott, when he leaned forward. He touched her forearm. His eyes danced even bluer.
She had a sudden yearning to kiss him, right then and there. It was Vegas. Who would care? Besides, she felt so lonely tonight. Phone calls weren’t the same as real connectedness.
Scott drew in a breath. “So, what’s the story with Damon?” he asked. “All anyone could talk about today was his varietals workshop. I figured I could get the inside scoop from you.”
Great. Scott was a Damon groupie, Natasha realized. He must have asked her to dinner hoping to garner some tips on how to succeed in business. And pleasure. And everything in between.
This had happened to her before. It was never fun.
But just in case she was wrong, Natasha smiled.
“Look, I said yes to dinner tonight because I wanted to get to know you, Scott.” Across the table, she took his hand. “So if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about my boss. Okay?”
Scott seemed confused. “Really? But today, Damon was so—”
“I was out shopping most of the day,” Natasha interrupted with a lighthearted wave. She sipped more of her drink. It tasted delicious. It tasted like the teensy dose of freedom she’d had this afternoon, after she’d unloaded Damon’s care and feeding to Jason, for once. “I played hooky from the conference. Sometimes I just feel … naughty, like that.” With sham innocence, she raised her eyebrows. She slipped off her slingback shoe, then playfully nudged Scott’s muscular, trouser-covered calf with her bare toes. “Don’t you feel naughty sometimes, too, Scott? I mean, here we are, all alone together in Sin City—”
Now he appeared flustered. “But it was Damon Torrance today. The superstar stud of our industry! How can you ignore—”
“Easy.” Her nonchalant wave turned downright glib. “I’m used to him. In fact, I’m over him. And do you know why?” Here, Natasha nailed Scott with a straightforward look. “Because Damon Torrance doesn’t appreciate me, and I want a man who does.”
Just then, Natasha could think of several ways the right man could appreciate her properly. Starting with a kiss …
Incredibly, Scott shook his head. “You probably just don’t comprehend the full magnitude of Damon’s business genius.”
She stared. “You’re defending him?” And calling me stupid?
“Of course.” Scott slipped his hand from hers. He hoisted his drink. “Damon’s a legend. Not just in our little bittersweet corner of the world, either.” He gave her a semi-smarmy grin. “Did you see what I did just there? ‘Bittersweet.’ Get it?” With a sudden frown, Scott leaned nearer. “Hey, do you think he’d mind me calling him Damon? Because until we’ve been introduced—”
“I’m not going to introduce you to Damon.”
“Well, not tonight, of course!” Scott gave an uneasy chuckle. Hastily, he grabbed her hand. His fingers, wet and sticky from his drink, kneaded hers. “Tonight is all about us!”
“No. I’m not introducing you to Damon. Ever.”
Now Scott appeared wounded. “Why not?”
“Maybe you can mull over that question yourself.” Natasha snatched away her hand. With dignity, she rose. No one in the dark, crowded bar noticed. “While you’re dining alone.”
“Wait.” Scott gawked. “You’re offended? Oh, come on!” She ignored him. It was hard to behave with poise when you were fishin
g surreptitiously, foot first, beneath the table for your slingback. Where was her damn shoe? She couldn’t believe she’d come on to him. Of all the people, in all the world …
“I mean,” Scott went on in a more conciliatory tone, “you’re a very cute girl. You are! But your real value lies in being close to Damon Torrance, not in being … well, just yourself. You must know that. It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends—”
“‘Friends’?” Indignantly, Natasha arched her brows. “I was planning to invite you back to my room tonight, if things went well!” Because of Milo, it was tricky for her to arrange grown-up “sleepovers” at home. Also, Carol lived right next door in the adjacent duplex apartment; not much sneaked by her—including manly overnight guests doing the walk of sexy conquest. Irately, Natasha regrouped. “But now that’s out—”
“It doesn’t have to be out.” With a suddenly ingratiating demeanor, Scott leaned back in his chair. He smiled, spread his knees, then rested his drink-holding hand near his crotch. He waggled his eyebrows. “I’m still up for it if you are.”
Oh God. “No, I’m not ‘up for it,’ you moron!”
Exasperatedly, Natasha gave up on discreetly retrieving her shoe. She dropped to the floor, grabbed her slingback, then stuffed it on her foot. When she rose, Scott was still giving her the come-hither routine. “Moron” was too good for him.
“I was letting you know what you’ll be missing tonight,” Natasha told him haughtily, “now that you blew it with me.”
“Oh.” Scott’s brows knit. “I get it.” Then he brightened. “So now that we’re not having dinner—or anything else—together, how about that introduction to Damon? Because if your objection was mixing business with pleasure, well … there’s no problem now!”
Natasha grit her teeth. Usually, she tried to be nice. She truly did. But between Damon’s inconsiderate drunkenness this morning—she hadn’t mentioned to Jason that she hadn’t merely tried to sober up Damon; she’d also walked in on him engaging in some (fairly limber) shenanigans with the French acrobat—and Scott’s rude behavior tonight, she was ready to blow a gasket.