by J. Kenner
In the area in which we are standing, the night sky is spread above us, and thousands of small electric lights wink down at us. It's cheesy, but it's also romantic, and when Ryan takes my hand to lead me through the mall, I cannot stifle my little sigh of contentment.
For right now, anyway, all is well in my world.
Like most of the shops on the pricier section of the Strip, the ones that fill this mall are high-end, full of designer goods and hefty price tags. Those extravagant items are balanced with markdowns so that the overall result is a store full of products for both the lucky and not-so-lucky gambler.
We pass by a window display overflowing with diamonds and emeralds, along with price tags that make clear that this is not the store for part-time gamblers and two-bit winners. This is where the high rollers come to shop.
Ryan takes my hand and leads me inside.
"That would look lovely on your wrist," he says, pointing to a diamond and platinum bracelet that costs more than my condo.
"You're insane," I say.
He grins at me. "Not your style?"
"No," I admit because my taste tends toward funkier.
He eyes me critically, his gaze skimming up and down. "No," he murmurs, "you're right. You need something more..." His voice drifts off as he walks the length of the glass counter. A clerk comes by, apparently sniffing a sale, but Ryan waves him away with a flick of his hand. "Like this," he says, pointing to a circle of lovely pounded silver. It is a choker-style necklace made so that it catches the light at a variety of angles. There is a hinge on the back with a pin that fits through a corresponding cylinder to keep the thing in place. At the center there is a single loop upon which one could hang a charm.
"It's lovely," I say.
"It's practical," he says.
I raise a brow in question.
"The loop," he says. "So simple to attach a leash."
Oh. I swallow. "It's like a slave collar," I say, then lick my lips. "Is that why you think it suits me?" I say in a voice full of challenge. "Because right now, I belong to you?"
He looks straight at me. "Yes." The word is simple and direct and so full of meaning it makes me tremble. I think of the way he bound me back in Malibu. The pleasure of surrendering to his mercy.
I remember, and it makes me wet.
I turn, then leave the store, going back out into the mall, my breath now shallow.
He follows me, and when I look up to meet his eyes, I find I cannot read his expression.
"Did you leave because the idea makes you uncomfortable?"
I consider lying. It would be so easy to just say the words and walk away.
But I don't want to. I want the truth between us. I want to see where we go. "No," I say. "I left because I like it."
His expression doesn't change. Only the slight increase in the tension of his jaw lets me know that my answer has gotten to him. "All right," he says, and then continues to walk down the wide, store-lined corridor.
I follow, a little on edge. I'm not sure he understands my confession. Or, if he does, what that means for me.
As far as I can tell, though, the subject is dropped.
"So what are we shopping for?" I ask after five minutes have passed in silence.
"You, of course." He gestures to the jeans and T-shirt I've been wearing for two days now. "You can't live in those clothes."
The man has a point.
"At the very least, you'll need something for dinner tonight," he says. "And something for tomorrow's interview. Here," he says, pausing in front of a store wherein every item probably costs more than my entire credit card limit.
"I can't afford this," I whisper as we step through the door.
He shoots me an amused expression. "I can."
The store is apparently arranged by layer, and the first thing I see when we enter is a bin with lingerie. He reaches in and pulls out a pair of thong-style panties. He looks at them, then looks at me. I try to keep a straight face, but the whole idea of him picking out my panties is amusing me. "Why bother?" I finally say. "I'm just going to take them off."
"I certainly hope so," he replies with at least as much humor. "But that's part of the fun."
I swallow because he's definitely called that right.
He lifts a finger to signal a salesgirl, and she comes running. He hands her the panties, along with a few other pairs in assorted colors, then tells her we need a business outfit and an evening gown. She practically genuflects toward the both of us as she leads us further back to the uncluttered displays of designer clothing.
We handle the interview suit first, and as Ryan waits on a low, black leather couch, I go into the dressing room to change. I try on three options and end up going with a classic black suit and a white silk shell. It's more conservative than my usual style, but when we match it with three-inch black pumps, I can't deny that I look sexy as hell.
"You're going to knock 'em dead."
"Hopefully not Ellison Ward," I say. "It would be one hell of a story, but I'd rather have the interview in my portfolio."
He laughs and kisses me, then signals again for the salesgirl and tells her we're ready to see evening wear.
Though all the dresses she suggests are stunning, there is only one that I truly fall in love with. It is modeled after Marilyn Monroe's dress from The Seven Year Itch, the one with the full skirt that blows up when she stands over the subway grate. I love the way it drapes and the way the halter is both revealing and subtle. Most of all, I love the flirty, flippy skirt.
I hope it looks as good on me as it does on the hanger.
"Try it on," Ryan says, but this time he follows me to the dressing room. I see the clerk's eyes widen, but Ryan simply smiles. "I'll be joining the lady."
"Oh. Of course."
She backs away but not before giving Ryan a quick once-over. Then she glances at me. I have the distinct impression that right then, she would very much like to trade places with me.
I resist the urge to gloat and move into the dressing room, my skin tingly and my pulse pounding.
"What exactly are you doing?" I ask when he latches the door behind him.
"Watching you." He takes a seat on the upholstered ottoman that takes up one corner of the dressing room.
Since this is a high-end store, the dressing room is reasonably sized and the doors go all the way to the floor, providing genuine privacy. I face the three-way mirror and peel off my T-shirt and jeans, all the while watching Ryan's face in the reflection. He is making no effort to hide the heat, the desire, and I run my teeth over my lower lip, wishing that he would touch me.
He doesn't, though, and so I continue gamely on. Since the dress is backless, I unfasten my bra, then let it fall to the floor. I meet Ryan's eyes in the mirror, then draw my hands down over my breasts, my nipples as hard as beads, and then down to my tiny panties. I leave those on--though I'm tempted to strip fully.
But this isn't my show. The game is that I am at Ryan's mercy, not the other way around, and though I am frustrated that he has yet to touch me, I can't deny that I enjoy the tease--as well as this rising anticipation, so keen that it prickles my skin, making me aware of even the simple brush of air against me.
I take the dress off the hanger, then slip it on. It fits like a dream and feels like one against my skin. I stroke my hands over the soft material of the skirt, then give a little gasp of delight when I discover the hidden pocket.
I do a twirl for Ryan to show it off, then turn the pocket out. "I love this," I say. "The dress and the pocket. It's very retro. So a girl doesn't have to take her purse for an evening out. This is all you need for a credit card, a key, maybe even a small lipstick."
"I'll carry whatever you need tonight," he says. "And I'm less interested in pockets than in the way you look. And Jamie, you look amazing."
I turn back around to face my reflection, and I have to agree. My summer tan makes the white dress look even more vibrant, and there's something about the shape of it that f
latters me, showing off all my curves to just the right effect.
Right now, my hair is in a very messy ponytail, but I can imagine it piled upon my head. I'll wear minimal makeup, just a light gloss of mascara and blood-red lipstick.
Yeah, I think, I want this dress. I want to be on Ryan's arm in this dress.
"I love it," I tell him.
He stands and moves behind me. I expect him to touch me, but he doesn't. But he is standing so close that I can feel his heat, his presence, and I pull it close around me, drawing in the thought of him. Feeling safe. And, yes, feeling loved.
When I meet his eyes in the mirror, my smile is tentative, even a little shy. And even so, the moment is perfect. "Thank you," I say.
"For the dress?"
"For everything."
Chapter Nine
Ryan carries the garment bag as we move across the Starfire lobby to the guest elevators.
"Remind me to get a picture of me in the dress," I say. "I want to e-mail it to my mom. She'd absolutely love it. Although Daddy would love it more. On her," I add, glancing sideways at him. "He loves to dress my mom up and take her out."
"How long have they been married?"
"Almost thirty years. I'm an only, which isn't surprising." I say the last without thinking and immediately regret it.
"Why's that?"
I shrug. I don't really want to get into it, and yet at the same time, I like talking to Ryan. He understands so much even without me speaking. And while I adore my parents, I also know that they're constantly under the surface in everything I do.
Nikki gets it, but compared to her life, mine is roses and candy.
I draw in a breath as we wait for the elevator, then lift a shoulder. "It sounds goofy, but they're so much in love that it scares me sometimes."
"I'm not following."
"I told you it sounded silly." I try to explain what it was like growing up with them. "I was like the third person on a hot date," I say. "They loved me, don't get me wrong, but we never felt like a family unit. There was always them. Or maybe them plus me. There was never us." I shrug again. "Like I said, it sounds stupid and petty."
"No," he says gently. "It doesn't. Your parents are your first conception of love, the first object of your love. You love them wholly and unconditionally, and expect that back. When you don't get that in return, it colors everything."
I gape at him, amazed that he understands so completely what it has taken me a lifetime to wrap my head around. And since he understands, I tell him the rest. "The thing is, my mom used to want to go to law school. And my dad loved to paint. But neither one does that anymore. My dad didn't want my mom to be away so much, so she never pursued her degree. And Mom doesn't give a crap about painting, so he stopped doing it. They're still deliriously happy together, but they've lost something. Part of themselves, I guess."
I don't say the next. I don't tell him that it terrifies me. That I'm afraid that's what happens when you find the one person that you love in all the world--they draw you into a bubble. A happy bubble, but one that is less vibrant and less colorful than the world you wanted to live in.
Intellectually, I know that isn't true. I mean, hell, look at Nikki and Damien--she's pursuing her dream even more now because Damien has encouraged her--but one example from one friend can't overshadow my fears.
I say none of that, but as the elevator arrives and we step on, Ryan looks at me with such tenderness that I can't help but feel he understands.
"No matter how much we love them, we all grow up surrounded by our parents' shit. You'll either be buried in it and suffocate, or use it for fertilizer and thrive."
I stare at him for a moment, then laugh. "You're right," I say. "That's probably the most profound--and disgusting--thing that I've heard in a long time." I laugh again, then lean against him when he pulls me close. "Thank you," I whisper, then sigh when he dips his head and presses a soft kiss to my hair.
The elevator lets us off on the forty-seventh floor, just three floors shy of the top level. As far as I can tell, there are only three doors on this floor, and I frown a bit as he stops in front of one with a gold plaque on the door that reads, ES-2.
He pulls a keycard from his wallet, then opens the door and stands aside as I enter what can only be described as paradise.
The room has a huge living area, complete with a wet bar and a grand piano. But the furnishings are nothing compared to the view--an entire wall of windows that look out on all of Las Vegas, and if I turn my head to take it all in, I can see from the Stratosphere to the Luxor and beyond.
The sun has begun to dip low in the horizon, and the light has an orange quality now, as if it is painting the town. The view is stunning, vibrant, and I turn to Ryan in wonder.
"This isn't the room that the station booked for me, is it?"
"No."
"This is a Stark International hotel."
It's not a question, but he answers anyway. "Yes."
I think back since our arrival. The way the woman welcomed him. The casino chip he had in his pocket. The fact that we didn't have to check in to get a key. Honestly, I should have realized.
"Do you live here?"
He laughs. "No, I live in LA, not far from Damien, only in a much smaller house. But I spend about four weeks out of every year here going over procedure with the staff and auditing all of our security systems and operations. This is one of the executive suites. We all have use of it."
"You always carry casino chips in your pocket?"
"No, but I do tend to keep some in the car. Once we arrived, I grabbed a few."
"Oh." That made sense. "And you have a closet or something here, which is why I'm the only one who had to buy clothes."
"Or something," he confirms. "I keep a suitcase on site. By now, housekeeping should have unpacked and pressed my clothes."
I lift a brow. "Must be nice."
"I promise you, it is."
"So how did you land such a cush job?" I ask as I stroll around the room. "I mean, heading up an entire division for Damien's umbrella company--I know the guy, and that's a pretty plum job."
"It is," Ryan says. "But I'm exceptionally good at what I do."
I pull out a bottle of wine from the fridge behind the wet bar. There is a corkscrew already sitting out, and I study Ryan as I open the wine. "I believe you. How did you get that way?"
He takes a seat, his eyes never leaving me. "Law enforcement runs in my family. My great-grandfather was in Scotland Yard, and my grandfather was MI6."
"Wow. And your dad?"
"He disappointed them by moving to Boston. Became a cop. Married a secretary at the district attorney's office."
I laugh as I cross to him, a glass of wine in each hand. "It really is all in the family."
"Which is why I was such a disappointment." He takes the wine, and I plunk myself down on the table in front of him. He sips, then smiles. "I could get used to this."
"What?"
"You, waiting on me."
I raise a brow. "I'm yours to command--at least for a few more days." I lick my lips provocatively, then very deliberately drop my gaze to his crotch. And then, because I'm feeling bold, I lean forward and cup his erection. He is already hard, and knowing that gives me a feminine thrill. "Any time you want," I whisper. "You just tell me how you want me to service you."
I see the tension on his face as he fights for control. "This will do nicely for now," he says. He nods to the floor. "Come a little closer."
I do, getting on my knees in front of him, and I keep up the rhythm, stroking his cock as he tells me his story.
"I didn't want to be a cop," he says. "Christ, Jamie, do you know what you're doing to me?"
"I have some idea," I admit. "Go on."
"But when my dad was killed in the line, that's what everyone expected of me."
I pause my hand. "I'm sorry."
"Thank you--I was young." He lays his hand on mine. "Don't stop."
I tilt my head bac
k and meet his eyes, and for a moment I think I will get lost in them. Then he goes on, telling me about how his family rebounded--him, his sister, his mother. "But I still wasn't interested in wearing the uniform, having the badge. I considered the military, but that wasn't my thing. I trained--a lot. Martial arts, boxing, weapons. But I wasn't the military type. I wasn't the intelligence type, either. Too much chain of command, and I like being my own boss."
"What did you do?" I continue to touch him, but lightly. I want to arouse him, not overwhelm him. I want to hear his story.
"I opened a private security firm. Very high-end. Very exclusive. Very international. My family connections helped there. The company did well, and I decided to take it public. Nothing like that had ever been done before, and I caught Damien's eye. He got in contact, and to make a long story short, ended up buying me out. Since then, we've become friends, and I moved up in his company."
I frown. "So the company you started is just gone?"
"No. It's a Stark subsidiary now. I ran it for five years before taking this job. I was getting tired of globetrotting and wanted a more permanent home base. I'm thirty. I wanted to think about a life. A family."
I lick my lips and try to swallow the ball of jealousy that has caught in my throat. "A family," I repeat as I draw my hand away from his cock and lean back. "You wanted to stay in LA because of a woman?"
"No," he says, then tenderly strokes my cheek. "Not then."
I try not to react, not to read too much into those casual words. But I can't help but wonder.
His smile turns mischievous. "Actually, there is a woman, and she very much influenced my move."
I narrow my eyes. "Oh?"
"My sister is at UCLA. I like being able to see her, help her out. Spoil her rotten."
I think about my dress. About everything. "I imagine you do that very well."
"Drives her crazy," he admits cheerfully.
"What's her name?"
"Moira," he says. "Dad died when she was eight, so I've always felt a bit like a parent. She's amazing," he adds as I watch his face, studying this new side of the man who already has me falling.