Submersed

by Rachelle Vaughn

  When Dillon laughed, his lips parted, revealing a row of blindingly white, straight, perfect teeth. He was beautiful. He was perfect. I was entranced.

  “Very funny.” I eased up on my pillow and set it flat on my lap. The shield didn’t seem necessary any more with someone so agreeable and…nice. “No, something more…” Sophisticated? No, I didn’t want to offend the poor guy. I chewed on my bottom lip and thought about it. “No, that won’t work if he decides to run a background check. We‘ll need to use your real name.”

  “Actually, Dillon is my real name.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I jerked the pillow up to cover my humiliation. I wanted to wither away and die. “Now I’ve insulted you,” I whimpered from behind the pillow.

  “My last name is really Milano if that helps any.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “That’s not any better. It just makes me think of cookies,” I said into the pillow.

  I heard his clothes rustle and waited for the sound of the door opening and closing because I was sure he had decided to leave by now.

  But I didn’t hear it. Instead, I felt the couch cushion dip as he sat down next to me.

  “Well, it could be worse,” he said, his voice close to my ear. “My roommate goes by the name of Mike Hawk.”

  It took me a second to get it and when I did, I peeked out from behind my pillow and offered him a smile. “Was Mike Hunt already taken?” I jerked my hand up to cover my mouth. There was no way I’d just said that out loud. And yet I did. I could tell by Dillon’s amused smile.

  “She’s got a sense of humor,” he said, laughing again.

  “Yeah, well I’m going to need it to get through this…ordeal,” I finished lamely.

  “It’s no big deal,” he said reasonably. “We’re just going to dinner together, right?”

  “Yeah, with my father, his girlfriend and the rest of Vegas’ elite.” The panic came back with a gush. “I don’t think I can do this and I’m so sorry I wasted your time and had you come all the way up here.”

  “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

  The little voice in my head told me I could trust him, but I ignored it. No man could be trusted. I wouldn’t make that mistake twice.

  “How ‘bout a drink?”

  Great, I’d left him with no other choice but to liquor me up.

  “Okay.”

  He went to the wet bar, giving me another mouthwatering view of his backside and brought back a glass of brandy. He put the glass in my hands and I jumped at the electric shock his touch sent through my frazzled system.

  He tenderly tilted the glass to my lips and I drank a sip. The warm liquid slid easily down my throat.

  He sat back down beside me, a little closer this time, and I resisted the impulse to scoot away to put some distance between us. Casually, he draped his arm behind me on the back of the sofa.

  I felt his fingers making lazy circles on my shoulder and I automatically stiffened. “Can you please not do that?”

  “Sure.” He put his arm back down, folded his hands in his lap and I immediately felt bad.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t want his hands on me, I’m sure they would feel very nice all over my skin, but there was no way I was letting that happen.

  “Okay, so what’s your father’s name?” he asked.

  I looked at him like he was asking for my social security or PIN number.

  “If we’re supposed to be dating that’s probably something I’d know,” he clarified.

  “Right, you’re right.” Of course he was. He wasn’t the one thinking with a neurotic mind. “Ronald Sharpe,” I answered.

  He raised an eyebrow. “As in Sharpe Hotel?”

  “Yes. And Sharpe Enterprises.”

  Oh, great. Daddy was a powerful man and here I was tarnishing his reputation by hiring a gigolo. What had I done? I buried my face in my hands.

  “Impressive.”

  “Please,” I lifted my head and said, “I would appreciate your utmost discretion. If anyone found out that Ronald Sharpe’s daughter hired a…you know.” It wasn’t like my father was running for political office or anything, but still.

  “I understand. Your secret is safe with me, Livi.”

  No one had ever called me anything besides Olivia before. Or Miss Sharpe. Or Miss Olivia.

  I kind of liked it.

  In fact, I liked it a little too much.

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. “So, what are we going to say you do for a living? I can’t believe I didn’t think about any of this ahead of time.”

  In fact, I usually overanalyzed every little detail in my life right down to the molecule. This time, when it actually would have come in handy, all I’d thought about was the curious concept of sex in exchange for money.

  “I’m a personal trainer,” he answered.

  I mulled it over. “Okay. That sounds believable.”

  “Good, because that’s actually what I do on the side.”

  He had sex with women for a living and he trained people at the gym on the side? What was the world coming to when prostitution wasn’t enough to pay the bills?

  “Okay. So, you’re a personal trainer. Now, we’re going to need to decide on how we met so our stories match.”

  This was beginning to be a little fun. Collaborating stories, inventing relationships…Then again, we weren’t cultivating a plot for a network show on primetime. This was my life we were talking about.

  “How about we tell everyone we met down at the casino?” Dillon suggested.

  I scrunched up my nose. “No. Then Daddy will think you’re some strung-out gambler or something.”

  Dillon suppressed a chuckle at that. “How about the gym?”

  I laughed out loud this time. Lord knew it looked like Dillon spent most of his time there, but that would never work as a cover story for me. “I wouldn’t set foot in a gym. No one would ever believe that.”

  “Okay. Since you’re an artist, how about an art gallery?”

  That sounded perfect. Except for the fact that I rarely left the hotel. I’m sure there was a plethora of galleries in Las Vegas, but I felt as awkward looking at other people’s art as I did having them look at mine.

  Then I almost smacked the heel of my hand on my forehead. “That’s perfect!” I cried out. “There’s a gallery right downstairs.”

  “Great,” he said, sounding relieved. “Now that that’s all settled, tell me about this charity dinner. Is there anything specific I should know?”

  “Well, it will be very hoity-toity and most likely extremely boring. Oh, and its black tie. You’ll need a tux,” I explained. “Do you have one? I could arrange for one if you don’t.”

  I had no idea how I would explain it to Frank, but it could be done.

  “I have one. That won’t be a problem.”

  “Great.”

  Once we had the details of our fake relationship ironed out, I showed Dillon to the door.

  “How ‘bout a hug?” he asked at the door.

  I hesitated, all the reasons why I shouldn’t screaming through my brain. “Okay,” I reluctantly agreed.

  After all, we were going to have to pass as a couple next week. If anything, a simple hug was a prerequisite.

  When Dillon brought those big muscular arms around me, my breasts squished against him. I thought he had the type of chest a girl could melt into. A warmth radiated through his shirt that I’d never felt from a man before. It felt nice inside those arms. Safe.

  In that moment, I could almost forget about the circumstances of why he was there. Almost.

  I patted his back and when I moved to pull away, he apparently wasn’t ready to release me yet.

  He held tight for a few more seconds, gave me a final squeeze, a million-watt smile and was out the door.

  That night, as I lie in bed, I replayed everything that happened in my head. I shivered when I thought about Dillon’s warm arms around me. He had fully engulfed my senses. His smell drifted into my nose. His stron
g arms embraced all of me, his hands resting at my back. That rock hard chest pressed against me, making it hard to breathe.

  I pulled my pillow over my head and squeezed it over my eyes. What kind of idiot was I? I had just paid $300 for a hug.

  Chapter Three

  The next week arrived in the blink of an eye. Before I knew it, it was Saturday night. Time for the masquerade.

  After a full day of preparation, I was as ready for the charity dinner as I was ever going to be. I had taken a long, hot bath, twisted my hair and pinned it up and carefully applied my makeup. My game face.

  The dress I chose was a slinky vintage number in emerald green that I’d been told matched my eyes. It wasn’t my usual casual attire and I felt slightly ridiculous and completely self-conscious.

  When I walked around the suite, the cool silk fabric did feel soft on my skin, almost convincing me I was sexy. Almost.

  While I primped and prepared, I decided to think of the dinner as a play I had to act my way through. Dillon already knew the part he was hired to play and I knew mine. Too bad I was a painter instead of an actress.

  If I had any doubt that Dillon wouldn’t show, it was squelched when he arrived right on schedule. If I hadn’t already been holding my breath, he would have taken it away.

  Dillon was stunningly handsome in a designer tuxedo. I had to blink twice to convince myself he wasn’t a fragment of my overactive imagination.

  He wasn’t. He was flesh and blood and lots and lots of muscle, tan skin and great hair. His shoes were shined, his tie immaculate, his smile beaming.

  He was perfect.

  This was a monumental mistake.

  There was no way in hell anyone would believe a man like Dillon Milano would waltz into a hotel art gallery and pick me up. He belonged with a supermodel on his arm. The kind with acres of cascading blonde hair and legs up to her bony hips. He belonged lounging on a yacht in the bay of Saint-Tropez, soaking up the Riviera sun. He belonged on a catwalk in Paris, modeling exquisite suits for Dolce & Gabbana, Prada and Versace.

  Anywhere but here.

  Those incredible blue eyes looked me over. “Wow, Livi. You look amazing.”

  His tone was genuine and I gave him a smile for that. “Thank you. Please, come in while I finish getting ready.”

  He strolled into my suite as if he owned the place. Dillon had that type of confidence I wished I could bottle up and take a swig of from time to time.

  Right away, I handed him his payment in the envelope. The dinner was scheduled to run for three hours, but I paid Dillon for the entire night just in case the schmoozing ran longer.

  He tucked the envelope into his jacket, slid his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “So, how was your day?” he asked.

  Ugh, beware of the small talk.

  “Okay,” I said, inspecting myself in the mirror above the mini bar. “I started a new painting.” The minute the words left my mouth, I wished them back. Now he would probably ask to see it. My loose lips were getting me into all kinds of trouble lately.

  “That’s great,” was all he said.

  I was relieved when he didn’t press the subject. He must have been paying attention last week when I told him I didn’t like talking about my art.

  “So, how was your day?” I asked, deciding to return the question.

  “Good. Real good. I slept in and then went to the gym.”

  After one last look in the mirror, I knew I couldn’t stall any longer. “Okay,” I announced. I think I’m ready to go.”

  “M’lady,” Dillon drawled, offering me his arm. He grinned and those sapphire blue eyes sparkled at me.

  I laughed and was satisfied with my decision to call him. I had a sneaking suspicion Dillon’s humor and casual attitude were what was going to get me through the night.

  I put my arm through his and we headed downstairs to face the gauntlet.

  Luckily for me, I didn’t have to venture far from my safe zone. The Fourth Annual Sharpe Foundation Black Tie Charity Dinner was conveniently held in the Grand Ballroom at the Sharpe Hotel and Casino.

  In the elevator, Dillon held my hand and I tried not to look at my reflection in the shiny doors. We didn’t say anything to each other and he didn’t try to make idle chit-chat, which was just as well because I needed to focus on keeping my breathing steady.

  When the elevator doors swished open at the main lobby, my gaze was immediately drawn to a little girl at the reservation desk clasping tight to her mother’s hand. She must have been about four years young with golden blonde hair that hung down her back like a cape.

  Suddenly, she turned around to face us and her big blue eyes grew wide, that golden hair framing her face like a halo.

  I felt myself smile at her and she tugged frantically at her mother to get her attention.

  “Mama, look!” She pointed at me as Dillon and I walked by. “A princess!” she exclaimed to her mother.

  Automatically, my spine straightened. Her naive, yet kind words boosted my confidence. Thank you, little angel. I needed that.

  Dillon must have flashed a smile at her too because she smiled back at us and waved.

  There was something so sweet, so ethereal, so innocent about the little girl. Her angelic features superglued themselves to my temporal lobe and I knew she would be the subject of my next painting.

  Like perfect hosts, my father and Gwendolyn greeted us at the door to the ballroom. Where my mother was an Ice Queen, Gwendolyn was warm and friendly. She reminded me of a watercolor painting. Delicate and beautiful. Tonight she looked elegant in a royal blue gown. The only jewelry she wore was the six-carat diamond platinum tennis bracelet I’d helped my father pick out for her birthday.

  I was glad my father had found someone who was the opposite of my mother. He deserved his own slice of happiness in this cruel world.

  “Hi, Daddy, Gwendolyn,” I greeted warmly.

  “Olivia. I’m so glad you’re here.” My father leaned in and gave me his customary peck on the cheek.

  “Daddy, this is Dillon Milano.”

  Dillon, who was still holding my hand, used his free hand to shake my father’s.

  My father offered Dillon a welcoming smile. “Dillon, it’s good to finally meet you.”

  “Hello, Mr. Sharpe. It’s nice to meet you, too.”

  “Please, call me Ronald.”

  I watched as my father inconspicuously looked Dillon over. He must have been satisfied with what he saw because he gave me an approving smile.

  I relaxed a little, relieved we were over the first hump.

  Dillon and I were shown to our seats and polite introductions were made around the table. We were seated next to my father and Gwendolyn and Mr. and Mrs. Davenport sat across from us.

  The Davenport’s owned an exotic car dealership near The Strip. Howard Davenport and my father had been good friends since before I was born. Howard was currently preoccupied by the model seated at the table to his left and his wife Cornelia seemed oblivious to her husband’s philandering ways. Cornelia had her eyes glued to Dillon. She wore bright fuchsia lipstick that clashed with her neon orange gown that looked like she stole from a showgirl who was two sizes smaller.

  After everyone had arrived and the room was a sea of colorful evening gowns and black tuxedos, my father, founder and president of The Sharpe Foundation, took to the podium and thanked everyone for attending. He spoke a bit about the foundation and then introduced Gwendolyn, the Chief Executive Officer.

  Gwendolyn graciously gave a short speech about the foundation’s purpose of “cultivating and promoting art, music and culture in the greater Las Vegas area.”

  Finally, dinner was served and small talk flowed as freely as the champagne.

  Dillon seemed to know a little bit about everything and was well versed in current events, which allowed him to move seamlessly from conversation to conversation. It was more than I could say for myself and I was impressed.

  As Cornelia rattled on a
bout her preference of zinfandel over pinot noir, I wondered how deep I’d gotten myself into this charade.

  “Oh, Dillon, will you be attending our cocktail event next week?” Cornelia asked, with a flutter of her long, spidery eyelashes.

  “I’m sure Dillon’s schedule is far too full,” I said quickly.

  Cornelia frowned, her mouth turning down into a ridiculous pout. “That’s unfortunate.”

  “I’m sure I could move some things around,” Dillon said. “It sounds like fun.” He gave me a wink.

  “Splendid!” Cornelia brightened and clapped her hands together, sending her gaudy dangling earrings into a tizzy. “So,” she drawled, “what is it that you do, young Mr. Milano?”

  Carefully, I swallowed a mouthful of smoked salmon and started to speak for him.

  “I’m a personal trainer,” Dillon answered for himself.

  I supposed if Dillon really wasn’t a personal trainer like he’d said, that what he really did was sort of like being a personal trainer when you really thought about it. Yeah, a trainer of sex. Oh, God. I couldn’t believe I was actually going through with this.

  “Oh.” Cornelia’s eyes widened at Dillon’s answer. “That sounds interesting and…quite rigorous, I imagine.”

  I choked on my wine and Dillon patted me on the back.

  “You okay, sweetie?” he asked sweetly.

  “Yes. Quite all right.” I dabbed my napkin to my lips.

  “So, Dillon,” my father put in, “have you had the opportunity to use the gym at the hotel? The manager assures me it has all the state-of-the-art equipment, but it would be nice to have the unbiased opinion of an expert like yourself.”

  “No, I can’t say I’ve had a chance to check it out.”

  “Well, you’re welcome to anytime.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m curious,” my father said scrunching his eyebrows together. “How did the two of you meet?”

  I took a sip of wine and a steadying breath. “Dillon was admiring the Monet down at the gallery,” I answered, sticking to the game plan.

  “Actually,” Dillon chimed in, “I was admiring Olivia’s painting Submersed.”