She followed the security guard into the casino, shaking her head and trying not to gawk. However, it was hard not to. She’d been in a lot of casinos, but only the old ones on Fremont Street. Her dad had dragged her along many times when she was a kid, desperate for a fix and unable to wait for her mom to come home. He’d tuck her into a chair at the slot next to him and proceed to ignore her for hours while she sucked back second-hand smoke.
She’d seen things no kid should see, and had spent every waking moment since trying not to fix her gaze on the inside of a casino. No easy task in Las Vegas.
Vice seemed nothing like her memories of those old, smoke-filled casinos. Oh, there was smoke. It wafted over their heads like a second hazy ceiling. Allergic to the smell, she coughed into her hands a couple of times, but it did little to dispel the feeling she was slowly choking.
Ignoring the painful prickle in her throat, she looked around the immense room. Black-tinted windows and an absence of clocks gave a sense of time standing still. Soft LED light displays flashed everywhere, bright but never gaudy, guiding the unfortunate to their next sin. Well-dressed men and women flirted over their fancy cocktails.
She wasn’t sure what was prettier, the people or the drinks. Wonderful aromas teased her from various corners of the cavernous space, temporarily dispelling the smell of smoke, and she spied the names of some of the city’s best restaurants over various doors.
Plush chairs and couches littered the rooms, tempting people to sit and spend money on more things they couldn’t afford. Expensive artwork hung on every wall, and gorgeous bronze sculptures of nude goddesses were perched on several pedestals in the lobby. She eyed one of the sculptures, raising her brows at the artfully-upturned nipples of Venus.
It was beautiful in a decadent sort of way. She struggled to keep up with the security guard, almost losing her way around a couple of corners. Clearly designed to make one meander, a gambler could spend hours in the facility and never see it all.
Despite the sense of titillation it created, it remained her version of hell.
It felt like hours before they made it to a private elevator. She snatched a grateful breath as they escaped the smoke. The guard swiped a couple of cards to give him clearance, and pressed the number 4 button.
Kate didn’t say anything, suddenly feeling out of her league, and just stared at the polished elevator door. As the automated voice announced each floor with the alluring finesse of a phone-sex operator, Kate felt perspiration gather on her upper lip. With a discreet hand, she wiped it off.
It was no secret Liam Doyle was a very rich man. Richer than she could ever hope to be. Little was known about his early life, but he was regarded as awunderkind, the Mark Zuckerberg of gaming. Not that she made a point of reading about him, his name was just that hard to avoid.
He probably came from money and had everything handed to him on a silver platter. No doubt his attitude matched his trust fund. He probably sprinkled caviar on his corn flakes. And here she was, the first person in her working-class family to go to college. What on earth would she say to the wily entrepreneur? Uh, hey, Mr. Casino Owner. How about closing up shop?
Yeah, that would go over well.
No, she would simply impart to him, in a reasonable manner, how establishments such as his exploited the weaknesses of others. As a leading member of the gaming community in the gambling capital of the world, he had a responsibility to those left behind. People like Lisa. People like herself. What was he doing for them?
When the elevator opened, she expected her escort to show her into a stuffy waiting room and leave her there alone to sweat for a few hours. However, the door opened into an open-concept office that seemed to take up a whole floor. With its professional kitchen area, fireplace and cozy leather couches, it resembled a grandiose loft more than an office. Did Doyle live here too?
Beyond the large office, she spied a few closed doors, no doubt leading to the private chambers where he seduced young maidens. She stifled a snort as she imagined cold, stone torture chambers behind those doors, with racks and whips and other such implements.
For God’s sake, you sound delirious now.
Wade showed her to one of the couches and motioned for her to sit. Eyeing the expensive Italian leather, she chose to stand. Warriors of old preferred to hold the high ground, and so would she.
“Fine,” Wade grunted. “I’ll get Mr. Doyle. Please wait here.” She watched as he escaped behind a door, shutting it behind him. He came back a moment later, threw her a look, and left in the elevator.
As the long seconds ticked away, Kate shuffled on her feet. She tried not to look around, tried not to notice the gleaming patina on the stainless steel appliances and the massive antique desk, but his obvious riches were hard to ignore. Was that an original Picasso on the wall?
She smoothed down her tunic and toed a smudge off one of her Keds. She turned to one of the picture windows. “Don’t be nervous,” she said to herself. “So he has money. So what? He’s just a man, not a fricking Pharaoh.”
Footsteps sounded behind her. “You’re right. If you want a Pharaoh, you can try the Luxor down the road, but I’m pretty sure they don’t have one either. And if they do, he’s just an actor.”
His deep voice stirred something inside her. She chalked it up to righteous indignation and spun on her feet to face him, ready to wage war.
No. It couldn’t be. Nothim.
She stared at Doyle, mouth open, to make sure she could trust her eyes. But yes, everything was the same. Silky brown hair, cut short. Blue eyes like those of a husky. Tall, with substantial muscles hiding under his designer suit.
Dragging her gaze away from his arms, she forced herself to make eye contact again. His features stymied her with their rakish perfection. With the hint of a beard dotting his sculpted jawline and the shimmer of amusement in his eyes, he resembled a soap opera villain: the kind who let vulnerable women dangle in his clutches.
The kind who played games.
She’d have to be careful. She could tell he was a man who was accustomed to getting what he wanted.Well, not this time, bucko.
“You,” she said on a breath.
“Me.” His enticing blue eyes traveled up and down the length of her, one eyebrow raised in frank admiration. “You obviously didn’t do your homework.”
