Текст книги "Sweet Sinful Nights"
Автор книги: Lauren Blakely
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
They kissed like it was a first time, and a last time, and like it was all time. They kissed like two people who wanted to climb into each other’s skin, to smash into the other person. There were no doubts. No questions. She had to feel everything he felt. She had to want a second chance, too.
This was not only a kiss. It was crashing back into orbit. It was gravity reinstated. In the press of her lips, in the slide of her tongue, in the gasps she made, they hurtled back in time. All mistakes were erased in this moment.
He dropped a hand to her lower back, yanking her close. Kissing was not enough. Lips would only get them so far. He had to feel her, touch her, taste her. She was his, and even though they were kissing in front of the entire city, he was all alone with her.
He couldn’t get close enough to her. She pressed into him, a full body collision, grinding against him. He groaned as he reclaimed her mouth, his entire body consumed with a lust so powerful he didn’t know how he’d make it out of the bar and back to his house, to a room, to her place, wherever, anywhere, without fucking her along the way.
As she rubbed her body against him, he could feel the heat between her legs. It fried his brain and short-circuited his skull. The desire to touch her enveloped him. He wanted to watch her undress, to stare at that to-die-for body that he’d missed so terribly, to roam his eyes over her curves as she lowered herself onto him and rode him the way she liked.
Hell, the way she fused her body against his told him all he needed to know. She wanted the same things.
He kissed a line along her jaw to her ear as she breathed hard. “Come home with me tonight,” he said, skimming his hand along the outside of her thigh.
Her hand connected with his cheek, and his head snapped to the side.
His head rang. His skin burned from the sharpness—the unexpected sting from the slap that came out of nowhere.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asked, pulling away.
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” he repeated, shock reverberating in his bones. He opened his mouth to say more, but no words came.
She leaned in close and whispered, “Let me give you a tip, Brent. When you haven’t seen a woman in ten years, maybe say you’re sorry for breaking her heart before you try to fuck her again.”
Frustration seared his nervous system. “Fuck,” he said in a low hiss. “I’m sorry, Shan.”
She narrowed her eyes and shot him an icy stare. “That would have been a lot more believable if it didn’t require a prompt.”
Without skipping a beat, he gave it right back to her, firing off a retort. “How was I supposed to say it when your mouth was on mine? Tell me that, Shan. Tell me that,” he said, jutting out his chin, waiting for her answer.
She grabbed her silver scarf from the chair and glared at him as she brandished it. “Next time you want to see me you’ll need a better excuse than sitting on my scarf.”
She stormed off, but when she was a few feet away, he called out, “It’s called a wrap. Don’t forget that. It’s a wrap.”
She stopped in her tracks. He swore red clouds billowed off her, and as she clenched her fists, he was willing to bet she was fighting every urge to give him the finger.
She resumed her pace.
As he watched her walk away, this time he was pissed off too. The woman wouldn’t cut him a fucking break. She’d avoided his phone calls those first few days. She’d ignored every attempt he’d made to contact her. And now, she was kissing him back, then getting pissed at him for wanting her.
What the hell?
He used to think he understood her. He used to think he was the only one for her.
But she gave new meaning to the word whiplash.
CHAPTER SIX
She was one of two women in the gym, and the only one wearing heels.
“You can’t behave that way.”
The directive came from her brother Michael, who was in the middle of a workout.
He hoisted the barbell high above his chest with a measured exhale. A few feet over, a beefy guy in a muscle tank grunted as he raised his weights then dropped them in a loud clang on the floor. With pinpoint precision, Michael lowered the bar to his chest, inch by inch, then pushed up again. “You need to keep that temper of yours in check,” he continued in a controlled breath.
“I know,” Shannon said in a tiny voice, her head lowered, her hair falling in a curtain around her face. She’d unclipped her French twist on the drive home, gunning the gas and blasting pop music to drown out her thoughts as she sped along the highway, putting distance between Brent and herself.
But really, the space she needed was between her own untamed anger and the person she wanted to be. A person who should be in control of her emotions, of her feelings, and of her matchstick temper. She wasn’t in control, so as soon as she’d pulled off the highway near her home, she’d spotted the sign for the gym where Michael went and turned in.
Ever disciplined, Michael was exactly where he usually was at ten-thirty at night—lifting weights, after having logged an hour on the cardio machine. Michael owned a security conglomerate and ran it with their brother Ryan. Michael arrived at the office at eight every morning after his five-mile run¸ worked a full day, then headed to the gym nearly every night for a second workout. Call him a workaholic. Call him an athlete. Call him a machine. He was all of that, and he was also the moral compass of their foursome.
The eldest of the siblings, he’d been their rock, and their leader.
He lowered the weight once more, then raised it for a final rep before placing it on the rack of the bench press. Sitting up, he draped a strong arm around her.
She crinkled her nose. “Eww,” she said, pushing his sweaty arm away from her dress.
He grabbed her head and rubbed his knuckles against her skull, his light blue eyes twinkling. When he stopped laughing, he tugged her close. “So what are you going to do tomorrow?”
He was like a teacher, reinforcing the lesson.
“Apologize,” she grumbled.
He punched her arm lightly. “C’mon. Say it with spirit.”
She affixed a too-bright smile. “Apologize,” she said with forced pep. “Even though he’s the one who should be apologizing.”
Michael nodded, his eyes darkening momentarily. He was no fan of Brent. “You’ll get no disagreement from me on that point, but this isn’t about him. It’s about you.” He pointed at her as he spoke in that gentle but authoritative tone he had. His older brother tone. “Who you want to be. How you want to behave.”
“And who I don’t want to become,” she muttered.
He shot her a small smile. “I’m not worried about that in the least. But you can’t give in to anger. Though, trust me, I’d like to with that fucker,” he said. Michael had helped Brent with his proposal. He’d asked their grandmother for her wedding band to be used in the engagement ring.
“He’s not that bad,” she said, and that was the understatement of the night. Brent wasn’t that bad. He was that good. Kissing him was like melting from head to toe, like being dipped in pleasure and coated in a fine dust of hot shivery tingles. He ignited her completely, lust and desire sweeping up and down her skin from his touch.
Not that she’d say any of that to her brother. Maybe to her girlfriend Ally, but Michael didn’t need to know that Brent Nichols still turned her on like no man ever had. Besides, the purpose of the night’s pit stop wasn’t to conduct a post-mortem on being kissed unexpectedly above the Vegas skyline. It was because her brother always knew what to do and how to handle sticky situations, like her having hit a man.
She cringed remembering what she’d done.
But she reminded herself that she and her brothers had risen above their roots. They’d refashioned themselves into upstanding citizens, business owners—successful adults. As the Paige-Prince kids they’d grown up lower class and hadn’t known anything beyond the outskirts of their dangerous Vegas neighborhood. Now they were better than that. They were the restrained, sophisticated, and successful Sloans.
“Call me tomorrow,” he said, pinning her with wide blue eyes until she nodded.
“I will report back,” she said with a crisp salute, then hugged him goodbye, feeling more centered and calm than when she’d pulled into the gym.
But as she drove the final blocks home, that feeling vanished and a deep shame washed over her. She couldn’t believe she’d slapped Brent. What was wrong with her?
She parked and walked into her condo, then slammed the door hard behind her. The loud crash it made in the doorframe was mildly satisfying in the way that throwing a hairbrush or chucking a phone at the wall after a frustrating conversation could be. That was what she should have done instead of slapping him.
A picture frame on her kitchen counter had rattled and fallen over when she shut the door. She picked it up and repositioned it. An image of sunflowers. She brushed it lightly with her fingertips, then slumped into a chair at her kitchen table and untied the crisscross straps from her heels, heaving a sigh as she tossed one red suede shoe across the cool tiled floor, then the other. A heel smacked into the wall, thumping along the wood.
She muttered a curse. She didn’t need to maul a good pair of shoes because she was pissed at herself. She rose, padded to the wall and picked it up, inspecting the heel to make sure no damage was done.
Safe and sound.
Unlike her heart.
Unlike her ego.
Unlike her stupid brain that was tricking her
She and Brent had gone from zero to sixty in mere seconds, it seemed. One minute he’d been holding her in the hallway asking if she was safe. The next she was grinding against him by the window. She was ready, so damn ready to have gone home with him, to have tossed out the past, ignored the hurt, and just let him take her. He was her good drug—when they were younger, one hit and he’d washed away all the anger and shame.
She’d been practically addicted to sex with him when they were together. Brent had been the only thing that had felt good after far too long spent feeling nothing but bad. Nothing but the black mark of her family that trailed behind her all through her teenage years. Nothing but being the Paige-Prince kids.
Before him, she’d only had dance and her brothers. Then he came into her life, and she had something pure and unsullied by the cold, cruel world. Brent was her sweet, sinful addiction, and she rationalized that it was much healthier to need him than the bottle or a needle. But it wasn’t just the sex that had burned brightly between them. It was everything. He’d made her laugh, he’d made her smile, and he’d brought her so much happiness. She’d hadn’t been close to anyone like him since. While she hadn’t turned into a nun when they’d split, she hadn’t been busy fornicating during the last ten years, either. Her list of lovers was remarkably short—no one had compared to him because no one could compare to him.
She’d spent the last decade mostly alone. She’d had dates here and there and a few longer-term relationships. But sex and love residing in the same person? That had happened to her once in her life, and it had been with the man she’d wanted to go home with tonight. That moment in his arms had reminded her of how much she’d needed him, relied on him, and healed because of him. And how she’d cratered when he took that away by leaving. Thinking of his departure was like punching a hole in her chest. It was turning off her gravity.
That was why she’d snapped in the lounge.
She hated wanting him so much.
Shoving a hand through her mussed-up hair, she spotted the mail she’d brought in earlier. On the top of the pile was a letter from her mother. Maybe because she felt like she deserved punishment tonight, she picked up the white envelope. It bore the same return address her mother had had since Shannon was fourteen.
Dora Prince. Inmate #347-921, The Stella McLaren Federal Women’s Correctional Center, Hawthorne, Nevada.
Shannon took a deep, fueling breath, steeling herself for the latest round of unstable, needy, borderline insane words. With a hard stone residing in her gut, she pushed her finger under the flap and ripped it open. She took out the letter and unfolded the lined paper, girding herself for what lay on the page.
Baby,
How are you? How are your dance shows? Are your dancers as talented as you were? Sometimes at night, when it’s quiet, and everyone’s asleep, I close my eyes, and I swear I can see you on stage, with a smile so bright you light up the whole recital hall, like you did when you were my little girl in her candy pink tutu, up on the stage with your pirouettes.
I know it’s different now, but in my mind you’re still dancing. You’ll always be dancing. Just like someday I’ll be free. You’ll get your knee fixed, and I’ll get out of here, and life will be as it should again.
That’s what I hold onto when it gets all dark and black in my head, because I swear, it gets darker every day. It’s been more than seventeen years now, and the light is fading. I thought by now I’d be out of here. That they’d see I didn’t do it. I didn’t. I swear. I wish someone would find the people who did.
Can you come see me again and help me please? I’m not that far away. It’s less than a five-hour drive. I had my visiting hours cut—I’ll explain why when I see you in person—but they can’t take away my rights. The law allows me four hours per month, and they’re granting me two to see family on June 30th. You are my family, baby. See me. See me. See me. I’ll write to you for a thousand years if I have to. I swear, baby girl, I swear.
Help me.
Your loving mommy.
Years of practice didn’t ease the heavy knot in her gut. Letter after countless letter didn’t make the words hurt less. Every note she read was a piece of her flesh being sliced.
You couldn’t hide from that kind of hurt, she’d learned. You just had to let it bleed, and hope it didn’t bleed out what was left of your heart.
Folding up the letter, she slid it back into the envelope, then tucked it away in a kitchen cupboard. She walked into her bathroom, washed her hands and face, brushed her teeth, then stripped off her clothes. As she removed the silvery wrap, she was tempted to bring it to her nose, to catch a final, trailing scent of that man who turned her on.
Instead, she resisted, letting it fall on top of a pile of black, shimmery fabric.
Sliding between the cool sheets of her bed, she reached for the photo album she kept in her beside drawer, then traced her thumb over the pictures from years ago. Some color, some black and white.
She turned the pages.
The ending was the same every time.
She shut off the light and flipped onto her belly, hating that she still ached between her legs. After everything in between touching Brent and falling into bed, she still wanted him. Even after she’d seen her brother. Even after she’d read the note from her mother. Even after she’d looked at the photos.
Still, she longed for him. Still, she felt the same damn pull.
Bodies were stupid things. Lord only knew, hers didn’t work properly anymore. She was supposed to be dancing. Supposed to be doing so many things.
She’d remade herself though. She’d shrugged off who she used to be. She’d risen anew from the ashes of her family.
From her mother, who had killed her father in cold blood.
But some days, she wasn’t so sure if she could ever outrun her history.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mindy clutched her belly, the sound of early-morning slots soundtracking her laughter as they waited to be seated at breakfast.
Brent stared at her with narrowed eyes. “It’s not funny,” he grumbled.
“Oh, it’s funny. It’s completely hilarious,” she said, poking him in the chest.
“I beg to differ. Other things are funny. Dry humor about politicians. Jokes about hipsters. Comedic bits about waxing gone wrong,” he said, that familiar urge to start a riff taking over.
She shook her head. “No, this is funnier. The way you put your foot in your mouth is the height of comedy,” she said, as the hostess at the Allegro’s breakfast cafe walked up to them.
“Right this way,” the hostess said. “We’ve got your regular table for you, Mindy.”
“You’re royalty here. That could be a good bit. The security chief who’s treated like a queen,” he whispered to his friend, who swatted him.
“Stop it,” she said, but she was laughing.
The hostess led them to a green upholstered booth in the classy breakfast spot in the middle of the hotel on the Strip. Mindy ran security at the Allegro and had for several years now. One of his closest buddies, they had one of the rare male-female friendships where they truly were just friends, maybe because they’d known each other since high school. Maybe, too, because they’d had that obligatory moment that kyboshed the prospect of anything ever happening between them. At a high school graduation party, over beer and quarters, and truth and dare with their group of friends, someone had dared Brent to kiss her.
They’d kissed for a few seconds, and it was fine. Nothing more. Later that night, she’d brought it up. “That was like kissing my brother. Can we, you know, never do that again?”
He’d laughed, and clinked bottles with her. “Never is fine by me, sis.”
It was a good thing, because he needed her on the friends side of his life. She seemed to need him, too. She was one of the smartest people he knew, but she had horrible taste in men lately. Understandable, since she’d given her heart to someone long ago. She’d spent time in the military, and had fallen for another soldier, and he’d fallen hard too. But he’d died in combat, and since then Mindy had kept relationships at a distance, preferring instead to date casually from time to time.
Usually assholes.
With disastrous results.
The hostess handed Mindy a menu, but she waved it off. “Don’t you know I have it all memorized by now?” Mindy said, tapping the side of her head.
“Of course you do. I’ll send the server over shortly to take your order,” the hostess said with a smile, and handed Brent a menu.
“Like I said, royalty.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And like I’ve said a million times—”
“I know, I know,” he jumped in, cutting her off. He adopted a high-pitched tone, mimicking Mindy. “You’re an ass, Brent Nichols.”
She cracked up once more, her light blue eyes twinkling with delight at Brent’s impersonation. “I told you it was funny.”
“Too bad I didn’t record her slapping me so you could have it for cell phone posterity.”
She snapped her fingers in an aw shucks gesture. “I would absolutely add that to my collection of stupid things Brent has done over the years. It’s quite an extensive collection.”
“I am well aware of that.” Mindy was privy to the pranks he’d pulled in high school, the bar fight he’d gotten into a few years ago, and a bet he’d made at a bachelor party for a buddy last year. He’d come out unscathed on all accounts since he had some kind of magical lucky streak. But the Shannon situation was far more complex than going all in with his big mouth or the big ego that matched it. He needed help. He needed finesse. He needed Mindy.
Brent quickly scanned the menu, then shut it and stretched his arms across the back of the booth. “So, swami, tell me what to do.”
“I’m not even going to say you need to apologize. Because you need to do more than apologize. You need to grovel. You need to beg her not to hate you.”
He let out a long, deep, frustrated steam of air. “I can’t do a damn thing right around her.” He dropped his forehead into his palm, the sunburst black ink on his forearm staring back at him.
“You have an Achilles heel when it comes to Shannon.”
Brent raised his face. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
His confidante on all matters related to Shannon, Mindy had been briefed chapter and verse from the start. She knew the good, the bad and ugly. She’d helped him pick the diamond for the ring when he was getting ready to propose in college. She knew, too, that he’d fucked up that fateful day ten years ago. She’d encouraged him then to try to make it right. But Shannon hadn’t taken his calls, so he’d been forced to move on. Now, she’d reappeared in his life, like a goddamn blazing neon sign, and he wasn’t going to let her wriggle away again.
“So what do I do?”
Mindy was about to answer when the waitress popped by to take their order and serve them coffee. As she walked off, Mindy checked the time. She had to be at work soon, and she was already dressed for the gig, in her white button-down shirt and gray pants, designed to blend in as she surveyed the scene at the hotel. “Here’s the deal,” she said as she poured a pink packet into her mug. “You have two things you need to do. One, you need to remind her how good you were together. And, two, show her that you’ve grown up.”
He wiped his hand across his brow. “That’s all? That’s a piece of cake.” Then he turned serious. “Okay. Lay it on me. How do I show her I can be the man she needs?”
“Oh, sweetie. You’re getting ahead of yourself. You don’t even know if she wants you the same way as before.”
He raised an eyebrow, a burst of confidence speeding through him as he remembered the way Shannon had shuddered in his arms last night. “I’m pretty sure she wants me in the same way as before,” he said with a wide grin.
“Do you have any idea how big a rehabilitation project you are for me? I am starting at caveman level with you. You need to simply begin Project Win Shannon Back with an apology.”
“How do I apologize for making the dumbest mistake of my life?” he asked, this time completely serious.
She pointed at him, her eyes lighting up. “That,” she said excitedly. “What you just did. That would be a good start. But let her know it’s not a joke and make it clear that you’re aware you messed up. Let her know in a way that will show her you’re being completely honest.” She took a sip of her coffee. “Look, last night’s little make-out fest aside, you have no idea if she wants to have anything to do with you. There’s no way you could know that. You have to step back first before you go forward. You can’t simply pick up where you left off. You need to get down on your hands and knees and do some groveling.”
A minute later the food arrived, and Mindy flashed a bright smile. “And maybe get her a gift too, King Schmuck.”
That was when it hit him.
* * *
After he finished his scrambled eggs and toast, and downed a hearty dose of coffee for fuel, he headed to his next meeting at the Luxe Hotel. Along the way, he made a quick detour into a boutique inside that hotel.
He scanned the shop quickly, spotting in seconds something that would be perfect for Shannon. She wasn’t a flowers and chocolate kind of woman. And while he doubted that a material object would be enough for the mea culpa he needed to pull off, he had to start somewhere. He wasn’t going to wait in his office and stare dreamy-eyed at his phone, wishing for a call. No, he was going to do everything he’d failed to do years ago.
There was no way on earth, no way in heaven or in hell, that he would let the woman he wanted slip away from him again. He knew precisely how to go after everything he’d ever wanted in life. Tenacious in pursuing his career, determined in climbing up the ladder, he’d achieved all he desired in the entertainment business, and now he was fortunate enough to build on that with his wildly successful clubs.
Only one thing had eluded him.
Her.
Now, he had the opportunity for a second chance. The game was on, and he was going balls to the wall to win his woman back.
* * *
As the meeting with their real estate team drew to a close, Brent rubbed the pads of his fingers across his cheek. Perhaps some part of him was trying to remember the burn from her slap. He wasn’t a masochist. Not in the least. But it was so her. It was such a part of how they were together.
Fucking and fighting. Fighting and fucking.
As soon as this meeting ended, he’d call her. He’d pick up the phone and ask her to get together. If that didn’t work, he’d head to her office and begin the grovel fest. He’d make his first apology. He’d probably have ten thousand more to make, but if that was what it took, he’d do it. He was heading to New York in two days to deal with the hurdles Edge faced there, so he needed to move fast.
“So, that’s the plan for the next six months, now that we’ve got Shay Productions on board for their dance shows. And that’s what we need from you as we expand overseas,” James said as he shut his leather folder and laid his pen on the conference room table with gusto.
“Love it,” said Tate, the lead real estate attorney, who was tasked with handling their deals for new facilities. “I’ve got some properties in mind. Let me scope them out and we’ll reconvene in two weeks.”
As James and Brent left the meeting, James slowed his pace and lowered his voice. “You okay? You seemed a bit distracted there at the end.”
Brent laughed, as if him drifting off to Shannon Land was nothing. It was nothing, because he could juggle. “Nope. I’m all good.”
“Glad to hear,” James said as they wove through the casino on their way to Edge. “By the way, what was the deal with you and Shay?”
Brent turned to James, and shot him a curious look. “What do you mean?”
James shrugged. “Just seemed like there was some vibe between you and Shay, who incidentally is smok—”
Brent’s spine straightened and he sliced a hand through the air, cutting him off. “Don’t say it.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Don’t say what?”
“What you were about to say.”
“What was I about to say?”
Brent stopped walking in front of a roulette table and narrowed his eyes. “Look. I know what you were going to say, man. And it’s not fucking appropriate. That’s all,” he said, as they resumed their pace past the blackjack games.
James held up his hands in surrender. “So you two were friends or something?”
Brent laughed. He wasn’t going to get into it now. He didn’t need to lay out his past. Shannon was a private woman. She clearly wanted her carefully constructed present identity kept secret. His first step in proving that he could be the man she needed would be to protect who she was.
“Like I said, I knew her in college,” he said, giving nothing more away as they reached the front door to their flagship club on the property of the Luxe Hotel. Edge was quiet now in the late morning, since it didn’t open until five. Much later, there would be a line snaking along the velvet rope by the brushed steel exterior wall. The purple sign bearing the club’s name in crisp, clean letters would be bright and beckoning, calling out to the club-goers of Vegas who were eager to party, to lounge, to dance, to drink, to be treated to bottle service from gorgeous bartenders, and to move and sway. To celebrate pending marriages, weekends away, or just nights on the town.
“Maybe you’ll get to know her better now,” James said. “Because there she is.”
As Brent turned the corner, Shannon was waiting by the front door of Edge.
