Page 30

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

NICO

N ico gazed out the window as the taxi drove them back to the hotel. She tried to listen for any sign of life beside her, but there was none. Too drunk , she thought, glancing over at Rocco.

He really went to town after Carolyn Wickham showed up.

The woman had made a point of taking a drink as she pulled up a chair next to Rocco. She’d drummed her dark red nails on the table, clearly waiting for him to do the same. But he didn’t.

How about this one? she’d said. Never have I ever lied to anyone sitting at this table .

Rocco took a drink and grinned at her. You ought to drink too.

Fair enough , she’d said, lifting the glass to her lips.

Actually, you should probably drink an entire bottle for that one , he’d said.

After that, she’d stood up abruptly, said good night, and left.

If they’d left then, Rocco probably wouldn’t have needed help back to the hotel. But once Carolyn was gone, he went to the bar and came back with a bottle.

Nico wished she could put the day on rewind. It had been such a happy day up until that stupid drinking game. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if she hadn’t admitted to some of the things she had by drinking.

Why did I do that?

Before Carolyn Wickham’s arrival, he’d wanted to end the evening.

And she knew why. He wanted to get away from her after learning the things he did about her.

The only reason he was sitting next to her now was because they were staying in the same hotel and he was too drunk to make it back without some help.

Celeste had insisted they take the cab together.

Admitting to some of the things she had made her—what?—definitely less than appealing. Possibly even repugnant.

Yes, repugnant.

Sleeping with someone whose name I didn’t know? Calling someone by the wrong name when I was in bed with them? Saying “I love you” to someone when I didn’t mean it?

All things she’d done years ago when she was with Mickey.

Repugnant.

There were other adjectives that came to mind, but for some reason this was the one that stuck—like there was something green lodged in between her teeth, compelling people to turn away at the sight of her.

But he’d raised his glass too. He’d done the same things. Why wasn’t she turning away from him? Why was he allowed to turn up his nose in disgust when he’d done the very same thing?

Allowed?

It sounded strange. But that didn’t seem to matter. It’s the way the world turned. And kept turning. Still, even today.

It wasn’t fair. Why must a woman pay for her past when it seemed a man never had to?

But you already knew that. So why admit to those things?

She couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. She was the only one sitting at that table who wasn’t drunk. She knew how to appear that she was imbibing without in fact doing so. She was as sober as a priest in the confessional.

There’s a part of you that wanted to admit to those things, wanted to admit them to him.

She glanced over at Rocco. He hadn’t moved since he’d tumbled into the cab.

Who had he said I love you to when he didn’t mean it? That Wickham woman? Something had happened between them. That was obvious.

Still, the man must have loved at some point. Really loved. He had plenty of good examples in his life to look to. She’d met his family only briefly in the paddock—his parents, grandparents, and sister. They all seemed lovely, and it was clear they adored him.

And then there was Sofia and Beatrice. Nico sighed, getting a warm and fuzzy feeling; one she’d learned never to allow after her grandfather had died; a feeling she’d reserved only for Charles and Templeton.

Charles is right. There is some kind of perverted psychology at work in my brain. Why admit to those things? Now he knows things about me.

He knows things.

Thinking about those things, she cringed.

She’d been handcuffed. In bed. He must be thinking she’s a sexual deviant. Better that than the truth.

Maybe if she’d just stopped there, she might not feel like the earth was shifting beneath her feet, and at any moment it might split and she would fall into a dark hole that had no end.

At this rate, she wouldn’t have to wait for Mickey to expose her past.

She glanced over. His lips were slightly parted, strands of his hair brushing his shadowed cheek. It was true, he pouted. She could see the child in him now. She could see it when he’d told her that story about when he fainted. When they’d talked about GoGo squeeZ.

And she could see something else.

She could see herself falling for him.

What a cruel twist of fate that the annoying, arrogant, asshole, prick should turn out to be …

So. Damn. Lovable.

Who was she kidding? She knew why she’d admitted to those things. It was the safe move, the smart move. She’d done it to stop the falling before it was too late, before she got in too deep.

There was no chance after tonight. If there’d ever been one to begin with.

She gazed out at the passing landscape. The trees looked black, as though they’d been carved out of the dark sky.

“It’s cold,” he muttered.

“Sorry.” She hastily rolled up the window.

“How much farther do we have to go?”

“I don’t know. I can ask the driver.”

He shook his head. “Never mind. Doesn’t matter.”

His head lolled to the side, stopping when it hit her shoulder. He made no attempt to lift it, and they rode the rest of the way in silence.

Nico struggled getting him out of the cab and guiding him up the steps and into the lobby. Once there, she managed to steer him to the elevator, although it took some time given they didn’t travel as the crow flies. The same was true as they stumbled out of the elevator and headed to his door.

“Do you have your key card?” she asked.

His only response was to stagger backward and use the wall to prop himself up.

“You have it, right?”

He leaned toward her. “Have what, sweetheart? Just tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you. I’m good at that.”

She chuckled. “You need to be wearing a fedora to talk like that.”

He grinned. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a character in a dime-store novel.”

“You could have at least said Sam Spade or Philip Marlowe.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t include Bogie.”

“Him too. Why not?”

“Well, then you’d need a Bacall.”

“You’ll do.”

His eyes slipped like silky fingers, tracing every inch of her all the way down to her toes. “I’ll give you the key card if you tell me one thing.”

Her heart was pounding. “What?”

He stared into her eyes, and she felt as though his eyes, like hands, held her there. Maybe because she couldn’t read them.

“Are you going commando now?”

Those words had the force of a hot wind, sweeping over every inch of her.

She swallowed. “No,” she managed to say.

“Too bad.”

Again, his eyes roamed her body. Only now when he did it, it didn’t feel like silk. It felt more like a snake, a snake that could not only slither up and down but could enter her. If it wanted. Now that hot wind had become heavy, wet, and muggy.

“Why do women do that?” he asked.

“Do … what … ?” she ventured.

“You know.”

She hesitated.

A kind of madman grin slithered up his cheek. “Why do women go commando?”

She felt air go in and out of her lungs. Okay, so she was still breathing.

“I—don’t—know.”

“Yes, you do. You do it. So, you must know why you do it.”

She lowered her shoulders, confirming the fact that she could move and his eyes couldn’t hold her to this spot like a pair of hands.

“Do you know why you do everything you do?” she asked.

“That’s a slick move, answering my question with a question.”

“You mean a slick move like changing the subject? Which is what you just did.”

He laughed. “Yeah, like that.”

She held out her hand. “Your key card?”

He stared at her palm. “You have small hands.” He looked up. His eyes met hers. “You’re small too, almost tiny.” And then that snake slithered south. “Well, some of you.”

She could feel Thelma and Louise hit the gas.

“I mean, you’re not tall, and you have little hands and feet, and your waist is tiny, but other parts …” His eyes darted from her breasts to her hips. “Other parts. Aren’t. Tiny.”

She’d given up trying to squelch the inferno that was raging through her. A fire she feared made her cheeks look like two hot burners. Either that or like the cheeks of a scary clown.

“You’re doing it again,” she huffed.

“Am I? Guess I can’t help myself.”

He opened his arms, making it clear if she wanted that card, she was going to have to find it herself.

That night at Drink and Dive flashed before her.

She avoided his gaze as she reached into his jacket and dipped her fingers in his left pocket. Nothing. His breath rained down, smelling like warm caramel. She’d smelled bourbon on men before, but it had never smelled like this.

She slipped her hand into the right pocket and felt something stiff, plastic—a card. She was about to pull it out, but then her fingers touched a row of raised shapes.

He grinned. “Credit card.”

Just then her hand brushed against something that wasn’t rigid, paper—money.

“Do you want to make a wager? There’s a sizeable sum there.”

She quickly pulled her hand out and took a step back.

Grinning, he thrust his hips forward. “Would you like to start with the front or the back?”

Gritting her teeth, she exhaled.

Just get it over with already.

She thrust her hand down his left front pocket and froze.

There was nothing there. Well, no. Not exactly.

There was something there. But it wasn’t his key card.

He groaned. “You remembered.”

She blinked. “Wha-what?”

He put his lips to her ear. “That I hang left.”

Had she remembered? She wasn’t thinking about that when she’d— Was she?

She made a move to pull out her hand, but he placed his on top of hers.

“You haven’t finished with this one yet. The pocket’s deeper than that. You’ll have to go farther,” he said, his voice raspy.

Her hand slid down.

“That’s nice,” he murmured. “Anything worth doing, is worth doing—” He paused, staring at her.