CHAPTER EIGHT
Veronica wanted to lock herself in the lounge’s powder room and interrupt her best friend’s honeymoon so Grace could talk her down. But she had to settle for pressing a wad of cool, damp paper towels to her fevered cheeks and neck. There went her meticulously applied contour, but she didn’t care.
She’d do great to go back into the lounge, pay the tab, and say a friendly good-night to Simon Smith without jumping on him like the horn dog she was. To get so carried away with the possibilities of what his hands, his body, and that voice could do to her was absurd. Veronica Greer didn’t sit in dark corners with off-limits men, or fantasize about dumping a pink bag of sex goodies onto her bed and sharing them with a very off-limits man who had a bad reputation and a wicked mind that she really wanted to get more acquainted with. Because it wasn’t proper.
Proper was strolling down the aisle to Chance Kershaw, who’d looked stellar on paper. Proper was getting all tangled up in polo golden boy Ollie Johan, who had seemed so refreshing compared to the men who were too intimidated by her to even approach her. Proper was letting both Chance and Ollie lead her, when she was more than ready to make her own moves.
Sometimes being proper blew.
That didn’t mean she would throw her sensibilities to the wind for Simon. She lost control, lost herself, when she was with him. Imperfections such as her klutziness, weakness for sweets, and habit of analyzing the actual fuck out of everything glowed like a flicker in a lantern whenever he got too close. Strangely, he hadn’t walked away. In fact, he’d said he was “looking forward” to being with her.
Right. Until he sampled her and then sought out yet another actress or model or sports groupie. Chance had put in years of faithfulness, but eventually even he’d found satisfaction in other women. Ollie had wooed her for weeks before accusing her of driving him out of her life with distrust, and she’d let him go. How long would it take Simon to move on?
She could do the safe thing—spare them both the awkwardness of going too far and regretting it.
Veronica tossed the paper towels in the trash and reentered the lounge to find Simon gone and her shot and cocktail already paid for.
“This note was left for you.” The bartender handed her a folded napkin.
“‘Sir Galahad would never let a lady pay for his tequila, or her own.’”
With a smile, she slipped the note into her purse and left the Luxor. Yes, she could do the safe thing. Or…she could take a risk.
She was itching to shake loose the stress that dug into her. She had hours of contract loophole searching ahead of her, but diluting the potent energy that practically hummed inside her would do her a world of good. What she wanted was to laugh, gossip, dance.
Partying it up at the Marquee Nightclub at the Cosmopolitan with Heather was as good a start as any. On a Saturday night, the line would be ridiculous, and Veronica would have to flirt her way into the Marquee. But getting in to the main floor would be slightly less of a hassle on a Wednesday. It also helped that Heather’s cousin was on security.
The Marquee’s line wrapped around the building. Despite the daytime heat, autumn whispered in the air at night.
Veronica hurried toward the end of the line, knowing she’d regret walking all the way back and tackling the club’s infamous stairs. Midway through the trek, a pair of clean-shaven men who’d recognized her as Joan Greer’s daughter waved her down and offered her a cut.
Careful not to disturb the man in front of them, who was in sagging jeans, smelled like weed, and was swearing viciously into his Bluetooth, she indulged in a few moments of conversation with the men who’d let her jack the line. One was a real estate agent; his partner was a photographer who knew her mother through mutual friends.
“You are retro Joan, but with a little spice,” he praised. “Too damn sexy to be going solo at the Marquee.”
“I’m meeting a friend.” She craned her neck, but the effort was futile. Heather was as difficult to find in this crowd as Waldo on a wall mural.
“Good for you. Not my business to say this, but there are parents out there—who shall remain nameless—who think having single adult children is as terrible as anything.” He gave her a wink, but she’d have to be missing her brain to not know that her own mother was one of those nameless parents.
Not in the mood to wait for hours, Veronica dialed her assistant’s cell number. “Can’t see you, Heather. I swear this line circles the building twice.”
“Come to the door,” Heather said, her voice nearly buried under the crushing bass. “I’m with security.”
Sure enough, when Veronica made her way to the entrance, she saw her assistant squeezed between a pair of men—both with tats and one with a good two feet of beard. All in the space of a few minutes, Heather led her through the dark, sexy interior of the club, scored them free margaritas and glow sticks, passed on a group of men’s offer to relinquish their thousand-dollar bottle-service table and all but dragged Veronica to a prime spot on the dance floor.
“This DJ is insane! What’s better than a badass DJ?” Heather swayed and dipped and gyrated to the music, while Veronica considered the question.
“Hot apple cider.”
“What?” Heather’s eyes narrowed under her straight black bangs, showing downright confusion.
“You asked what’s better,” Veronica said, raising her voice. “There’s an answer. Apple cider, cinnamon sticks, pumpkin pie. Some people get spring fever. I get autumn fever.”
“Oh!” Heather managed to twirl around on the shoulder-to-shoulder dance floor, bumping her playfully. “That’s what it is. I thought you were just crazy-hungry. Was two seconds away from suggesting you let one of those drooling dudes back at the table hook you up with a burger or something. Snap out of it, though, boss. My parents’ new vacation house is in New Hampshire, and trust me, fall is the real thing there. Nothing Vegas can imitate. All the cider and cinnamon in the world won’t change that.”
When Heather was right, she was right. Without dispute, Veronica gave herself up to the music, letting the beat work its way into her bones as she danced—first with a few guys who weren’t obsessed with squeezing her ass, then with Heather, who persistently asked for her thoughts on a slew of men. “What about that guy over there? He’s short, but he’s taller than you.” “Do you think this one’s attractive?” “How do you feel about Fu Manchu mustaches?”
“Not a fan of the Fu Manchu…but, Heather, my opinion doesn’t carry a lot of weight. That’s your potential man candy.”
“‘Man candy’?”
Suddenly, a man burst through the crowd and stood in front of them.
Oh, what fresh hell is this? Veronica leveled an arch smile at Chance and braced herself.
“You corrupting my ex?” he said, drawing Heather’s hand to his lips. Always the man with the moves. He wore a pair of tinted glasses to complement his white designer ensemble.
“Trying to.” Heather’s words, delivered in a monotone, were sassy and direct.
“Heather, this is my ex-husband, Chance. Chance, meet my assistant, Heather Saint.” Veronica then asked him, “And who are you here with?”
“The usual suspects,” he said, referring to his entourage of friends, whose combined net worth could buy Las Vegas. As was commonly the case, he and his group were likely painting Sin City in a procession of luxury vehicles, with hulking bodyguards and paparazzi struggling to keep up. He took her hands. “Dance with me. Can’t let a good song go to waste.”
The DJ was digging up hits of the past, and the song shaking up the dance floor now was one of her favorites. Confetti burst from overhead, spiraling over the crush. It dotted people’s hair, stuck to their heated skin, littered the dance floor.
Veronica brushed the shimmering bits from her shoulders. “We need time way from each other, Chance.”
“Why do we need that? I crossed your path and spoke out of respect.”
“Thanks. But as for the dance? C’mon, seriously?”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want one dance to get in the way of you fucking some stranger in the club. So, who is he?” Chance put his arms out, showing off his wingspan, and turned. As he did, people around them shuffled backward to give him the space he demanded.
“Chance, there isn’t anyone—”
“You got on my case about honesty. Don’t be a hypocrite now. Just point out the man who did this.” Chance yanked her arm and stared at the scrawling signature on her skin. When she paused—torn between her initial instinct to tell him to take his sense of entitlement to hell and her second instinct to simply ignore him—Chance whipped around to her assistant. “Know who did this?”
Heather spied the ink, and her eyes narrowed as recognition dawned. But she apparently had no qualms about lying. “Nope.”
“Is this a tat, Veronica?”
“No.” Veronica shook free, thinking quickly of how to diffuse the situation with hundreds watching. “Got a table, Chance? If talking like civilized adults is okay with you, then let’s do it there.”
Chance led the way, and when his friends relinquished the table to offer the most privacy anyone could get at the Marquee, she asked, “Where’s this possessiveness coming from? You grabbed me. Don’t touch me like that ever again.”
He exhaled, putting his hands together and bowing his head. “All right. I meant no disrespect.”
“Getting in my face, acting like you own me, seems pretty disrespectful. Life isn’t a reality TV show, Chance, and it’d be productive for us both if you refrain from starting drama in the middle of a club.”
“What if I wanted you back?”
That was laughable, considering they both knew he didn’t. “You had me, Chance, and got tired of me. We didn’t fight. We didn’t compete against each other. We were friends.”
“Friendship’s not enough to make a marriage stick.”
“Nothing I gave you was enough. I tried to be everything you wanted, without ever asking you to change for me. But that doesn’t even matter anymore. It’s better this way—to be apart. Now that I’ve accepted that, the hurt can stop. Because I don’t want this. I want something more.”
Heather sidled up to the table with a probing “Everything okay?”
“Just apologizing to my wife,” Chance said.
“Ex-wife,” Veronica corrected. “Apologize to Heather. You were rude.”
Chance gave Veronica a final repentant look before he addressed her assistant. “Forgive me. Veronica can put you in touch with my secretary. She’ll set you up with two tickets to Fight Night. Car and drinks, too.” Then he left them alone at the table.
Veronica should’ve been relieved at his absence, but she felt unsettled. Wary. Confused. “That was strange. In his defense, though, he never had a shitty temperament when we were married. Always a jokester.”
“He certainly strives to leave an impression. Know how much those tickets are worth? And am I right to assume that by ‘car,’ he means limo?”
“Go all out or don’t go at all should be his motto. That offer is from him to you, Heather, so don’t you dare feel weird about accepting it.”
“Only if you’re sure it’s cool.”
“Seriously, it’s cool.”
“Thanks.” Heather grinned. “My boyfriend loves boxing more than he loves me, computers and his eighteen-year-old dog combined. He wouldn’t want me to pass this up.”
Boyfriend? “You’re still with the IT guy? I thought you might’ve broken up. So why the man-hunting?”
Heather was toying with her glow bracelet, but now she stilled. “For you.”
“You were considering Fu Manchu for me?”
“I thought you could use a night out. You’re so lone—”
“For the love of all that’s good and holy, don’t say ‘lonely.’ I’m not lonely. I’m busy, with responsibilities. With work, in fact!” Veronica had to consciously lower her voice, but humiliation rattled her. If she’d only known that this night of barhopping and man-hunting was just Heather’s charity, then…what?
Her thoughts scrolled back to the Luxor and being with Simon. His fingers had felt so good on her, and if she hadn’t had more pressing priorities keeping her in line, she might’ve simply let go.
And then where would she be? Chances were, she’d be with him. Which didn’t sound like an altogether awful thing.
“I’ve offended you. Sorry, Veronica.”
“Don’t give it another thought,” she said with a crispness that wasn’t totally directed at Heather. Her assistant hadn’t meant any harm, and she wasn’t at the root of the turmoil that was festering within Veronica.
Change was in the air—big-time—and it had nothing to do with the seasons.
“The work that needs to be taken care of? I can help.”
“Thanks, but no.” Veronica swept up her purse, no longer in a clubbing mood. “I can do it alone.”
◆◆◆
Chance took to the Strip. He’d indulge in a game of blackjack, a gourmet meal and, if the mood struck him, a sexy woman. But he was distracted by the ache for peace and quiet—the kind he could only get enclosed in his tinted-window car with his phone off.
Chance wore his every flaw with pride. Why shouldn’t he? He’d earned the right to luxury, ruthlessness, and self-indulgence. The years of learning what it took to survive in the insincere—no, cutthroat—entertainment world had sculpted him. He was arrogant, off-putting, an unapologetic flirt—he owned all that. Yet he took no pleasure in treating Veronica the way he had in front of an audience.
Insulting her had cornered her to the point that she’d fought back. In spite of the nosedive the night had taken, he’d left the Cosmopolitan with an important piece of information: Veronica was different. Not just in appearance. Those leather pants and that ink covering the inside of her arm like a tattoo had thrown him off, but something else had changed.
I want something more.
She had meant it. What she’d said, the writing on her arm—it was driving him crazy that he’d been unable to make out the signature—was falling into place. A realization slammed him as he swung his car into the parking lot of the low-key bar he went to when he wanted privacy.
Veronica had another man in her life.
As he settled down at his usual table for a late-night brandy, he took out his phone. When the call connected, he was greeted with a groggy curse that might’ve felt threatening if he wasn’t at his boiling point. “Wake the fuck up. We need to get a few things straight,” he returned, unaffected. Another vile oath. “There’s a distinction between respect and politeness. My respect you’ve got with a lifetime guarantee. But lately you haven’t exactly been earning the privilege of my politeness. Let’s talk.”
The conversation was brief, terse. At the end of it, he set his phone on the scratched wood table and sat back, finishing his brandy with a hard swallow.
Someone was getting to Veronica. The mere fact that she wouldn’t give him a name bothered him more than it should. Forthcoming, sweet, eager to please—that was his Veronica.
Except…she wasn’t his anymore.