Chapter Eight

Taryn

Reagan bursts out laughing, while the servers look like I just told them to fuck their birthday celebration.

“Sorry.” I look down at the cake again, searching for a name. “Did you mix me up with someone else?”

The servers look at each other, clearly dumbfounded.

“We’re so sorry, miss,” one of them says, stepping forward and bowing his head. He looks at the others. “Is it…Tara?”

“It’s Taryn.” I’m tired and annoyed and embarrassed. Every diner in this high-class restaurant stares, but I plaster on a smile. “But thanks for the cake.”

The servers glance at each other. Before they can wheel the tray away, I reach for the sweet goodness and plop it in front of me.

“Uh, yeah,” a server says. “Enjoy that. It’s on the house.”

“It better be,” Reagan growls. “Another bottle of wine, please.” He gestures to our empty bottle, and they skitter away in a group. The silent restaurant slowly comes back to life, and soon my ears are filled with the sounds of chatter and gossip.

“Want some cake?” I hold the cake out to Reagan and smile. “This place is known for their desserts. I’m sure it’s handcrafted by the pastry chef. Moist and delicious.”

God, did I really just say that?

He seems not to notice as he stares at the intricate icing. “You take it.” He leans back in his chair and rubs his stomach. “But I’ll tell you, after that faux pas, I really need another drink.”

“Lawyers.” I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky. You can probably keep a bottle of bourbon in your desk for when things get tough, but I’m facing clients most of the day. There’s never time for a nip of the liquid courage.”

“I did notice a few bottles of champagne in your boutique,” Reagan says with a smirk. “Can you honestly tell me you’ve never sampled the goods after a particularly bad customer interaction? I can’t imagine all of your rich and entitled customers are easy to deal with.”

Busted.

“Those are for customers only,” I argue. He’s hitting too close to home, and I’m wondering how he understands me so well after only a few hours spent getting to know each other.

“I bet,” Reagan says, chuckling. I admire the way his blue eyes sparkle when he laughs. I’d love to see more of it. I’d love to see more of him. “I bet you never tap into that, not at all.”

“Not very often,” I say in a rush to defend myself and my boutique-owning honor. “And in my defense – never when a customer is around.”

The sommelier brings the second bottle of wine to the table and Reagan makes a show of accepting it. The deep, fruity flavor of the wine doesn’t mix with the cake, so I wind up setting my fork down and swirling my glass in my hand.

“On second thought, this might be a better dessert.” As I take another sip, I feel some of the exhaustion drip away from my body. It’s amazing how a little good quality wine can be a salve for almost anything. “God, I can’t wait to get home and fall into bed.”

Reagan raises an eyebrow. “Lucky bed.”

I bite my lip and take a long swallow. “Not so lucky. I can’t even remember the last time I remembered to wash my face before crashing. I’m lucky my skin is very forgiving.”

He smiles. “Ah, the struggles of working in Las Vegas. Trust me, some of the women in New York are workaholics as well. They even get their makeup tattooed on their faces just so they can save time in the mornings. We had an entire water cooler discussion about it one day with the female attorneys at my firm.”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m sure that’s a thing here, too. As long as I look professional, I don’t really care. I’ve never been one for a full face of heavy makeup. I had to do that every single time I performed, and when you count up all my shows over the years, it’s a pretty large number. I felt like I had to invest in cold cream to scrape it all off.”

We fall into a comfortable silence. It makes me think…is Reagan really the man I saw in the meeting? Is he like a well-dressed Jekyll and Hyde? Or is the wine just making me feel much more forgiving?

I can’t deny that Reagan looks even better than usual in the dim lights of La Casa Mirabelle. But what’s his endgame? Despite what he’s told me, I know that he’s not just helping me because of Nixon. And if he was, then he certainly wouldn’t be taking me out to dinner at one of the Strip’s most expensive restaurants. This reads more like…a date.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “I should really get back to work. I’ve still got a couple of hours ahead of me, and it’s getting late. I do want to get some sleep.”

He looks worried. “Taryn, you’ve been at it all day. Would it kill you to cut yourself some slack?”

“I know,” I say with a sigh. He’s already got me pegged as an overachieving perfectionist. He’s right. But I also can see he’s not that far behind me. “But everything has to be perfect. I really like working with your brother, but this has been a little stressful.”

“Want me to tell Nix to cool it?”

I hold up a hand. “No, definitely not. I wouldn’t want him to think I can’t handle the responsibility on my own. I can handle anything he throws at me plus a little more.”

“I get that. I’m a control freak, too.”

“I’m not really a control freak,” I shoot back. “I just…I like things the way I like them.”

“You should hire more people to help you. I know you can afford it. Or are you one of those people who think that no one, no matter how competent, will be able to do the job the way you could do it yourself?”

“Probably. I don’t want to have to direct. I’m a go-getter. I’d have to tell them what to do, and how to do it…and they’d probably screw it up, and then I’d be pissed. It’s just easier to do things all by myself. That way, they’re done right the first time. I hate double work.”

Reagan shakes his head and smiles, but I sense the smile isn’t entirely a happy one. Something’s missing. Something’s lacking. In that moment, I realize that I want all his smiles directed at me to reach those hypnotic eyes.

“You’re going to burn out if you don’t start taking care of yourself,” he says. “Trust me on that.”

I sip my wine, draining the glass before setting it down on the table. “I think I can take care of myself. I’ve been on my own since I went to college, and I’ve done just fine.”

“You’ve done better than fine – you’ve done incredibly well,” Reagan says. “You’re a woman to admire. Nixon’s a fan. So is Marcella. But sometimes, Taryn, you need to let other people be there for you.”

I lift a shoulder. “I have Bailey.”

He shakes his head. “Not just a friend.”

“What exactly are you talking about?”

Reagan gives me a mischievous grin that sets my lower belly twitching with arousal. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, and I can’t help going there. All I want to do is ask him to take me to his hotel suite and lick me until I come hard, screaming his name.

“You’ll figure it out on your own,” he says. “You’re very smart.”

I push back from the table and stand up. “I should probably get going.” Finding that I can’t stop the lustful thoughts starring Reagan Caldwell, I just want to get the hell away from him. I stand up far too fast, and the combination of stress, exhaustion, and wine hits me like a torpedo. I grip the edge of the table to keep my balance, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath.

“Hey, you okay?” Reagan is instantly at my side, his hand on my arm.

I swallow hard and arch my neck to look into his blue eyes. I shiver.

Ask me to go to your room.

“Yeah. I’m just exhausted,” I say. “I feel like I’m about to pass out on my feet.”

“Feel like coming up to my room and taking a nap?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Nice try, Casanova,” I say, even though every single cell in my body shrieks yes. More than a nap, hot sex with Reagan would surely refresh me, but I’m not willing to let him know that.

Not yet.

Reagan walks me out of the restaurant and into the casino. The dinging of the slot machines assaults my ears. “Want me to walk you back?”

“Nah. I’m good. Thanks, though. You’re such a gentleman. It’s rare and I…like it.”

Reagan nods, and there’s that smile again, tugging at my ovaries. And, surprisingly, my heart. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks for dinner,” I add, feeling awkward. “It was delicious, and really nice of you, even if we barely talked about Dante.”

“Fine with me. Dante’s a sure recipe for indigestion. We can talk more about him later. Tonight was more about reconnecting.”

“Sounds good.”

After we say goodbye, I rush back to Strict Nécessaire. Working through the food and wine induced haze isn’t easy, but I manage to keep myself alert as I jog through the Promenade. Bailey’s long gone and the sun dips below the horizon by the time I let myself in the shop to greet Josie, my evening manager. Even I have to admit that everything looks pristine – it’s not hard to imagine a luxe fashion show with Ivory Clause on full display.

Just as I’m about to head out, proud of myself for a job well done, the door chimes.

“We’re closed,” I call out toward the front door.

“Oh, Taryn. I thought you’d recognize the sound of my footsteps by now. How disappointing.”

Whirling around, I see him standing in the doorway. “Dante, what do you want?” He’s grinning that cocky smirk and my stomach sinks. Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood. The Syrah swirls inside my gut.

“I have some news.” He takes a step closer. “About the fashion show. Thought you might want to hear it from me.”

“Just spit it out,” I say, wanting nothing more than to tell him where he can stick his privileged information.

The bastard clicks his tongue against his teeth and shakes his head. “For such a successful businesswoman, I’m surprised to see that you lack such…warmth. If you worked for me, I’d have to fire you for a comment like that. It’s insubordination.”

“But I don’t work for you,” I growl. “And you know it.”

He winks, a gesture that fills me with fury. “Oh, but if you did, we might be better friends. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Out with it,” I say as I cross my arms over my chest in a defensive posture. Every time I’m around him, I feel like I need to protect my vital organs. “I really don’t have time to deal with you right now.”

Dante steps closer, fingering some of the gold silk hanging from the walls. “Looks nice. I’m surprised, Taryn. Very surprised indeed. Your little hovel looks almost…normal.”

“And why is that surprising to you?” Stepping back, I put my hands on my hips and try to summon my inner Girlboss.

Dante laughs, and the way he looks at me makes my skin crawl. Like he’s an anaconda, and I’m a fat rat daring him to swallow me whole. “Well, you’re certainly going to need all the help you can get because I’ve booked Fernanda Maxwell. Of course, my booking could be canceled if you agreed to suck my cock for the consideration.”

My jaw drops, and I wish I hadn’t disconnected the security cameras so I could clean them. “What?” My voice comes out as a squeak. “She’s booked for my show. She’s due to star in it!”

Dante shrugs and cackles this maniacal laugh that reminds me of those slasher films aimed at teenagers. The ones where you’re screaming at the screen because some dipshit always wanders away from their friends in the dark to their own bloody demise. “So sorry, my dear, but you must know, she represents Armani. And I spend a lot of money there each year on custom suits, so…” He trails off, cocking his head to the side. “They decided she’d be a better fit for my show.”

I feel like sinking into the floor. Fernanda Maxwell was insanely difficult to book – I had my PR guys on the phone with her agents for over a month and winning the war was a major coup. And we’ve already been promoting her. I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to pull an amazing show out of my ass now that I won’t have her distinctive fierce beauty on the Strict Nécessaire runway.

“Bad news?” Dante smirks. “I hope I didn’t ruin your evening. I certainly wouldn’t want to do that. Why don’t you consider my earlier offer? You have such a beautiful mouth. I hate to see it spouting fire when it could be so much better engaged.”

The way he says my name makes me want to wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until he turns blue.

I glare at Dante, ignoring his filth and superiority. “We’ll be fine,” I say, spitting the words through my teeth like daggers. “Don’t worry.”

He throws his head back and laughs. Each guffaw spears my torso like a lance. “Oh, I’m not worried. I’m just waiting for the day you come crawling to me with that twenty-five percent tax. Or something else even better.”

My jaw drops and hot anger coils inside my chest. I glare at him and ball my hands into fists at my sides, unable to keep my cool. “You said twenty percent!”

He shrugs. “Price just went up, my dear,” he says with a sneer. “You should think about accepting this offer before it shoots right up to thirty.” He turns on his heel and saunters out the door, whistling under his breath.

I close my eyes and slump against the wall, feeling utterly defeated. You greasy motherfucker. I ball my hands into fists and growl. You think you’ve won? Well, I haven’t even begun to fight.