The bar, the kiss, Michael’s hands. His mouth, his teeth, his tongue.
I’d see him this afternoon. The first man I’d ever loved, back when I hardly knew what that butterfly feeling was in my chest—flutters, wings, and all.
First love was like that. Enchanting and light, stitched from an endless thread of hopes and dreams. It made you feel invincible and hungry for more all at once. I’d wanted to be with Michael so much when I returned to France. I’d tried so hard to fight the distance through letters. We’d attempted to stay together through the end of high school and into college.
But just like proximity breeds closeness, distance kills it. Too many days apart, weeks alone, and years gone by. Eventually, our love became unsustainable. Stretched too far, it collapsed under the weight.
We drifted apart after the first year of college. Even then, I’d clung to the distant possibility that someday, somehow we’d meet again. Hope powered me even in the years when we no longer were in touch. Then all I had were memories. The fondest ones to be sure, but I’d had to move on. He’d moved on too.
I graduated from The American University in Paris, fully fluent in English. The first thing I did was reach out to him. I sent him a letter, saying hello, letting him know I was as free as I could be. An adult, able to make all my own choices. But it was returned to me—no forwarding address. That seemed a sign, that perhaps we were only meant to have been young lovers, high school sweethearts. Besides, I knew he’d gone into the Army, that he owed years to his country, and that was that. I moved forward, hunted for jobs across Europe, and eventually landed the gig of my dreams as a photojournalist. There I met Julien, a rival photographer who I fell in love with and married. I knew my time with him would be short-lived—he had a lethal arrhythmia, a genetic condition that meant he could die of cardiac arrest at any moment. The odds were not in our favor. They never had been. We were married eight years when Julien died in exactly the way doctors predicted he would, and in the two years since, I’d mostly been consumed with work and the simple daily acts that had guided me out of my grief. That’s also when I made the change in my career to fashion photography. My heart had been too heavy for the weight of current affairs.
My life had taken a different course. I’d had to march onward, and I did. But with so much once between us, perhaps it was no surprise that the first man I’d ever loved would be the one to rekindle all that was dormant in my body. Last night had ignited something inside me.
The car veered right onto the Strip, and the bright light of the sun pounded down from the sky. Las Vegas in daytime was exposed. Nothing hidden. Every trick, every mirror, every trap was starkly visible in the daylight.
As the car pulled into the portico at Caesars, I glanced at my watch. A few more hours until Michael arrived. My stomach swooped, remembering last night, fast-forwarding to what might happen this afternoon.
Julien had wanted me to move on. My sister wanted me to move on. I didn’t think I’d ever want to love again. It was too risky, too dangerous. What if I let myself, then lost again? I shuddered at the thought. Once was hard enough to find the man you love gone from this world.
But a moment, a snapshot of not feeling so goddamn empty and lonely? I’d experienced that last night. I’d held it in the palm of my hands, felt it deep in my chest.
That.
I wanted that.
12
Thomas
Eighteen years ago
“You want to do this?” I scooped some pepper steak from the buffet onto my plate, eyeing my eldest son.
“I do,” Michael said with a crisp nod, a fierce certainty in his stare. My son had my eyes—cool and ice blue. Some people thought that meant I didn’t care. Hardly. I cared too much at times. About everything. About my wife and how distant she’d become the last several months. About my children and how they were growing up so damn fast. About my present job and the one that I wanted to do, the one that would make it possible for me to do more for my kids.
Right now though—as my sixteen-year-old spooned lo mein from the silver vat at our favorite cheap Chinese restaurant, the one that boasted all-you-can-eat for four twenty-nine a person—I cared about Michael. The kid was a chip off the old block. He’d fallen madly in love at such a young age. Hell, I knew what that was like.
I’d been like my son, crazy for the girl in high school. Of course, I’d gone and married her a few years later, and we’d had our first kid when we were both only twenty and just scraping by at crummy jobs. No college, no nothing. That was why I was heading to night school after dinner with my son, to shore up my associate’s degree in accounting. A practical skill, and one that would surely help me get the job I wanted.
If I scored the new gig, that would spell opportunity for my kids. “All right, let’s find a way to get you to Paris next year.”
“Dad, you think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Michael asked when we sat down at an orange booth with cracked vinyl seats.
“For being in love?” I raised an eyebrow.
“For wanting to be with someone who’s going to be really far away.”
I shrugged happily. “Nah, love is good. Chase it. Embrace it. You’re focused and driven in other areas of life, and now you’re that way about her.”
I’d do everything I could to help Michael follow the girl. I’d help him go to college abroad if I could pull it off. Help him see her more. A love like that, you didn’t throw away. Especially with Annalise. She was a special girl; she’d do right by my boy. It was a long shot, a Hail Mary pass, but maybe Michael could nab a scholarship at a university in Europe, find some study abroad program for Americans, and learn the French language.
But even if he landed financial aid, we’d need greenbacks for airfare and lots of other expenses. Ergo, I needed a new job. Needed it badly. Being a limo driver only got you so far. Sure, it was a step up from driving cabs, but I’d have to reach higher.
“How would we ever be able to pay for it?” Michael asked as he picked up his fork and dug into the steak.
I rubbed the back of my neck, a knot of tension setting up camp. But it dissipated, because I had a plan. A damn fine plan. Fingers crossed. “There’s a promotion opening up at work. Think I’m going to apply for it.”
“You are?”
“Can you see me being a desk jockey? Instead of a driver?” I asked with a wry smile.
“Sure. Why not? You already have to wear a suit and tie.”
I wanted that job. Wanted it desperately. Wanted the bigger salary to help fund my kids’ dreams. They were my everything.
That night at class, I focused on how to apply my newfound math skills to the job application, and when I returned home, I told my wife about an upcoming work party.
“We should go. I think it’ll help as I try to get a new position. Get to know the people in the other departments,” I said as I took off my jacket and tossed it on a hook.
She glanced up from her sewing machine, her green eyes eager for once. Lately, her eyes had been different—either weary or glassy. Now they were simply hers. I was happy to see that look in them. She’d been so far away and I hoped she’d come back—to us.
“Will there be piano again?” she asked, her tone strangely breathless at the mention of the instrument.
Her comment surprised me. Didn’t think of her as a piano fan. “I think so. You mean like at that other party?”
I’d taken her to a holiday party last year, and she’d been transfixed by the Christmas tunes some local musician had tapped out on the piano. Absolutely enchanted. Maybe that’s what she needed to come back to us.
“Yes. That one, Thomas.”
I smiled, squeezing her shoulder. “Pretty sure there will be piano.”
“I’ll go,” she said, and she seemed happy.
That was a relief.
At least she wasn’t giving me a hard time about money. She used to do that a lot. Too much. Always nagging me about our finances. She wanted me to make more, wa
nted to have more.
Hell, so did I.
Who didn’t?
Lately, though, that pressure from her had lessened, and I was glad of it.
Glad, too, that something so simple would make her smile. We hadn’t had the easiest time all these years, but maybe, just maybe, things were changing.
A man could hope.
13
Michael
The pools at Caesars Palace were lush with palm trees and rich with stately Roman architecture and statuary. The Venus pool was the most exclusive of all—it was topless, though today all breasts were covered.
Barely.
A half dozen beautiful women lounged by the Venus pool at Caesars, which was closed for a few hours for the shoot.
The scene was such a stark contrast to my morning. After my run with my brothers, I’d met with Curtis, who operated a gentlemen’s club that my company provided security for. Curtis wanted to beef up our services, given the increased gang activity across town. That was something I had been hearing from many clients these days. Caution was the new watchword as the Royal Sinners and their crimes made businesses wary. After my meeting with Curtis, I’d finished a walk-through of a bank that had hired more protection in light of some recent robberies.
I was liking the way the afternoon was shaping up much better.
I’d told the intern guarding the pool area that I was here to see Annalise. She checked the list, found my name, and waved me in. I picked a potted palm tree to stand by on the terrace, out of the way of the models and the photographic entourage.
There was plenty to stare at, but my eyes were fixed on the redhead behind the camera, as I watched her work. Such a familiar image—Annalise viewing the world through her lens, snap, snap, snapping. Strong arms raising her camera, hands working the shutter, her eye capturing the women in repose. She wore jeans and a black tank top, her red hair swept high on her head.
After several minutes she stopped shooting, and they took a break. Annalise scanned the pool area, and when her eyes landed on me, they lit up. My heart slammed against my chest at her reaction. She weaved through the lounge chairs, around the edge of the pool, and came to stand face-to-face with me. Then, her lips pressed to my ear, she whispered, “You’re here.”
She sounded amazed that I’d made it.
“Did you think I wouldn’t show?” I asked, regarding her curiously.
She shrugged as a small smile of admission crept across her lips. “Maybe.”
“Hey,” I said softly. “Why would you think I wouldn’t show?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. It’s just . . .” Her voice trailed off as she raised her chin, meeting my eyes. Her gaze went soft, almost vulnerable. “It’s just that . . . you never know.”
I nodded my understanding. Yeah, I got that. You never knew if someone would show up or if something would derail them, or if a fate would change in the blink of an eye.
She grabbed her camera bag from a nearby table under a big yellow umbrella. I followed her. “Thanks for inviting me,” I said, looking at her over the tops of my shades. “Was it a good shoot?”
She raised her face, and wispy little tendrils of red waves moved with her. “It was. These women are terrific. They love the camera, and the camera loves them. It makes my job easy, having such talent to work with.”
I smiled at her comment. It would be easy for her to say something catty, to toss a quippy one-liner about a difficult model. Instead, she’d done the opposite—praised them, not for their beauty, but for their ability.
“I doubt your job is easy,” I said. “You’ve always been good at what you do. Yours is a natural talent as well. You have the eye.”
“All I do is point, shoot, click,” she said with a wink, then lifted her camera and snapped a candid of me without even looking in the lens.
“Hey now,” I teased, covering my face with crossed arms, pretending I was a star avoiding the shutter.
“Too late. I’ve got you here. For all of posterity,” she said, tapping the camera. Her gaze drifted to the back of the Nikon. “You look good.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I mean it. Come see,” she said, gesturing for me to come closer.
I waved her off. “I don’t need to see myself.”
“Oh, stop being so modest. You are beautiful, Michael Sloan. You were always one of my favorite subjects,” she said in her straightforward way, so open and direct. My heart pounded faster, my skin heating up from her compliments. It was hard to keep my feelings for her in a neat, organized box when she said things like that.
“Thank you,” I said softly, as I moved in closer to her, my arm bumping her shoulder. Her breath hitched slightly as we looked at the image together. I resisted touching her, even though all my instincts told me to. Instead, I studied myself on the screen of the camera, and I looked like the guy I’d always been. And yet, as I saw myself through her eyes, through her lens, I seemed . . . happier.
Maybe I looked more complete because I’d been caught staring at her.
“See,” she said, nudging me with her elbow. “Your eyes are so expressive. Your cheekbones are perfection. And your lips are . . .”
I picked up where she’d stopped. “My lips are what?”
She met my eyes. “Red,” she whispered, saying it in the same tone I’d uttered the word last night. Her cheeks flushed pink.
Ah, hell. I was going to have the hardest time not losing myself in her. I needed to put an end to all these sweet nothings, or I’d be completely ruined. But no way could I tell her to stop. I liked her compliments too much.
“By the way, I enjoyed watching you work,” I said, sidestepping to a safer topic.
“You did?” she asked as she returned to her camera bag and zipped up a compartment.
“You sort of radiate energy, but it’s focused. It’s almost like an athletic event when you take pictures.”
Her lips curved up. “Sometimes it feels that way.”
“You perform like that. At the top of your game. You with your camera, seeing the world in ways other people don’t.”
She stilled her movements and cocked her head, looking curious. “Is that how it seems?”
“It does. Both watching you work and seeing what you saw. I always enjoyed looking at your photos after the concerts we went to. Seeing the pictures afterward was like opening up a whole new view of something I’d already experienced,” I said, taking off my shades and tucking them on the collar of my shirt. “What’s your favorite thing to photograph?”
“Surprises,” she answered quickly, as she zipped another compartment.
“What do you mean?”
“Something that’s out of place. Something you don’t expect to see. A pink sock fluttering on a bush and making you wonder why a pink sock is there. A dog with a goofy expression that makes him appear almost human. The moment before a kiss when the woman is surprised.”
“Do you photograph kisses often?”
She shook her head. “Not often enough. I’d like to though. I’d like to do a photographic book of kisses.”
“Would you put yourself in it?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. Depends if I looked like I wanted the kiss desperately.”
Oh, that was too easy. I stepped closer, swiped my thumb across her chin, and held her face. A tiny gasp came from her throat, and her lips parted.
“Yeah, like that,” I said, my voice rumbling as I held her gaze. The look in her green eyes was hazy, full of want. “That’s the image you want to capture.”
“Maybe I don’t just want the before,” she whispered, with a touch of her accent reappearing. She was more French when she was aroused, I was learning. I brushed the barest of kisses on her lips, a small, gentle kiss that made my skin sizzle. “I want the after too.”
Before. After. In between. I wanted it all with her. One simple kiss and I was on a slingshot into wild longing.
“I want it too,” I said, my voice low and hungry.
She pulled back and blinked, as if refocusing. “You keep distracting me from packing up,” she said, her voice soft and playful. “And I need to, so I can steal you away from here for a few moments.”
I swept my arm out grandly toward her camera bag. “By all means, pack up, then.”
She tucked the remaining items in pouches and pockets, keeping her eyes on me. “Thank you for what you said about my pictures. About how you see something in a new way from them. That means a lot to me. Sometimes I go back through old photographs and see new details. Some slant of light, or a new angle. Something that wasn’t there before.”
“Will you look at them all later? Hunting for details?”
She nodded, meeting my eyes. “I will. Including that one of you.”
The temperature inside me rose. “What will you search for in that one?” I asked, and when she looked at me like that, her gaze intense and knowing, the breath fled from my lungs, and I felt . . . disarmed. She was so direct. And yeah, she’d been like that when I knew her before, but it was magnified now, amplified by age and worldliness, as if all her inherent confidence had been strengthened and sculpted over time.
“Maybe I’ll remember how it feels to have you in front of me.”
My head felt dizzy. My blood rushed hot. “How does it feel?”
“Like a favorite memory is real once more. And real is very, very good.”
14
Annalise
I didn’t want another ghost. I wanted the solidness of Michael. The warm skin. The beating heart. He was flesh and blood, and here with me. That fueled me, made me want to answer this persistent hum in my bones asking for nourishment, asking for all I’d been deprived of.
Contact. Connection. A thread binding me to another human being.
But asking for all of that was too much, too soon.
My Sinful Love (Sinful Men Book 4) Page 6