Page 5

Harlow

The elevator doors slid shut behind us with a soft whisper, sealing me inside Easton's private domain. My heart still raced from the crisis below, adrenaline mixing with something far more perilous as I took in his penthouse for the first time.

This wasn't what I'd expected from a man whose public persona screamed excess and ego.

The space was sleek, almost austere in its minimalist beauty.

Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around the living area, offering a breathtaking panoramic view of the Strip that stretched out like a constellation of vice and dreams. The furniture was modern but understated—clean lines in rich leather and dark woods, everything perfectly placed yet completely natural.

It was sophisticated. Tasteful. Nothing like the ostentatious shrine to wealth I'd imagined.

"Impressive," I murmured, moving toward the windows despite myself. The city sprawled below us, neon signs painting the darkness in vivid blues and crimson. From this height, Vegas looked almost beautiful instead of tawdry.

"You sound surprised." Easton's voice carried a note of amusement as he moved to a bar cart in the corner—crystal decanters catching the restored lights like faceted jewels. "What did you expect? Gold-plated everything and a tiger in the bathroom?"

Heat crept up my neck. "I expected..." I paused, realizing I didn't have a good answer that wouldn't insult him further. "Something different."

"Something more befitting the arrogant bastard who tried to circumvent gaming regulations?" He poured two generous measures of what looked like very expensive whiskey, his movements precise despite the evening's chaos. "Sorry to disappoint your preconceptions, Investigator Clarke."

I turned away from the window to study his face.

His usual composed mask had slipped slightly—there were stress lines around his eyes I hadn't noticed downstairs, a tension in his jaw that spoke of barely controlled pressure.

For the first time tonight, Easton Hardwick looked human rather than untouchable.

"That wasn't planned," he said suddenly, holding out one of the crystal tumblers. "The power outage. In case you're wondering if this is all some elaborate setup."

I accepted the drink, my investigator instincts automatically cataloging details. His hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he passed me the glass. His breathing was slightly elevated. Whatever calm facade he'd maintained downstairs, he was shaken.

"I know," I said, and realized I meant it. "Your reaction was too genuine. No one's that good an actor."

Something flickered across his features—surprise, maybe relief. "You'd be amazed what desperation can drive a man to do."

The honesty in his voice caught me off guard. I sipped the whiskey, letting the burn ground me as I processed this different version of him. Not the polished charmer from downstairs or the arrogant entrepreneur from my memories, but someone more... genuine.

"Is that what this is? Desperation?" I gestured to encompass the party below, the casino, everything he'd built. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like success."

His laugh was short and harsh. "Success?

Harlow, I'm three signatures away from losing everything again.

Half my investors are already spooked by the regulatory delays.

The other half are waiting for any excuse to pull out.

" He moved to the window, staring down at the city as if it held answers.

"Senator Voss's husband owns shares in Enzo Ricci's property group.

Marcus Kellerman's firm is heavily invested in the Mirage Continental.

And that's just the beginning of the political web I'm tangled in. "

I blinked, processing this admission. "You're telling me your investors have conflicts of interest?"

"I'm telling you that everyone in Vegas has conflicts of interest. The question is whether you're going to use that against me." He turned back to me, those storm-gray eyes intense. "But then again, you've never needed much ammunition to destroy what I've built."

The words hit like a slap. All my professional defenses snapped back into place, barriers slamming down to protect the vulnerable parts of myself that had started to respond to his unexpected honesty.

"I destroyed what you built?" My voice rose despite my attempts to stay controlled. "You destroyed what you built, Easton. I just documented the wreckage."

"Right. You were just doing your job." His tone dripped with derision as he moved closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne—expensive and warm and distinctly male. "Tell me, did you enjoy it? Watching me fall?"

The question was so unexpected, so raw, that I felt something crack inside my chest. For a moment, I saw past his anger to the hurt beneath—the humiliation of a man who'd lost everything in a very public way.

"No," I whispered, the truth escaping before I could stop it. "No, I didn't enjoy it."

Something in his expression shifted. He stepped closer, backing me toward the window until the cool glass pressed against my spine. The city glittered below us like scattered diamonds, but all I could focus on was him—the heat radiating from his body, the way his eyes had darkened to stormy pewter.

"Why do you hate me so much?" I asked suddenly, the question torn from somewhere deep and unguarded.

His laugh was harsh as winter wind. "Hate? You think this is hate?"

Before I could respond, he braced one hand against the window beside my head, leaning in until we were breathing the same air.

"You didn't just shut down my business, Harlow.

You destroyed everything I'd worked for.

My reputation, my relationships, my investors' trust—all of it gone because of one report. "

"The violations were real," I shot back, my own anger flaring to match his. "People could have been hurt. The money laundering, the rigged machines, the safety violations—"

"Safety violations that were being corrected," he interrupted, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.

"Money laundering that was the result of one employee I fired the week before your inspection.

But you didn't care about context, did you?

You saw an opportunity to make your mark and you took it. "

"I was trying to protect people!" The words exploded out of me, three years of second-guessing and doubt crystallizing into fury. "I was doing my job!"

"Your job." He repeated the words like they tasted sour. "Your precious, untouchable job that matters more than anything else in your life."

"Yes!" I shoved against his chest, but he didn't move. "Someone has to hold people like you accountable. Someone has to care about more than profit margins and investor returns."

"People like me." His thumb traced along my jawline, the gentle touch completely at odds with the sharpness in his voice. "You have me all figured out, don't you, Investigator?"

My breath caught as his touch sent heat spiraling through me. This was treacherous territory—the way he was looking at me, the way my body was responding despite my brain's frantic warnings.

"Maybe I should have fought harder," he murmured, his gaze dropping to my lips. "Maybe I should have fought dirty."

"You wouldn't have won," I whispered back, even as my traitorous pulse accelerated.

"Wouldn't I?" His thumb traced my lower lip, and I had to bite back a sound that would have been my complete undoing. "I think you underestimate what I'm capable of."

The air between us crackled with tension so thick I could barely breathe. Part of me wanted to lean into his touch, to see where this dangerous game would lead. But the rational part of my brain—the part that had built my career on being untouchable—screamed warnings.

I pushed away from him abruptly, grabbing the whiskey bottle from where he'd left it on a side table. "You think you know me?" I challenged, pouring myself a generous measure with hands that shook only slightly. "You think I'm just some uptight regulator who's never stepped outside the lines?"

He watched me with those calculating eyes as I downed the whiskey in one burning gulp. "Aren't you?"

"I can be just as reckless as you, Easton." The alcohol hit my empty stomach like molten copper, spreading warmth through my veins and loosening the tight control I'd maintained all evening. "I just choose not to be."

He raised an eyebrow, moving closer with that fluid grace that made my pulse skip. "Prove it."

The challenge hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to examine. But the liquor was working its magic, blurring the sharp edges of my professional paranoia, and replacing them with something far more perilous.

"Fine." I poured another measure, this one even more generous than the last. "What did you want to know about me, Easton? What burning questions keep you up at night?"

He poured his own drink, studying me like I was a puzzle he couldn't quite solve. "Why gaming regulation? With your background, you could have gone anywhere—FBI, SEC, private sector. Why choose to police people like me?"

The question hit deeper than I'd expected.

I found myself thinking about my father, about watching him come home exhausted and defeated after dealing with corrupt officials and rigged systems. About my mother's stories of clients who'd lost everything to predatory lending and shady business practices.

"Because someone has to," I said finally, surprised by the honesty in my voice. "Because the system only works if someone's watching. And because..." I paused, taking another sip of whiskey. "Because I saw what happened when no one was."

"Personal experience?" His voice had gentled, losing some of its earlier edge.