CHAPTER ELEVEN

Temptation got the better of him as he walked to the hostess stand at Giada in the Cromwell, a trendy, boutique hotel on the Strip. Shannon was waiting in the entryway, her back to him, looking far too sexy for him to keep his hands to himself.

Because... that ass.

Small, but firm and round.

And absolutely delicious.

He knew precisely how fantastic it felt to grab that flesh while he sank deep into her. He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water, but it didn’t deter the dirty thoughts that invaded his brain. Hell, they launched a full-scale attack, completely taking over his sense of propriety as he strode up to her. No one but him should be allowed to see her in a skirt that hugged her ass like that. But then, she couldn’t hide that perfect body in a burlap sack if she tried, and he couldn’t hide his rampant desire for her either.

The hustle and bustle of a Saturday evening surrounded him as he crossed the final distance to the restaurant entrance. Music floated through the air, and heels clicked on the floor, and from somewhere he swore he could hear the sound of money even if there were no slots jingling nearby. The thirst for payoffs was never far away in this town.

Three more steps. Two more steps. One more step.

His hands reached out. He couldn’t help himself. Well, he could. He chose not to.

He cupped her ass, and she flinched for a second, but then he brushed his lips against her neck, and whispered, “You are so unbelievably beautiful, that I hope you’ll forgive me for not being able to keep my hands off you.”

She trembled against him, shifting the slightest bit closer, leaning into him. “You aren’t winning any medals for self-restraint tonight.”

“I’m not competing in that event.”

“You never could keep your hands to yourself in public,” she said, but she wasn’t swatting his mitts away, so he ran his hands along the sweet curves of her ass.

“Or in private either. But can you blame me? Have you looked at yourself lately?”

She turned around, breaking contact. Her lips curved in a small grin. “Yes. Why?”

“If I were you, I’d never be able to resist touching myself either.”

She rolled her pretty green eyes. “Amazingly, I can find the will to resist incessant self-touching,” she said, but she wasn’t smacking him, she wasn’t yelling at him, and she wasn’t walking away. Progress. They were making progress from the last few encounters. It was almost as if they’d slipped back in time, forgotten the way they’d split, and had returned to the way they were—good together.

He whistled low in admiration. “Impressive. But then, you don’t always resist. You told me the other day.”

She arched an eyebrow, then trailed her fingertips down the front of her shirt. Oh, hell. She was already playing dirty. Everything she did turned him on, and she knew, she fucking knew he was done for when she touched herself. When she’d strip for him, or tease him with a dance and run her hands along her legs, or through her hair, he was an oven turned past broiling. What he wouldn’t give to toss her on his shoulder, carry her out of there, and take her someplace right that second. Screw her against the wall. Bent over a bed. In a cab. He didn’t care.

“Do you have a reservation?”

The sweet, cheery voice of the hostess broke the trance Shannon was working on him. He was like a man hypnotized who’d just snapped out of it. He turned to the ponytailed, fresh-faced young lady in a black dress and said, “Nichols.”

His name came out all gravelly. His voice was hoarse with wanting Shannon.

The hostess scanned the computerized list, and then tapped the screen. “There you are. I see Mario has requested one of the best tables for you,” she said, dropping the name of the restaurant manager he’d called in the favor from. “You’ll love this table.”

Shannon turned to look at him, her lips forming a puckered O. You’re fancy, she mouthed.

“Thank you so much. I really appreciate him doing that,” Brent said to the hostess.

“Right this way then, Mr. Nichols.”

The restaurant had a soft glow, its lighting showcasing an open kitchen and a wide, expansive floor plan. Too bad there wasn’t much privacy. There were no quiet corner tables, or little nooks. There weren’t even any tablecloths. Damn. Tablecloths were a man’s best friend when dining out with a woman he wanted to touch. The hostess guided them to a table on the terrace, with a view of the fountains at the Bellagio.

“Your table,” the hostess said, then walked away.

Brent pulled out a chair for Shannon, and she smiled at him once more. “This is lovely. Even though there are no tablecloths.”

A rumble worked its way up his chest, and he looped a hand around her waist, tugging her close. She didn’t resist. She moved with him, aligning her body with his. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said, low in her ear, then kissed her there, nibbling on her earlobe.

“Or we could just get a room,” she said sexily, letting her voice trail off.

He wrenched back, looked her in the eyes, and grabbed her hand. “Let’s go. Now.”

“I was only teasing. I’m terribly hungry,” she said as she shook her head and dropped his hand, then settled into her seat. “Besides, I’ve been waiting for a long time to come here.”

“Oh, you’ll be coming at some point tonight, Shannon. You’ll definitely be coming.”

* * *

Over appetizers and a bottle of wine, he learned about the productions she’d choreographed, her career path, and how she’d started Shay Productions. He asked her questions, eager to hear what she’d been up to since college. It was as if he had a black hole in his knowledge of Shannon for the last decade, and it was starting to get colored in. Like a paint-by-numbers drawing, he was beginning to see all that he had missed. She’d worked on West Side Story, Anything Goes, and Chicago, had logged a gig as a behind-the-scenes choreographer on a reality dance show in Los Angeles, then spent some time with a Cirque du Soleil production, before returning to Vegas and working on a dance revue at Planet Hollywood. That show was the launch pad for her company and the production she staged for the Wynn.

“The show at the Wynn really put me on the map,” she said, as she took another drink of the wine.

“That’s a great venue and a great opportunity.”

“It’s funny because I’ve never really thought of myself as a lucky person,” she said, looking philosophical as she stared off in the distance for a moment. “But I’ve had a few lucky breaks in my career—meeting the right people, getting the right introductions—and it’s made all the difference. Like the reality show I worked on. I might do some more work for them. I’ve got a meeting in L.A. with the producers in a few weeks, about staging a one-night reunion show with some of the former winners, so there’s another bit of luck,” she said, rapping her knuckles on the table. “Knock on wood.”

“Hey. You deserve some luck,” he said.

She shrugged and waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t really subscribe to the notion that someone deserves good things in life. Things just happen. Some people are lucky and some aren’t.”

“And some people are immensely talented and recognized for their talent. And that’s you,” he said, keeping his gaze firmly on her. He wanted her to know how much he admired her work, especially since he’d done a poor job showing respect for her career before.

“Thank you. I love what I do, and I wasn’t sure I would. I didn’t think I’d be able to survive without being the one dancing, as you know. You were there when I was injured. It was devastating, and at the time it felt like one of the worse things in the world. But then I moved on, and I’ve really come to love choreography.”

“Tell me what you love about it,” he said, resting his elbows on the table as he listened to her share her passion.

She tilted her head to the side, as if she were briefly considering his question. But she didn’t need to think about it for long. “I love being able to have a vision. To imagine what something beautiful will look like,” she said, talking animatedly with her hands. “And then to make that vision become a reality on stage. I love what my dancers are capable of doing, and being able to take the kernel of an idea and translate it into this moving, fluid entity in front of an audience.” She stopped, took a beat, then added, “And soon that audience will be your club-goers.”

He shot her a small grin. “Can’t wait to see that.”

“The show we have planned for Edge is amazing,” she said, enthusiasm latching onto her words. “It’s going to be so sensual and lush. We’re rolling it out in San Francisco first, I believe?”

“Yes, at our club there. I have no doubt it will be great. Thanks to you,” he said, then he reached across the table for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. He tensed for a nanosecond, hoping she wouldn’t pull her hand away. But instead, she squeezed back. “You’ve accomplished so much,” he said, and it occurred to him that she might never have found her way down this career path if she’d followed him to L.A. “I’m really proud of you.”

“And you have, too.”

“Shan,” he said softly. “I’m not saying this makes up for how things ended, or what I said then, and if I could go back in time I would completely do the whole thing over and find a way to be with you. But I’m glad for you that you didn’t put aside your career. I was desperate to have you with me, but I’m glad that you’ve been able to accomplish all that you have.”

She didn’t speak at first, and he wasn’t sure if he’d said the wrong thing yet again. Tension flickered through his bloodstream as he waited for her to pull her hand away or shoot him a harsh stare. Instead, she cast her eyes down at the table, folding and unfolding her cloth napkin. When she raised her face, she swallowed. “You’re probably right.” Then she continued, “My grandma told me you went to her house. To return the ring in person.”

He went with her segue, nodding and acknowledging that moment from years ago. “I did.”

She pressed her teeth against her bottom lip briefly, then breathed out hard. “I really appreciate that. You making the effort to get it back to her. To be certain it was with her.”

“It was the least I could do. Shan, I really did try to find you at first. As best I could. You weren’t easy to track down.”

She shot him a rueful smile. “I was too hurt. I missed you too much.”

“I missed you, too,” he said, running the pad of his thumb along the outside of her hand, not wanting to let go of her, not wanting to stop touching her.

“Can I ask you something?” she asked.

“Of course.”

She took a deep breath. “What did you do with the diamond?” Then she snapped her hand away, and held both in the air, shaking her head. “Wait. Don’t answer that. It’s nosy. You probably used it for living expenses and that’s what I would expect.”

He leaned back in his chair, and ran his hand roughly through his hair, wishing he didn’t feel so... cheesy admitting this. But he had to tell her the truth, now that she’d asked. “I didn’t use it for expenses,” he said in a low voice, as if he had to protect himself from anyone else who might hear.

“You don’t have to tell me. Really. You don’t,” she said, insistently.

“I’m going to tell you. Just don’t take away my man card.”

“Did you turn it into a necklace that you’re secretly wearing or something?”

“No. I sold it,” he blurted out.

“That’s what I expected, but why would that forfeit your man card?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m not done. I sold it in L.A. to a diamond merchant. And I gave the money to the scholarship fund at Boston Conservatory. The one that put you through school,” he said, feeling like a complete pussy-whipped cheeseball. Somehow he’d managed to avoid ever telling anyone what he’d done with the diamond. Not his brother, not Mindy. It just made him sound like a forlorn guy, stuck on a girl.

Even though that was what he’d been back then. And what he still was.

He looked up.

Her mouth fell open. She froze in place. Shit. She must be thinking the same thing. That he was a sad, pathetic guy. He couldn’t believe he’d said the wrong thing again. But then he stopped thinking when she rose, stretched across the table, cupped his cheeks in her hands, and pinned his gaze with her sweet green eyes. “That means so much to me.”

She kissed him, softly at first, her tongue darting out as she ran the tip of it across his lips, then more roughly, as she gripped his stubbled jaw harder. She kissed feverishly, crushing her lips against his, and he groaned as she led, sweeping her tongue over his mouth, diving deeper, consuming him. A shudder wracked through him from her sheer possessiveness. From the feel of her hands on his skin. She didn’t hold back, not one bit. She did everything with passion, everything to the fullest, as she fused her mouth to his. He was reduced to nothing but desire for her as she took a chance—reaching across the table with a basket of bread below her arms, with wine glasses perched precariously on the table, with hundreds of patrons nearby. She didn’t care. Nor did he. He was damn near ready to shove everything across the table and forget they were in public.

He heard a throat being cleared.

The waiter arrived with their dishes.

She detached from him, adjusted her top, and smirked just for him. As if they had a secret. Even though it was a very publicly known fact that the two people seated here at this restaurant on the terrace on a June night with the fountains behind them wanted each other badly.

* * *

After the waiter served his fritto misto and her tortellini, Brent broached a subject that had once been a source of friction between them, but then had brought them closer.

“Is your mom still writing to you?” he asked gently, picking up his fork. He watched her, careful not to push too far.

She closed her eyes briefly, her fingers clutching her wine glass. When she opened them, she was the girl he’d known in college, the one who’d relied on him for everything.

She nodded. “Yes. Every few months. She still says she didn’t do it.”

“She probably always will say that,” he said, softly, wanting so badly to erase all her sadness. He’d always wanted to, ever since she’d finally let him in. They’d nearly broken up once in college over this. She’d been so closed off at first about her family, so secretive, and it had driven him mad. He’d wanted to be let in, to talk to her, to help her through her troubles, but she hadn’t even told him what it was that tore her apart. He only knew someone kept sending her letters.

That had been one of their worst fights ever. He’d been frustrated beyond words over the way she’d kept him out. She’d been terrified to let him know the full truth about her family. But before the two of them blasted apart into smithereens, she’d confided in him, telling him all the things that weren’t in the press, that weren’t known simply from growing up in Vegas when it happened. He’d known her as the girl whose mom had killed her dad, but he hadn’t been privy to the backstory, the details that didn’t make it into the local news.

The full story had shocked him to the core.

His family was so... normal. His parents were still married. They were both retired now and played golf together a few days a week in a swank suburb on the outskirts of the city. He tried to see them once or twice a month, and always visited on holidays. He even baked a pumpkin pie every year for the Nichols family Thanksgiving. There was no drama, no dysfunction, and certainly no murder for hire.

Maybe that was why he’d been able to comfort her when they were younger. Maybe that was why they’d been drawn together on some subconscious level. He’d grown up unequivocally happy, and he had extra doses of it. He had a whole storage closet full of additional happiness, and he tried to bring that to her. Lean on me, he’d told her. He could handle it. He handled all her tears and sadness. He’d do it again if she needed him to. “And have you seen her recently?”

“I went at Christmas with Ryan. She asked if anyone had found the people who did it. Same thing she always says, even though she knows Stefano is behind bars.” Then she lowered her voice to a feathery whisper, her tone confessional. “I still check his inmate number every few months. To make sure he’s still in prison. It’s silly, I know, since he’s in for life. But I just like to know he’s where he belongs.”

Brent shook his head, reassuring her. “It’s not silly in the least to find some kind of comfort in knowing he’s locked up.”

“It’s not like it makes me happy,” she said, sadness washing over her eyes. “It just makes me feel as much peace as I guess I can feel.”

“You don’t have to be happy. You can just... be,” he said, and that was what he’d told her in college, too.

She met his eyes, a sliver of a smile forming on her beautiful lips. “I’m happy right now,” she said.

And hell if that didn’t add an extra gallon to all those stores he had.