Chapter Ten – Nixon

"Has everything been handled to my specifications? I mean everything. Every last detail has to be just right."

Carol looks at me as if I've lost my fool mind, and I feel like I already have. Every action and word have been out of character since I met Marcella and experienced what it’s like to want one woman with every breath in my body. I guess my assistant's confused because I've never asked her to do anything like this for me before. I don't date. And when I do need the company of a lady, I certainly don't plan anything at my own establishment when Vegas is filled with five-star restaurants and big name entertainment. I don't have to shit where I eat.

"Everything's exactly as you've asked. I've checked it myself, so I think you'll be pleased. Who—"

I lift up a hand to cut her off before she asks me a question I refuse to answer. My assistant sure as hell doesn't need to know that I'm wining and dining Linc's para. That would make me look like an asshole, and as discreet as Carol is, I can't expect her not to have an opinion about it. If judgment's going to color her expression, I don't want to see it.

I glance down at my Rolex and notice that it's only seven. I've still got an hour to check on everything, take a quick shower, and get dressed before Marcella arrives. Troy's sending a car to pick her up. Taryn called about five and assured me she'd come down and picked out some new things. Except this time, she didn't select as many items as Taryn had originally selected for her. When I looked at the e-bill, I was a little annoyed since it didn't even come to two grand. But I brushed it aside without even a hint of surprise. She's got pride and an independent streak a mile wide. I admire it unless it's in direct contradiction to what I want.

Before taking the elevator to my penthouse, I check the preparations on the rooftop terrace. We only use it for special occasions like meet and greet cocktail parties with some of the bigger bands that play the Armónico. But tonight, it belongs solely to Marcella. If everything goes right, I can soften her toward me and start moving her toward my bed where she belongs. I'll claim her and brand her as mine even if it's wrong. The woman's infiltrated my every cell, and I can no longer deny myself the indulgence of her body.

The caterer, Jill Winthrop, is the best at the hotel, and she'll have every course timed down to the second. My only concern is the temperature of the food. I'm exacting and a foodie. The menu contains every luxury I thought Marcella might enjoy. I stiffen because, in fact, I didn't do enough intel. She'll probably tell me she's a vegan and all my effort will go straight down the drain.

"It's business," I say, lying straight to Carol's face. "It's about Linc."

She shakes her head and doesn't say anything else. The thing I value most about Carol is her ability to keep things between us right along with her usual expediency.

I push the button of my private elevator and step into the car. As it lifts upward, I tap my foot, an impatient habit. Until I see the décor and the logistics of the rooftop for myself, I'm not going to exhale or go to my penthouse to get ready. I even had the bar stocked with a bottle of a non-alcoholic wine for Marcella in case she doesn't drink. When the doors slide open, my critical eyes sweep the area.

A portable bar's been set up in the corner. A table for two shines with pristine white linens. If I find even one fleck of lint or dirt on them, I'll be pissed and demand them changed. As I approach, my eyes sweep the vast area, and I notice that the sparkling lights are all in order. I asked to have strands of white twinkle lights strung on every available surface. At eight, between the lights of the strip and the lights we strung, this whole patio will glimmer with the vibrancy of a thousand stars. I'm pleased, really pleased. Flowers grace every flat surface. Irises. They were my mom's favorite.

Once I'm satisfied that everything is in order, I turn on my heel and return to my suite of rooms. I jump in my oversized shower and let the four showerheads pulse the tension from my body. You're just tight because you're unsure of her reaction. Calm yourself down, Caldwell. Women don't get you wound up.

In spite of my personal pep talk, I struggle to pick out a suit as I rub the ache in my chest that won't go away. I'm clearly aware of the fact that I'm a fucked up piece of shit who appears to have it all going on. But I don't, not by a longshot.

I'm going tieless because I don't want her to feel under-dressed or uncomfortable if she didn't pick out a fancy cocktail dress. And I can't even imagine she did that since she didn't have the resources for such luxuries. Other than this offhand occasion, where in the hell would she wear it?

I finally decide on a blue pin-striped Armani with skinnier legs and a pair of custom Italian loafers. In the moment, I want to slap myself across the face. I totally picked it because it brings out the color of my dark blue eyes. And I want her to notice. I don't even give a shit if she notices the fancy dinner or the thousands of twinkling lights strung for her pleasure. I want her to see me.

My phone buzzes.

"Caldwell."

"Hey, boss," Troy says. "She's here. She's on her way up, so it will probably be only a couple minutes or so."

I hold my breath. "Troy, what's she wearing?"

There's a long pause, and even though it's silent, I can imagine the unspoken words. "What the fuck, man? A dress. You know I don't notice that shit. I don't even remember what color it was. But it's not red. That I know for sure."

I roll my eyes. Fat lot of good my right-hand man is in this situation. I feel like if I know what she's wearing in advance, I can prepare myself so I don't freak her out with some kind of strange reaction. I try to picture her legs in a dress. I've only seen her a couple of times, and she's been wearing jeans and sneakers for both of them.

I ride the elevator back up and walk over to the pipe railing so I can look out over the strip. Tourists scramble down below like bright colored ants marching. I'm like a king on his chrome and mortar throne, surveying his domain. Soon, I'll own this entire damn town, and my father will be avenged. I won't stop until that happens, and he can finally rest in peace. Not until Dante Giovanetti is dirt poor and living in a cell.

When I hear the ding, I don't turn. Instead, I inhale and steel myself. A mask of calm indifference comes over me in spite of my pounding heart. I've been hiding my emotions for so long, it's become second nature. Once I hear the click of heels on the cement, I spin around to face her.

Fuck.

It's definitely not a red dress per the highly non-observant Troy Cass. It's silk in a vibrant shade of copper that highlights her hair and eyes. It hugs every curve in all the right places, lifting her full breasts while cradling her hips and ass. I know I should speak, even if I stutter at the sight of her. She's breathtaking. I open my mouth, but when nothing comes out, I clamp it shut.

She walks closer, closing the gap, and her eyes never leave mine. The bartender walks behind the bar and slams the top down on the ice bucket, breaking my trance.

"Good evening, Marcella. Would you like a drink?"

Is that my voice? I don't fucking even know anymore. It sounds like some gritty, raspy porno guy about to pound his ten-inch dick inside a two-bit whore. It's the kind of voice that lays empty promises at a woman's feet. The kind of assurances I could never, ever keep.

"Hi. I'll take a white wine if you have it."

I nod to the bartender, and he pours her a glass along with a neat scotch for me. I had the bar fully stocked because I wanted to be sure I'd have whatever she wanted.

The bartender delivers our drinks, and I watch her take a tiny sip. Her eyes light up with pleasure, and a flash of her naked and beneath me infiltrates my mind. She's wearing the same damn look and reaching for my throbbing cock, directing it toward her sweet pussy. Before I even know for sure, I know how it will look and how it will taste. I shake my head.

"Yummy."

Oh. My. God.

"I'm glad you like it," I say, proud of my choice as I try not to allow my rising lust to gallop out of control. We're not alone, but fuck, I so wish we were. "We're serving the Evening Land 2012 tonight."

She stares at me as if I've sprouted two heads.

"It was rated the number three Pinot by Wine Spectator magazine recently. It's the top-rated US wine. I don't serve Italian wines here at the Armónico."

She takes those perfect full lips and sips again but then they pucker at my words. "Why not? Isn't Armónico an Italian name?"

"I don't like Italy."

She narrows her eyes and looks at me. "I've never been out of Nevada, but I did a school project about Italy once. All I remember is how beautiful it was as I sifted through all the information on the internet. How can you not like a place like that?"

I contemplate how to answer her without sounding like an arrogant asshole. Dante's superior mug floats before my eyes, and I want to get away from this uncomfortable conversation that I started without thinking. No way am I explaining my true meaning. If I went there, I'd have to see censure in her eyes directed at me far before I'm ready to.

"I guess it's the people I don't like and not the place."

"Oh." She doesn't seem to accept that answer, but she doesn't argue or question me further. Is she afraid of me? Dammit, I hope not. Jill appears with two domed plates. It's unusual for a chef to serve, but I'm exacting and want to impress Marcella at the same time, so Jill's capable presence calms my jangling nerves.

I move to the velvet-seated chair and hold it out for her. As she sinks down on the cushion, her subtle perfume assails my senses and my cock twitches in my pants. It has vanilla laced undertones. She smells like sin and innocence all wrapped up into one perfect package. I've never wanted a woman more than this one. And I'm not even sure I can have her.

Yet.

Jill sets the appetizers down in front of us. "Cast iron cilantro lime shrimp, Mr. Caldwell."

"Thank you, Jill."

Marcella stares down at the dish in front of her and doesn't move. Shit. She hates shrimp. What if she's allergic? I move to take her plate, imagining her going into anaphylactic shock, and she slaps my hand away. I yank it back in surprise. "You don't want shrimp?"

"I don't want you trying to control me all the time," she says, finally meeting my eyes. Hers are fiery and sparkling, and I realize I'm already blowing it before we've even taken the first bite. As much as seeing the passion in her gaze gets my blood pounding, it isn't my intention to annoy her. "I love shrimp. I was just staring because this is the most beautiful food I've ever eaten. I just wanted to appreciate it and savor the first bite."

I shut up and eat my shrimp, promising myself to keep my hands and my assumptions to myself. The conversation flows, and I'm enjoying getting to know Marcella. She's honest and open, a real straight shooter. There's also a maturity about her, as if she's already wise beyond her meager years. An old soul adrift on a sea of glitzy pleasure seekers, and a breath of fresh air among all the scheming and manipulating gold diggers that I come into contact with during my daily life. I behave all through the roasted beet salad, the fennel and leek soup, and the main course of cedar plank filet mignon. Before I want the meal to end, Jill delivers the last course, her famous cherries jubilee.

Marcella lifts a bite to her lips and tastes. She moans and shuts her eyes, and I about lose it. The sounds she makes when she eats are lustier than a lot of the dead lays I've had in the past few years. The guttural sounds tug at my groin, making me uncomfortable. As I lean forward in agony, I'm in desperate need of a distraction. I nod toward the bar, and a violinist appears as if from nowhere. She drags the bow across the strings, and Marcella's head snaps up.

The server pours champagne, and I lean back in my chair again, ready to drink in the delight of providing pleasure to all of her senses. When her linen napkin snaps onto the table, I'm confused.

"What's that?" she says, pointing toward the violin.

I frown, not expecting her to question the obvious. "I thought you might like some after dinner music. Isn't it beautiful?"

"What do you think this is?" she fumes. "Some kind of warped attempt at seduction? I thought we were going to discuss Lincoln and his care over dinner."

The violinist shrieks to a halt on a sour note that causes me to cringe, and the silence between us rings even louder than the strains of the classical music. I don't know how to turn the situation around. Why am I always doing everything wrong where she's concerned? I just don't get it.

And I don't fucking like it.

"We did discuss Linc. You're doing a great job, and I'm really happy. So is he."

She softens a bit, her face and shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly. "I'm already falling in love with him."

I'm falling in love with you.

The tender words falling from her lush lips don't coincide with the anger lacing her expressive eyes. It's because those caring words are directed toward my little brother while her ire is solely directed at me. I'm losing her. Before she was even mine to begin with.

I stare at her, at a loss for words. I want to defend myself, but then I know there's really no defense. I manipulated her for my own selfish wants and desires. Anything more I say will only deepen my lie and dig the hole until it's a canyon. Out of sheer desperation, I take her hand in mine and run my thumb across the tender underside of her wrist. Electricity crackles between us until she snatches hers away as if it's been burned.

"He really likes you, Marcella. Please don't do anything drastic."

She stands, and her fork clatters to the china. I want to stand. I should stand as well since a lady is leaving the table, but I don't want her running and hurting herself by face planting to the concrete on her sky-high sandals.

"You know what, Nixon Caldwell?" She lifts her chin, her dark eyes flashing down at me. "You may be able to buy everything and everyone. But you can't buy me. Even though I think your little brother is one of the most beautiful souls I've ever met, the price of being in your employ is just too high. You can take your fancy job and your fancy dinner and your fancy clothes and shove them straight up your ass!"