by Michele Hauf
Cleo gazed at her left hand holding his in the photograph, and then examined her hand. The gold band in the picture decorated her left ring finger. She shook her aching, throbbing head from side to side. She didn’t feel like a new bride. She felt confused and sick—suddenly, deathly ill.
The implications of what she was seeing roared into her mind like a freight train out of control. What had she done? She’d married a man she’d known less than forty-eight hours. She’d married a male stripper! How the hell was she going to tell her dad? This couldn’t be real.
Black spots floated in front of her eyes, signaling the onset of a migraine. Her head pounded so hard she was sure it would split open. The sickly sweet smell of the roses gagged her. She barely made it to the bathroom before she was violently ill. Empty, trembling, more miserable than she’d felt in years, she stood at the basin and splashed cold water over her face. How had this happened? She looked over at the shower and the images of what had happened in there warmed her. She started to relax, enjoying the sensations the recollection spread through her body, until the reality of what she’d done in there hit her, too. It had to have been the champagne!
Oh God! How could she have been so stupid, so careless? She’d had sex; copious sex; wonderful, mind-blowing sex, with a male entertainer, a man she didn’t know, who’d probably had more sexual partners than she could count. Horror filled her as she realized something else—they hadn’t used protection either.
Cleo’s half-crazed imagination went wild. She could have caught some terrible sexually transmitted disease. Hell, she could be dying. Sam looked healthy enough but ... Alarm bells went off in her head adding to the multiple layers of pain already there. Good God, she could be pregnant. He would have expected her to be on the pill or something. Wasn’t everyone these days? Every horrible image from every health class video she’d ever been forced to watch danced through her mind.
Like an automaton, she walked back to the table and slipped into the closest chair. What was she going to do?
Think, Cleo, think! she ordered, but her brain adamantly refused to obey. She put her head down on the table and let the tears flow. She’d never acted impulsively. She’d always took the time to weigh every choice she made, why? Because like Mitch had said, she’d never had to make a tough decision and that was the way she’d liked it, but now? She had one hell of a decision to make. Being married to a stranger who happened to be an exotic dancer wasn’t going to be one of her finer moments. She had to figure a way out of this before anyone learned the truth.
She reached for the marriage certificate on the table. Son of a bitch! She’d signed her real name, although, drunk as she must have been, the signature was wobbly and hard to recognize. Maybe Sam wouldn’t be able to see the difference between Cleo Jones and C. C. James written all as one word. Who the hell were Roy McNamara and Dolores Howard listed as the witnesses? Reverend John Howard had officiated? She stared at the certificate feeling like Alice through the looking glass. Was it legal? If you got married totally out of it, did it count?
Panic filled her. Was all this part of some clever scam leading to blackmail? She’d seen a news program on that topic just a few months ago. It had been about a place in Mexico or Columbia, she wasn’t sure which. She moved into the bedroom as quickly as her pounding head and unsettled stomach would allow, and checked the bedposts for hidden cameras. There was a smoke detector in the ceiling above the bed. Could a camera be hidden in there? She thought of all the things she’d done in that bed and felt the color drain from her face. Was she going to end up on some porno site on the Internet? She would lose her job for sure.
She looked at the clock. It was almost twelve thirty. Sam’s note said he’d be back by two. She needed to get away as fast as she could. If she disappeared, she couldn’t dig the hole any deeper. She thought of Liz’s comment yesterday about Sam’s fear she would vanish. Had he been clairvoyant?
She needed time to think, time to process what had happened to her, and time to figure out what the worst-case scenario could be. She had to pray she hadn’t told him the truth last night and he wouldn’t know where to find her.
Cleo returned to the bedroom to get dressed and was a little disconcerted to find her suitcase in the closet. They must have brought it upstairs last night. This alcohol blackout was frightening, and no matter what happened, she never intended to drink enough to allow it to happen again. She would love to take a shower, but that would take precious time away from her escape.
She donned one of her more casual outfits. The last thing she wanted to do was draw attention to herself. She stuffed the white purse and red bag she’d used yesterday and everything else she had into the suitcase. She grabbed her oversized handbag, opened it, and checked to see if the money she’d hidden in the cosmetic pouch was still there. It was. She stuffed the bills into the pocket of the denim capris she wore. She put on her ballet flats and closed the suitcase. She dragged it into the main room, picked up the photograph, Sam’s note, and the marriage license, stuffed them in her purse, and after one final look, she hurried out of the suite, making sure the door locked behind her.
The suitcase was heavy, but she was terrified she would meet someone in the hallway, so she carried the bag down two flights of stairs before taking a chance on the service elevator. Thank God it arrived empty. She pressed the button for the garage’s lowest level and prayed no one would stop the car on its way down. Sam had told her there were no security cameras in this part of the hotel because it catered to powerful guests who valued their privacy. She hoped he’d been telling the truth.
From there, she climbed three flights of stairs to the employees’ outside entrance, and then walked five blocks north, wheeling her suitcase behind her. She wore oversized sunglasses to block out some of the blinding light. Sweat ran down her back. Anyone looking at her would see a distraught woman—one of many who came here and had lost more than she could afford to lose. With all the crazy people on the streets of Vegas, she trusted no one would notice one more.
Satisfied that she was far enough away from the Rio, she pulled her tangled hair into a messy ponytail, put her baseball cap on and hailed a cab to take her to the bus station. She waited in line and bought a ticket on the next bus leaving town. Fortunately, it was headed for Carson City and would leave in twenty minutes. When she arrived, she’d take a cab to the airport, collect her car, and drive home to Gordon’s Grove.
Cleo pulled out her cell phone to call Mitch. There was no way she could leave without telling her where she’d gone. She would have the police looking for her in no time flat.
The phone rang three times before her friend answered. “Hey, Cleo. I wondered when you’d call. Your note just said later today. I see you collected all your stuff. You looked like you were having a great time last night. How is making love with a hero-demi god?”
“Mitch, I’m in trouble.” Tears slowly rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve done something incredibly stupid.”
“So, you had a bit too much to drink and had sex with a gorgeous man. Get over it. Wasn’t it good? Don’t tell me he changed his mind and doesn’t want to see you again?”
“Will you listen to me? It’s worse than that. I married him.”
“You what?” Mitch screamed into the phone.
“Apparently early this morning I became Mrs. Sam Mason. I don’t remember doing it, but that doesn’t make it any less real. I have a raging migraine. I have to get away from here. I have to think. What if it’s some kind of blackmail scam or an Internet porn thing? Mitch, the things I did … If this gets out, I’m ruined. It’ll kill Dad.”
“Cleo, calm down. You’re talking silly. Have you got any proof of this crazy blackmail porn idea of yours? I’m a pretty good judge of character, and Sam and Charlie aren’t the kind of guys to pull something like that. I think Charlie wants to see me again when the weekend’s over. As for being married, you’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not kidding, Mitch. I have the
damn official State of Nevada license, complete with seal and my real name on it, a wedding picture, and a stupid ring turning my finger green at this very moment. How much more proof do I need?” Cleo tried to calm herself. She needed to think straight to find a way to fix this. She certainly didn’t want anyone listening in on the conversation. She lowered her voice. “I’m a school teacher. I can’t be married to a Chippendale, no matter how much money he throws around, and you know it. He isn’t a prince, and I don’t believe in Cinderella stories. I gave up on fairy tales a long time ago. Something isn’t kosher, and I’m not sticking around to find out what it is.”
“So what are you going to do?” Cleo heard acceptance and disappointment in Mitch’s voice.
“I’m going home and praying all the way that I didn’t tell him my real name and address. I need you to promise not to tell him where I am.”
“I think you’re overreacting, but you’re my best friend, and I’ve got your back. Call me when you get home. It looks like our fantasy weekend is a bust.”
“Hey, it’s not your fault, Mitch. I did this to myself and I have to accept the responsibility for what happened. I went into it with my eyes wide open. I knew the danger of any kind of relationship with Sam. Now, I have to figure out how to pick up the pieces and clean up my mess. I’ll call you when I get in. Take care. I’m sorry if I ruined your weekend.”
Cleo didn’t wait for Mitch to say anything else. She turned off her cellphone and waited for the bus.
13
Two hours later, her face pressed against the window, Cleo’s head throbbed, and despite the fact she wore sunglasses, the light felt like sharp needles poked into her eyes. Her nether regions were sore, and the hard bus seat constantly reminded her of what she’d done and why she was fleeing the city as if the hounds of hell were after her. She must have dozed. Occasionally, when she roused, she sat watching the desert landscape flash by. It was far less wonderful than exciting than seeing it beneath her in the helicopter.
It was after three. By now, Sam would have realized she’d gone. She should have left a note, but what could she have said?
The first thing on her agenda was to find a way to dissolve this marriage. Maybe she could file for a divorce in Reno and send the papers to Sam as soon as she got the marriage expunged, but where would she send them? She could probably have them delivered to Chippendales at the hotel, but she wouldn’t want to see the papers mixed in with fan mail. Besides, he would be in Wales until the end of the summer, or was that a fabrication, too? She was sure, despite his note, he’d be as happy as she would be to put all this behind him. They’d had a lot to drink. He probably regretted this spur of the moment marriage as much as she did. He might not want anyone in Vegas to know how stupid he’d been either. LJS Enterprises would be the safest bet. Liz could intercept the delivery at the Rio. No matter what else had happened, he’d been a hero last night. He’d saved those men and the company would know where to reach him.
She took out her phone and searched the Internet for LJS Enterprises. Several entries popped up on the page, and she clicked on the first one. There was the missing piece in the puzzle that was Sam. No wonder he hadn’t fit her idea of an exotic dancer. Stunned, she read the information provided. LJS Enterprise, a real estate development corporation active worldwide, had been founded twenty years ago by Sam Mason the second, who’d died tragically with his wife in an airplane crash. The company had been named after the founder’s children—Liz, Jane, and Sam Mason. The current CEO was Samuel James Mason the third. The entry listed his degrees and mentioned some of his noteworthy accomplishments. He hadn’t lied about everything, but he’d lied about what really mattered. He didn’t lie about his name or where he was from—I did that.
He wasn’t a Chippendale, no he was far worse than that. He was a multimillionaire playboy who had more money than she could ever imagine. No wonder Matt and Walter had spoken so highly of him. He was the boss. The car, the limo, the damn helicopter all belonged to him. He probably owned the suite at the hotel too.
She opened the next entry. It was a Tattler article. “Mr. Love ’em and Leave ’em Strikes Again” was the headline. Sam’s picture, that gorgeous smile of his in place, stared up at her with another of a redhead in tears.
“I’d never lie to you,” he’d said. But he had lied. Now she felt worse than ever. He’d made a complete fool of her. She didn’t have to worry about the marriage. It had to be false. Sam Mason, a man who took what he wanted and tossed it away when he didn’t need it anymore according to the article, would never get married in a tacky Vegas chapel. She should feel better, but she didn’t. She was hurt. She’d liked Sam, really liked him, and the sex had been fantastic. It would take her a long time to get over this. Against her better instincts, she’d fallen for him, and she didn’t think she’d ever be able to mend her broken heart.
Everything he’d said about taking her places to see the wonders of the world like icebergs in Alaska had probably been a joke. If he’d wanted a relationship with her, a real one, he would’ve told her the truth yesterday. Had it all been an act just to get into her pants? God, she felt cheap. The flowers, the gifts, the extravagant helicopter tour—they’d all been part and parcel of his plan for seduction. But seduction was what she’d wanted. She’d known right from the start she’d only be one in a long list of others. She couldn’t blame all if it on him. She’d been a willing participant.
Leaving, running away, had been the right thing to do—the only thing she could have done. She’d salvaged her pride. It wouldn’t keep her warm on a cold night, but the memory of how gullible she’d been would.
What if you’re wrong? What if it was all real, and you’ve thrown away the best thing that ever happened to you?
It was after three when Sam let himself into the suite, another dozen roses in one hand and a small red jewelry box in the other. The drapes were still closed, the room silent. He was later than he’d intended. Hopefully, Cleo wouldn’t be upset about that—she would be royally pissed at him soon enough. Man, did he have a lot of explaining to do. First, he had to tell her the truth about not being an exotic dancer. He’d had at least a dozen opportunities to tell her the truth yesterday, but he’d chickened out each time. His new wife might be upset about that, but hopefully she would let him explain his reasons for lying like he did, but damn, even he didn’t understand them anymore. Then, he would tell her the rest—about his money and who he really was, not just an architect, but the owner of the firm. He was braced for the worst. The way she felt about money would probably make this the biggest hurdle. If he were being honest with himself, it was one of the reasons he’d pushed her to marry him last night, drunk as she’d been. He’d been almost as loaded, and in his inebriated mind, it had seemed like the perfect way to get her to stay and hear him out.
As Sam stepped into the living room, he didn’t see Cleo—didn’t hear her either—so she must still be in bed. He would strip off his clothes, crawl in beside her, and make love to his wonderful wife all over again. His wife! They’d both had a lot to drink last night, but he remembered every wonderful minute of it. No one would ever describe him as an impetuous man, but with Cleo, everything changed. Was it possible to drink yourself sober?
He set the roses on the table and opened the ring box. The five-carat, square-cut emerald surrounded by diamonds winked at him. He’d planned to get her a diamond ring, but the minute he’d seen the green gem, it had called his name. Green was definitely her color—their color. Nestled beside it on a bed of white satin the matching platinum and diamond wedding band shone even in the dim light. The identical cheap brass rings he’d bought at the chapel, one for her, another for him, was already turning his finger green. He laughed at the irony of it.
Of course, they would have to renew their vows properly and make it official for all the world to see, but it would have to wait a few weeks. Cleo would want a church wedding with her dad giving her away and Mitch standing up with her, just as Ch
arlie would for him, but he had to be in Wales in five days, and he desperately wanted her to come with him. He hoped his new father-in-law would forgive him for stealing Cleo away like this, but he couldn’t bear to leave her behind for six hours let alone six weeks.
Eager to see his bride, Sam picked up the ring box and the roses, and opened the bedroom door. He was disappointed to see the drapes open and the bed empty. He went into the bathroom, thinking he would find her soaking in the tub. There was no one there. He went back into the living room and looked closely at the table. There had to be a note. Fear clawed at his gut. The photograph and wedding certificate were gone.
He swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to relax. She’d probably gone to show Mitch.
He dialed her room number, but there was no answer. Maybe they were with Charlie. He and Mitch seemed to have gotten along quite well Friday night. He dialed Charlie’s room.
“Hello?” Charlie’s voice was groggy as if he’d awakened him.
“Is Mitch with you?” he asked, praying she was.
“No. She’s probably in her room. She left a few hours ago. I think she said yesterday she and Cleo were going casino hopping today. We’re meeting for dinner around eight. Why are you looking for her?”
Sam ignored the question. “I called the room, and there’s no answer. I seem to have misplaced my wife.”
Charlie burst out laughing. “Sure you have, and which wife would that be?”
“Cleo. Charlie, I married her last night, or rather early this morning, and she’s gone.”