I didn’t return his text. I let it hang, the words taunting me as I fell asleep and dreamed of his eyes, the way they had feasted on me. In my dream, I had a long and twisted affair with the man, and woke up with my heart pounding, the high of our interactions still filling my chest with a dreamy, perfect sensation.

I closed my eyes and tried to find it again, wanting to resurrect the feeling. Instead, I woke up three hours later, my mouth cottony, my heart empty, mind blank.

I found my phone in the sheets and pulled up the text conversation. Nothing new had come in since I fell asleep, the ending note still his.

—I needed to know more about you.

Maybe I was reading it all wrong. Maybe this wasn’t a sexual, or even romantic, thing. Maybe Dario Capece needed to know more about me for a strictly business reason. I rolled onto my back and kicked the covers loose, my body suddenly warm.

Dario Capece was trouble, I reminded myself. MARRIED trouble. Getting involved with him would be a disaster. I thought of the moment he had laughed, the flex of his hand on the railing, the way he’d peeked at me out of the corner of his eye ... I pushed it all from my head and forced myself to get out of bed.

DARIO

Dario carefully folded his shirt in half and laid it over the metal folding chair. He walked forward and the man before him winced at his approach. Dario was a man of habit and dedication. Two hours each night in their personal gym. Four hours on Saturday and Sundays with the boxing bag and jump rope. As a result, he had the body of a twenty-five-year-old, one without an ounce of fat, the large build one that came from weights and genetics, his muscles properly proportioned without the side effects of steroids and supplements.

He stopped in front of him and the man’s eyes darted to Dario’s, a plea babbling from his lips. His apologies were too late. The asshole should have thought about this outcome before he manufactured poker chips in his garage, then tried to toss them on a table and play.

Dario closed his eyes, blocking out the sound of the man and taking a moment to picture a different man—someone older, his shock of white hair giving him an air of wisdom that almost hid his psychosis. Gwen’s father.

He opened his eyes. When he swung his fist, it carried the impact of the two hundred and forty pounds of muscle behind it. The man’s head snapped backward and the crunch of teeth was strangely satisfying in their vulnerability.

BELL

“The Palms sucks. And that bouncer will be there. The one we hate.” Meredith leaned against the bathroom counter, her face close to the mirror. “Help me with these fake lashes. I watched that YouTube video four times and I still can’t do it.”

I gestured her toward me and she turned, the bits of fake eyelashes clumped together in a delicate pile on her palm. I pulled out a cluster of them and took the glue from her hand, squeezing a tiny drop on the end of one before leaning forward and carefully pressing it against her top lash. “Come on. It’s Ladies Night at The Palms. It’ll be fun.”

“Right. Ladies night. An ovary-fest. Just what my libido needs.” Jackie spoke from her place on the bed, where she sat cross-legged, a bowl of cereal in hand. “B, see if you can call your sexy bosses and get them to go out with us.”

“Hey, Lance and Rick are off-limits.” I untangled another clump of fake black curls and got them gluey. “We’ve discussed this. At length.”

I decided eons ago that mixing my male friends and my roommates was a recipe for hell. I loved the three of them, but their relationships tended toward the dramatic and short-lived. If Lance and Rick ever decided to settle down, it needed to be with girls who could handle their lifestyle, personalities and sex drives. After living with these three for the last eighteen months, I could safely say that none of them qualified.

“Yeah, B is keeping them as her backup plan.” Lydia spoke through a toothbrush, leaning forward and spitting in the sink before returning to her dental process—one that qualified as OCD to anyone who paid attention to it.

I made a face at my least favorite roommate. “Another conversation we’ve had a million times.”

“So, the Palms is out,” Meredith decides. “And Bell gets no votes because she’s got more men than she knows what to do with right now.” She met my eyes and winked.

“You do know that your eyelash-batting future is in my hands, right?” I pressed on her next batch a little more aggressively than necessary.

“Ouch. Stop.”

“If not the Palms, then where are we going?” Jackie looked down, fishing out a spoonful of Fruit Loops and lifting them to her mouth.

“What about the Gold Room?” Lydia piped in the suggestion while opening a new container of floss. “This girl at work said it’s amazing.”

My body tensed at the mention of The Majestic’s latest club. It was the new hot spot among tourists and locals alike. Meredith’s eyes studied mine, and I looked away, focusing on the application of super glue to the end of false eyelashes. The sure-fire way to have a conversation I didn’t want, or guarantee our presence at the Gold Room, was to nix it as an idea. I stayed quiet and motioned for Meredith to turn and give me her other eye.

“Yes!” Jackie hopped up from the bed, her bowl in hand, and headed to the kitchen. “I’ve been wanting to go there.”

“I don’t think they have any drink specials...” Meredith ventured.

I gave her a small smile in appreciation and, behind me, Lydia snorted. “Drink specials? I’m wearing my push-up bra. Tonight, drinks are on these babies.”

Despite my silence, and Meredith’s casual attempts to save my ass, forty-five minutes later we were packed into Lydia’s car and headed north, toward Dario Capece’s newest crown jewel.

It’d be fine. It was one club out of a dozen he owned, and the chances of him being there were slim to none. I put my phone on silent and slipped it into my clutch, fastening the clasp and leaning forward, turning the radio up, and belting out the lyrics to the song, hoping I was right.

DARIO

The lobster was sweet and tender, the steak a little overdone. Dario cut into it and moved it to the side, the waiter instantly beside their table, removing the tenderloin and apologizing.

“Let Robbie know.”

His reference to the chef was met with a quick nod. “I’ll bring another one right out, sir.”

“And another bottle.”

“Certainly.”

The man escaped, and Dario met Gwen’s eyes across the candlelit table, noting the tired way she rubbed the back of her neck. “Long day?”

“God, they all are lately.” She held her hand over her mouth in an attempt to cover up a yawn. “When did we get so old?”

He chuckled. “I think about five years ago.”

“Maybe we should just give up on everything.” She stole a piece of his lobster and dipped it into the drawn butter. “Sell it all and move to Tahiti.”

“Tahiti?” He smiled. “You’d be bored stiff.”

“Well then, maybe we just need a week there. Long enough to appreciate our busy lives a little more.”

He raised the wine bottle, refilling her glass, and she smiled in appreciation, bringing it to her lips once he’d finished.

“Give me your foot.”

She obliged, lifting one of her heels into his lap and he undid the strap, dropping the thousand-dollar stiletto onto the floor and running his hands over her sole, working the tired muscles, the arch of her foot flexing under his fingers.

“God…” She closed her eyes, settling back in the chair. “That’s entirely inappropriate, but it feels glorious.”

“We own the place. I don’t think management will say anything.”

She laughed, a quick and delicate trill of pleasure, and pulled her foot free, replacing it with the other. “In that case, do this one too.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He looked down at her foot, exquisitely wrapped in delicate ropes of leather and gold. “You should get into the spa tomorrow. I can handle your meetings. Take a day and let Vincent pamper you.”

“Now see, I knew there was a reason I married you.” She smiled at him over her wine glass. “Sexy and brilliant.”

He nodded at the waiter as he returned with a new steak. She pulled back her foot and there were a few minutes of companionable silence as they finished eating.

As their plates were cleared, his phone buzzed, and he glanced at the text notification.

—Bell Hartley is in the Gold Room. Upper level, with three other girls.

He closed the text.

“Everything okay?” She bent forward, fastening her heels.

“Yeah. I’ve got to go up to the Gold Room.”

She stood, reaching for her purse and putting the thin strap over one shoulder. “I think I’ll stay at the ranch this weekend. I haven’t worked the horses in weeks.”

“You should.” He leaned forward, giving her a kiss. “And go to the spa tomorrow. I’m forcing you to.”

“Yes, sir.” She mocked his serious tone and squeezed his arm. “Don’t work too hard. I’m going to head up. I’m about fifteen minutes from falling asleep.”

“Sleep well.” He kissed the top of her head. “See you in the morning. I’ll get the tip.”

He watched her weave through the tables, waving to a few of their regulars. Reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of cash, he peeled off a few bills and set them on the table. Before leaving, he picked up his cell and texted his head of security back.

headed there now

He avoided the front entrance and went through the kitchen, taking the service elevator and pressing the button for the seventh floor.

This morning, he had hesitated before texting Bell, unsure if an apology was appropriate via text. There was the chance it would only freak her out more, the knowledge that he had hunted down her number. His need to reach out had won out over his hesitation, and she hadn’t responded to his final text—an unfinished conversation that had left him unsettled, a feeling he didn’t like. A feeling he wasn’t used to.

The elevator doors opened, and he stepped into the Gold Room’s kitchen, nodding to familiar faces as he moved through the space. Everyone thought his domination of Vegas had been luck, fueled with Gwen’s bankroll and his security team, one that bent rules and broke unfriendly arms. But his employees knew the truth—it was hard work behind his success. Nineteen-hour-days. Knowing employees and systems in every restaurant, every division. Remembering names, favors, clients, and whales. Continually being present, staying on top of things. Working his ass off.

He stepped into the club and looked up to the second level, glad he’d had the foresight to have Vince send her image to all of his doormen. It had been a longshot, but out of a hundred nightclubs in the city, she was here.

It couldn’t be a coincidence.