Chapter 17

Haylee

I might be sitting across from the biggest douche bag in Vegas. As I look over Dante, from the perfection of his tailored designer suit to his hairstyle with not one strand out of place, I wonder what I ever saw in him that day he approached me at the Armónico. I’m finding that I like men with their hair messed up, their tie askew, and sneakers. Definitely, Converse.

And square glasses with grey frames that bring out the blue in their mesmerizing eyes.

Dante’s droning on about how many holdings he has, how many homes he’s remodeled and then flipped for a staggering profit. It’s boring. He’s boring. I can’t believe that I agreed to date him, be his pathetic version of arm candy. But when I think of Atlee and what her therapy has been able to do for her…well, my own feelings have to be placed on the back burner. When you’re a mother, that’s just the sacrifices you make. Your soul goes to the highest bidder, and you hand it over without even shedding a single tear.

Drowning out the sound of his droll voice with my self-recriminations, I glance around the restaurant. The food is stellar again, and so is the wine. Dante doesn’t even stop for breath until a beautiful brunette clad in a black jacket stops at the table.

“Good evening, Mr. Giovanetti,” she says. “I trust your entrees were acceptable?”

“The sea bass was divine, Pepper. Just like every night I choose it. It’s my favorite, and I’m so glad you were able to add it to the menu.”

Pepper’s gorgeous face stays calm, a mask of cool indifference. I realize that she probably hates sea bass so much she’d rather stab its carcass with a fork a hundred times before serving it. But it’s Dante’s favorite, and he clearly always gets what he wants. Including the sell-out that’s currently sitting across from him. I feel a kinship with the woman standing next to me even though I don’t even know her. We’re both in the same boat. The one that’s heading out onto Lake Heartbreak with a gaping leak in the hull.

“My entrée was spectacular,” I say, drawing her attention to me. I get the first genuine smile, and it makes me feel good. I want to say even more. Her culinary skills are exceptional, and she should get the kudos she deserves. “The way it’s shaped like a horse? You’re so creative. When something’s delicious and has that artistic flair, it’s almost a shame to eat it. But I did.”

Pepper laughs, an infectious sound that causes diners three tables away to turn and look at her. One of them raises his glass toward her in an impromptu toast over his empty plate. “Thank you, miss…?”

“Miss Jacobs,” I say, holding out my hand to her. She clasps it in her strong, warm one and squeezes. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve lived in Vegas my entire life, and whenever a new restaurant gets the kind of buzz that this one did in the beginning, I know it’s going to be a huge hit.”

“A local,” she says, giving me a saucy wink. “Those are my favorite kind of endorsements. It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Miss Jacobs. Mr. Giovanetti. I need to get back to the kitchen before Basil starts a small fire.”

Just like that, the buffer between Dante and me flees, and I watch her rigid back meandering through the tables until she disappears. I almost want to let out a sigh, but that would probably get me that look of censure from Dante that I don’t like and try to avoid. Since I’m not sophisticated enough for him, it happens far too often. This is our third date, and everyone knows what that means. Except I can’t sleep with him. I won’t. I’m in love with Ford, and even though we can’t be together, I simply can’t allow myself to be touched by another man.

“If you’re done with your meal, we should have an after-dinner drink,” he says, the actual words seeming innocuous enough.

I nod, and he’s up in a flash, coming around the table to pull my chair out for me. He’s all ease and politeness, a gentleman in every sense of the word except the one that’s most important. Honesty. His manners are strictly an act for his own selfish gain.

Stifling a groan, I stand and allow him to guide me to the exit, even though his touch turns my stomach in a way I thought I’d never feel in the presence of a man I actually chose to be with. I glance down at my dress, borrowed from Dixie. One thing I wasn’t going to do is overextend myself by buying a bunch of fancy clothes for this charade. This new one’s red and it hugs my body a little too tightly for my liking. My breasts are lifted and cradled like I’m trying too hard. His lascivious gaze rests there for a split second before he brings his eyes back to my face.

Anxiety begins to spiral out of control because I know where this runaway train is headed, and my body’s printing a one-way ticket to nowhere. Pulling an invisible cloak of protection around me, I follow Dante’s lead until we reach a bank of elevators. He stabs the up arrow with his finger, and I stand there, muscles clenched, hoping that the ding will never come. I’d give anything to be in the limo right now, the wheels hugging the interstate as I roll toward home. And safety.

I wish Ford would come and rescue me again. But after the way I treated him, telling him a bunch of lies ending with the biggest one of them all by denying my love for him, how can I expect there to be a repeat of that first date with Dante?

“How about a drink on the terrace?” he asks, as if I can say no at this late juncture. He’s backed me into a corner, and he knows it. I’ve never felt so manipulated. Used. Dirty. I feel like a thousand showers couldn’t wash away the feeling of corruption that’s taken over my senses.

“Sounds nice,” I say, keeping my cool. Grace under fire, that’s always been me. You learn it the hard way by waitressing in a café for years on end. Somebody’s always pissed about the temperature of their steak or the carbonation in their Coke. Except what Dante’s proposing doesn’t sound nice at all. It sounds like a lamb being lead to the slaughter because she wants to save someone else by sacrificing herself.

Someone who doesn’t have any other choice.

“Excellent.”

He’s the butcher, holding the knife that’s poised to slit my throat so I can bleed out. It’s not so much the word that bothers me, although it’s meaningless in this context. It’s the tone that he’s using, the lack of warmth, the void of any sort of pleasure that has me itching to turn tail and run.

The ding sounds far too soon, and I climb on board. The cab of the elevator leading to his suite is much too small, and it feels as if all the oxygen has been sucked from the ten by ten space. I heave a breath, panicking, and lean back against the plush interior, a wave of heat flowing over me. It’s Dante’s private elevator, and he spared no expense in its design. It’s the fanciest lift I’ve ever seen. Staring at the velvet walls, I try to avoid eye contact with him. Anything to keep me from throwing up all over his polished ostrich leather shoes.

“After you, my dear,” he says, holding the door open so I can step inside his penthouse. Why in the hell did I allow myself to be pushed farther than I wanted to go? I think of Atlee. And John. And every single day that she’s shown improvement because of his out of the box techniques. He even indulges her Wonder Woman fantasy in his therapy, and she’s the little girl she is today because of him.

You’re doing this for your precious daughter, Haylee. Suck it up.

I just hope I won’t have to suck it before I can escape this torture chamber. My knees give a slight wobble, and then they decide to work and propel me forward into the room. If I wasn’t obsessed with my roiling stomach and my racing heart, I might enjoy the view. This penthouse suite has floor to ceiling windows, offering a spectacular panoramic vista of the entire strip below us. I wish I was down there. Rushing around with a flyer in one hand and a three foot tall Pina colada in the other.

But I’m here. And so is he.

“What can I get for you? Wine? Chardonnay?” His voice jolts through my body and causes it to respond in fight or flight mode. I’d prefer flight, but I’m down for fight if it should come to that. I hope that I will be able to bolster my dwindling courage in order to get through this evening unscathed.

My mind drifts to Dixie, home with Atlee and then Ford’s face floats through my consciousness right behind. His smile. That charming dimple in his cheek that I love so much. It’s still there. It’s all still there. Everything I loved about Ford remains, and the only thing that’s standing between us is his cowardice in leaving me. Leaving us. Of course, he doesn’t know there’s an us, but I know it’s only a matter of time before my goose is cooked. I suppose I should have told him that day he came to my house. I’m choking on my self-imposed diet of should ofs. Now, if Dante doesn’t get exactly what he wants, he’s going to be the one to tell Ford about Atlee, and I can’t imagine the fallout from that happening.

“Chardonnay would be lovely,” I answer, walking to stand in front of the windows, pretending to enjoy the view. Even though he’s in the kitchen, I feel like I can’t get far enough away from him. It’s like he’s grown ten inches, turned into a cinematic monster with bared teeth, and stands poised to devour me. He doesn’t seem like just a man anymore.

“Won’t you have a seat on the sofa.” He makes it a command instead of a question, and I sink into the black leather couch, perching myself as close to the armrest as possible without making an issue of it.

He hands me my glass of wine and sits right next to me. Close. Too close. I shiver, and his eyes light up. He doesn’t understand that it’s not a good sign. As I take the first sip and the flavor of the expensive wine explodes across my tongue, Dante puts his arm behind the back of the couch, dangerously close to my shoulder. I watch in horror as a tapered finger reaches down and strokes my sensitive skin. Gooseflesh breaks out across my arm.

“You look so lovely tonight, Haylee,” he says, eyeing me.

Handing me the glass of wine, I hold it front of me like an alcoholic shield and take a gulp, welcoming the burn. I’ve just made a faux pas by sending two fingers of an award-winning vintage down the hatch, but I’m too upset to enjoy it anyway, I just need the courage it brings.

“Thank you,” I answer, not recognizing the sound of my own voice. It’s far away, disassociating from the warmth of my body. Dante takes a seat next to me and watches me out of the corner of his eye as he drinks his wine, not missing a thing. My spirits sink, and I want to close my eyes and rest them, quiet the voices in my head telling me to get the hell out of an evil man’s presence, but I can’t.

“There’s one little thing I’d really like to ask you,” he says, inching closer to me. His hand falls behind my shoulders, and I lean forward, not allowing flesh on flesh. “I hope you’ll indulge me.”

“What is it?” I ask, taking another swig in case he’s about to ask me to lay down and open my legs for him.

“You’ve been different tonight, aloof. Most definitely not yourself. You don’t have to worry about the therapy clinic, Haylee. Is this because of Ford? Has he done something to you?”

After the question is out in the open, he sits there practically salivating. Like I would sell the father of my child out for his help. It’s a Vegas version of Sophie’s Choice. I can capitulate to this pig and save my daughter’s therapy, or I can give in to Ford and give up every part of myself that I actually admire. In-fucking-possible.

He exhales harshly, and I know he’s searching for his next words to fuck Ford over some more. On the wings of his heavy breath, something hits me, and it’s like an internal light bulb that’s been burned out for years gets a new one screwed in, casting immediate illumination over everything that’s been in the shadows. I love Ford. Ford is Atlee’s father. I should allow him to help us. It’s his right as her father to lighten my load. I don’t have to take the entire weight of the world and hold it down on my own shoulders, carrying it with me wherever I go.

Damn, I’ve been so stubborn. So stupid.

As if Lance Burton decides to wave his hand from the Monte Carlo toward Dante’s penthouse, my phone buzzes. I glance at it, but I have no idea who’s texting because of the spots before my eyes as I sigh with relief.

“Sorry, Dante, that’s Atlee’s babysitter. Seems she’s come down with some kind of stomach bug. She’s crying and wanting her mom, so I’m going to have to cut this evening short.”

Before he can question my story, I’m out the door.