“What?” Toya sounded fatigued.
“Happiness.”
“Oh,” she scoffed. “Happiness weighs fifteen pounds and won’t sleep.”
Bindi giggled. “He’s healthy, isn’t he?”
“Healthy as a six-month-old baby.”
“Then that’s everything.” Bindi cleared a basket of knitting supplies and a half-finished gingham-patterned blanket from the sofa. “Sit here. He smells like powder. Babies have the sweetest smells.”
“It’s always the women who don’t have babies who say these things. It bewilders me. What comes out of this baby isn’t sweet smelling at all.” She unwrapped her son from his fleece blanket, threaded her fingers through his curly pale brown hair. “Mommy wants you to sleep.”
Bindi knelt to set down the bassinet and remove the monitors. Why had she packed them for a nighttime cup of coffee? “Could he be teething?”
“He’s not. He’s stressed.” As she spoke, baby Holden began to wail. “He must be picking it up from me. Babies can sense negative energy—did you know that?”
“I heard it before.” Bindi thought it was a sad fact of life that children were exposed to the negativities of the world. No one was sheltering him from feeling his mother’s stress, and who knew how Toya and her ex-husband interacted together in front of their son? “May I hold him?”
As they transferred the baby, his mother sighed and finally let the diaper bag and purse slip free of her clutches and she settled back against the sofa. “He keeps me on my toes. I’ve not only lost all of my baby weight, but I’m getting definition in my arms. Come bikini season, I’ll be ready, jogging on the beach…pushing a stroller.”
Bindi cuddled him against her chest, stroking his tiny back. His body quivered as his wailing began to subside. Turning to consult her clock, she started to worry about getting on the road in time to arrive at the club in Los Angeles before two o’clock, which was when her targets were expected to arrive. “Um, Toya—”
“He stopped crying.” The woman’s pitch dropped. “Is he asleep?”
He was, his Cupid’s-bow mouth open, the dampness of tears on his eyelashes. He had his mother’s eyelashes. Lucky kid. “Should I hand him back before he starts to drool on my dress?”
“Oh, your dress! I didn’t notice you’re all dressed to the nines. Were you on your way out?”
“Actually, yes.”
“A date? Are you seeing someone, finally getting past Alessandro Franco?”
There were a few questions to tackle. Which should she answer first? If she honestly admitted she wasn’t going on a date, but was driving out of town to chase down Hollywood drama, then she’d out herself as a tabloid rat. If she said she was seeing someone, Toya would harass her for details. And as far as her ex was concerned, she was over him in a romantic sense—which, she realized, had never existed. She wasn’t over the hell he’d caused for her, so her decision to help his son find him would do more than bring him to justice’s doorstep and give her material to turn over to The Vegas Beat. It would give her what she’d previously acknowledged as nothing but one of her mother’s therapy vocabulary words: closure.
She’d meet closure, finality, and maybe then she could release the anger she kept bottled in her heart. She could seal it so tightly that even Toya’s intuitive baby hadn’t detected it. He’d found a peaceful and safe place in her arms, which stunned her because she was certain that she, with all her issues and her dirty past, could offer no one peace and safety.
“So is it a date?”
“It is. A date.” Of sorts. What was a date anyway? An appointment? So infiltrating a shady Hollywood haunt to record some drama for the bloggers she had an allegiance to was, for all intents and purposes, a date.
Which said volumes about her romantic status.
“Let me guess. He’s a CEO or an attorney or a—”
“No, Toya.”
“Not a CEO or attorney?”
“I’d just rather not say.”
Raising both eyebrows, the woman made a “hmm” noise. “I can respect that. But is he an older man? I see you finding a match with someone more like you—younger than Alessandro, but well-worn.”
“I don’t need dating advice.” Who, after learning her past and the awful things she’d done, would want to date her? Who would love the broken pieces of her when she struggled to love them herself?
“Really listen, Bindi. You were fake happy with him. It’s not worth it to marry someone like that. It’s not worth it to be stuck in that way of life.”
Bindi breathed in the baby’s clean powder scent. “I don’t dig anymore. I retired my shovel. I’m free.”
“Yeah, you’re free. Some girls can’t get out.”
“Here, take Holden.” Bindi gently handed him back. “I’m going to get your coffee.”
“Wait. Can I ask a favor?”
“What is it?”
Toya looked down at her baby, but when she lifted her face, it was streaked with tears and her mouth was starting to curl. This was the onset of an ugly cry. “Would you let Holden and me stay here for a while?”
What?
“Why? Your divorce settlement—”
“Asher’s having it voided. Be-because of the baby!”
Holden sputtered in his sleep, and Bindi cradled him so Toya could be free to grapple for a pillow and shove her face into its plushness. “I’m sorry I married him. After the baby was born, he—he said he’d had a vasectomy and Holden couldn’t be his biological son. And I—” Toya dumped the pillow onto the floor, swallowed and rubbed her already puffy face. “I believed him. I fell for the trap.”
“I’m not following, Toya.”
“I had to admit that I was with somebody else, because I panicked that the other man could’ve been…” She gripped Bindi’s shoulder. “It was a lie. Asher never had a vasectomy, and Holden is his baby. But when I admitted someone else could’ve been the father, his lawyers came down on me because when we got married, I agreed to a fidelity clause. It was a mistake.”
“Cheating on Asher?”
“Marrying him. He gave me a choice—give up my parental rights to Holden or give up the settlement. He says that since I violated the clause, technically he has grounds to take back the settlement and give me hell in court. And tonight I made my decision, so here I am, a single mom.”
“What made you decide tonight?”
“Inspiration. You, Bindi. I wasn’t there for you when Alessandro turned, and we stopped being friends for no good reason. But you fought all by yourself. You got out and you’re living here and making a life for yourself. I can be like you, can’t I?”
“Be like me?” For so long she’d been an antonym of the term role model. She never would’ve believed that a sparkling young woman like Toya Messa would hit incredible heights in society, then wind up looking to her for guidance. “My universe isn’t perfect.”
“I know, but it’s real. Will you let Holden and I stay here for a while, please? He likes you and he doesn’t cry all the time. And I can…hmm…I can help clean up around the apartment.” Toya looked right, then she looked left, then— “Is that a pole?”
Bindi eyed the pole, which she’d strung twinkling lights around to pseudodisguise its purpose. “It is. This apartment’s a sublet. It belongs to a showgirl.”
“Oh.” She pointed to the ornamented balsam-fir tree near the kitchen and the menorah on the faux fireplace’s mantel. “Which do you celebrate?”
“Both. Neither. It’s complicated.”
“Okay. But it is February. It’s time to pack it all away. Oh, and I can help with that!”
“Deal,” Bindi said, because she was put on the spot and because she saw too much of herself in Toya Messa. She turned on the TV, handed the remote to the young woman. “Roomies?”
“Roomies. And friends. Real friends this time.”
Bindi settled back against the sofa, hugged the baby close even though she immediately warned herself to not become too
attached. In a minute she’d contact the bloggers and pass up the opportunity to spy on A-list celebrities in favor of a night at home with a friend and a baby who deserved all the peace and safety Bindi could offer.
“What about your date?” Toya asked.
“No.” Bindi signaled for her to click the listing for a reality TV show centered on brides-to-be deciding on wedding dresses, and Toya snorted at the irony because it’d be a while before either saw themselves in a white gown. “I just decided that I don’t want to be so focused on life that I forget to live.”
Chapter 7
As the doors to the glass elevator at the east wing of Constant and Spencer and Associates’ Law Offices parted mutely and a seductively robotic female voice overhead announced, “Floor three,” Santino knew he wouldn’t like the reason his father’s attorneys had summoned him here.
Shortly after his brief exchange with Attorney Chuck Constant, his brother had sent him a text message and they’d deduced that the spur-of-the-moment meeting was suspicious and they’d both be there.
Exiting the elevator, he entered a lobby spacious enough to host a parade and resembled an exclusive club more than a legal firm. It made sense—the attorneys only represented high-profile clients and could afford to treat them accordingly. A six-foot water feature depicted streams flowing from Lady Justice’s scales. The polished black floor reflected the parallel rows of recessed lights that parted ways to form halos over twin reception desks. Chuck Constant had been the one to personally contact Santino, so he went to the desk that had Constant engraved into the facade. As he’d had to do to gain entry past main-floor security, he authenticated his identify on a touch-screen computer. Instead of being directed past metal detectors, he was now immediately offered baked goods from a basket and a drink of his pleasure from a double-tier cart.
“Might I recommend a daiquiri?” the woman steering the cart inquired, coming to a clean stop in front of him. She, along with the other receptionists in the lobby—a symmetrical three per desk—wore all formfitting black, except she stood out with the bite of a pink hairpin in her raked-back curls.
Magdalene Kist, her name tag declared.
Aw, hell.
They’d met before, when she’d accompanied Chuck Constant and Waylon Spencer to a dinner meeting to meet with Santino and his father. That’d been months ago, when Santino believed the Las Vegas Slayers had been forced from his father’s hands and he’d wanted to conquer heaven and hell to see it returned to Franco ownership. Actually, he and Magdalene had done more than “met.”
She’d murmured the sexiest “Pleasure to meet you” he’d ever heard when she’d enclosed his hand in both of hers for a shake. He’d liked that. Her ass had swayed in a zebra-print skirt when she’d hurried up from the table to fix his coffee on one of her boss’s directives. He’d really liked that. And in the guest services corridor, when him heading to the men’s room and her leaving the ladies’ room, she’d cut into his path and kissed him—and he’d let it happen. Only when her hand had slid from his chest down toward his crotch did he interrupt her, because her effect on him had been too weak and he’d known without going through the motions of trying to force arousal that ultimately they’d both be left unsatisfied.
Magdalene would’ve joined the parade of women who’d fantasized, tried to gratify, ached to be touched or were hungry for commitment, only to wind up pissed off when he didn’t measure up to expectation. So he’d rejected her as considerately as he could, but she still had sulked through the rest of the business dinner, hanging on to a daiquiri.
“No, thanks, Magdalene,” he said, declining the drink and any ideas she might be entertaining about a do-over of their last encounter. “A bottle of water’s fine.”
She removed the cap from a bottle and presented it with a smile as she gave his suit a once-over. “I’m working closely with Attorney Constant today. Your brother, Nate, hasn’t arrived yet. If you’ll follow me, I’ll escort you to the conference room upstairs.”
Santino walked with her to a flight of stairs, and as they ascended, she said, “Santino, I feel I should warn you.”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder. “About?”
“The group is stepping back from your father’s case. That’s why Attorney Constant called you and your brother. Where things stand now, the Henderson property and the majority of his remaining assets will be forfeited if they’re connected to the game fixing. The Nevada Gaming Commission has produced enough evidence of unregulated gambling activity that your godfather has been trying to pass off as his casino’s profits to disprove him. The casino’s licensed and the side sports wagering, of course, wasn’t legally handled.” Magdalene’s expression turned earnest. “The NFL’s conducting an independent investigation of all his moves as owner, but there are enough former players and staff coming forward, very quietly, to make the initial charges stick. One of those players is Jimar Fray.”
Jimar Fray was the former defensive Slayer whose cash-bought illegal tackle had sent Santino into surgery. After a personal-foul penalty and an expertly prepared public statement apologizing for conduct that injured an opponent, he’d slipped out of the league and hadn’t found a job with another team. After rehabbing himself, Santino hadn’t come for Jimar. He’d on some level accepted the incident as gameplay and had wanted to move on—until his father had admitted to paying Jimar to stop number 85’s block and rush assaults on the field by any means necessary. Jimar continued to lay low, and Santino was waiting him out.
But now… “He’s out of hiding?”
“He’s talking now.”
“Constant and Spencer want to wash their hands, huh?”
“With no one to defend, they have to cut their losses. Your godfather’s casino’s on the block, too, since it headquartered the gambling ring. Allegedly. Just waiting for convictions. And, uh, it doesn’t exactly help that Alessandro split while the feds and the NFL have him under investigation. Pretty sure he’s looking at federal custody and losing all his toys.” She smoothed her hand over his sleeve. “I’m telling you this so you aren’t blindsided.”
“Why are you telling me this, and not my brother?”
“You were the man at that business dinner sitting at his father’s side and ready to fight for him. Your brother wasn’t.”
No, because Nate was smart. A former Slayers athletic trainer, he’d come to a point where trying to reclaim the Slayers hadn’t seemed worth it, and now he was gunning for a PhD and had his former rival, Charlotte Blue, cheering him on at every checkpoint.
The damn kid had had it right all along. Yeah, that made him smart.
“Why else are you debriefing me?” Santino asked Magdalene when her hand remained on his sleeve.
“I…” The hand fell away. “I took a huge risk, telling you all this, putting myself out there like that.”
“Why?”
“Because of a stupid crush. Because I thought I might have a good-looking football player to myself for a little while. Because the attorneys are dropping Alessandro and I thought that if I didn’t act fast, I’d lose the nerve to show you that I like you.”
And she wanted you to like her, dumb ass. On a shallow level, he did. But below the surface was emptiness.
“I’m not here because I want to be liked,” he said, continuing up the stairs. “I’m here for business. And you wouldn’t want me, Magdalene.”
“How do you know without giving me a chance? One kiss isn’t enough to show you the possibilities.”
“It is, though. One kiss is enough.” One impulsive kiss that shouldn’t have happened but was inevitable, like a tragedy destined to screw up what had once made sense, had been all he’d needed on Cora Island with Bindi. One touch of her mouth had convinced him that he’d needed more and had urged him on until he’d gotten to the point where he couldn’t quit replaying it as though he were reviewing films and trying to discern where he’d botched a game-winning reception. “Another kiss isn’t going to happen for
us.”
“What changed?” she asked.
Bindi had changed. But so had he. And they were meeting in the middle, figuring themselves out as they figured out each other. How friggin’ problematic was that? “I can’t hold up more than a professional relationship with you. And hey, going back to what you told me, after this meeting, we won’t have even that. If a football player’s who you’re after, this city’s got a team full of them. Take a page from the men who sign your paycheck and cut your losses.”
Magdalene clicked her teeth together. “Humph. Message clear, then. Are you going to request a different assistant? I’m sure Attorneys Constant and Spencer will be accommodating, but I hope you’ll reconsider reporting my…conduct.”
“No. Let’s finish this.”
Together they strode into a glass-walled center office finished in black, silver and white. Assembled were Chuck Constant and Waylon Spencer. The men had enough respect to spare him the toothy grins and claps on the back before gesturing to a leather seat across from them. At the head of the table Magdalene sat before a stack of files and a tablet.
When Nate entered, frowning in a way that reminded Santino of himself, Magdalene closed the door, resumed her seat and said nothing, as her bosses launched into their resignation announcement. The men weren’t in a sharing mood. They pressured him for information he didn’t have, complained about paddling knee-deep into Alessandro’s case only to be screwed over and ultimately announced that when—or if—he returned to Nevada, he’d need to find himself new representation.
Alessandro’s case was a sinking ship, and now that his lawyers had figured out that abandoning it was their only route to a lifeboat, the people who were left behind to drown were Santino and his brother.
“We didn’t invite you here just to say, ‘We’re done, get out,’” said Chuck, motioning for his assistant to fork over a file. “Santino, Nate, the management of Futuro needs to be addressed.”
Santino glanced across the table at the assistant, but she continued to sit silently, feigning extreme interest in her files as she had with a daiquiri months ago. “Management of Futuro? Isn’t that tied into Dad’s—”
Mine Tonight Page 11