by Dani Wade
Sloan didn’t even look up from his filet mignon. “I’m not sure.”
She stifled a sigh. “Do we have an appointment to meet with your friend?”
“I’m afraid not.” He paused to chew a bite of crunchy fried potatoes.
How did he eat like that and still maintain those lean muscles without an ounce of extra flesh?
“This trip was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
Really? She could feel her frustration tightening the muscles along her neck. Hadn’t he planned any part of this little jaunt? Planning was her modus operandi. Besides, if the designer refused to meet with Sloan, this entire trip would be a complete waste of time.
“So is there at least a plan of attack?”
Realizing her frustration was beginning to ooze through the cracks in her calm facade, she cringed. Maybe she should just concentrate on the juicy chicken Alfredo on her plate. Then she quit caring altogether as she noticed the shake in Sloan’s shoulders.
Tilting her head, she caught a glimpse of his laughing mouth. She barely restrained the urge to kick his shin with her pointy dress pumps. Taking a deep breath, instead, she applied herself to her food in outward silence, but inside her mind was calling him every name in the book. And she knew quite a few more than people imagined.
Sloan must have decided he’d tested her type A personality quite enough, because he broke the silence. “I bought tickets for a show here tonight. Since we won’t be able to catch up with Patrick until later, we might as well enjoy ourselves.”
He studied her as if expecting a protest, but she decided to ease off the hall monitor bit for a little while. Heck, everyone needed a day off. Including her. If he wanted to take her out—strictly as her boss—then who was she to complain?
After finishing their meal, Sloan cleared everything to the room service cart and rolled it outside the door. Ziara changed into the only nonbusiness outfit she’d brought. The plain summer skirt and lack of a suit jacket evoked a sense of freedom from her responsibilities. Paired with a light summer sweater, she was ready to be entertained. The assessing look in Sloan’s eyes had her reluctantly standing a bit straighter.
Exiting the elevators, they crossed through the hotel lobby toward the theater. Passing the opening to the casino, various restaurants and shops, Ziara caught the excitement of tourists and let herself slowly slip into the mood, just a little.
A burgundy-uniformed usher led them to seats close to the front, slightly left of the center aisle. Sloan must have pulled strings to get such good seats at the last minute. As the lights lowered and the stage came alive, Ziara’s breath caught in her throat. She felt close enough to be part of the action, yet isolated in the dark, alone, with only the warmth of Sloan’s arm next to hers anchoring her.
The show was a compilation of variety acts. As Sloan’s laughter rumbled in his chest at the comedian, Ziara let herself join in. She held her breath, awed over the awesome acrobatics and stunts in various sketches.
At one point Sloan stretched out his long legs, the brush of material against the bare skin of her calf setting off goose bumps. His gaze branded her like a heat-seeking missile, taking in her reactions to the various acts onstage, reminding her to temper her laughter or excitement.
She thoroughly enjoyed the evening until the next-to-last act. As a scantily clad woman gracefully crossed the stage and burst into song, Ziara cringed in her seat.
She knew the song well—it had been one of her mother’s favorites. The scene was from a musical about a prostitute who’d found Mr. Right and hoped he’d look past her profession to the woman within. As fellow “call girls” made their way onto the stage to join in the chorus, Ziara shifted in her seat.
Like a neon sign right before her face, the scene reminded her of all she had to lose if she gave in to her attraction to Sloan. Her past and future colliding in one tempting, disastrous physical attraction. Each word of the song pounded at her temples, reawakening her anger and resolution.
She wasn’t her mother and never would be. But she knew from experience that people, especially men, treated her differently when they found out about her childhood. Their attitudes changed. Their words changed. Above all, their eyes changed.
Vivian would definitely change if Ziara’s past found the light of day.
Abruptly Sloan stood, grasping her hand to pull her to her feet, then guide her up the aisle to the muted lighting of the foyer. As he paused outside the auditorium doors, she turned to him, acutely conscious of his hand still wrapped around hers. She blinked, her vision adjusting to the faint light, bright after the darkness of the theater.
“What is it?” she asked, withdrawing slightly as he studied her with uncomfortable intensity. That gaze didn’t miss much, and she felt as vulnerable as an open book right now.
“You seemed to have lost interest, so I thought it was time to go,” Sloan said, a question in his voice.
She shifted, firmly drawing her hand from his grasp. “What makes you say that?”
Stupid! Her defensiveness would surely make him even more curious. Too bad she didn’t have a real zipper in her mouth like she’d pretended to as a child, then she could zip her lips shut so nothing incriminating could leak out.
He stepped closer, as if to regain any ground lost by letting go of her hand. She checked the urge to retreat. “You kept wiggling. You seemed uncomfortable and weren’t watching the stage despite the excellent performances.”
He reached out and pushed an errant strand of hair back behind her ear. Her flesh tingled at the contact, speeding up her heartbeat.
“Was it the performance or the content?”
Now her heart pounded in her chest, drowning out any sound around her. She made the mistake of meeting his gaze; those cool, steady eyes coaxing her to spill her secrets. But if he knew, knew what her mother had been, those eyes would change. They would glitter, hard as ice, as he condemned her just like her classmates and the townspeople of good ol’ Macon, Georgia. Only this time, the life she’d built would be at stake, not just her heart.
“We’ve got somewhere to be,” he said, turning away without waiting for an answer. Had he drawn his own conclusions?
As she followed him down several hallways, she pulled herself back into professional mode, sharp and on alert around Sloan’s prying eyes.
Her first inkling that all was not as she suspected came when Sloan led her through a nondescript door that opened into a back corridor near the theater. After several minutes of walking, they came to a door marked Backstage with a doorman keeping a close eye on things. Sloan pulled something from his jacket pocket and the man waved him in.
Going through that door was like entering another dimension. Whereas earlier Ziara had been dazzled by the lights, sounds and effortless flow of the production, now she was amazed that such beauty came from such chaos.
Performers stood in groups chatting or rushing to and from who knows where. Stagehands attended to curtains, props and other mysterious tasks, sidestepping anyone or anything in their way. But it was nearly silent chaos, for the tone of the noise remained low and soft, ever aware of the audience and performance not too far away.
Sloan led her deeper into the backstage area, through rooms containing waiting performers. Here the noise level rose, protected from the stage by distance. Finally they came to a long, narrow room lined with dressing tables. Sloan didn’t even blink at the number of women—very toned, well-built women—in various stages of undress, though several certainly noticed him.
He made a beeline to the far end of the room with Ziara cautiously following, awkward under the eyes tracking their progress. Finally Sloan stopped, moving slightly to one side so that Ziara came up even with him. Before them stood one of the performers, a showgirl decked out in a wisp of spandex and sequins. Ziara’s gaze trailed down the outfit to catch sight of a m
an crouched behind the girl, one hand inside the bottom of her outfit and a needle and thread in the other. His spiky blond hair was just level with her rear end, as he leaned close to repair a seam.
“Ziara,” Sloan said, “I’d like you to meet Patrick Vinalay, my roommate from college.”
* * *
Ziara’s heart stopped at the shock, then resumed beating again triple time.
This would definitely not go over well. Vivian would throw a true hissy fit if Sloan hired this man to design her wedding dresses. Ziara managed a sickly smile as Sloan introduced her to Patrick’s assistant, who was standing nearby.
“Welcome to the drudgery behind the glamour,” Patrick said, waving a hand around them at the glittering chaos.
“It’s nice to meet you,” she murmured, at a loss for anything else to say. Fortunately he turned to Sloan, relieving her of the need for small talk. Her brain couldn’t form a coherent sentence; she was still shell-shocked by the bomb Sloan had dropped on her.
What had he been thinking, to offer a man with this background first chance to modernize their line? Patrick was probably great at what he did, but that was the problem. What bride wanted to look like a Vegas showgirl on her wedding day? Eternity Designs was known for its elegance, subtle beauty…not tacky sequins.
Patrick stood, dropping the needle and thread on a table behind him. “So what brings you to Vegas, Sloan? I guess if you brought your assistant, you aren’t here for a little wink-wink.” Patrick accompanied the words with the matching motion. Then his eyes widened. “Or are you?”
The sound of distress—all Ziara could manage—had both men turning toward her. Patrick quickly backtracked. “I’m just kidding! A little off-color college humor between buddies. I’ll try to remember my audience in the future.”
But the serious consideration she caught lurking in Sloan’s gaze sent heat rushing to her face. And the knowledge that some physical recreation hadn’t been far from her mind from the moment she’d laid eyes on Sloan Creighton.
Moving closer, he cupped a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m actually here on business.”
A knowing, exasperated look crossed Patrick’s face. “This wouldn’t be about the design position, would it?”
“Of course. Why else would I take time out of my busy schedule to come to Sin City?”
“Oh, how about the glamour? The excitement?”
“Do I look like I have time for all that?” Sloan asked without a change of expression.
Patrick prodded some more. “Sexy women and high-stakes gambling?”
As a waiting showgirl called to Patrick, Sloan laughed. “I don’t need all that. I just need a designer.”
Shaking his head, Patrick gestured toward the girl in front of him. “Look, I’ve got to get this done before she has to be onstage for the final number. We’ll talk after the curtain falls. Now get out of here,” he said with a stern look around the dressing room. “You’re distracting the girls.”
Patrick’s assistant peeked around his boss’s shoulder. “And the boys,” he said, his tone flirty.
Ziara tensed, unsure how Sloan would feel about this turn of events, but he simply threw a look at Patrick.
“Don’t bother,” Patrick said. “He’s not interested, much to the disappointment of many of my friends throughout the years.”
He favored Ziara with another cheeky wink, then crouched behind the woman once more. Ziara pulled Sloan by his arm into a darkened, abandoned corner. “Have you totally lost your mind?” she asked, her tone surprisingly calm and steady, though she was shaking on the inside. Her controlled voice and out-of-control words prompted a laugh from Sloan.
Knowing by now that honesty was the best way to reach him, she continued, “Do you have a death wish? Because Vivian will certainly kill you if you try to bring a costume designer in to work on our wedding dress line.”
Sloan’s eyes narrowed, his back stiffening in a way that made her swallow, hard. “Our? If I don’t step up now, before Bridal Boutique sees the fall designs, there won’t be a business left to save. This isn’t a game to me, Ziara.”
He loomed closer, his broad shoulders inducing a feeling of claustrophobia in the dusty space, leaving her vulnerable to his size. “Since it isn’t Vivian’s reputation on the line, I don’t give a damn what she thinks.”
“I understand your urgency, just not your secrecy. This wild idea is exactly why you need someone to provide balance,” Ziara said.
“For the record, I’m keeping it quiet because I don’t want her shooting down a plan that has nothing to do with her. Understand?”
Ziara drew in a deep breath, choking a little on the dry, dusty air. She knew exactly what Sloan meant. Vivian would do everything in her power to stop this, even if it lost them the Bridal Boutique account. Reputation was everything to her, as Ziara well knew.
“I don’t agree with this choice.” Ziara waved a hand in Patrick’s general direction. “I understand why you are trying so hard to fix this problem. But why him?”
“Because he knows what he’s doing,” Sloan said.
“That’s right,” Patrick said from over Sloan’s right shoulder, making Ziara jump. “I do know what I’m doing. Besides a degree in fashion design, I know my way around a booty, as you can see.” He quirked a grin. “That should come in handy designing lingerie.”
Ziara’s chest tightened, cutting off her breath for a moment. Sloan’s body remained close enough that she could feel the half laugh, half groan he choked back, but when she looked up, his face was still.
Her heart knew this wasn’t a joke. Vivian had sensed all along that Sloan was holding something back, that he might try something crazy. She’d had good reason to be concerned, because this was big. A lingerie line, no matter how tastefully done, would shatter Eternity’s conservative reputation forever.
“You’re adding a lingerie line,” she said with a soft undertone of conviction. “No wonder you’ve been… You certainly did have something to hide.”
Sloan’s chin jutted forward, his aggressive stance for once matching his personality. “Are you going to run to Vivian and tattle like a good little girl?”
“Vivian. Good God!” Patrick said with an exaggerated shiver. “If she’s involved, that’s just one more reason to turn you down. That woman could intimidate the Pope.”
Sloan ignored him, his gaze locked with Ziara’s. He reached out to once more trace her jawline, his fingers gently abrasive against her sensitive skin.
“Which will it be, Ziara? Friend or foe?”
Eight
Sloan watched as Ziara struggled not to fidget during brunch the next morning. He knew exactly what the problem was, but putting her out of her misery by laying out a plan for the day wouldn’t be nearly as fun as his current torture tactics.
She bided her time through coffee, waffles, eggs, mimosas and filet mignon, until she looked like the words would burst through her locked lips at the slightest provocation. He waited just a minute more, but she beat him to it.
“Are we seeing Patrick today?”
“I’m not entirely sure of his plans. We’ll have to play it by ear.” He could see uncertainty roll over her like a bumpy log. Any minute now steam would come billowing out of her ears. How could it be more fun to torture this woman than it was to sleep with other women? How had he even reached the point where he would ask himself that question?
“So are you excited about the lingerie line?” Sloan asked, a grin finally breaking free.
“Look,” she said, that disapproving librarian look making a reappearance. “This is not some kind of game like you seem to think it is. Start talking, or I’ll be on the phone to Vivian in two minutes.”
He felt his mouth drop open, unable to believe she would adopt his own overbearing approach. Yet aroused by it
, just the same.
“I want to understand, Sloan. I really do. But lingerie? Please explain this to me.”
He drew in a deep breath before starting. “It’s all about marketability—” His hand shot up to stop her from interrupting. “Let me explain.” He wiped his mouth with the cloth napkin, then tossed it onto his plate.
“Vivian is focused on making the least amount of change that she can to get by.” Standing, he worked off his restless energy by pacing to the glass balcony doors. “Hell if I know why. But that’s not how to run a profitable business that will remain stable for the foreseeable future.”
He saw logical understanding in her eyes but not the spark of passion he hoped for. He found himself wanting her to understand, needing her to understand. “Modern designs are great. Any willing designer can make those changes.” His pacing picked up speed. “But I want a whole new approach—something different, a big splash to make us stand out from the crowd.”
Halting, he found himself across the room from her. She sat at the table, her hands folded loosely on the smooth black top. His mind filled with an image of her dressed in lace and pearls for her wedding day, the epitome of elegance.
He mused aloud. “Most women shopping for their weddings already associate Eternity Designs’s brand with their big day. Why not expand their thinking to their wedding night, too?”
She shifted. Fear battled with a growing interest in her eyes.
Suddenly he stepped forward, approaching her at a slow stalk. Her throat worked as she swallowed hard. He circled around, pausing behind her. The sweet scent of vanilla swirled in the air. Her personal scent. His gaze branded her at the vulnerable base of her neck.
“Think about it, Ziara—” Just like he was. “There you are, preparing to put on the dress of your dreams. What do you wear underneath it?”
Leaning forward, he caged her in with an arm on each side. The glimpse of her face lured him to push her further. “Do you want to squeeze into a too-tight piece of Lycra? Itchy lace? Ugly beige?”