Chapter Four

Taryn

I’m still reeling from the most spectacular orgasm of my life. The star inducing, moaning, shuddering eroticism of hushed whispers. The stuff that no one believes. But I’m now a believer.

I’m a believer in lust, although I still can’t quite believe my own actions. I allowed a stranger to lick me to a hard climax in the back seat of a town car. I don’t even recognize myself.

My phone pings.

Sighing, I squint at the screen to see a message from Nixon Caldwell. He’s apologizing for the late notice but has invited me to a meeting this morning to discuss the Big Bad Wolf.

Great.

On top of a tortured night of not sleeping, I have to sit next to Nixon Caldwell and be articulate in an important meeting. Aside from his patriotic name, he’s one of my favorite people to work with. Nixon gave me a chance when no one else would, and I owe him my professional career. Not that cabaret dancing’s a bad gig. It’s lucrative and fun, but you can’t build a life on the back of dancing. Once you hit a certain age, the sands slip through the hourglass.

As great as Nixon is, that doesn’t stop Dante from raining down his special brand of shit droplets. I reply to the email and tell Nixon I’ll be at the meeting. Nothing strikes fear into the heart of Vegas business owners like the name Dante Giovanetti. I just wish his bark was worse than his bite.

I stretch, refusing to allow Dante to ruin my morning, and instead remember my mystery savior’s tongue spearing my folds. Damn, he had mad skills. The best ever. Not that I have much to compare because I’m not the kind who sleeps around. I’m a relationship kind of a gal, experiencing my first one-nighter. But can you even call it that when it doesn’t involve fucking?

I give myself a well-deserved pass on the oral sex. Bounding from the bed, I pad to the kitchen of my condo and make a big breakfast for myself. I’m almost tempted to mix a mimosa with my French toast and scrambled eggs, but then I remember not to indulge in a little hair of the dog.

Ugh.

When my food is ready, I make a plate and sit down on the couch, flipping through the news channels with the remote. My condo is beautiful – I’ve only owned it for about six months – and looking around at the silk curtains and plush carpet makes my heart ache. If Dante gets what he wants, there’s no way I’ll be able to make the mortgage. I feel like such an idiot. Signing the homeowner’s association paperwork had been one of the happiest days of my life. I wish I could go back in time to that Taryn and slap her across the face. Wake up, sweetie, I think as I picture myself from six months ago. Just because you got lucky once doesn’t guarantee you a future.

Glancing down in disgust, I push a piece of French toast around in syrup until it’s too soggy to stay on my fork. I’m not even hungry anymore, but I know I should eat something – the meeting could last all day. The last time I met with Nixon and the others, we were in that room for so long that I walked out smelling like machismo.

I wolf down some of my eggs and half a piece of toast before my stomach threatens to revolt. Dumping the rest of the food in the trash, I wash my hands and get dressed in my favorite black Theory blazer with a fuchsia Valentino dress that really sets off my tan. Being a woman business owner in Vegas can be tough – I can’t look dowdy, but I can’t look like a girl straight from the Crazy Horse, either. I’ve nailed the art of looking sexy but respectable with straight hair, minimal makeup and tailored clothes that hug my curves.

Now, I just hope that I can keep my cool if Nixon gives me some bad news.

The drive from my condo to the Armónico seems to fly by in my lusty haze of memories of the mysterious town car, and by the time I hand the keys to my BMW to the valet, I’m ready to pick myself up by my bootstraps and contribute in any way that I can. I square my shoulders and stride through the revolving glass doors, keeping my sunglasses on until the last possible second. As usual, the Armónico bustles with people who have money burning a hole in their pockets. I push past a group of sunburnt tourists until I reach the staff elevator.

It’s only ten in the morning, but Nixon’s already doing a hell of a business. Go visit my shop, I silently urge them as I watch a group of well-heeled young women giggle and stumble their way toward the slot machines. At least then you’ll be getting something beautiful and special in return for all your hard-earned money.

As I push my way into the luxe conference room, I stop dead in my tracks and gasp in shocked surprise. My heart constricts. My palms moisten. My mouth feels like the Nevada desert.

It’s him.

Mystery savior.

Pussy licker extraordinaire.

He’s here, dressed in a sharp suit with a power red tie, sitting right next to Nixon. If it’s possible, my heart gallops even faster as the truth hits me. He’s not just any random Christian Bale lookalike, he’s one of them. A Caldwell. One of Nixon’s four brothers.

Oh my god, I’m such an idiot. A shiver runs down my spine, and I grit my teeth, pulling my sunglasses off the top of my head, and stuffing them into my bag. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize him. I vaguely remember him from college at UNLV. Mousy. Skinny. Glasses. Nondescript. So very UnCaldwell-like. Not anymore. He’s turned into some kind of huge, hot as hell sex god.

Reagan.

Reagan Caldwell. I haven’t seen him in years. I guess Reagan had always been gorgeous if you were into the angst-ridden, sensitive, artist type, but I realize that he’s changed. Grown. Just like I have. The quiet, shy guy I went to college with wouldn’t have rescued a dancing girl from a bar in a million years. In fact, back then, he stuttered every time I tried to talk to him. I’m pretty sure that’s why I didn’t recognize him – I never would expect Reagan Caldwell to do something that ballsy.

Of course, I can’t lie. Just the sight of him makes my body tremble – that interlude we shared was the hottest I’ve ever experienced. Never in a million years would I have expected Reagan to go down on me like that. He was so…perfect.

When Reagan sees me, he raises his eyebrows a few millimeters. No greeting. No acknowledgment. That eyebrow lift could have been for the caterer pouring water into his glass and garnishing it with a lemon wedge. Groaning to myself, I slink into the room and plop down into a leather executive chair before pulling my Smythson planner from the new Sofia Coppola Louis Vuitton satchel I picked up last week.

Nixon grins, seeming to not pick up on my mortification. “You look none the worse for wear after your celebration last night. Feeling okay?”

It was just great, Nixon. I’m reeling. Reeling, shuddering, shocked – in disbelief that your formerly nerdy brother could rival a porn star.

I nod, plastering a smile on my face. Just like my mama always advised while baking cherry pie and ringing the dinner bell, never let them see you sweat. Either of them. “Yeah.” I don’t look up. “I’m feeling great. Thank you for inviting me, even though the subject matter isn’t my favorite.”

“I get that,” he says, shaking his head and shuffling a huge stack of papers. “Giovanetti is a thorn in everyone’s side. But I’m on it, Taryn. I’ve brought in reinforcements from The Big Apple. I’d tell you he’s galloping in on his white horse, but it’s more like his steel horse. He hasn’t seen grass in years.”

I make a show of pouring a glass of water from the carafes dotting the table. “I hope you’re right. I’m starting to wonder if Dante has it in for me.”

“Taryn, you remember my brother? This is Reagan,” Nixon says, gesturing toward the sex god himself. “He lives in New York City now, but he’s come out to help me with some things. I think you guys went to college together? UNLV’s a big school, but I’m sure you saw him around campus.”

Inhaling a fortifying breath, I smile at Reagan’s bland expression. Like he’s suffering some kind of short-term memory loss over where his tongue’s been in the past twenty-four hours. “I remember. You pledged Kappa Sigma, right?”

Reagan finally cracks, and the beginnings of a smirk tug at his lips. As I stare at that mouth, knowing what it’s capable of, I can’t help but fall back into the lusty memories, letting myself tumble deep and hard. My knees itch. All I want to do is spread my legs underneath this damn mahogany table and show him my thong. I can feel moisture pooling already. This is going to be the longest meeting of my life, especially since it’s the worst subject matter possible.

“Yeah,” he says, licking his lips but staring at the papers in front of him. He can’t seem to look me in the eye while all I want to do is examine his tongue as it darts out of his mouth. “I seem to remember you being awfully fond of dancing back in college. Do you still like dancing, Taryn?”

A flush overtakes my cheeks as I sink a bit lower in my chair. He’s baiting me. I glare down at my planner. He’s trying to make me squirm under the weight of his words just like I squirmed under the pressure of his mouth.

Thankfully, the meeting begins before Reagan can say anything else borderline rude, and I turn my attention to the bland PowerPoint display at the front of the room. The leader drones on and on, finally turning his attention to the seated Armónico execs and Promenade business owners.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to say something before we open up the floor,” Reagan says. He stands up, and I’m dismayed to realize that he’s just as sexy now as he was back in the town car. I can’t help but stare at his commanding presence. Gaping is more like it. Thank god, he’s pontificating to the entirety of the attendees so I can gape in peace.

“Of course, please let us know your thoughts,” Nixon says.

Reagan sneaks a glance at me and smirks. “Thanks, Nix. I don’t like dancing around the issue. Getting down to business is why we’re here, after all.”

I blush again, the heat spreading across my entire face and it feels like my cheeks are on fire. What the hell is he up to? It’s almost like he’s trying to be funny.

And failing.

I tune out as Reagan and the leader talk lawyer jargon. Biting my lip, I lean over my planner and start doodling Ivory Clause’s logo on the daily page. I think back to college – how my path rarely crossed with Reagan’s. I’d never pledged, too caught up in my musical arts crowd. I worked hard, graduating with honors, and thought I’d catch a break in a Vegas adaptation of a Broadway show. But Vegas can be like NYC or LA in that way. It’s not your talent, it’s who you know.

Seeing Reagan fills me with a weird kind of nostalgia. College was so much fun. When did life get so serious? Not to mention so depressing and scary. Worrying about my grades hadn’t been fun, cramming for tests hadn’t been fun either, but at least that had always been up to me.

Worrying about Dante is much worse because he’s such a wild card. I have no way of predicting his next move, and I have a feeling that even Nixon feels somewhat helpless when Dante’s working hard at pushing his buttons.

“Earth to Taryn,” Reagan calls. “You still here?” He smirks, crossing his muscular arms over his chest.

I’m mortified to realize everyone in the room is staring at me, thinking I don’t give a shit about the most important thing in my life. I shouldn’t have allowed my mind to get so off track. He’s only just reappeared, and he’s already thrown my equilibrium into a tailspin. Dammit, I hope you get your sexy ass on a plane back to your skyscraper homeland in the next few days and back to your NYC socialites.

“Yes,” I say, snapping my head up. “What’s up?”

“Welcome back to the conversation, Taryn,” he says with a wink. “We were just talking about my holdings in Charleston. Did you know that city was named after the dance?”

I spit my latte back into the cup and slink down low in my chair, catching the eye of a business owner I know to see if she’s judging me. Nothing. At least the others haven’t caught on to his little games. And yet I can’t deny that the way Reagan says my name makes me feel hot and bothered. Something about the way he almost purrs, like a satisfied cat licking its paws.

“I don’t see how that’s relevant here,” I snap. “After all, we’re in Vegas…not Charleston.” I flash my best smile. I’ve been told it makes many a man weak in the knees. But not him. He seems to stretch even taller. “So, what exactly are you driving at?”

Reagan shrugs. “Oh, just that people like Dante exist all over the country.” He turns to the room and grins. “The Dantes of the world always take advantage of the little people. Kind of like they’re tiny dancers.”

Everyone chuckles except Nixon, who narrows his eyes at his brother. By now, I’m seething. I don’t know what point Regan’s trying to make – that he thinks I’m a floozy? That he thinks I’m nothing because I worked as a dancer to get the money to buy my store? Just because I’m not some hotshot million-dollar lawyer doesn’t mean that I’m a brainless slut. I can feel myself getting hot under the collar – and not just because I find Reagan more attractive than ever, even if he’s acting like a giant cocksucker.

Whatever happened to forgive and forget and move on? Let bygones be bygones?

“I suppose they do,” I say, sitting straight up, and staring Reagan right in the eyes. “So, Nixon brought you here to help, right? What exactly are you going to do?”

Reagan chuckles, and to my irritation, so does everyone else in the room.

“For now, I don’t know,” Reagan says. “It’s a process. A man like Dante Giovanetti doesn’t rise to power in a day so he won’t be dethroned in a day.”

“Then what’s the point of us being here,” I grumble. “If you don’t even have a strategy.”

Reagan gives me an exasperated look, and I glare right back. “We’re brainstorming,” he says calmly, in a tone that’s a little closer to patronizing than I really want to hear. “Dante’s a threat, obviously, but we have to outsmart him. We have to find a way to make him think we’re giving him what he wants…but find a way to screw him over in the fine print.”

“Bully for you,” I say, sour grapes deadening my tongue. “I could’ve figured that out on my own. How much did you pay for that law degree, anyway?”

The room falls silent as I cross my arms and cock my head to the side, grinning at Reagan.

“Excuse me,” Reagan says, his voice finally cracking under the pressure. “But you’re here because you need my help, right? So, if you’re just going to mock me, then I don’t know what you’re still doing here.”

His words punch me in the gut, and I have to bite the inside of my mouth to keep from sticking my tongue out. But I don’t regret baiting him. Or standing up for myself.

He started it.

“I’m here because Nixon told me you knew how to take care of Dante,” I spit. “And I trust Nixon and believe in our professional relationship. But right now, I can see that I’m obviously wasting my time.”

“Don’t write me off just yet,” Reagan says. He winks at me, and a shiver runs down my spine. “After all, it takes two to tango, doesn’t it?”

I glare daggers when what I really want to do is capture his lips in mine and kiss him senseless until he stops spewing a bunch of bullshit. I grab my bag and snatch out my favorite pen, the one with a ballerina design.

Just because you saw me naked, Jerry Seinfeld, doesn’t mean you get to treat me like your bouncing ball.

I bite my tongue and remain silent for the rest of the meeting, furiously taking notes in my planner. Hopefully, I’ll never have to see him again.