Page 8

I looked down at the cheap gold band on my finger—clearly chapel-provided, probably worn by hundreds of drunk couples before us. The metal had already started to turn my finger slightly green. "Right. Evidence removal time."

"This is so fucked up," Harlow muttered, twisting at her ring. "We're literally hiding evidence of our own—oh, come on." She tugged harder, her face reddening with effort. "It's stuck."

I tried mine first, working it over my knuckle with difficulty. The damn thing had been loose last night, but apparently my fingers had swollen overnight. "Must be the alcohol. Or stress. Or the fact that this ring is probably made of tin foil and desperation."

"Very funny," she said through gritted teeth, still wrestling with hers. "Mine won't budge. Oh God, what if it's permanently attached? What if I have to wear this crappy piece of costume jewelry for the rest of my life?"

"Let me help." I moved closer, and she held out her hand. The ring had definitely gotten tighter—her finger was slightly swollen around it.

"Just pull harder," she said.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Easton, if Enzo sees this ring, my career is over. Hurt me if you have to."

I grasped her finger gently, working the ring back and forth. "It's really stuck. We might need soap, or—"

"Wait." She stared down at our joined hands, her face suddenly bright red. "I could... I mean, sometimes when rings are stuck, you use..." She trailed off, her gaze dropping to my mouth and then quickly away.

"Use what?" I asked, though something in her expression was making my pulse accelerate.

"Saliva," she said in a rush. "It's more slippery than water. I could..." She gestured vaguely toward my hand, then seemed to realize what she was suggesting. "I could use my mouth to get it off. The ring, I mean. Not—this is not the time."

The air between us went electric. I was still holding her hand, her ring finger between my thumb and forefinger, and suddenly all I could think about was her lips wrapped around my finger, her tongue working the base of the ring...

"That's..." I started, my voice coming out rougher than intended. "That's actually not a terrible idea."

"Right?" But her pupils were dilated, and she pressed her thighs together slightly. "Just practical. Problem-solving."

My cock twitched in response, which was exactly the wrong reaction to have when we were facing a career-ending crisis. "Harlow..."

"Right. Not the time. Definitely not the time." But she was still staring at my mouth, and I was still holding her hand, and the tension between us was thick enough to cut.

"Soap," I said firmly, stepping back before I did something spectacularly stupid. "Kitchen. Dish soap will work."

"Yes. Soap. Good plan." She followed me to the kitchen, both of us trying to ignore the fact that we'd just spent thirty seconds thinking about her mouth on my finger while we were supposed to be preparing for annihilation.

The dish soap worked, though it took several minutes of careful maneuvering to work her ring off without taking skin with it. By the time we were both ring-free, we were standing closer than necessary, both breathing slightly hard from the effort.

"Evidence destroyed," she said, dropping the cheap gold band into my palm.

"Mission accomplished." I dropped both rings into a kitchen drawer, sealing away the physical proof of our alcohol-fueled decision. "Now let's get you some clothes that don't scream 'walk of shame.'"

"Sarah, I need you to do something unusual and urgent," I said when my assistant picked up on the first ring.

"I need a complete women's business outfit in my penthouse within twenty minutes.

Size 8, conservative but high-quality. Blazer, blouse, skirt or slacks, appropriate shoes, and undergarments.

Don't ask questions, just make it happen. "

"On it, Mr. Hardwick," Sarah replied without missing a beat. One of the many reasons I paid her exceptionally well was her ability to handle unusual requests without batting an eye.

Harlow stared at me as I hung up. "Did you just order me clothes like I'm some kind of call girl you need to make presentable?"

"I ordered you appropriate attire for a business meeting because showing up in last night's evening gown would be like hanging a sign around your neck that says, 'I spent the night in Easton Hardwick's bed.

'" I moved toward the bathroom. "Unless you prefer to conduct commission business in designer silk that screams walk of shame, Pretty Woman? "

She opened her mouth, probably to deliver some scathing retort about my presumption, then closed it again. "Point taken. But I'm paying you back for whatever this costs."

"With your government salary? Sweetheart, this outfit probably costs more than your monthly rent."

"Stop calling me sweetheart," she snapped, but there was less venom in it now. "And stop being right about things. It's insufferable."

"Add it to my list of charming qualities. Right after 'impossibly good at making questionable life choices.'"

***

Twenty minutes later, we stood in my private elevator descending toward the executive conference room.

Sarah had outdone herself—the peach-colored blazer and matching pencil skirt fit Harlow like they'd been tailored for her, paired with a crisp white blouse and low heels that managed to be both professional and subtly sexy.

She'd twisted her hair into a French braid and erased any trace of last night's makeup, transforming herself back into the formidable investigator who'd once destroyed my world.

But I'd seen her in my shirt, tousled and vulnerable and magnificent. That image was burned into my memory now, another layer of complication in an already impossible situation.

"Remember," I said as we approached the executive floor, "we control this conversation. Don't let him set the terms."

"I've been handling hostile interviews since before you owned your first slot machine," she replied, but warmth flickered beneath the coolness. "Trust me to do my job, husband."

The way she said the word—part mockery, part something else entirely—sent heat straight to my core. "Keep talking like that and I might start to enjoy this marriage."

"Don't get any ideas, Hardwick. This is still a temporary complication."

"Of course. Though I have to say, you wear my name well."

She shot me a look that could have incinerated steel. "Your ego really knows no bounds, does it?"

"Just appreciating the irony. Three years ago, you cost me everything. Now you're stuck with my last name."

"Temporarily," she emphasized. "Very, very temporarily."

The elevator doors opened to reveal Bryce waiting, his expression grim enough to confirm my worst suspicions about Enzo's motives.

"Conference Room A," Bryce said without pleasantries. "He brought a briefcase full of documents and what looks like a very expensive attorney. Also been making calls since he arrived—to people who matter."

"How much does he know?" I asked as we walked down the hallway.

"More than he should, less than he wants us to think. But Easton..." Bryce's voice dropped to barely audible. "He mentioned having 'interesting photographs' from last night. We need to assume he knows about your evening with Harlow."

Harlow's expression remained neutral, but her hands clenched at her sides. She was preparing for battle, marshaling defenses against whatever attack Enzo planned to launch.

"Let's finish this," she said.

As we walked toward Conference Room A, I realized that despite everything—the accidental marriage, the career threats, the impossible situation we'd created—I was grateful to have her beside me walking into this fight.

***

Conference Room A occupied a corner of the executive floor, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic Strip views that normally reminded me of everything I'd built. Today, it felt more like surveying everything I stood to lose.

Enzo Ricci sat at the conference table's head like he owned the building, silver hair immaculately styled despite the early hour, his pin-striped suit probably worth more than most people's annual salaries.

A leather briefcase sat open beside him, documents arranged with military order.

The attorney—a swarthy-faced man I recognized as one of Vegas's most ruthless legal minds—occupied the chair to his right, tablet and recorder suggesting this was being documented.

"Hardwick." Enzo rose with predatory grace, extending a hand I had no choice but to shake. "Thank you for making time in what I'm sure is an extraordinarily busy morning."

"Enzo. Mr. Matamoros." I nodded to the attorney, then gestured toward Harlow. "I believe you know Investigator Clarke from the gaming commission."

"Of course." Enzo's smile could have carved marble as he turned his attention to Harlow. "Ms. Clarke. How fortuitous that you're here. Saves me requesting a separate meeting."

Harlow approached the table with fluid professionalism, revealing nothing of the tension she had to be feeling. "Mr. Ricci. I understand you have concerns about the Jade Petal's operations."

"Concerns, yes. About operations, among other things." He settled back in his chair, savoring the moment. "I've recently acquired some fascinating information about this establishment's compliance with gaming regulations and ethical business practices."

My jaw tightened, but I kept my voice level. "Any investigation will show we've exceeded every required standard."

"Oh, I'm certain your financial records are pristine.

" Enzo's tone suggested he found this tediously predictable.

"But compliance isn't just about money laundering and tax obligations, is it, Ms. Clarke?

It's about conflicts of interest, improper relationships between regulators and the regulated, maintaining the appearance of objectivity. .."

The room's temperature seemed to drop. Harlow's expression remained neutral, but calculation flickered behind her eyes as she processed his implications.