She zeroed in on that one, shoving all the others aside.
She stood¸ set down the cup, and dusted a barely-there kiss on his right cheek. His five-o’clock shadow stubble—even though it was only one o’clock on a Sunday—scratched her in a whiskery, sandpaper way. She pressed a kiss to his left cheek. The slightest whoosh of air escaped his lips.
Lips she’d known well. Lips she had spent years wanting to touch again.
“Cheek kisses. You haven’t forgotten how the French do it.” She sounded breathless, even to her own ears.
“How could I forget?” He said it lightly, as if he were talking only about the kisses, but there was so much more she hadn’t forgotten. Was it that way for him, too?
“You look…” She let her voice trail off as a lump rose in her throat, and that storm of emotions stirred up again, churning inside her. It wasn’t his looks that had knocked the wind out of her. Though seriously, there was nothing whatsoever to complain about in that regard, as she surveyed him in his black pants and crisp gray shirt, taking in his trim waist, strong shoulders, and tall frame. Nor was it his dark black hair, his cool blue eyes, or the cut of his jaw, dusted with that faint stubble.
The tumult was courtesy of the past, hurtling itself headfirst into her present. Yes, it was her choice to be here. Still, she hadn’t expected to be walloped by the mere sight of him. She swallowed harshly, trying to dislodge that hitch, wanting to feel some semblance of cool and calm. Her shoulders rose and fell, and she tried desperately to breathe in such a way that didn’t require her to relearn how to take in oxygen. She dug her four-inch black stilettos into the plush carpet, seeking purchase as she attempted to reconnect with her ability to form words.
“You look good,” she said, the understatement of the year. Wait. Make that a lifetime.
“And you look…lovely.”
Lovely.
That was so him.
He’d never been one for hot, smoking, gorgeous, babe, or any of those sayings of the moment. There was something in him that spiraled deeper, and leaned on words that had more heft. Like lovely.
What to say next? She should have scripted this rendezvous. Wrote out talking points. But she didn’t know which direction in the conversational path to turn, so she went for the obvious.
“We finally made it to the Bellagio,” she said, gesturing to the crowds clicking by outside the bar. God, this was hard. How do you just have a drink with someone you once thought you’d marry? Someone who was your everything? She’d been his rock; he’d been her hope.
“Yeah. We finally did,” he echoed.
It had only taken eighteen years, an ocean, countless letters, two broken hearts, and a lengthy online search for him, which had taken time and research, since he’d changed his name and was absent from social media. The Bellagio was the symbol of all their promises. Young, foolish, and wildly in love, they’d been together when this hotel was under construction nearly two decades ago. They’d said they would check it out when it opened, even though they’d both known at the time it was an empty promise.
The hotel was slated to be finished months after she left town. By the time the doors finally opened, Michael’s life had shattered, and she’d been thousands of miles away.
But the promise had been made anyway. It was a promise to reunite. One of many promises they’d made.
Some kept.
Some impossible to keep.
“Join me. S’il vous plait.” She patted the back of the sofa as she sat down again.
“Merci.” He took a seat next to her, and at last she felt like she could breathe. Her warring emotions settled, and now she was simply out with this man. Someone she’d been thinking about more and more lately.
“So,” she said.
“So…” He rubbed his palms against his thighs.
“How are you?” she asked, stepping into the shallow end. “Are you well?”
“Good, good,” he answered quickly. “And you?”
“Great. Everything is great,” she said, as chipper as she could be, even though she’d hardly use great to describe the tundra that her heart had become during the last two years. “I’m glad you made it,” she said to keep going, lest any silence turn this reunion more awkward.
“And I’m glad you asked me to meet you,” he said, as if he were waiting for her to tell him why she’d wanted to meet. She didn’t, though, because when he looked at her like that, the breath fled her lungs. He was so handsome, and his eyes were soulful, something she’d rarely use to describe blue eyes. His seemed to reveal a depth, forged by years of heartache and tragedy.
She parted her lips to speak, but she wasn’t even sure what to say next. Did she go for lightness? For more catching-up-with-you chit-chat? Or plunge straight into the heart of why she’d wanted to see him? She was so accustomed to charging into situations fearlessly, to chasing after what she wanted, but all those skills escaped her in this moment, and she was a teabag steeping in a pot of awkward.
Fortunately, the waitress arrived and asked Michael if he wanted anything. “Club soda,” he said, and when the woman left Annalise tilted her head.
“So, you still detest coffee?” she asked, because that was a far easier conversation entrée than all the other things they could talk about.
“Evidently, I still do.”
“I never understood that about you,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. Funny that she and Michael had gotten on so well when they were younger—except on this. Their one bone of contention was over her passionate love of the deliciously addictive substance, and his disdain of it.
“It vexed you, I know.”
“I tried to get you to like coffee. I even tried to make espresso for you.”
“You were relentless,” he said, and the corners of his lips quirked up. That smile, that lopsided grin she’d loved... Okay, this was better. This was a slow and steady slide back into the zone.
“Remember when I hunted all over Vegas trying to find something like what they’d serve in a café in Paris?” she said, reminiscing, slipping back into the time they were together years ago.
Like it was yesterday, he picked up the conversational baton. “You even used your babysitting money to buy an old espresso machine at a garage sale,” he said, and the memory of her determination and his resistance made her laugh. “Remember that?”
Her eyes widened. “I do! It was a Saturday morning. I scoured the papers for garage sales, and hunted all around the neighborhood till I located the only one I could afford.”
“Found one for ten dollars.”
Annalise held up an index finger. “Ten dollars and twenty-five cents.”
“Ah, well. The quarter made all the difference,” he said, as the waitress brought his drink and he thanked her.
“I took it back to Becky and Sanders’s home that afternoon, and I thought I’d win you over. That if you had a proper coffee, made like we do back home, you’d be converted.” It was only coffee, but it was a thread that connected them to the distant past, when their lives were so much simpler. It was a far easier topic than the present, and certainly less painful than the words said the last time they saw each other, on that heartbreaking day in Marseilles after he’d sent her that letter that had torn her to pieces.
“Alas, I was non-convertible.” He took a swallow of the club soda. “So what brings you to town?”
“Work.”
He frowned and glanced from side to side, like he was sweeping the bar for trouble. “There’s a war in Vegas I’m not aware of?”
She laughed and shook her head. “I’m not a photojournalist any longer. Now I shoot fashion—lingerie and boudoir. I’m here doing the high-end catalogue for Veronica’s,” she said, naming the famous lingerie chain with which she’d nabbed a plum gig. “Some of the shoots are at the Cosmopolitan and around town. We did the Venetian Canals earlier today. Caesars Palace is tomorrow.”
“So this is you now,” he said, waving a hand at her. “Shoo
ting barely dressed women in silk and lace instead of racing across the desert in a Humvee?”
She nodded. “From shrapnel to strapless.”
“What happened to make you leave?”
“Death happened.”
So did heartbreak and unfinished love.
He nodded in agreement, his expression turning somber. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry to hear about Julien.”
Her throat hitched, but she fought past that goddamn lump. She’d cried enough to end California’s drought. “Thank you.”
More quickly than she’d expected—and she was eminently grateful not to linger on talk of Julien with this man—Michael led them out of this conversation, returning to safer ground. “You like fashion better?”
She glanced up at the ceiling, considering. That was a tough question. She’d loved the adrenaline rush of photojournalism, the thrill of chasing a story that didn’t want to be found, the chance to capture an image that would show her nation the truth of what was happening in the world, whether during her days in the Middle East, or covering breaking news across Europe for a French news agency. But the job became too risky and the costs too high, so she’d pivoted.
She had no regrets.
She met his eyes to answer. “Yes. I like fashion better now. I love what I do.”
They chatted more as she told him tales of the models and their over-the-top requests at shoots—from the imperious blonde who required celery sticks chilled to a crisp 65 degrees, to the willowy brunette who would only drink artesian water—and how it compared to the bare-bones style of hunting images in her combat boots, cargo pants, and photographer’s vest, in one of the most dangerous areas of the world.
“What about you, Michael? You’re not fronting a band. I didn’t see your guitar in any of your company photos,” she said, nudging his arm gently. His strong, toned arm. So firm. She was going to need a reason to nudge him again.
He shrugged. “That was high school. I was just messing around in the garage with friends. I don’t play much anymore.”
“What happened to going to Seattle and becoming the next Eddie Vedder?” she asked, then her stomach dropped. “Merde. I’m sorry,” she said, heat flaming across her cheeks. How could she have been so foolish? She knew the answer. She brought her hand to her face, embarrassed, and lowered her chin.
His hand touched hers. Her breath caught the instant he made contact. “It’s okay. It was just a teenage dream.”
Just a teenage dream. They’d had so many. They’d felt so real at the time.
“We had a lot of those,” she said, softly.
“We did.” He looked away. His jaw was set hard, but when he returned his gaze to her, he simply said, “I barely think about all those crazy dreams. I like my life now. I like running the security business. That’s why I work on a Sunday. Speaking of work, how long are you in town for?”
“A few days,” she said, and her voice rose higher, as it did when she was nervous. Because the first thing she’d thought when she landed this assignment was—Michael. Like a big, blaring sign. Like a flashing light at the end of a road. She had to see him, had to find him, had to connect with him. “I’m glad you’re happy now…Michael Sloan.” She paused, his new last name rolling around strangely on her tongue. “I’m trying to get used to it. Sloan.”
“Took me a while, too.”
“When did you change it?”
His eyes darkened. She’d touched a nerve. “Ten years ago,” he said, his tone gruff.
The journalist in her didn’t want to back down. “After I saw you in Marseilles?” she asked, nerves tightening her throat as she mentioned that day. That wonderful, horrible day.
He stared up at the ceiling, his brow knit together. “I suppose that’d be about right. But that wasn’t the reason,” he added.
“Why, then?” she pressed. “It made it harder to find you. I had to ask Becky.”
He heaved a sigh. “Made it easier for me to live.”
Unsure how to respond, she swallowed, then reached for her cup. Her fingers felt slippery. She gripped the ceramic more tightly as she brought it to her lips and took a sip.
He rubbed a hand across his jawline, silence sneaking between them, but not for long. “Tell me. Why did you look me up?”
“Because I was coming to town,” she said, stating the simplest answer first, avoiding the tougher topic.
He stared at her, his blue eyes hooked into hers, telling her he didn’t buy it.
“Because I was seeing Sanders and Becky,” she said, mentioning her host family from when she was an exchange student.
“Did you see them?”
“I’m going to. Tomorrow.”
“So then this,” he said, pointing from her to him, “This is…?”
She looked at his mouth, blinked her eyes back up to his, and dropped her voice even more. They were surrounded by noise, the clink of silverware, the slip of ice cubes against glass, and the chatter of nearby patrons ordering smoked salmon and vodka samplers. She spoke the truest words. “This is because I wanted to.”
* * *
There were things he wanted, as well. More time with her. More talking. Mostly, he didn’t want for this to end. She was like sugary sand crystals in his hand, slipping through. He wanted to clutch his fist closed, hold them tight for just a few more moments. A few more days.
He went for it. “What are you doing tonight?”
CHAPTER THREE
The dealer slapped a card on the table.
“Wait. I want to write this down.” Mindy shook her head in amusement as she reached for the card. “I want to record this moment. You, asking me for dating advice.”
Michael narrowed his eyes. “I know how to date,” he grumbled.
She held up a finger. “Correction. You know how to date women you just met. You don’t know how to date the woman you were—”
“Do I see if she wants to meet for a drink?”
He cut her off because he didn’t want the reminder. He knew how he felt.
As Mindy checked out her cards at the poker table at the Luxe, her favorite gambling spot, she said, “Yes, you want to have a drink with her, because you definitely need some lubricant.”
He laughed. Mindy was unfiltered, and that was one of the reasons he enjoyed their friendship. The woman didn’t mince words. “Noted. Use liquor for lube. Any other advice?”
She slid some chips to the center of the green felt, staying in. “Yes. You used to like music? Went to concerts together, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah, we did. Lots of local and indie bands. That was one of our things.”
She shrugged, as if to say duh. “There you go. Brent said there’s some new band at his nightclub tonight. A hot young indie-rock band. Take her to that. It’ll be like old times.”
“Is that what I want? Old times?”
“Yes. That’s what you want,” she said as she set down her cards, winning the hand with a trio of sixes.
“Nice,” he said, with a low whistle of admiration.
She dragged a handful of chips closer. “So what was it like? Seeing her?”
That was the question of the day, one he’d been weighing since leaving the Petrossian Bar a few hours ago.
How could he even begin to describe seeing Annalise? It was like resistance meets infatuation. The whole time, he’d reined in his desire to kiss her, touch her, taste her lips. Because, well, that would be wholly inappropriate, and he had no fucking clue if she wanted it. A wild, delirious thought popped into his brain. Had she looked him up for the same reason he’d tried to find her ten years ago?
Ah, hell. No. He couldn’t go there. Couldn’t linger on the biggest heartbreak of his life. On the absolutely epic shellacking he’d walked right into, like a fool who thought the past could be resurrected. The past was best left buried. Tonight would just be…fun.
“It was awkward, but easy at the same time,” he said, after much consideration. “If that makes sense.”
Mindy nodded thoughtfully, her blue eyes serious. “Yeah, it does.”
“We sort of slid right back into conversation about work and memories. It was good, even though I still feel like there are a million things I want to ask her.”
Mindy patted his arm. “I know. But perhaps it’s best to save ‘Do you ever think about me?’ for another time.”
“Yeah. Good point.”
“Keep it light and fun,” she advised, then tipped her chin to his phone. “And maybe let her know the plan for tonight.”
He texted Annalise the details, lingering to appreciate the ease with which he communicated with the woman he’d once had the hardest time in the world staying in touch with. So much had changed over the years. Even things like…text messaging. They hadn’t had this luxury when they were younger.
When Mindy finished the round ahead, she thanked the dealer, collected her winnings, and walked away from the table. She was a measured player, always knowing when to stop. They wandered through the casino, then down the hall toward the restrooms, stopping outside the ladies room where it was quiet so they could catch up on other matters.
“Did you see the report from Morris?” she asked, mentioning the private detective he’d hired. Mindy had worked with the guy, so when Michael was looking for a solid recommendation, he’d taken hers.
“Yeah. Not much there. The guy goes to the grocery store, and to buy sheet music at the piano shop. Doesn’t even take his girls to school. I swear I don’t get it. How can he be head of a street gang?” Michael dragged a hand through his hair in frustration. He’d hired the detective to gather some intel on Luke Carlton, the mild-mannered local piano teacher by day, leader of the notorious street gang the Royal Sinners by night. The cops were trying to gather enough evidence to bring him in, and Michael wanted to do everything he could to help take down the fucker he was sure had played a role in plotting his father’s death.
Sinful Love (Sinful Nights #4) Page 2