Vegas Baby

by Winter Renshaw

  “Of course.”

  He slides a hand in his pocket and ambles toward me. “I don’t care that you’re an escort, Camille. I don’t think you’re any less a woman because you’ve honed the art of pleasing a man. Quite the contrary.”

  Ronan takes a spot on the sofa, hunching over with his elbows on his knees. He places the empty tumbler on a coffee table and pulls in a long breath.

  “In a perfect world I could walk down the street next to you. I could take you out, really get to know you,” he says. “Unfortunately, it’s a luxury I’m not afforded as a Montgomery.”

  “I get it. You’re royalty and I’m a lowly prostitute.” I turn away. “The last thing I’d want to do is tarnish your golden image.”

  The warmth of his hand on my wrist pulls my attention back to him. His dark blue gaze has softened. There’s strength and calmness in him, and I’m surprised he wasn’t more upset with me for turning on the light.

  “When I first saw you,” he says, pulling me to the cushion beside him. His free hand lifts to his chest. “I couldn’t breathe, Camille.”

  Our eyes lock as he takes my hands between his.

  “Everything about you was perfection. You were radiant,” he continues. “Lit from within. I’d never seen someone so effervescent, and yet you were alluring at the same time. And those eyes. I never knew eyes could smile like that.”

  He brings a hand to my cheek, drawing the side of his finger across my cheekbone.

  “Do you remember the masquerade ball?” he asks. “Last New Year’s?”

  My heart catches in my chest, and my body freezes.

  “You were passing the coat check,” he says. “And our eyes met. You weren’t wearing your mask.”

  The corner of my mouth rises. “Silver gladiator mask. All black tux. That was you?”

  We were barely at the party a half hour when Trey declared he couldn’t wait another minute to rip me out of my evening gown. In retrospect, he probably wanted to show me off to a few of his cronies and then get me the hell out of there before someone who knew his wife spotted us together.

  “I thought I imagined that moment.” Everything about that night floods my memory. I used to relive that moment time and again until things grew more serious with Trey, and then I convinced myself that it was all just wishful thinking–that I had imagined it into something it wasn’t. That it wasn’t possible to gaze into a stranger’s eyes and feel something almost otherworldly. I laugh for the first time this evening. “Ronan, that was really you?”

  He nods. “I spent the rest of that evening searching for you.”

  “We left.” My nose crinkles. “I didn’t want to.”

  “I couldn’t get you out of my head,” he says. “I went looking for you, asking around. Nobody knew of anyone who fit your description, or if they did, they weren’t owning up to it.”

  “Smart men.”

  “I saw you a couple of weeks after that night. You were leaving a hotel.”

  My eyes roll. I practically lived out of hotels during my Trey Bancroft phase. The man was insatiable.

  “You weren’t happy, Camille,” he says. “And I knew then that you deserved more than Trey fucking Bancroft.”

  “I was mostly happy with him.” I sigh. “At least while I was blissfully unaware of the fact that he was a lying, cheating bastard.”

  “I sent the letter.”

  His stark admission sucks the air from my lungs.

  “The photo of his family,” he says. “Actually, Oliver sent it if you want to get technical. I’m not proud of what I did or the way I did it, but you had to know the truth, because he sure as hell wasn’t telling you.”

  I stare ahead, lifting my fingers to my temples. “Wow. I . . .”

  “We did some asking around to get your name. It took months, Camille. You should know that your name is kept under lock and key around here.”

  I shrug. “They’re protecting nothing but their own reputations.”

  “Anyway, it wasn’t until my assistant overheard Bancroft talking to another senator over lunch at the White House Mess.” He clears his throat, adjusting his tie. “Apparently, he was preparing to pass you along by the end of the year.”

  My gaze narrows. “That makes no sense. The things he was saying to me . . . he was talking about babies and our future. Not that I wanted that with him, but the man was obsessed.”

  “It’s hard telling without having heard the whole conversation,” he says. “But everything in this city is negotiable, and everything can be handled like a business transaction. Votes. Allegiances. Women.”

  “That bastard was going to trade me off.” My voice breaks. Now my meeting with him makes sense. For the first time, Trey Bancroft told the truth: he never truly loved me.

  I sit in silence, sinking from the weight of this information and what it means. Glancing at Ronan, I unintentionally catch his stare when he turns my way. This is the most he’s ever spoken to me, and all things considered, he’s actually not a horrible person.

  “I should be more upset with you than I am right now.” I worry my lip and study the subtle hollow beneath his chiseled cheekbone. “And I have a million more questions to ask you.” I yawn. “But it’s late, and I’m exhausted, and I don’t want to think anymore.”

  He nods toward the bedroom of this palatial suite that I haven’t yet had a minute to fully appreciate.

  “Stay here tonight,” he says. “The room’s already paid for.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  I’m too fatigued to turn down his gesture. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” he says as I shuffle to the bedroom suite and begin to pull the sliding doors closed.

  I yawn once more, sliding the zipper of my dress until it reaches my lower back. Perhaps a small part of me wants to torture him and subtly remind him that he doesn’t get any of this anymore.

  This lifestyle doesn’t serve me anymore. Starting tomorrow, I’m no longer for sale.

  He takes the bait, his eyes glued to my every move, and I let my dress fall down my shoulders seconds before I close the doors.

  I dive between the cool, lux linens of a heavenly king-sized bed and smile into the pillow as the image of Ronan’s longing gaze plays in my mind. Everything I thought I knew was flipped upside down tonight except for one little fact . . .

  Men.

  So fucking simple.

  Starting right here, right now, I’m officially retired.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Ronan

  “You’re up.” I rise from the dining table by the balcony as Camille exits the bedroom. Her dark hair is wild and disheveled, and smudges of makeup line the corners of her dark eyes. A thick robe covers her body, and I’m positive she’s wearing next to nothing beneath it.

  “What’s this?” She glances at the breakfast spread I had delivered by room service this morning.

  “I thought we could continue last night’s conversation over breakfast.” I fold my newspaper and place it aside. Call me old-fashioned, but nothing compares to the feel of newsprint between my fingers. “Wasn’t sure what you ate in the morning, so I ordered a little of everything.”

  Camille takes a seat, surveying the lavish spread. I wouldn’t have done this for anyone but her.

  “What time is it?” She unwraps a sachet of Earl Grey tea and pours hot water from a carafe.

  “Almost ten. I thought I’d let you sleep in after the late night we had.”

  “Thank you.” Her dark eyes drift across the table to mine, and she wears the controlled expression of a woman trying her hardest not to like what she sees.

  “Last night was intense.” I clear my throat.

  She takes a sip of her tea. “Mm, hm.”

  “Now that we’ve officially met,” I say, “how would you feel about continuing this arrangement? We still have ten weeks.”

  Her arched brows lift and she turns to stare out the balcony w
indow. “I can’t, Ronan. I can’t do this anymore.”

  The most beautiful girl in the world wears sadness in her deep gaze, her eyes narrowing as she focuses on something in the distance.

  “Yeah.” Her mouth pulls into a wistful smile. “I’m done with all of this.”

  “You’re just saying that.”

  She faces me, shaking her head. “I don’t want to feel this way ever again.”

  “Which way?”

  “Disposable.” Camille’s full lips smile as tears fill the brims of her eyes. “I don’t know why I’m getting emotional right now. God, this is embarrassing.”

  I lift my napkin across the table and place it in her hand.

  “I’m a smart woman, Ronan. I’m educated and ambitious and driven,” she says. “All I ever wanted was to be unforgettable, and I realized last night that I’d been going about it all wrong this entire time.”

  She laughs, dabbing the corners of her eyes until black streaks mark the crumpled linen in her hand.

  “There’s nothing unforgettable about a woman who accepts a fucking payment plan.” Her fingers rake through her hair, combing it into a low ponytail and tugging it over her shoulder. “And I don’t even know why I’m telling you this, but I suppose you have a right to know. Your perfect little bought-and-paid-for fantasy girl is nothing but smoke and mirrors.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is me.” She points toward her teary expression. “The girl with messy hair and a dirty face, the girl crying and losing her shit in front of the firstborn son of the President of the United States . . . this is the real Camille.”

  “I think you’re having a moment.” I remain calm. Lydia used to have meltdowns that would make Camille’s little rant pale in comparison. “And I think you’re saying things because it feels good to say them. And you should keep saying them. Get it all out of your system. Because when you’re done, we can continue our discussion on how we’re going to move forward from here.”

  I take a sip of coffee with a steady hand.

  She laughs. “You still want me, Ronan? This? I’m the antithesis of sexy. No man would ever want this.”

  Even with wild eyes and a throaty voice, I still find her completely fascinating and irresistibly fuckable.

  “I think you’re afraid I’ll discard you, like the men before me, and I think you’re afraid it’s going to hurt, so you’re pushing me away before I have the chance,” I say.

  Her jaw fastens as she sits tall, silently digesting my words.

  “But let me assure you that you, Camille Buchanan, could never be unforgettable. Not in my world.” I place my coffee cup on a white saucer and lean into her. “And let’s not forget that this is nothing more than a business arrangement. Separate your ego from this, and I’ll do the same. You’ll walk away from this with heavy pockets, and I’ll walk away from this a very satisfied man.”

  “Who do you want, then?” Her meek words trail softly across the table. “Do you still want me to be the woman you saw that night at the ball?”

  “You act like there are two of you.” I laugh. “You’re one and the same, and to be honest, I find this wild-eyed version of you to be surprisingly endearing.”

  It’s not every day that I get the privilege of seeing someone’s true colors.

  “God, I’m so embarrassed.” She buries her face in her hands.

  “Don’t be.”

  Her hands slide down her face and land in a puddle in her lap. “I can’t believe you still want to continue after all of this.”

  “The only thing that’s changed about our little arrangement is that you know who I am now. I don’t want the last two weeks to be for nothing, and if you leave . . . if you walk away now, then what was the point? We can salvage this—maybe even make it into something better than it was ever supposed to be.”

  Her shoulders lift and fall, and our stares lock until she stands and cinches the belt around her robe.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I’m going to take a shower, and then I’m going to think about this.” Camille holds her head high, pressing her shoulders back. Amazing what a good cry and vent can do for a woman in her darkest hour.

  “I’ll be here.” I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs wide and reaching for my coffee. “Waiting.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Camille

  I yank a toothbrush from the basket of complimentary toiletries sitting on the marble counter of the en suite bath.

  The woman staring back at me in the mirror is weak and barely recognizable, and I cringe when I look her up and down.

  I never let my guard down.

  My cheeks flush, burning hot when I think about what just happened. I want to erase the last half hour from my life. He must think I’m completely insane, but to be fair, I think he’s insane for wanting to keep me around, so that makes us equally insane.

  I let the robe fall to the floor and twist the knob on the shower until steam fogs up the room. I say a silent prayer for clarity and direction. I have no idea who I’m praying to, but as long as someone hears it, that’s good enough for me.

  ***

  I finger comb my damp hair into a messy topknot. Stepping out of the bedroom in last night’s dress, I find Ronan in the same place I left him.

  “Feel better?” He stands, folding a newspaper and dropping it on the chair behind him. His white dress shirt is untucked, and the first two buttons at the top are undone. If the circumstances were any different, I might not be able to keep myself from running my fingers through his mussed, coffee-brown hair.

  “Yes.” My heartbeat pulses with each step that brings him closer to me.

  “And have you decided?” He stands before me now, his heat radiating into me. My eyes are caught in his curious stare, unable to look away. “I still want you, Camille. I didn’t track you down for the better part of a year just to let you go this easily.”

  “It’s not you,” I say. “I don’t even want to be in this city anymore. I need a fresh start.”

  Ronan smirks. “You know what used to help me when I needed to get away?”

  “What?”

  “Calling you. Meeting up with you. You’re my escape,” he says. “When I’m with you, in the dark, I don’t think about anything else, because for one hour of my ridiculous life, I’m not me.”

  I nibble my bottom lip, staring at the peek of creamy tan skin from behind his white shirt.

  “So what’ll it be?” He takes my hands in his, lifting them to his lips and depositing a tender kiss. “Ten more weeks of paradise, or a lifetime of asking yourself if you made the right decision by walking away?”

  “You make it sound like walking away would be a bad thing.”

  “That’s because it would be, Camille. It would haunt you the rest of your life,” he says.

  It’s tempting to spend the rest of my life knowing that for three months, I belonged to the most eligible bachelor in the free world: a privilege most women could only dream of.

  “Give me one more week with you,” he says. “And if you still want to leave, I won’t try to stop you.”

  His hand cradles my cheek, and I almost wish he’d kiss me so I could remember how it feels to be weightless.

  “I’m going to Iowa for a few days next week,” Ronan says. “We’re soft launching my father’s reelection campaign, and I’m required to make an appearance. Come with me. It’ll get you out of here for a little while, let you clear your head.”

  “How exactly would that work? Me going with you?”

  “I’m flying with my family,” he says. “You could fly commercial, and I’ll put you up in a hotel in downtown Des Moines. We’ll meet at night, when the rest of that quiet little city sleeps.”

  I stare off to the side.

  “You said you wanted to get out of town,” he reminds me.

  “Fine. One week.” I release a surrendered sigh. “We’ll see how Iowa goes.”

  He kisses m
y forehead, lingering for a minute before pulling back, and I watch his chest rise as he pulls my clean scent into his lungs. My hands are frozen at my sides, but my fingers yearn to play with his hair and trace the bends and angles of his perfect face the way I did in the dark.

  “Promise me something, Camille,” his voice resonates from deep within his chest.

  “I don’t believe in promises,” I say. “I only believe in someone’s good word, and mine has always been good.”

  His hand cups my chin as his stare pierces mine. “You know who I am now, but I still need this to be dark. Don’t tell a soul about us. You don’t know what someone might do with that information.”

  “Ronan.” I sigh. “The item that was stolen from my apartment last week. It was a journal.”

  His face hardens.

  “I keep records of all of my meetings. Every client. Every dinner and hotel reservation. Every detail of what we do. It’s all there.” My brows angle inward. “And this particular stolen journal was my most recent.”

  “How many of these do you have?”

  “Several. But your name isn’t in any,” I add, as if that makes the situation any less dire. “Obviously.”

  “Who else have you told about these journals?”

  “You’re the only one.”

  “Good. Keep it that way.” His nostrils flare, and the space above his jaws hollows. “Trust no one, Camille.”

  “So what do we do?” My stomach sickens when I think about someone out there paging through my personal accounts of the way “John” commanded my body with his tongue or fucked me in six different positions in the master suite of the Hightower apartment.

  “Your roommate, Araminta,” he says.

  “What about her?”

  “Is it possible she went snooping through your things while you were gone and came across it?”

  I shake my head to vehemently oppose his suggestion. “She would never.”