At the winter trade expo, he’d congratulated her on landing a notoriously evasive client—one his own subsidiary had been quietly courting.Her dark eyes had sparkled with triumph.She’d thanked him graciously.
Then she’d walked away.
Always walking away.
When she’d sat on the small business discussion panel, arguing for differentiated tax structures between independent suppliers and large casino conglomerates, she hadn’t glanced at her notes.
She’d stared directly at him.
Daring him.
When he’d challenged her position, the room had gone silent.The two of them had gone back and forth—controlled, articulate, relentless—while investors and city officials watched like they were witnessing a prizefight.
That hadn’t been policy debate.
That had been foreplay.
Dating without the date.
Push.
Counter.
Retreat.
Advance.
At the cocktail reception for investors, he’d cornered her near the balcony doors and asked her to dinner.
“I don’t mix business with predators,” she’d replied sweetly.
His laughter had followed her out the door.
And he’d been hooked.
He had walked away from every encounter irritated and intrigued, convinced he was the one circling.The Don of Las Vegas, patiently stalking a woman who ran a modest but rising fashion house out of a renovated warehouse.
He’d told himself that she amused him.
She was like a hobby.
A passing fascination.
The Don and the shop owner, sparring in public rooms full of witnesses, both pretending it was strictly professional.
He had believed he was losing because she wouldn’t yield.
Now he understood.
She hadn’t yielded because she was measuring him.
Testing his control.
Testing his temper.
Testing whether he would try to crush her ambition—or respect it.
Their courtship had been aberrant.Strategic.Territorial.
