BELL

It was unsettling, having him at The House. He was out of his usual suit, in a V-neck and jeans, his hair rough, jaw unshaven. He looked dangerous, as if he was short on sleep and on the prowl. He reached for his glass, and his muscular arms were a reminder of how he looked naked. I swallowed and waited for him to answer my question of why he was here.

He took a while, lifting his glass to his lips and studying me, tiny movements of pupils that said more than his words finally did. “You made it clear earlier tonight that working here was important to you. I came to check on my future investment.”

His gaze flicked behind me, to the casino floor, and I understood. He wasn’t talking about me, though there could definitely be a double meaning behind the words. “I thought you weren’t looking at The House anymore.” Rick and Lance weren’t selling. I’d heard them say they weren’t selling.

Still, the possibility existed. With Dario Capece, there was no such thing as denial. If he wanted something, he’d find a way to get it. I was proof positive of that.

He lifted his chin at me, studying my face. “You’re here. That keeps my interest in it. Plus…” he glanced around the room. “There’s no disputing that business is strong.”

I ignored the observation, my chest seizing in a manner I’d never felt with him before. The possibility made me feel like a dog backed into a corner, my hackles rising, teeth baring in an effort to protect myself and everything that this place meant to me. Security. Friendship. Home. This was my home. My haven. He couldn’t have it. He couldn’t have my heart and this.

I shook my head and his brow creased, concern deepening his eyes to the color of espresso. “What’s wrong?”

“No.” My tongue wouldn’t work, it stalled in my attempt to communicate my thoughts. I forced myself to focus and leaned forward, fighting to keep my voice at a level that wouldn’t carry. “I don’t want you buying this place.”

“Why not?” His gaze sharpened, some of the compassion already waning in the face of a business decision. “I thought you’d like having me above you.” His mouth twitched at the joke and his ability to see humor in this situation only fueled my anger.

“No, I don’t want you above me.” I straightened so quickly I almost knocked over his drink. His hand shot out to grab the glass and I ignored it.

“I could help you, if I owned this place.” He nodded to my outfit, at the tray clenched in my hand. “Get you a promotion.”

“And bend me over my desk during shifts?” I took a step back. “No thank you. If you buy this place, I’ll quit.” And I would. I would leave this place that I love—leave the money, my friends, and two years of history—before I would ever be his employee. It would change our entire dynamic if he were my boss. I would lose my ability to call him on his shit, would wonder if my sexual activities with him were continuing due to attraction or because of the pressure to keep my job.

I had enough trouble trying to sort out my feelings for this man. Adding this additional factor would drag my psyche through the shredder.

“Bell.” He reached out and pulled me toward him, removing the tray from my hands and setting it on the table. I glanced at the dealer, who casually pulled the deck from the shoe and spread the cards on the table, taking his time in the reshuffle. Dario tugged at the edge of my shorts, refocusing my energy on him. “I get it. You don’t want me to buy it.” He shrugged. “So I won’t.”

So easy for him. Destinies changed, millions diverted, just like that. And all because of me. My irritation at the situation mellowed a little in the realization of my power.

“You won’t buy it,” I tested.

“No.” He met my eyes. “You don’t want to work for me?” He lifted his hands. “Then you won’t.”

“Fine.” I straightened and lifted up the tray, snagging the empty water bottle off the table.

“Wait.” He captured my hand, tugged on it. “I don’t like how we left things earlier.”

I turned away, pulling my hand free. I couldn’t do this here and couldn’t ignore a table full of Vegas’s most important men to talk about my relationship—or lack of one—with him. Whatever and whoever he was to me.

I stepped away and when he called my name, there was an order in the tone. I stopped, looking back over my shoulder.

“Can I get a cigar?”

I nodded, and his gaze flickered, a break in the dominance where he pleaded with me for something and I resisted. When I turned away, I felt as if part of my heart ripped, left behind in the grip of his gaze.

I avoided the back room and Lance and Rick’s questions. I busied myself with refilling the ice, taking water bottles to the security, and making sure that every person in my section was taken care of. I tried my best to avoid Dario, delivering his cigar in the most perfunctory way possible. Still, he haunted me. I was hyperaware of his presence, of his scent, of his eyes. The knowledge and feel of his attention was a heady mix of endorphins and arousal.

He bet recklessly. I watched his action out of the corner of my eye, every deal a new clue to the man. He participated in every hand, used side bets with no regularity whatsoever and never bought insurance. He split nines, doubled down on fifteens, and seemed to will the dealer to bust, over and over again.

An hour after he sat down, he was up four hundred thousand. Ten minutes later, I braved the back room. I walked in, and Rick and Lance looked up from the monitors.

“Holy shit, B. Can’t you go distract this guy?”

I shrugged, grabbing a soda from the mini-fridge. “Trust me, I’m giving him all the ‘go away’ vibes I can.”

I walked behind them and looked at the monitors, watching as his table busted. He tossed in his cards and leaned back, his eyes moving over the room.

“He’s looking for you,” Lance said.

I didn’t move, watching as he scanned the floor. From this black and white image, his magnetism wasn’t palpable, I couldn’t smell his scent or feel his dominating presence. I felt safer in this room, locked away where my weak subconscious couldn’t make stupid decisions. Next to him, three of the men stood, handshakes and goodbyes offered. I watched the dealer reshuffle and wondered if Dario would also leave, take this opportunity to stand and count his chips. He didn’t. If anything, he settled deeper into the chair.

Rick nodded at the monitor. “Go out there. Try to get him drunk. Maybe that’ll fix things.”

I took a sip of the soda and glanced at the clock. “We’re closing in twenty minutes. That’ll limit the damage.”

“And I’ve never been so happy to close. I’ll call the cage, let them know he’s cashing out large.”

I moved back onto the floor, the room quieter now, most of the crowd thinned out. I glanced toward table four and noticed Conner and his father had taken their stripper and left. Their absence was a relief, one less thing to worry about. I looked up to the top table and Dario tilted back his glass, holding my eye contact. I climbed the steps to his level and stopped before him, speaking at a volume only he could hear. “Did you need something, Mr. Capece?”

“I think we both know what I need.”

He swiveled away from the table and patted his thigh. “Come here.”

I ignored the invitation and picked up his water, eyeing the low level in his glass. “Want a real drink?”

“No.”

He watched me clear the trash from his cigar. I glanced at the end of the cigar, the expensive Cuban only half smoked. I grabbed the matchbook and flipped it open, dragging the match across the surface and holding it to the end of the cigar, letting the flame lick up the thin paper ends. I put the end in my mouth and sucked on it, my eyes on Dario. The corner of his mouth lifted. He reached out for me and I let him pull me onto his lap, his arm curving around my waist. The dealer paused, a card in hand, and Dario nodded.

I watched her distribute cards to him and the old man at the end, the only other player left at the table. I took a drag off the end, the dry taste reminding me of Sunday afternoons at home, my father sprawled over the end of the couch, football on the television. Once he stopped drinking, cigars had been his vice. Cigars and the Steelers.

Dario tilted his hand up. Queens. Two pale faces, both with crowns, sitting ducks in his hand. I looked at the cards and saw myself in one of them, Gwen in another.

“Should I split?”

I shrugged, looking away from the queens before I ripped them in half. “You don’t want my advice. I’m terrible at cards.”

It was half true. Poker was my game. Blackjack was my curse.

He flipped over the second queen and divided the cards, sliding five purple chips to match his original bet. And just like that, the stakes were doubled. Fifty grand. I drew on the end of his cigar and felt a little dizzy. He took it from me and brought it to his lips, his eyes on mine, his face close enough to kiss. It was erotic, the way he closed his mouth around it, the way his eyes glowed when he inhaled.

The dealer flipped a card over, setting it next to the first queen. An ace. Lucky girl. Dancing with the best card in the deck.

The second queen got her card, and I let out a disappointed breath at the result. A six. Paired with the queen, it was the worst hand in Blackjack. A terrible omen—one queen with the ace, one with the six. It wasn’t hard to figure out who I was in this screwed-up analogy.

The dealer flipped over her cards. Nineteen. She slid Dario’s chips together and knocked on the table, indicating the wash.

He leaned into my body and spoke quietly, his words warm against my neck. “Come to the suite tonight. Please.”

Please. I don’t know that any one word had ever had such power over me. I tried to push off his lap and to my feet, but he held me in place.

“I’m going fucking nuts without you. Please. Just for tonight.”

This time, when I pushed off his thighs, he let me. I stubbed his cigar out on the table and grabbed his water, taking a sip of it before nodding to his chips. “You’re cut off. We’re closing up for tonight.”

“Is that a yes?” He waited for a response and I wavered, my head a little loopy from the cigar.

“Maybe.”

It was enough for him and he sat forward, pulling a chip from the stack and tossing it toward the dealer.

“Need a chip rack?” I asked. He nodded, and I turned to the older man, one who now stacked his chips with unsteady hands. “You too, Mr. Rodriguez?”

The man nodded and I grabbed the ashtray.

“I’ll wait for you outside.” Dario stood.

“I can drive myself.” If I go. I wanted to add those three words, fought to speak them aloud, but couldn’t.

“I’ll wait.”

I didn’t respond, but on the way to the cage, I caught myself smiling and forced the gesture into a frown.

We left my car in the parking lot of The House. I figured, with the birthday boy’s tip in my purse, I could more than afford a taxi home if Dario pissed me off.

“I’m sorry for being a hypocrite.”

I turned to him, watching as he easily shifted the gears, easily manipulating the Aston Martin. It was the first time I’d seen him behind the wheel, the muscles in his forearms lit by the neon lights we passed.

“You know, I thought, for a little bit, that I might be okay with your marriage arrangement.” I watched a drunk stumble almost into the street, then catch himself. It made me think of my dad, and how many nights we had picked him up from some back alley in Mohave. He had caused so much destruction in our lives, so much financial instability. But my mother had stuck by him, telling me that the vows they’d made were too important to discard. I couldn’t easily accept that Gwen should be discarded either. He’d told me how our relationship could ruin his marriage, and I didn’t want that burden on my shoulders. I thought I could bear it . . . “But it’s too hard for me.”

“I haven’t had a physical relationship with Gwen for over a decade.” He said the words quietly.

“You aren’t with Gwen and you’ve ended things with everyone else. So…” I did my best mental calculation of the time. “You’ve been celibate for… three weeks now?” I coughed out a laugh, my throat still raw from the cigar smoke. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

He shifted into a lower gear and gave a sound that closely resembled a growl. “I don’t care if you believe me. I’m not keeping my dick dry if you plan on seeing other people.”

“I’d rather you sleep with half of the city than be married. I can stop dating people. You can’t stop being married.”

“Sure I can. It’s called divorce. People do it all the time.”

I looked away, my hand tightening on the strap of the seatbelt. “Don’t be stupid. You’re not going to get a divorce.”

He fell silent, and the tension in the car thickened. I cracked the window, needing some fresh air.

His hand settled on my knee and his grip tightened a little as if afraid to let go of me. “Sometimes, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

If I was a different one, the sort who had fallen in and out of love a half-dozen times, I might have laughed, scoffing at the unsure declaration.

But in that car, and with his man … the words felt heavy and worthwhile, like a giant blow to the foundation of his life.

Sometimes, I think I’m falling in love with you.

I dropped my hand to his, and threaded my fingers through his, pulling it away from my knee and lifting it to my mouth. I pressed my lips to the back of his hand and inhaled the scent of his skin.

Sometimes, I feel the same way. I swallowed the words but still, my heart soared.